idk what youāre all talking about, soap didnāt die todayā¦.he got shot in the head, was airlifted to a hospital, went into hiding after extensive medical treatments, and now he wonāt stop trying to shove his tongue down his physiotherapistās throat. heās doing fine
simon has been searching for you for years. lifetimes, he tells you, been looking for ya for lifetimes, lovie.
you believe him. how could he be telling anything other than the truth when he's so greedy with you? when he digs his fingers so deep into your supple skin, you think he might be trying to touch your bones. when he bores his sunken, black eyes into yours and peels back the layers guarding his most murky parts just so you can bless him with a glance, an acknowledgment of his pathetic excuse of an existence.
when he doesn't go a day without reminding you that he loves you. it doesn't matter if it's with his words or his tongueāhe wants you to know. needs you to be aware of the feelings that you conjure up in his brick of a body, the emotions that squeeze his thawed-out heart so tightly he thinks it might just rupture.
but sometimes his tender thoughts trickle into something dark; that sweet flutter turns into an erratic throb when he loses himself in you too much.
sometimes he wants to grind you between his teeth; feel the way you stretch and bleed into his mouth. he wants to make a space inside of you reserved just for him. maybe tangle his limbs between the gaps of your ribcage and wrap himself around your heart. he knows that he would break your delicate bones in half even if he were to only insert his hand between the spaces of your ribs, but something in the back of his mind whispers to him that you'll make room for him. that you'll adjust and rearrange yourself if it meant he could be attached to you forever.
the thought is thrilling, and when he tells you about it, you think it's the most romantic thing you've ever heard.
nothing made sense before you. it was like a fog permanently rested over simonāa dark, heavy cloud that weighed on his shoulders, constantly soaking him in his sins and grief. the cavity in his chest worsened the older he got, darkness spreading all over his heart until his ribs were nothing more than an empty cage, and he got better at ignoring the aching pain and the need to become someone meaningful. he fully accepted that he would die on the field and be forgotten, that he would become a fleeting thought, and the riley name would finallyāproperlyāperish with him.
well, now that he thinks about it, he can't help but feel eternally grateful for you. how could he have lived like that?
the new life he leads now is nothing like what he was used to. he sits on the couch with a beer in his hand, the other resting on his full belly as a football match drones on in the back. pictures hang on the walls with your bright smile in each one. your scent sticks to everything in the house, especially on simon's shirts, and your plants and flowers sit on top of the shelves and table. the smell of toffee wafts into the living room, each wave making his nose perk up and water pool in his mouth even though he's certain he can't stuff anymore food down.
he's staring at you. he's watching the way you move around the kitchenāhow there's not a lick of tension or stress in your body as you go about making the sauce for the sticky toffee pudding. your shoulders are relaxed, and you sway a little, humming one of your favourite songs as you stir the pot. you curse quietly when you accidentally burn yourself, and when you peek behind you to see if simon saw thatāhe didāyou flash a bashful smile and return your attention back to the stove.
simon thinks you look so angelic like this. it's like you were crafted by the big man upstairs specifically for him, because he doesn't think he's ever felt so comfortable around someone in his life. he always feels so weak in your presence, his chest torn open for you to see him in his entirety, and he doesn't hate it. he doesn't hate being seenānot anymore. not if it's you casting your soft gaze upon him.
how can he thank you? how can he make it up to you for dragging him out of that hole he could never seem to claw his way out of? how can he ever explain how you cleared a way for him through the fog, how you soaked up the pain that kept pummelling down on his shoulders and transformed it into something misty and gentle, how you filled his chest with your everlasting joy until he finally felt his heart sing for the first time in years?
it will never be enough. he will never be able to repay you enough for the love and devotion you've shown him over the years, for the everlasting patience you had while he was still in the military, for the gentleness you've taught him through your own words and actions.
he's not a good man, and he doesn't deserve good things. but you've blessed him with your love and your tenderness, and he will never stop trying to make it up to you. he will love you fiercely and proudly; he'll flaunt the ring on his finger and carry a piece of your heart with him whenever he goes. he'll spend the rest of his life and the lives after that loving you.
when you bring him a plate of pudding paired with vanilla ice cream, he looks up at you with glazed heart-shaped eyes and brings you in for a sweet little kiss. you smile into it and return the love you feel radiating from him tenfold.
EXCERPT: maraschino cherries (aka the GazReader fic where Soap becomes utterly obsessed with Gaz's new girlfriend and doesn't understand why Gaz won't share this time).
It's not an obsession.
This is what he tells himself when he idles outside of your apartment, eyes glued to the crack in the curtains where he can see a silhouette swaying in time to something on the radioā
(āsomething. As if he hasn't hacked into your Spotify playlist already and doesn't have the same song crooning from the radio of his borrowed Bronco. Down the Line. It strokes his ego so perfectly when he remembers that he was the one to introduce you to Gerry Rafferty to begin with.)
But it's not an obsession.
Justā
Curiosity.
They don't share partners often.
Kyle has peculiar tastes he doesn't like to indulge in when he has an audience hovering over his shoulder, and according to himā
Johnny likes to loom.Ā
(āFuckin' nosy, mate.ā)
And needy.Ā
But Johnny just gets lonely. Doesn't like to sit on the sidelines and wait his turn like a good boy. Prefers to touch instead of watching. Likes being included even when he doesn't need to be.Ā
An annoyance that Kyle can really only deal with when he's in a particular sort of mood.Ā
Baby Dom, Johnny calls it. When Kyle sits back with his chin in his palm, nursing a glass of honey whiskey, and channelling Price in a way that makes Johnny feel like he's one wrong move from being called a muppet.Ā
Gives directives from the sidelines until Johnny is spentāpuppy is nice and full, Kyle croons, tugging on his cock as their partner visibly shakes from exhaustion; and now it's my turnāand sated enough to just watch.Ā
Johnny knows he's not in that mood tonight, but he can't help but to scrape his nails against the scab sealed over it, trying to find a gap to slink inside of.Ā
Just a taste, he promises himself. Just onceā
Because the thing is: he wants you. Viciously. Like a dog that knows there's a piece of meat hidden somewhere. Sniffing along the edges until it can find a way inside. A weak point to jump on.
But you're something Kyle keeps hidden. Pretty little trinket boxed up. Barred windows. Deadbolts. MINE! DO NOT TOUCH in bold.
Gilded cage for the prettiest little doe he's ever seen.
And ever since he found your balled up panties shoved under the seat of Kyle's carā
Well.
You've been a constant on his mind. Throbbing in his head like a toothache. He wants, needs, to have you. Thinks he might go a little madāmadderāif he doesn't.
And if Kyle really wanted him to stay away, he wouldn't leave you all alone inside this ivory tower, would he? Which is why he's here. Stalking youā
āwatching over ye, he amends, leaning back on the seat as he grips his cock tighter in his hand, eyes riveted to the flash of skin coyly peeking out from the curtain.Ā
Someone has tae, he thinks, grunting when the pressure in his loins builds, aching over a fantasy he carved inside of his head where each sway of your hips is meant only for him.Ā
You're all alone in a big flat with no one to protect you. No one to come to your rescue if anything happens. You need him.Ā
(an itch in his head that he refuses to scratch prickles; one that whispers, she was safer before you arrivedā)
He lifts his hand to his temple, the pain trembling down his neck when he presses his fingertips against the pockmark on the side of his head, pushing the thought back into the hole.
No. You're safer with him, aren't you?
(from the raw, oozing channel, something shifts. whimpers. yes echoes in a paperthin whisper through the crater.)
yeah simon is the one to scare people away when they get too close you, using his size and movement to intimidate, simultaneously shielding you behind him
yeah soap is the one barking loud, creating a spectacle and calling people out, and warning them away
yeah kyle is the one humiliating people, mocking offenders until either their own actions dawn on them or they finally recognize the venom in his eyes
but price is the one that launches into swinging. there is no warning, no hesitation. taking a step, even a single word against you, warrants immediate action in his mind. it's no laughing fucking matter. you are a top fucking prize, his prize, the best the world has to offer. john is rabid in his protection, bearing tooth and boot and claw and fist. thereās no point in talking to him or trying to negotiate, an offense is an offense and he wonāt meet it halfway. someone looks at you the wrong way? they won't be able to see out of swollen eyes after headbutts them, crushing their nose. someone whispers something nasty about you? good luck even eating with that jaw wired shut. god forbid someone touches you, the other three boys can barely hold him back. john will break countless bones in every way he knows and beat his knuckles bloody if your smile starts to drop.Ā
"that'll be us, someday." john gently squeezes your thigh, nodding toward the elderly couple ambling down the beach below, arm-in-arm. a low and breathy chuckle precedes a kiss to the back of your knuckles.
it's a pity you're asleep and exhausted from a long night. you're missing the most beautiful parts of the country.
he finishes the lunch you made the evening before. it's a bit sloppy and flavorless, but he excuses it. you shook like a leaf over the counter. when you're not in a rush, he knows you'll work wonders.
he hums, carefully lays you back down, and straps you in. content that you're secure, he returns to the driver's seat after a brief stretch outside. pulling out of the vantage point, he glances at your peacefully sleeping face in the mirror and grins. it's shaping up to be quite the successful little car trip.
according to his estimations, you'll start to stir in an hour or so. the next dose sits in its cushion case on the passenger seat at the ready. he wishes it didn't have to be this way, but one day, with some convincing, you'll ride shotgun, and you won't need the encouragement at all.
the next time he stops, it's in the lot of an abandoned motel. you're squirming, voice slurred but pitchy. you whine pitifully as he drops his weight onto you, confused as to why you can't move so well, but he shushes you as he sinks the needle into your upper arm.
"just a pinchātherrre's a girl. much better than last time, darl. last one, i promise, then home."
john remains in place, stroking your temple until you stop fighting it. he feels your limbs and muscles relax, turning into putty as you slip under. he kisses your cheek, takes a deep inhale of the soap scrubbed you with, and sighs.
from there, it's a race against the sunset, and he'd like to have you awake to at least see that.
My friend and I had this (we thought) hilarious idea to do a glittery stickersheet of Ghost šāØ You know, these really corny, old stickers with lots of roses and badly applied glitter that you could find in magazines back in the day x)
a dumb little price x fat wife thing i wrote up based on something my s/o once said to me while on painkillers
cw: alcohol/drunk price, really stupid pet names
>>evening, ma'am. the captain will be home in 12 minutes.
>>lt. riley says to let you know he's "absolutely sozzled".
you can't help but huff out a laugh at the text sgt. garrick just sent you. always so formal with you, that boy, but you suppose that's what happens when you're the captain's wife.
>>the heads up is deeply appreciated, sergeant. thank you.
you check the time- just a little before midnight. they must've had a good time down at the pub, usually john likes being home by 10 when he's home. you put your book on the nightstand and throw on a robe, so you can get everything ready. you've known john (and simon) long enough to know what to expect- 'sozzled' means you probably don't need a puke bucket, but you're definitely getting a very sloppy kiss as soon as he gets home.
"oll it takes is three beers and then 'e can't stop talkin' bout ya. keeps tryin' to convince the sergeants that all they really need in life is a soft pretty thing t' come 'ome to." simon had told you once at a formal dinner. you'd always sort of suspected, but it was kind of nice to get the confirmation that john's as nuts about you as you are about him.
in exactly eleven and a half minutes, the doorbell rings.
"evenin' ma'am." sergeant mactavish says from under one of john's arm's, helping steady him on his feet. he looks good, no new black eyes or scars or anything. the last mission must've gone relatively well.
"hello, sergeant. thanks for bringing hi-" you're not able to finish your sentence before john's on you, mouth pressed to yours as he backs you up against the wall.
"goodnight, captain." mactavish says from the doorway with a small laugh as he closes the door behind himself.
"missed you." john breathes into your mouth, and it tastes like scotch and cigars.
"have a nice time with the boys?" you ask, trying to duck under john's arm so you can lead him back to bed, but he cuts you off, lowering his arm and boxing you in.
"where you goin'?" he slurs a little, leaning his body weight onto you. you're stuck, your body pressed to his as he holds your face and stares deep into your eyes.
"to bed. it's late, come on." you push on his shoulders a little to try to get him to step back, but he doesn't. his eyes are a little glassy, but his focus is lazer-focused on your face.
"lookit you, you're so- so-" he bites his lip as he tries to think of the words. "resplendent."
you snort so hard that you think your sinuses did a backflip. "that word of the day calendar your mum gave you's getting put to some good use, eh?"
"nearly just said 'round'." he admits, which just makes you laugh harder. he wouldn't be wrong, there's a lot about you that's round. your face, your stomach, the rolls on your back, your thighs and hips.
"i mean, you wouldn't have been wrong." you chuckle as you push at his shoulders again, this time getting him to stand up straight. "come on, john, let's go to bed."
you take him by the hand and walk him back to your bedroom, dark except for the warm glow of the lamp on the nightstand.
"round, round, round, my sweet round wife." john says in a low, sing-song voice, smoothing his hands over your sides, tracing the rolls and curves of your silhouette as he pulls your back against his chest and kisses your neck. "rounder than a goose."
"a goose!" you can't help but lose your mind laughing at that. oh, boy, he's really three sheets to the wind if he's saying shit like that. big, warm hands open up your robe a bit more, exposing your tank top and shorts combo.
"golden goose, golden girl, so pretty and soft," he mumbles against your skin, beard prickling against you as he lays soft kisses on your shoulder.
"john, we've got to get to bed." you say with a giggle, trying to wriggle out of his grip. his arms tighten around you with a growl in your ear, making you freeze for a moment until he instantly relaxes again and continues squeezing your big soft belly, your wide hips, and your fat ass. it's like john's turned into a big, incoherent cat, and has decided to make biscuits on you.
"lovely, lovely, lovely." he breathes against your skin. "lovely girl, lovely goose, all just f'me."
"not even a swan, john? just a goose?" you can't help but laugh as you ask. he's just so sweet and dopey and completely out of it.
"the roundest goose." he says proudly, squeezing your ass.
"oh my god, ok, i'm going to bed. i'd say you're invited but i'm still not sure, after all this name-calling." you're laughing too hard to strike the mock-indignant tone you were going for as you wiggle out of his hold enough to crawl onto the mattress and pull the covers up to your chest. john just stares at you with an open, earnest face, wobbling a little in place. you just sigh, roll your eyes, and chuckle.
"ok, fine, you're invited." he takes a few quick steps to the bed before you remember. "but! get a drink of water and take your clothes off first!"
in another life, john price would be a quickchange artist. you've never seen anyone strip so fast, leaving a trail of clothing behind him as he rushes off to the en-suite bathroom to knock back a dixie cup of tap water like it's a shot.
in no time at all he's naked and bounding back to you, shaking the mattress with how quickly he scrambles onto the bed, latching his warm, hairy body to yours as soon as he's under the covers.
"missed you." he murmurs again as he rubs his face against your bare shoulder like a cat demanding affection. you reach over and scritch his scalp lightly with your nails, earning you a pleased hum.
"missed you, too. let's sleep, ok? then we can spend all tomorrow together. i'll make you something greasy for the hangover you're definitely gonna have."
"fried egg and bacon." he grumbles as he nuzzles against your chest, and you have to turn onto your side away from him before he gets worked up. you're so tired, it's been a long day, and you're not really up for much more than passing out. john whines a little before immediately clinging onto your back like a very large, very english koala. his hands run up and down your body, lightly touching your softest bits while humming in sleepy, drunken approval.
"lovely round goose." he whispers into your hair, considerably more love in his tone than his actual words might indicate, and you can't help but huff out a laugh as you settle in for sleep.
~
the next morning you're awoken by the pained groans of your tremendously hungover husband. the sun is very bright this morning, you'll give him that, and the birds outside seem to be extra sonorous. john cuddles in closer to you, burying his face between your shoulder blades, probably in an attempt to hide from the bright sunlight streaming through the blinds.
"mornin', sweetheart." he grumbles, low and pained, as if the sound of his own voice hurts him. you just hum lightly in acknowledgement, not wanting to hurt him any further. "hope i didn't make too much of a fool of myself last night."
you just hum softly again, reaching over and patting his hand where it's resting on your soft hip. you can feel john tense up slightly behind you, and it nearly makes you laugh. it's like you can hear the gears turning in his head, trying to recount everything he said and did when he got home. he's probably taking your silence for annoyance, which isn't even remotely accurate, you're just trying to save his pounding skull. you feel a large hand tug at your shoulder, urging you to roll over to look at him. even through his pained squinting, you can see the traces of worry on john's face.
"sweetheart, did i upset you? need you t' tell me if i've gone and mucked things up." he says so, so seriously, and you can't stand to see him so upset with himself when he didn't do or say anything horrible. just silly. however, you also aren't the type to let the opportunity for a joke to slip through your fingers, either.
all you can do is cup his cheek, smile sweetly at him, and honk lovingly.
tw for weight loss pills! and tw for mothers who like to ruin their daughterās self esteem š
i hope this isnāt a triggering or uncomfortable idea for you to read. iām deeply sorry if it is. please just chuck this straight into the bin if so. i just wanted to know if my shared experience was relatable, and if any other big girls struggled with feeling defeated, hurt, and consistently knocked down from their almond moms.
.
.
.
my mom just sent me a text with an extremely badly photoshopped ad for weight loss pills. and yes, it has both kelly clarkson and jimmy fallonās faces cropped onto some poor 18 year oldās body. itās hilariously bad and an obvious scam. but still, the hurt and shock deflated me.
iām proud to say that iām able to push past this now, to see it more as a projection of her own warped insecurities, but if it were 2 or 4 years ago, i wouldāve been crying myself to sleep for weeks (honestly, i still might have a good cry even now). avoiding the mirror, or any reflection, and hating the way i looked in clothes that i normally loved! her thoughts wouldāve polluted my own, and i wouldāve spent SO much wasted time and energy on hating myself, when i never did in the first place.
your stories are a major reason why i actively started loving my size, my shape, and skin, instead of being neutral about it. instead of my momās words echoing in my head and staining my thoughts, it would be yours, or your 141ās words. you helped me realize how good and soft my curves/rolls felt! i wasnāt indifferent about my round belly anymore, but would rather think of how drunk-price wouldnāt be able to keep his paws off of his āgooseā shaped wife. lmao just the thought of it cheers me up: drunk price vs almond mom, because sober price would be simply too powerful.
when you feel up to writing, iād love to know how price would react to his significant otherās mom body shaming her, and how heād cheer her up š
first off- i wanna fight your mom. that shit is, unfortunately, very relatable, and i'm honestly just glad you've reached a place in your life where you can recognize it for what it is- a projection of her own insecurities. that doesn't take the sting out, obviously, but you know what i think might? drunk price getting goddamned indignant on your behalf.
(cw: alcohol/drunkenness, diet pills/weight loss mention, blatantly unedited)
>>thought of you!
the picture loads on your phone under the text from your mom, and you roll your eyes so hard you're almost certain you felt a click in your skull. it's an ad for a diet pill, promising to help you shed the pound quickly and easily with 'minimal leakage'. you don't really want to dwell on what that means. it sucks, having your own mother tell you in the dead of night that she's been thinking of you and decided you're too fat, that you need 'fixing', that she trusts some modern day snake oil salesman more than she trusts that you and your husband are perfectly content with your fat ass and soft belly. rationally, you know she's just projecting, that it's not really your problem, but still. it hurts, especially coming from your mother.
you can't dwell on it too long before you hear the front door open, a low and rumbling 'g'night, lads' uttered before it closes again. john's been out with his unit celebrating something or other, a top secret mission gone very, very well. your fouled mood is lifted slightly as you listen through the bedroom door to him fumbling and cursing the complexities of shoelaces, clearly trying and having little success getting his boots off.
"that better be someone i know and love, i'm too tired to chase around intruders with a baseball bat." you call out, grinning as you hear john's muffled chuckle from the hallway, the sound becoming much clearer as he pushes the door open.
"hiya, sweetheart. nice night in?" he asks sweetly. he's clearly drunk, his face flushed as he sways in place. his glassy eyes look you up and down, despite the fact that you might be at your least sexy at the moment- bonnet on, with your glasses on the end of your nose and a giant grey sweatshirt making your already large frame look even wider.
"it was fine. how're the boys?" you ask, grinning as he wobbles over to the bed, his eyes never leaving you for even a moment.
"oh, fine, just fine. just another night out with the lads, always a good time." he sits on the edge of the bed next to you, gently chucking your chin. "what's this face for, eh? you mad i've been drinkin'?"
ah, shit, you'd been so annoyed at your mom's text that there's a small scowl still on your face. it's hard to just shrug off your annoyance so easily, even when john's being cute.
"no, god, no, i'd expected that. i just..." you sigh and hand over your phone, showing john the message from your mom. he squints down at your screen a moment before gently pulling your glasses off of your face and perching them on his own nose so he can look at it properly. it's cute, honestly, that he refuses to get his own reading glasses and instead opts to grab your deep purple, half-moon bifocals. between them and the beard, he almost looks like a wizard when he's trying to read small print.
"the fuck is all this?" he mutters, probably not something he meant to say out loud.
"she's not-so-subtly hinting that i should lose weight." you explain, and you can't help the surprised laugh that bursts out of you when he shoots you a look of shock and disgust.
"don't you bloody dare." he growls, tossing your phone onto the empty half of the bed and crawling on top of you, swinging his leg over your wide hips and settling himself down on your soft lap. warm, broad palms cup your face and tilt your chip up to look at him as his thumb lovingly strokes the roundness of your cheek.
"now you listen to me- if you lose a single... fuckin'... gram, i will riot. this is a promise. i will go to your mum's house, kick down the door, and give her a right bollocking for tryin' to make my wife less soft and round and soft." he slurs, and you huff a laugh.
"you said 'soft' twice."
"because you're twice as soft as anyone else i know." he says matter-of-factly, his hands sliding down your face to your shoulders, squeezing the fat of your upper arms before going right for your tits. a pleased rumble emanates from his chest, and you can't help but laugh at him. he's so predictable, really.
"john, you're wearing your dirty clothes on our bed." you complain halfheartedly, and he tucks his chin against his chest to look down at you.
"i'm the luckiest man in the world, get to go out with the lads and come home to my sweet, fat wife who demands i take my clothes off. livin' the bloody dream, i am." the corners of his eyes crinkle with his wide smile, making his ruddy cheeks rounder. he starts humming some tune as he slowly takes his shirt off, flinging it across the room like he's auditioning for chippendale's, falling over onto the bed next to you as he wriggles out of his jeans. he doesn't even bother to sit up when he's done, just buries his face into your side, slotting the ridge of his nose into your side roll and mouthing at the stretch marks on your plush hip.
"why anyone would want rid of this- this- this luxury, this decadence, is beyond me. might as well say 'oh, no thank you, i don't want a bon-bon, i'd rather have celery instead.' bloody ridiculous. come on, love, lie down properly for me. too hard to kiss when you're all the way up there."
"ok, ok, just give me my phone so i can put it on the nightstand first." you ask, holding your hand out. john blearily looks around, finally realizing he's laying right on top of it, and hesitates before giving you a look.
"can i respond to your mum's message for you?" he asks, mischievous grin on his face and in his tone.
"oh, god. okay, but be polite." you warn, trying not to laugh at his little giggle as he unlocks your phone and sends his thumbs flying over the virtual keyboard. you can't see what he's said, but you watch him read his message, edit it a little, nod in approval, and tap send. he hands you the phone back, tugging at your sweatshirt to urge you to lie down next to him.
you curl up on your side, and he's instantly spooning you, his knees tucked up behind you so his hips and lap cradle your fat ass, just the way he likes. strong, hairy arms slide over the wide expanse of your waist, and long, thick fingers squeeze and jiggle your soft belly lovingly. god, john's a lifesaver, he really is. lord knows that without his constant, easy reassurance that your build is exactly what he likes, you think you would've taken this text from your mother a lot harder. there's nothing like the affirmation of a big, broad-shouldered man going absolutely gaga for your fat ass and side rolls to keep you from falling into a pit of self loathing.
before you put your phone away, you quickly peek at what john sent, and huff out a laugh and an 'oh no' as you place it face down on your nightstand.
>>as politely as i can: fuck off with that shit. -john
saw a tweet about a girl whose boyfriend sat in the car while she changed a flat tireā¦ā¦.my god the way Price wouldāve slammed on the brakes if he drove by that shit show and got out of his car just to yank the boyfriend out of the car
tangentwithtanner
areudirty
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