is simon more of an ass or tits man? đ or maybe it changes depending on the day!
i genuinely don't think he cares
if anything i just think he's a... soft parts man. on any kind of body type.
whether that's the squish of your tummy, or that extra soft bit of inner thigh - and yeah, your ass or tits. doesn't give a shit about size. but he loves the patch of skin on your inner elbow that feels like velvet just as much.
however he would have also grown up in the era of lads mags being sold on the top shelf at the corner shop, so i reckon if you put a crackin' rack in front of him he's not going to say no.
Price isn't stupid, he sees the way ghost looks at you. As if you aren't prices, as if he has the right to look at you like that.
Eye's dragging along your skin in the middle of a meeting, practically fucking undressing you in his mind. Even when you mumble to price behind closed doors "he's just a bit odd, sir. Nothing like that."
Sure, you've noticed it too. How ghost lingers on the swoop of your neck, or his hands tighten on your bicep for just a split-secind before letting go. It could very well be a crush, or infatuation, or desire. But you don't tell your captain that, no need to cause stress when you'd turn down your lieutenant anyways.
Still. Price has always had a possessive streak. Wants to warn ghost off.
"Seriously, I can't hide these for shit. Someone's gonna find out." You grumble, inspecting the dark hickeys high up on your neck.
"No rules about having fun, sergeant." Price rumbles mildly from his place on the bed "just to scare off any cubs sniffing around, eh? No need to put my name on you...yet."
It seems to have the opposite affect, because the day ghost sees them for the first time is the same day he pulls you aside after lunch. You already have a rejection on your tongue whenâ
"Are you safe, sergeant?"
What.
"What? Sir, I don'tâ what?" You stumble, not having expected...that.
"Are you safe?" Ghost asks again, firmer. He brushes two fingers over your bruises. Not jealous, but inspecting. "I know you and cap have been getting close...is it...consensual? Are you okay?"
"Whatâ oh my godâ yes! Yes, I'm fine." You wave a frantic hand, eye's wide when you realize what ghost is asking you. "I'm safe, it's fine. Yes, I want to be there."
Then, you laugh and add "actually, the marks are because of you. John got jealous, you starin' and all."
"I see" ghost narrows his eyes, nodding to himself. He offers you a quick pat "im here if it ever isn't safe. Cheers."
Your eyes tracked over the horizon. Waiting might very well be the worst part of a stake out, the silence didnât irk you at all, it might have actually disturbed you more if ghost had gotten chatty all of a sudden. It was also coincidentally fucking scorching, the only thought bobbling around in your head was writing a polite letter requesting drug and arms dealers to keep their asses out of the hottest climates in the summer. It was the least they could do.
âHave you drunk water?â ghostâs gruff accent broke through the silence.
âYesâ
âDrink more.â
âDonât need it-â
He barely let you get any words out before cutting you off again âYes you do. Youâre sweating like a blind lesbian in a fish marketâ
âJesus christ-â a cackle escapes you before you can stop it. âYou kiss your mother with that mouthâ
âMy mother is dead.â
âOhâŠ.â the silence settles in again âiâm gonna be honest i donât know if youâre joking or not so-â
âNot kidding.â
âIâm sorry for your loss.â you laid your head back against the concrete wall that did little to soothe the simmering heat. A bead of sweat slithered down the forefront of your face, sliding down the intersection of your nose bridge and narrowly avoiding the innermost corner of your eye.Â
âNot like you did it.â he hummed as he readjusted himself around the gun, the sweat slicking the accuracy of his eyeline to the crosshair. âWater now.â he kicked the canteen towards you without even sparing a glance.Â
âWhenâs the last time you drank anything then, mr hydrationâ you huffed as you took a gulp of water.Â
âThat- was a real knee slapper sarg, you sure about this whole army career cause you could be a damn good comedian.â he finally spared you a glance, if you hadnât known him this well you wouldnât be able to tell he was smiling just from the look in his eyes.Â
âYouâre an ass.â The concrete scratched your shoulders as you pushed yourself up to sit properly. The hours of sauna-esque frying felt like it was starting to turn your brain to absolute mush.
âAye. but I'm a funny one.â
âDrink some water then- if you wanna be living funny asshole.â you push the canteen into his side.Â
You revel in the few seconds where his mask is pulled up to show his chin and lips, the sun casting over them with a golden glow, you could die here you think, happy. He catches the small smile on your face, basking in it himself. âYou okay over there? I think the heat finally got to you. There's a goofy look on your face.â you giggle.
You'd been on his team for some years now, integrated so much so that you hardly remember a time you weren't part of his team.
You followed him faithfully, and Laswell had commented that you followed him almost blindly. You were a good solider, and Price doted on you. Sometimes more than professional courtesy allowed.
Until Graves arrived.
The Commander came on a blistering Las Almas afternoon, a man wrapped up in confidence and American exceptionallism. He flashed a grin as he shook Price's outstretched hand, eyes quickly taking in the Task Force, and zeroing in on you.
"My, if your Captian told me you'd be here I would'a got here much sooner." He crowed, and your face burned at the sudden attention from Graves and the Task Force, gazes burned into your skull. "What's your name, Sugar?"
Before your lips could even part, Price stepped in front of you, previously welcoming demeanor turning icy.
"Don't even think about it." Price warned, voice close to a growl. "That's one of my own."
His defense warmed your body. He was your Captian, your protector. You would give anything for him.
Graves held his hands up placatingly, raising his brows. "No harm intended, Captian. Didn't know they were already taken."
You furrowed your brows. "Taken? We're not together." You defended, and the cold look Price gave you over his shoulder made you hold your tounge.
"You gotta let the bird out of the cage, can't keep 'em cooped up forever, Cap." Graves said, newfound vigor in his expression "Someone may want to let them out. I'll see ya'll around."
The gazes of your brothers in arms followed Graves as he departed, but the blonde gave no indication that he was concerned or disheartened.
"What a wanker." Gaz said, scrunching his nose up. "Barely stepped of the plane before putting eyes on you."
Soap chorteled something next to him in agreement, but your focus was on Price. His jaw was tight, chest rising and falling as if he had just finished a run. And his eyes, usually warm and brown, were dark.
"10 minutes. My office." Price commanded, fixing that stormy gaze on you, and the underlying fury in his tone made you tremble.
"Yes, Captian." You replied quietly.
Price gave a curt nod, then walked off with a shake of his head.
"You've don it now bonnie." Soap said, patting your shoulder comfortingly. "Told the old man we should've locked ye up, just too damn pretty."
"Lock it up, Sergeant." Ghost said, quick to check him. "Take Gaz and inventory the gear."
Soap gives a groan, but the two Sergeant's step away, leaving you alone with your Lieutenant.
Ghost towers over you as he puts a large hand on your shoulder, the same spot Soap had his.
"Price isn't mad at you, luv. Just that wanker. He's always had a soft spot for you."
You nod, comforted by his words. "Thanks, Lt."
Ghost shakes his head, retreating to the door. "Be careful.", He said, before leaving you to mull your thoughts in silence.
Price had been so defensive over Graves, and you had never seen that side of him before. Perhaps you weren't the only devoted member of the team.
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 8 -
AN: I've just come back from a week of camping I'm fucking wiped
You donât quite know what happened, you woke up in a hospital room after a rough op, you canât quite even remember the days after. Filled with surgeries, doctors and sleep. The last thing you remember was fighting with ghosts, then coldness and a burning pain in your neck as your face was shoved down into the ice. It's silent.
Now youâre here in the hospital, looking around the room seeing your teammates sitting with worried looks on their faces, Gaz and Soap were also a little banged up but Ghost and Price seemed relatively unscathed. Your mind works hazily to piece together what may have happened to bring you here.
Gaz stood and walked over to the bedside as the others stayed zoned out. âHeyâŠâ he pets your hairline back as you reach up to your neck, gazâs hand wraps around your wrist and puts it back on your stomach âdonât touch that okay?â. You look him in the eyes as the others come to, ghost standing and hovering over your eyeline.Â
âDonât talk mouseâ his voice was raw and gravelly, like heâd been crying. You can feel the aching pain in your ribs and if you move just slightly you can feel something protruding from your chest. Gaz takes a wet wipe and cleans your face gently as Ghost pressed his masked lips to your forehead just breathing in and out deeply as his voice shook.Â
Soap sat with his leg bouncing rapidly as he looked at you, his eyes fixed onto you as if he was trying to confirm that you were here, alive with your eyes open. âThought we lost ye docâŠâ he holds the edge of the bed, too scared to touch your fragile state. Price walked next to gaz and wiped a tear off your face you didn't realise was there. âDonât talkâŠâ Price tells you as he holds your eye contact.Â
Ghost stared at you, his eyes filled with a deep regret and guilt as he put his hand on your cheek, âdoc needs spaceâ he growled as he looked at the others. Ghost sighs as the others sit down, âlisten docâŠyouâŠyou got hurt real badâŠâ he pets your hair back like gaz had been doing, having noticed how much comfort it had brought you. âYour neck was slit..and you canât really talk okayâŠyou stopped breathing soâŠJohnny gave you CPRâŠhe broke your ribs and one of them pierced your lungs so...you have a chest tubeâŠ.â your eyes burn as panic runs through your veins.
âWeâre not leaving you mouseâŠâ he looks into your eyes with something inexplicable. âIâm so sorryâŠâ
Simon Riley who really does not care about what you look like. What kind of a hypocritocal partner would he be if he was going to nit pick you on things that aren't important. He holds every part of you with a gentleness that he never shows elsewhere. He pulls you out of your thoughts when you begin to spiral. Not to mention the encouragement he gives you when you wear something you usually wouldn't, or you start to gain a little more confidence and love for yourself. He knows he has no room to talk with the way he's scarred and marked by the cost of his work. Simon knows what thoughts you have, because he has those same ones of himself when you're not around.
He has been and will continue to be your biggest supporter for as long as you'll let him.
A headcanon that no one can convince me otherwise is that Simon is a boundary king. You establish/mention something and he never challenges it or treats it as something that you have to âget overâ for the sake of ~personal growth~. Youâd never have to explain or excuse yourself to him. And not only is this man the Boundary Respecter, heâs the number one Boundary Protector.
He may be the most outwardly emotionally constipated person youâll meet, but you know he loves you when heâll straight up go to war to make sure your autonomy is honored. (Because whoâs going to argue with the 6â4, skull-masked weapon of a man when he tells someone to knock it off and leave you alone?)
Thinking bout Simon's truck being so big he has to lift you up by the waist to get you inside every time. The thing is, you can't even reach the fucking handle, so you don't bother trying to get in anymore after failing miserably a couple of times. His Ford's just impossible to get into gracefully.
So, you simply wait by the door, standing there pretty and patient until he's towering behind you, and you feel the warmth of his tattooed arms effortlessly scooping you up to sit your ass on the seat.
It's actually funny because you're perfectly capable of getting in yourself, but over time you started doing it on purpose. He'd never tell you that, but he knows it too. The way your face lights up every damn time you wait for him gives you away immediately. Still, he'd never dare ruin your little game.
"Si, come pick me up, please?"
You stood in front of the monster he drove until you heard the door to your house click shut and his heavy boots against the driveway.
You didn't even bother to turn around. The low, amused huff that left Simon told you everything you needed to know.
The car unlocked with a click.
"Y'know," he drawled, coming to a stop behind you, "for someone who runs their mouth as much as you do, you're awful helpless, love."
A grin tugged at your lips as you felt his hands settle on your hips, giving them a light squeeze.
"Mhm."
He snorted.
"Such a fuckin' brat."
One second your feet were planted firmly on the ground; the next, they were kicking in the air as he hauled you up against his warm chest. A squeal escaped you before you could stop it.
"Simon!" You grabbed onto his forearms.
"What?" His voice was full of that stupid satisfaction he got whenever he managed to get a reaction out of you. "Thought you wanted me to help." He murmured close to your ear, sending shivers through your body.
You loved how easy he made it look and hated how your stomach flipped every time.
But fuck, what you loved most was being manhandled by him.
By the time he set you down on the passenger seat, your face was all warm.
His hand lingered on your thigh for a second longer before he stepped back.
You narrowed your eyes. Simon looked entirely too pleased with himself.
"Creep."
"Got in the truck, didn't ya?"
You pouted.
"Buckle your seatbelt!" Simon barked out a laugh and shut the door.
"You fuckin' buckle my ass," you huffed under your breath.
âwhatâs wrong?â you run out of the kitchen, eyes wide, gripping the pastry brush like a weapon- as if heâd need it.
simon curses again, eyes fixed on the wooden pieces in his hands, the instructions paper in shreds at his feet. âthis fucking coffee..â he looks up at you and his eyebrows furrow. âwhat are you doing?â
you mirror his expression. ânothing, i came out here because i heard you yell and-â
âwhatâs on your face, love?â
at his gentle tone, you turn to face the mirror only to see your doe-eyed reflection staring back at you, cheeks and nose smudged with a white powder. âoh.â
â's flour. Iâm baking that pie you like so much.â
his eyes. light. up.
literally.
and suddenly heâs forgotten all about the stupid coffee table that was giving him hell. he drops all the pieces and walks over to you, pulling you close to his side as he guides you into the kitchen.
âyou made the sauce yet?â
âyou mean the filling? yeah, itâs- simon!â
in a second heâs gone from by your side and in the kitchen âtaste-testingâ.
âwot?â
you have to press your hand to your mouth to forcibly stop yourself from laughing â because there he was, the big & scary, powerful and silent ghost, lips smeared with berry pie filling as he licked the giant spoon.
âitâs not done yet, si!â
âtastes done to me.â
feedback/corrections are appreciated. feel free to send requests/comment/reblog ! :)
it doesnt matter who you go clothes shopping with it's going to be a nightmare every time.
Ghost doesn't know his size so you're back and forth from the fitting room a million times while he tries to figure out what isn't working this time. the sleeves are too short on one and the neck is too small on another, he's too tall for all the pants and too wide for the tshirts, where the fuck does this man buy clothes???
Gaz is picky, has a very specific style in his mind and doesnt like anything, so you're stuck wandering the store for hours while he complains about the selection and inevitably doesn't buy anything.
Soap always gravitates towards the most expensive part of the store and then balks at the prices, spends the whole time complaining about how much things cost and refuses to listen when you try to pull him towards more reasonably priced sections.
and Price? Price won't even go to the store with you, he gives you a budget and his sizes and expects you to bring back everything perfect. he sighs when he tries something on that he doesnt like or doesnt fit but it isn't your fault he gets everything tailored and has been wearing the same sweaters since the 80s.
Simonâs lip is busted, pink skin cracked down the middle.
Your brows are pinched in the middle, shoving him and forcing him to sit down on the kitchen chair. Thereâs blood running down his chin, and youâre not sure if itâs from his lips or from his teeth crashing into his gums.
âDidnât need to do that.â You sigh, pressing an alcohol wipe to the wound.
He winces lightly before smiling wide. It draws more blood, but heâs too smug to care. âBloke touched you.â
âExcept he didnât.â You emphasize, âHe was just looking.â
âArguably just as bad.â His big hands rest on your waist.
âPeople are allowed to look, you know?â
His fingers tighten around your hips.
âYou canât punch every guy who does.â You level him with a stern look.
He pulls you on to his lap, legs falling either side of his thighs. One hands gone from your hips to your chin.
âWhy would I ever let them look at something thatâs mine?â His voice is low, peering at you with heavy eyes.
His other hand slides lower, grip finding the globe of your ass through your jeans. Itâs harsh, and you can tell thereâs still adrenaline running through his veins that heâs decided to push on to you.
He drags you down, crashing your lips on to his. You try to pull away, the gash is still open and bleeding, but he holds you tight. He kisses you like heâs claiming you, fervent and possessive, forcing your lips open with his because heâs decided you should get a taste.
You taste the blood then, metallic and salty. It rushes into your mouth the harder you kiss, and it must hurt Simon, but you know that makes him like it even more. Your tongue swipes out, sliding along the broken skin. He groans, deep, hips bucking up into your parted thighs.
When you pull away, thereâs remnants of his blood on your lips. He stares at them with lidded eyes, primal and hungry. His thumb pushes it into your mouth, and you suck instinctively, a horrible smirk breaking out across his face at the sight.
Heâll beat up every bloke or heâll just keep you here in his lap forever.
Kidnapped pet reader who just acts as a dumb kitten all day
You were the local clerk at a gas station, always polite, albeit a bit tired at times. You didn't ask many questions, just the typical script, which is why it makes so little sense Ghost would imprint on you.
You should've been just like every other civilian. A little annoying, maybe scared of his stature, or even flirtatious. He'd seen enough of the flirty kinds to adapt. They always ran when they saw his face, anyways.
The only strange thing about you was the fact that you never questioned anything. Like, anything. It could be 5AM and he'd be buying nothing but an energy bar, and you'd just smile and ask "Will that be all?"
He was starting to wonder if he could show up without a mask and you wouldn't even bat an eye. At some point, Johnny found out about you from his drunk spillings at the bar.
"You know that dumb kit at the petrol?" He would hiccup, earning a quizzical look from Johnny. "They cute, innit?"
"If you're into tha'."
"I am," Simon grunts.
Johnny doesn't think much about it, though it's a bit strange his nearly 50 year old Lieutenant has his eyes on a barely 25 store clerk. To each their own.
This all makes it especially strange when you suddenly feel more sleepy than more awake drinking your coffee. You really had to get to work, but.. the warmth of your bed was calling you.
Simon watched as you fell back asleep cuddled up with worn out stuffed animals and felt his heart skip a beat. You were most certainly the one.
You half expected to wake up on the table during your break, but no. You were surrounded by your stuffed animals and blankets, but it most definitely wasn't your bed. The smell was off, the mattress was much too soft and accommodating to your body. Maybe you were just feeling extra comfortable from waking up.. Yeah, that's it.
When you crawled out of bed, you tripped immediately, not taking note of the metal chain tied to your ankle from the bed. This.. wasn't normal at all now..
Lifting your head, your vision began to clear from the sleepy fog, noting that many of your posters were no longer on the walls and.. this wasn't your bedroom! Shit, what the fuck, had you been kidnapped?!
You looked around frantically, only a small window out of reach from your bed. You could drag the bed over to it, but the scraping would surely alert your kidnappers if your collapse hadn't already. In fact, who would wanna kidnap you?! You had no money, you certainly weren't that attractive, so who-
The door creaked open, revealing the large, much-too-familiar customer from your work. He didn't have a mask on, revealing his face. He was more scar tissue than human, the side of his mouth torn open and exposing his teeth. His eyebrows had been burnt off, leaving the deformed skin as a hollow reminder of the event.
He stared down at you, not entirely with decit, you think, but maybe a bit of adorance that you never could place before. He always watched your hands fiddle with cash, but you assumed he was impatient that you took too long. His fault for handing a twenty for a three dollar energy bar! The fuck?!
You crawled back as far as your chain would let you, suddenly much too aware of the space between you, the window, and him.
"What.. why-" You stuttered out but the meaning was already lost.
He raised his hands carefully as though to show he wasn't a threat (of course he was!!!), slowly approaching you like a fearful cat.
You scrambled back into the bed, searching the bed for any form of weapon, of which he suddenly stopped. He sat down in a nearby chair and just.. watched you. Accepting that this was as far as you'd let him get close without screaming.
You both kept eye contact for a while, waiting for the other person to make another move. He subtly shifted, you flinched, he froze and moved back.
After a while, you managed to settle back into the bed, grasping at your plushies and staring off into space. He didn't seem to want to hurt you, and he was trying not to scare you, so he couldn't be that bad.. right?
This little clerk was terrified of him, shaking like he was holding a gun at them. If anything, they're the weaponized one. Huge, babydoll eyes- If they just asked to be released while crying, he isn't sure if he'd be able to say no.
He wanted so badly to pet them, but the idea of them crying and fumbling back makes him want to kill himself. On the bright side, they seem to be enjoying their bed. They slept for nearly 12 hours!
What he'd give to have them sleeping on top of him...
It did take a few days before you opened up enough to not flinch when he came in. He brought you nice food, and, when you let him get close enough, let you roam around the room.
You would mostly sit in the corner poking at the books and magazines he brought you, all paper cover obviously and barely heavier than a rock. He liked sitting with you and watching your hands brush over the papers. He'd happily get you more if you just asked..
"Why did you take me..?"
He looked up suddenly. You hadn't spoken directly to him ever, he'd be a fool to pass this up.
"Pretty," he gruffly stated, kicking himself mentally a second after.
You gave him a look like he was the biggest liar ever, it made him want to dig a hole out of embarrassment.
"Pretty?"
"Very."
You kept eye contact for a while before you looked back to your magazines.
"You never judged me," he suddenly says after a moment. "I want to take care of you. I'll get you whatever, just ask, dont leave."
You didn't look up, but you mulled over what he said for a bit.
"You have a computer?"
A nod.
You sat in his lap whilst starting up your steam save file.
dominant!simon 'ghost' riley who never raises his voice, never needs toâ thereâs something in the way he speaks that makes people stop anyway.
dominant!simon 'ghost' riley who grabs you and pulls you in tight behind cover when things go wrong, one arm locked around you, solid and immovable. which is often and he never fails every. single. time.
dominant!simon âghostâ riley who mutters against your ear, calm even thenâ âstay put. donât make me come looking for you.â
dominant!simon 'ghost' riley who lingers for a second after the danger passes, like heâs checking youâre still there, still steady because he'd rather die then let you die because he was too lazy to double-check.
dominant!simon 'ghost' riley who does not like to be ignored, especially by you, and always makes sure to get your attention in whatever way possible if you don't give him it.
dominant!simon 'ghost' riley who notices when youâre nervous, when your pulse picks up, when your breath catches and adjusts accordingly, either easing off or leaning in depending on exactly what he wants.
dominant!simon 'ghost' riley who always checks you afterâsubtle, quiet, a hand lingering a second longer, eyes scanning your face to make sure youâre okayâeven if he never says it out loud.
dominant!simon 'ghost' riley who pulls you back with a hand around your wrist when you drift too far, grip firm but measured, thumb pressing just enough to remind you where your place is â here. by my side.
dominant!simon 'ghost' riley who positions himself between you and other people without even realising heâs doing it, body blocking, presence heavy, like no one gets too close unless he allows it.
Waitress!reader, who's a new hire, working part time in a restaurant to make just enough money to support yourself through uni.
Youve been having the absolute worst day, from losing the assignment that you were supposed to hand in today and getting reamed out by your professor, to having dropped a tray of waters at the start of your shift, a preemptive sign that the rest of your night would be tough.
You're just trying to make it through your shift, when you get a table of crude, middle aged men, who make you feel anything but pleasant.
You do your best to cater to their needs and try be as polite and neutral as possible, despite wanting to give them to another waiter, but as usual, the restaurant is overwhelmed and understaffed.
Line cook!Simon who's been watching the pretty little new hire get progressively stressed as your shift goes on. His heart aches for you a bit. A pretty little thing, doing her best to make ends meet, whilst dealing with idiot customers.
Simon who feels his jaw tighten whem you come back into the kitchen, teary eyed, explaining to another server how one of the men at your table tried to hit on you and grabbed the back of your thigh.
Simon who tells you to sit in the walk-in for a bit, whilst he goes to deal with your table, he was needing some fresh air anyway.
Simon who soon comes into the walk-in pantry with a little plate of chips and hands it to you with his now-bruised hands. He pats your head softly, before gruffly saying 'take a break, yeah luv? Go' someone on yer tables'
...Line Cook!Simon who refuses to address his soft spot for you, telling the whole kitchen to shut up when teasing him about it. They can see the faint pink on the tips of his ears though.
john price x f!reader
part one | two | three | four
~2.3k words
cw: kidnapping, implied stalking, dubcon/noncon oral, blood, violence, gore, death
An opportunity arises more than a month into your 'stay'.
"I'm takin' off for a few hours," John announces.
The dishes in the sink rattle beneath the dropped scrub brush. You tuck your chin to your shoulder and glance back. "Oh?"
He stands in the mouth of the hall in a jacket, thumbing through a keyring. "Got an errand."
The question forms instantly, but you hold it back for fear of appearing too eager. Returning to the dishes, you finish rinsing a plate and set it on the drying rack. Behind you, you listen to him putter between the den and the kitchen.
"I assume I'm staying here?"
John hasn't left you alone since you woke up in the backseat of his truck, head splitting. Since then, you've studied the cabin, inside and out. Wherever you are, the location is remote, thickly wooded, and mountainous. A minimum of an hour outside of the city. It's clear he took great pains to ensure you remain indoors. Although he's yet to employ the many security measures beyond the locks on doors and windows, you've observed an alarm panel. You've seen the gun. Then there is his favorite method of control - his sheer physicality. John's built, solid, and efficient. From the books on history, war, politics, and self-sufficiency, your working theory is he's former military. There is no need for a leash when he can outrun you.
He doesn't answer.
You turn to face him, untying the ridiculously frilly apron you might've thought was cute if a boyfriend had given it to youânot your kidnapper. Captivity has a way of killing romance.
His eyes fixate on your hands loosening the garment, and you watch as he selects two keys from the ring by feeling alone. The keys are simple brass, two different sizes. He plays with them idly, evidently lost in some sick domestic fantasy. You stare at them a moment longer â oh. You know where the keys go.
With his preternatural instincts, John returns to earth, raking his eyes from your form as you hang the apron. You cannot stem the burgeoning panic mounting in your chest.
"Sweetheartâ"
"No."Â
As if you have a say.
John considers you, his gaze light and careful when he glances at the kitchen around you, but it settles heavily upon your person. He cracks his neck and pushes the key ring back into his pocket.
"Care to repeat yourself?" He echoes.
You inch to the right. Steps away, a pair of kitchen shears sits. Tonguing your lip, you reach for a reasonâany reasonâto let him hear reason. "I'll be good. Cuff me to the couch, lock me in the bathroomâŠPlease. Don't put me back in there."
He tracks your movement. He tracks everything. "Not how it works, 'm afraid. C'mere."
This isn't how it is supposed to go. Maybe fucking John didn't grant you the access you thought it would, but it is supposed to make him believe you housebroken. Amicable to whatever plans he has for you, which, you know, he has. He's ruining your plans. Ruining everything.
"Please, I'll-"
"This is not a negotiation. Now come here." He beckons.
A petulant anger flares in your belly. Asking John into your body every night is supposed to mean something. If he puts you back in the kennel, it's all been for naught. He acts as if it's beyond his control, that he didn't contrive the entirety of this nightmare. It shatters something inside of you.
With the force you pull the shears out, the utensil holder cracks on the counter. John curses, closing the distance in three giant steps, and you fight a losing battle. He wrenches them out of your hand, tosses them, and drags you by the hair. You kick and slap with your free hand, but with a cruel rip of his hand, you feel hair come away.
He hauls you down the short corridor. Your breaths come in quick gasps as panic claws its way up your throat. You bark and fight like a stray dog on the business end of a catch-all. It's fruitless.
"Fuck you!"
"Later."
John fishes the keys out, unlocks the room, throws you into it, and slams the door behind him. You bolt into the corner. He ignores you while he opens the cage.
"Now," He points a finger at the entrance.Â
It isn't fair.
"I'm going to kill you." You blurt out.
John looks unimpressed, sighing. He advances slowly. There is no gentleness in his posture.
"Fuck you." You repeat in a hiss, tensing for the fight you know you'll lose.
His frustration laces with undisguised lust. "Say 'fuck you' again. It sounds like an invitation."
It's inexorable â he violently collects you as if for a dance in the kitchen. You glare through the bars, and he closes the padlock. You both breathe heavier. His hand lingers on the door, and you see the faint imprint of your teeth on the webbing.
"Let's see how much fight you've got left when I come back, hm?"
You lunge for his hand, eager for another bite.
He draws back in time, and his laughter cracks like a whip. "I love you, sweetheart. Nothing you do will change that." He brushes himself off and admires your sulking. "And I've got all the time in the world to change your mind. You'll love me.â
The cabin falls into silence with his departure. You hold yourself tight and take deep breaths. You need to focus. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You could've rolled over and let him lock you up for a couple of hours. But no, you flipped the chessboard like a fucking idiot.
A dripping noise coaxes your eyes to the water bottle. There's a crack in the plastic between the nozzle and the body. Probably broke when he threw you in here. You squeeze your eyes shut tight, reaching for the comfort of sleep. The REM cycle evades you most nights, what with the monster snoring in your ear over your shoulder.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Water erodes even the most solid foundations, and you haven't had the luxury of stability in weeks. You grab the dispenser with both hands and pry it from its fastenings. It hurts your hands and takes more energy than you'd like, but it comes loose, and the plastic zip ties snap. Cursing the damned thing out, you hurl it awkwardly through the cage. It doesn't travel far. Doesn't feel as triumphant as you'd've hoped. A stream of water pools from its belly as it bleeds out on its side.
A despairing voice wishes it were you.
~~
Your mouth is dry when he fetches you.
"I'm sorry."
John's grip is ironclad. His face pinches in mild confusion as he helps you from the kennel before a smug smile replaces it.
"What for?"
"Being difficult," You murmur, stretching your legs. "Breaking the water bottle"
"You're a fuckin' brat," He corrects, pointing to the plastic and metal and slurs into your temple. He reeks of whiskey. "Pick it up. Then do the dishes."
You follow him out into the kitchen and suppress a groan. Your stomach grumbles, smelling the late dinner he cooked for himself when he returned and before he let you out. Beside the sink, your destination, sits a tin of tuna singled out from the others. You open and eat the bland fish before he changes his mind. You fill the sink with warm water and soap and start in on the chore.Â
John sits in the living room, well within view, smoking a cigar. The stink carries in your direction, cutting through the sterile scent of the dish soap.
For a few minutes, the silence sits like a third person in the room, occasionally interrupted by the clinking of a dish and the dipping of the brush in the water.
"I'm in a better mood," He starts out of nowhere.
You strain to listen, gauging whether it's a conversation or a soliloquy, and then dunk the cracked bottle, massaging the pliable material and working it under the suds.
"I grabbed a pint and told some folks about my woman troubles," he snorts, laughing at his own joke. I got some good advice."
The image of John holding court at some smoky bar comes uninvited. What lies did he tell his fellow patrons? That his 'girlfriend' threw a fit and stepped out of line?
Beneath the water, the plastic cracks within your tight grip. Your arm jerks, sloshing a smattering of bubbles onto the counter. You swiftly clean up after yourself and move on to drying.
"Leave 'em in the rack." John orders, rising from the armchair in the dark of the living room, leaving his cigar to burn out on the ashtray.
You fumble in surprise at his steps. Should be used to it by now. You hurry with the dish towel. "John, there's onlyâ"
"Now."
His tone brooks no argument, not that you were in a position to dare. Swallowing thick, you abandon the chore half-complete and slink into his arms. John bullies you down the hall, grabbing handfuls of your ass. "Told me to be nice to you, eat your cunt a bit." He sighs into your hair, nudging the bedroom door open with a foot.
You don't fight him or gravity and fall back on the mattress.
John looms, eyeing you like a second dinner. Leaves the light on to see every gruesome detail. He makes short work of your jeans and rubs your calves appreciatively before discarding your underwear.
"So I'm giving you a freebie, just this once. I upset you," he explains and kisses your thighs. âYou thought you were ready, but have you ever heard of the three-three-three rule, darling?"
"N-No," You stammer when he pinches for an answer.
"Three days, three weeks, three months. The three most important dates when bringing a dog into a home. Though, by my estimates, it's been working just as well for you."
John chuckles before delving into your heart. The lurch in your belly barely beats out nausea.
Three months. You'd rather die.Â
The sharp jab in your chest demands freedom.
You let him lose himself. It's easy. He's eaten you out for hours before. You carefully disguise your movements as enthusiasm. You shove your shirt up and over your bra, fondling yourself, discreetly withdrawing the nozzle you broke off of the water bottle in the sink.
Dread and anticipation mix, making you tremble and quake. John, of course, thinks it's all him. It is, in a way. You prop yourself up on your elbows, meeting his eyes briefly when he opens them to take in the parting of your lips.
"John, please," You beg, threading one hand through his short hair.
His eyes shut in focus, humming gleefully, and he doesn't see you coming on either front.
Swinging with everything left, you stab the sharp, concave end of the nozzle into his neck. It sinks in like his windpipe wants it. You both jerk, you with relief and him with a pained, wet scream. It's messy. Blood blooms around his fingers where he clutches the metal. You drag your jellied legs across the bed as he stands, stumbling forward to grab you with a desperate and angry hand.
At his best, you cannot outrun him. Bleeding profusely from the neck? Tips the scales. You book it to the door and the hall, and he comes crashing after you. Adrenaline and pure fucking fear hurl you down to the kitchen. You skid to a halt on the linoleum and lunge for the drawers from which you've seen him draw knives.
John's steps are haphazard and clumsy, but the full weight of his body is behind each one. He thunders down the hall, slurring, trying to push out words. It all comes out in bellows. A dying animal. Seeing you grab a cook's knife, he stumbles, pausing at the threshold of the corridor. Locking eyes, he reaches for the metal tube stuck in his throat instead. He gurgles something that roughly sounds like you bitch.
"I wouldn't do that." You half-heartedly warn, brandishing the knife.
He wrenches it out anyway, hand slapping to the hole immediately after, but there's too much blood. It's too slick. Red sprays. More than you thought.
John makes it one step before he slowly slumps to the ground, and you stalk closer, giving a wide berth with the blade in hand. He sags back to the wall, feebly pressing thick fingers against the gaping wound in his neck. It's useless. You know it. He knows it.
You crouch, naked from the waist down. Even now, he ogles, the shitstain.
"Do you need help, John?"
His eyes narrow, struggling to focus. The blue looks flatter. Vacant.
A genuine smile splits your face.
"Why don't you just ask?"
~~
The truck dies just off the forestry road. Of course. At least hell is in the rearview.
The sun is barely above the horizon, and John's phone still can't get a signal. Cursing him out, you slip the rucksack full of supplies you found while raiding the cabin. You could've grabbed more but couldn't stay there any longer. You pussyfooted over the gun, ultimately deciding it wasn't worth the energy to find the right key or pry the door open. Not for a weapon you've never used before. Finding your shoes was the best discovery apart from the truck keys and his phone. You'll need them for the walk.
It's almost an hour before you hear a car. You hook a thumb, walking forward, staring intently at the bend in the road ahead. Seconds later, an old, two-seater pick-up appears, and though it takes a moment for it to stop, they do.
You clamber towards the driverâs side window as it rolls down.
âNeed a ride?â
âYes, please. My truck died. Can I get a ride to town?â
ââCourse. Whatâs your name?â
Giddy and relieved, you give your name as you toss the bag into the open bed.Â
âWhatâs yours?â You ask, smoothing a hand over your forehead.
Your unwitting rescuer smiles. Jesus, heâs handsome.Â
john price x f!reader
part one | two | three | four
~2.1k words
cw: noncon, spanking, kidnapping, implied stalking
Everything hurts when you stir. Your neck's bent at an angle with your head shoved in the corner of the crate, and your right cheek is slightly swollen. Your knees press toward your chest with your arms looped around them in a cocoon. You tighten in on yourself before stretching with a groan â only for your feet to immediately hit the cage's wall and your wrists to stick together. Your eyes snap open, and a panicked noise tumbles out.
Padded cuffs connected with a short chain bind your wrists together, and you face the rear of the kennel, which has been shortened to less than half its previous length using a grated insert. The empty space on the other side taunts you.Â
After a frustrated thrash, which does nothing but smack your head, you take deep breaths to mitigate the utter terror threatening to send you into a tailspin. Then, you carefully shift, experimenting with your limited mobility, turning to face the door. Very quickly, you realize there's only enough room to remain curled in a ball. Your joints and muscles are fucked.
To make things worse, the dispenser's water supply is also halved, and you can't reach it without contorting painfully. Burning, angry tears threaten to spill over. You do not regret biting John, not with what he tried to do, but what next? Would he still feed you? Let you use the bathroom?
How long you tremble in the dark, you don't know, but John does return.
His thumping footsteps announce him. He unlocks the room's door and flips on the light. His mouth is a grim line, his countenance radiating disappointment. Beneath his arm, he carries a metal folding chair. Your blood runs cold.
John shuts the door, unfolds the chair in the center of the room, and unlocks the cage. He pops it open, then sits and runs his palms over his legs, flashing a bandage wound tight around your bite mark.Â
He simply sits. Stares.
You don't stretch your legs out the door, afraid of what will happen if you put even a toe outside the box.
Maybe ten minutes pass before he sighs and closes the door. He folds the chair, leans it against the wall, and leaves you alone in the dark once more.
He doesn't feed you until the next day. When you ask to use the bathroom, he makes you crawl on your bruised knees and cramped legs. It's mortifying how you relish the trip to and from the toilet, but it's at least exercise.
Judging by the feeding schedule, it's another three days before he repeats the chair thing.
You muster the nerve to speak a few minutes into the new ritual.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Come take your punishment."
Punishment. The smaller space, the withheld water, the crawling â none of it was punishment? All you had to do was ask?
"Sooner you take it, sooner you can sleep on a bed."
Your eyes flit back to him so fast that he chuckles and pats a knee. A bed. His bed, no doubt. Dread licks up your spine with the implication. ButâŠa bed means another room. More territory to scope out escape routes. However, the bite incident makes you wary about getting close to him again.
"What if I don't take the punishment?"
John huffs, seemingly amused by the question. "You will. Whether you take it today, next week, next monthâŠIt's your ticket out."
You are really, really loath to let him touch you. To allow him to make you do things. But if you remain in confinement, your muscles and nerves will fray further, and if you get a chance to escape, you'll need your strength.Â
I can't believe I'm doing this.
Swallowing hard, you begin to awkwardly extract yourself from the crate. You clumsily roll to your knees, pure pins and needles, and duck through the opening.
"That's it, sweetheart. C'mere."
You wince the whole way, the chain between the cuffs tinkling quietly as you hold your wrists out in front. You're uncertain if you can stand or walk unsupported. From the crick in your neck to the spasms deep within your thighs, all signs suggest trying to do so will result in failure.
The exertion leaves you panting by the time you reach John. You scarcely meet his eye before he hauls you up, the entirety of your musculature erupting in agony as he bends you over his lap. It knocks the wind out of you. A broad arm stretches over your back, and a hand grips the waistband of your pants.Â
"Sorry it had to be this way, darling."
With alarming speed, John yanks your jeans down, closed button and waistband catching skin, taking your underwear with them. Your shriek is reflexive, as is your thrashing, and fingers thread through your hair, finding all the sore spots, tightening until you still. Your limbs ache, draped over his lap like this, yet it's simultaneously the softest surface you've felt for days.
"I hate doing this to you, sweetheart, but I can't let your poor behavior slide."
Your face burns with indignation and hate. This is a clear escalation. You know that until you make a break for it, things will get worse before they get better.
You flinch as he runs his rough fingertips along the sensitive skin of your upper thighs before giving each cheek an appraising slap. He hums and smooths his hand over the globes of your ass as it jiggles slightly. The tension sits thick as he fondles the flesh.
"We'll start with twenty."
Start?
The first two hit harder than the smack he gave your face. You lurch in place under his arm and an inhuman screech tears out of you. The next few follow in rapid succession, with barely enough time for your addled brain to process a thing, still stuck on start. He changes the pace, the blows continuing erratically, making it impossible to anticipate the next one. He stretches the twenty out, pinching and pulling meanly between strikes. All the while, you babble incoherently through tears, choking on whatever nonsense the torment coaxes out of you.
While the pain hogs the stage, revulsion sits front row. Unbidden arousal blooms at the apex of your thighs and slowly dribbles down your skin. In the haze, you try to rationalize it, come to your own defense. You never liked it rough. Never dealt with pain well and never liked it. You are certain you still don't, and yet-
"Good fuckin' girl, did so well for me."
The spanking stops.Â
"Should've done this earlier. A bit of discipline, and you're all soft."
You don't respond. The tears slow, but your body quakes. John pets you, whispering his affections as his knuckles skim carefully down your spine and over the raw skin, gentling you like an animal or something equally pitiable. Despite the sheer fucking nightmarish circumstances, you find yourself starting to oddly float. Held securely by his arm on his lap, your entire body gradually slackens. You push away the lingering burn of the punishment, imagining sealing it in a jar and setting it on a shelf. Without thinking, you shift in search of comfort, pressing your thighs together. It is a mistake. He inhales sharply.
"Hmm?" He feigns incredulity and immediately slips his fingers down the cleft of your ass and parts your thighs. He was waiting for that.
Fuck.
"Oh, sweetheart," John purrs, relishing the state of your pussy. He withdraws his hand to adjust your position on his lap, forcing you to hold onto his leg and the chair when he raises your ass further into the air. He maintains his grip over your middle and his hand returns to your folds. He plays with the mess you've made of yourself, fingers audibly gliding through the slick.
You involuntarily jerk and twitch, struggling to bite back the moans his touch elicits. Your mind distances itself from humiliation and fear. Whatever shame remains wears down quickly under his ministrations, and in its stead is searing need. This isn't about what's happening. It'sâIt's about getting out of here.
John slides his thumb through your wetness, its tip teasingly circling around your hole but never quite dipping in. The movement is tortuously slow, stoking the heat right along.Â
"Ask for it," He commands softly but firmly. "All you have to do is ask."
You tremble as he taunts you. The desire pooling between your legs makes it difficult to form coherent thoughts, let alone speak, but you know what he wants. Your voice wavers. "PleaseâŠPlease make me come."
Without hesitation, his thumb sinks in with a squelch, and he sets a surprisingly steady rhythm, given the fervor of his spanking. He alternates between shallow thrusts and deeper strokes as far as it will go. His thumb massages the sensitive front wall, making your breath hitch. It isn't until his other hand slaps your ass again do you realize he's released you. You balance on his thighs, and part of you thinks to scramble off, but another smack makes you clench around his thumb with a moan, vaporizing the idea.
John groans in response.
"There it is," He growls.
He retracts his thumb, replacing it with two fingers, and picks up the pace. The digits bully the wet heat of your walls, and a finger taps at the furl of your ass, making you whimper. It doesn't press in, and you hate the way the simple threat of it makes you squeeze his fingers tighter. He murmurs a shower of praises â so good, keep making those sounds, what a pretty fuckin' picture â uttered just for you.
Your control over your mouth falters, the last of your resistance dissolving into gasps and whines as heat coils tightly within your belly. You feel the dam breaking as his fingers work, drawing out a traitorous pleasure that makes a mockery of all the fight you had put up so far. You'd taken blood, hair, and skin from this man â but he was taking something far more precious from you.
"You're close, can feel it," He rasps wickedly, fingers pumping relentlessly.
You are. You are close. On the precipice, at Hell's overlook, desperately trying to ignore how you got there and the monster who led the way. Everything contracts. Every emotion you've carried for the past week floods back into your head, tightening, building that exquisite and horrifying pressure. The only mercy is that when you blink, almost delirious, you see the floor and not his smug, evil face.
Then, before you careen over the cliff, everything stops. John pulls his fingers out with a chuckle, and you choke on a sob. Despair rips through your body, throwing open doors in search of release when pleas and questions brokenly rush out of your mouth. No, no, no, no â It claws after your rapidly dissipating orgasm, running away without you.
A wet sucking noise behind and above you reels you back to reality, and a hum smothers the last embers of your ruined orgasm.
John tuts. "You didn't think a few slaps were the punishment, did you? No, sweetheart."
He starts to rise, taking you with him. Your body occupies a strange, uncomfortable space, cramped and sore from confinement, loose and limber from nearly coming. Needless to say, you don't fight him when he manhandles you onto the chair. You yelp when your raw ass hits the seat. Though warmed by John's body, it's cool enough to draw out the sting.
You lean back, chest heaving, eyes readjusting and locking onto his smiling face. At this angle, somewhat backlit, he looks appropriately sinister. For a few minutes, you simply look at each other. You pointedly avoid the bulge in his pants. Then he bends, cupping a hand to your jaw, clearly intent on kissing you. You wrench your face to the side at the last minute, and he chuckles against your temple, then noses the fading bruise he left the other night.Â
"We'll work up to kissing, then."
His brain needs to be studied. Every time you think you understand his motivations or reasoning, he breaks the pattern. Work up to kissing.
"I'll take you to the bath, then we'll have lunch. Sounds nice?"
He pats your bruised cheek without waiting for an answer and directs you to the floor again. You weep the whole way to the bathroom and again when he settles you into the bath.
The soap smells like jasmine, and the shampoo like lavender. Small comforts.
Comforts he obliterates by dipping a hand into the water, snaking it between your legs, and opening his mouth.
"Say 'thank you'."
"Thank you."
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