Going Through It

being set out in the grass sp you can see the sky, dressed in the clothes they think look prettiest on you, taught what you're supposed to be and do, and turning your face towards their affection like you turn towards the sun, until you crawl into one of their laps and melt into the groping hands and panting breaths, the barely restrained glee that invade your saviors' blood and hardens their cock under your warm body.

cw/tags: themes of sickness (no graphic depictions). john price x ex-wife. reluctant caretaking. manipulation. unreliable povs.

when he tries calling you, he gets abruptly disconnected.

when he tries texting you, it's delivered but never read.

when he tries emailing you, there are no responses.

when he tries sending you a letter, it's radio silence.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ Masterlist ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

CW: !!MDNI!! light misogyny, icky perv!Price, breeding

What A Perv

When you had finally met Price, it took a week to joke with him over being an old fuck. Traditional man. Stupid old morals he’d subtlety hint at, no matter how much times have changed.

While he respects your abilities on the field, his old traditional brain believes you’d do much better in a kitchen or watching kids. Those old school morals, paired with his compliments being total pervert behavior.

cw: 18+ mdni, heavy fauxcest.

Tiptoeing around the house to make him coffee and pancakes with some fruit for his breakfast in bed. The baby crawling all over him as he fakes his morning yawn awake. The man isn’t too much of a heavy sleeper, knows when you’re trying to suprise him. You’ll bring out the card you’ve made with the baby, his handprint covering the paper in different colors, a botched ‘best dad ever’ the baby definitely scribbled lines through.

Then its chill a very chills day for the rest of the day, very lazy, the baby must be growing because they sleep so much but your thankful, you get to curl up close into John’s beefy arm, legs over his lap while he drinks his beer. Leaving small kisses on your knuckles, your knees, your temple, hand going up and down your spine as the tv runs some of his favorite movies you’ve been playing on the dvd but it’s an afterthought to him. And it’s not sexual, just, you and your pa, your man, the father of your baby- your everything.

It’s just before dinner you bring out the gifts you got him, a set of new binoculars for bird watching, a book you’d noticed him eyeing in the bookstore, managed to get the signed copy on eBay for your allowance you’d been saving up, the kicker? A small heartfelt letter. It’s not too much, less than a page long, you’ve never been the best with words. but you tried your best to express how much you love Price. How much you understand him and he, you, more than anyone on this planet. How you do anything to make all his past mistakes and pain go away, and if you can’t you’d still hold his hand through it. Because it’s really scary being alone, that since you’re together now, he has nothing else to worry about. You’ll find a way to protect him too.

Price doesn’t cry. Atleast you’ve never heard it, but you finally catch his look while trying to find those blue eyes you hold so dearly to your heart. And they’re shimmering, tears threatening to fall but they don’t. He cups your face, a ragged and airy chuckle leaving him. So rare, your stomach is doing flips.

“Ta love, really.”

John holds you tight, closer than you could imagine. Mumbles of “my girl” “my one ‘nd only buttercup” “How could God ‘f given a bastard like me a perfect girl like you, hm?”

You don’t even get to make it to dinner, only lifting his shirt you had on all day, groaning when he sees just your fat pussy lips glisting there for him, ready for the taking. And he ravishes you right mom the couch. Over and over, it’s so warm, clutching onto his hairy back as he ruts his fat cock into your cunt. You’re moaning and mewling out those sweet ‘Dad’ and ‘Pa’ gasping at the feel of his throbbing cock pressing against your spongy g-spot.

His head pops up from your hardened nipple, lapping between the valley of your chest, and whispering in your ear as the coach creaks with every thrust, “Not goin anywhere buettercup,” he lets out a low groan, rocking his hips slightly faster inside you. “Was made just f’you. Dad’s just for you.”

You've known the name "john price" long before you knew how to write your own, child fingers tracing the letters on your arm, reverent.

You tried finding him, of course you did, but as it happens john price is far too common of a name. You give up on your dreams eventually. life demands you to actually live it instead of waiting for the signal to go.

As it happens, on one of your nights out you stumble upon him.

John price. You had noticed him in the bar earlier, drawn to him in a way you couldn't explain, and now it's him approaching you. He nods at your exposed arm, body between you and the rest of the crowd, almost possessive. "You are my soulmate, yes?"

Your name rolls off his tongue like honey, has your soul thumping at the thought of the one.

John price is big, strong, and dangerously handsome. He smells like whiskey and smoke and expensive cologne that tells you the gold around his neck is real. He keeps glancing at your mark with a smile, awestruck the same as you.

"Can i see my name? I want...I want to feel it." You tug at his leather jacket impatiently.

"Ah, bad idea. I was...hurt. left a scar right next to it, looks quite gruesome." He frowns, redirecting your hand to his lips for a kiss. You understand, soulmarks are personal, add in insecurity about scars and...you decide not to push.

Still, when his hand slides low on your back, eyes lidded in desire, you follow him home.

God are you thankful john is your soulmate, you're not sure how you could enjoy another man after the night he gave you. Entire body sore and pleased, face-down on his bed.

it's hard enough being a bug hybrid, many people have certain prejudice against you as-is, but as a hybrid with a "pest" counter-part? you're no stranger to rude and downright mean comments even from peers.

Which is why you're absolutely dumbfounded by ghost of all people approaching you out of nowhere to ask "can I take you on a date?"

You should know better, having been the victim of many 'pranks' in your youth, but something about the open way he says it has you hesitantly agreeing. He's attractive, funny, hopefully nice...it seems like a good idea.

Only for you to end up at a salad bar with a bowl full of leafy greens and fruits while ghost eagerly watches with an untouched plate. He smiles, pushes more towards you "don't be shy, lovie, eat up."

Sure, it's really weird, but not once has he made fun of your antennae or your mouthparts or anything....it's almost...nice?

"Can i try some of your honeydew?" Ghost blurts out in front of your apartment after an eerily silent car ride.

For a second, you're convinced he's joking. You've never met anyone who likes aphid hybrid honeydew, no one. Most don't know what it is. Those piercing brown eyes stay fixed on you unblinkingly, dead serious.

You've never been good at managing impulse, so you chitter happily and tug ghost inside.

Big, scarred hands gently cradling their little fat bellies, lifting the babies up to splash and wriggle, bouncing them as they squeal. The older ones get the same careful handling, showing them how to float, how to grasp the side wall of the pool- "very good," he tells them in the deep, serious voice children love, as firm as if he was speaking to an adult.

The older children are in a separate class, and crowd Simon at every lesson, bursting all over to tell him about something new they learned, as he sections them out and starts moving down the line, prompting backstrokers and doggy paddlers alike.

The first time he yelled- used his dad voice, one boy whispered delightedly- it was not to the kids but a parent, more occupied with fluttering her lashes at him than keeping an eye on her kid, too far into the deep end and spluttering.

It's why you bring your kids to his classes specifically- he doesn't mess around, doesn't play favorites or let the kids break rules, sets them up for success instead of failure, and if the soaked, long-sleeve black shirt and matching swim pants cling deliciously when he finishes and climbs out, well, what's the harm in looking?

John’s office was always a sanctuary of quiet focus: neat stacks of reports, the faint scent of tobacco lingering in the air, lamp throwing warm amber across paper. He had trained himself, over decades, to tune out background noise, to filter for what mattered, to know without looking what belonged and what did not and what he should focus on first.

But there was one sound he never tuned out.

The soft tinkling of your anklets drifted down the hall like a private song. Even muffled by the door, it threaded through the silence of his office, so distinct that his pen slowed every time it reached him.

You were moving quickly: he could tell by the hurried rhythm of the bells, the quick jangle followed by the muted thud of your steps. Fetching something, most likely. A smile tugged faintly at his mouth and notched his beard up a little, the kind of smile that he ever so rarely showed to anyone else.

A pause, then a faint scrape. Then the bells again, slower this time, thoughtful, like you were circling in place, searching and hunting for something specific. He leaned back in his chair, listening.

Cupboards, then. Kitchen. Looking for that tin of biscuits you swore you hid from Soap.

The bells scattered in a sharp, bright trill- faster, lighter, with a staccato beat of bare feet across the floorboards. He pictured you dashing to the sitting room, probably carrying the whole tin in triumph but knowing you only had so little time before Johnny would sniff out the tin and come barreling.

His lips curved into a low chuckle, the sound rumbling in his chest.

A moment later, the bells softened into an idle sway, a lazy jingle moving in loops. Pacing, now. You did that when you thought, or when you hummed to yourself while reading. He imagined you curling up on the couch, flicking through a book, anklets shifting against your skin with every absent wiggle of your toes.

John set his pen down, reports momentarily forgotten. He sat in that quiet room with his head tilted slightly, savoring the intimate knowledge the anklets gave him. No collar, no claim scarring your throat (horrors he’d seen too much of during missions)- just this: the gentle music of your presence, a private assurance that you were safe, near, and happy enough to fill the house with the sound of your steps.

He leaned back, eyes closing again, and continued listening.

There it was again: the delicate tinkling, softer now, as if you’d slowed to peer around a corner. And then, the sweetest sound: a hesitant pause just outside his door, the faint brush of metal as you shifted your weight, deciding whether to come in.

John smiled into the quiet. “Go on, love,” he called, voice rich and low. “No need to hover. Door’s open.”

The bells answered first, their music bright with the quick step of your approach followed a heartbeat later by you, slipping into his office with a grin.

not developed idea at all but thinking about Ghost torturing some crime lord or other and he’s using the man’s wife as leverage. Gun to her head as she cries and shakes, tied up on the floor of the concrete room, begging her husband to help her.

Ghost gives the man a choice; his life, or hers. His lip curls beneath the mask when the man chooses his own life.

“Shouldn’t treat y’wife that way.” He says coldly. “Bad for you, yeah? Happy wife, and all that.”

The bullet lands exactly where he means it to go; between the bloke’s eyes. Blood trickles down his forehead, body slackens in the restraints holding him. The pretty thing on the floor screams. Thrashes and thumps her tied wrists off his legs while she curses him out.

“Thank you wouldn’t hurt,” he rumbles dryly. “Would’ve been you if your man had his way. Up you get, c’mon.”

He pulls her to her feet, brushes her down with lingering hands. Smooths over her hair and thumbs away the tears. The mask shifts, like he’s frowning.