Work Text:
Day 14: Choking / Possessiveness
Price has a neighbour.
Pretty, young thing. Lives alone. He’s been watching you for long enough to know there’s no man in your life.
The neighbourhood is all white-picket fence and apple pies on window sills; a surprisingly affordable safe haven for families and singles alike, far away from the noise of the city and the bustle of life. Your house is a small two-story cape-cod, white and blue, the shrunken down version of Price’s property. The only problem is-
Your bedroom window sits right across his own.
At first, it felt weird to peek through the blinds of his home to watch your undisturbed silhouette move around the house next to his.
So, he made sure to keep his bedroom blinds closed, until you went to bed. As soon as your bedroom was crowded in darkness, he opened his blinds and his window. (He tended to overheat rather easily).
But Price had to check if your lights were off. Couldn’t see through his blinds, obviously. Two fingers prying apart the metal. And if he watched a bit longer than necessary, it was only to assure himself that you didn’t somehow slip and hit your head. Or that someone had broken into your home and threatened you. Life was dangerous for a lone woman. He was only looking out for you.
At some point, Pirce’s brain had simply decided you were his.
Proximity breeds closeness, and sometimes it almost feels as if you’re already living inside of his home. He can expect you to enter your bedroom at 9pm. Watches you gather your shower supplies. A fresh pair of underwear. Socks. Rose scented lotion (the same one sits next to his bed, tucked into the nightstand, accompanied by a box of tissues). You do not return for forty minutes, during which Price follows his own nighttime routine. (Always in the smaller of the two bathrooms. You’d surely like the bigger one).
It’s… domestic. A mundane pleasure wrapping his life in softness. The tenderization of the rigid routine his work life demanded.
When you return from the shower, you’re wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe that is quickly discarded.
Price had always averted his gaze while you slathered yourself in flowery lotion. He did. At first.
One glance couldn’t hurt.
Then one turned into two, and two into an uninterrupted monitoring of every glide of your small hands across your skin.
It wasn’t even his fault. You left the blinds open. You stripped down next to your window.
You lied down on the double-spaced bed, naked and bare, glistening cunt facing the world (facing him), as you let pleasure spill from your thighs.
It’s a natural progression for him to greet you in the early winter mornings, when he’s dressed in pyjama pants and shirtless, cradling a hot coffee cup, while you stumble towards your car, already running five minutes late.
You’d slept through your alarm, just ten minutes longer. Enough to break your routine. Enough to break his morning routine as well.
It was still dark outside, the orange shimmer of morning not even a thought on the dark horizon. With your head in the clouds, mind focussed on your lateness, on what your boss might say, Price couldn’t possibly let you walk to your car alone. It’s far too easy for any bad actor to snatch you up just like that. He’d rather keep an eye out for you.
Thus, another step is added to his routine.
You always greet him so sweetly. Dressed in your big puffer jacket, your head peaking out from the thick fabric, work bag slung over your shoulder, a pair of keys dangling from your hand.
It’s nice. Easy. And when your car doesn’t start one morning, and he watches from his porch as you desperately turn the key again, and again, salty water collecting on your lower lash line with every exhausted, desperate turn-
He just does what every good neighbour would do and offers you a ride.
His car’s big. Brown leather interior, heated seats, soft radio music playing in the background. You’re both surrounded by the humming of the engine as you pass by barren trees and empty fields.
“Thank you so much”, you nearly sob for the fifth time since he offered to help you out, and he gives your lower thigh a consoling pat.
“I told you, don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I was already up anyway.”
“Still. Thank you.” You turn your head and stare out at the open road. “I just hope there’s nothing wrong with my car.”
While your at work, Price has your car towed to a nearby repair shop and picks you up after work.
One trip to the mechanic later (Price had insisted on accompanying you. You know how those repair shops try to rip women off-), and you were white-knuckling your hair with both hands on his passenger seat.
The mechanic had given you the bad news you didn’t want to receive: three weeks and four grand to get your car running again.
“What am I going to do”, you whisper.
The heavy paw Price curled around your life tightens. It has his chests rumbling with satisfaction when he gets to offer you his services.
“Don’t worry your pretty head. I have a perfectly functional car right here. I’ll drive you.”
Grateful doesn’t even begin to cover the emotion that flashes across your features at that. Like John had just lifted a heavy weight off your chest. Your big, trusting eyes staring up at him with sheer gratitude, with indebtedness-
It has him twitching in his slacks.
And when three weeks turn to four, then who is he to keep count?
When you can’t grab a drink with your coworkers anymore, because Price has a tight schedule to run on and has to pick you up right after work, who are you to complain about it?
When John slowly becomes the person you spend the most time with after work, making dinner at his place as a thank you for all he’s done for you, then that’s just a natural progression after all.
His steady hand stitches your lives together, sutures interwoven tightly with flesh. Surgical knot pulled tight until the skin strains.
His handiwork is clean. Practical. Practiced.
Not every thing in his life related to his work, but you do. Price has always understood himself as a protector. On a global scale, he must’ve saved hundreds, thousands of lives, every single one of them blissfully unaware of the blood his hands spilled, of the debris and viscera he tore through with iron will and grim intention; unwilling to know the cost of their peaceful night’s sleep and stuffed bellies.
And despite his sacrifice, they’re still ungrateful. Ever-complaining, bemoaning; cursing out the very people that held their paternal hand over the heads of those weaker than them. Infantile imbeciles, the lot of them. Weak and passive; sheep rejecting the same guard dogs that kept the wolves away.
But Price has integrity. He has protective instinct, and a soft, beating heart for frailness.
He cannot delude himself into believing his military career is entirely noble. Just like his protectiveness over you is not entirely selfless.
Maybe he’d be able to tell himself he had fatherly feelings for you, a young, inexperienced, innocent little thing. That he only wanted to help out his darling neighbour in times of need.
But he’d tugged his cock raw one too many times at the sound of you, moaning and gasping so sweetly through an open window. He’d felt himself chub up at your gratitude, at that shame-filled, red-hot twinkle in your eyes whenever you had to rely on him with no real way to ever make it up to him.
It’s when you turn your skull down, presenting him the crown of your head, bashful, submissive, that he imagines you as his.
Can picture it clear as day: the fat ring on your wedding finger. The swell of life pressing against your dress. The teeth marks on your neck-
But.
But.
He’s getting away from himself.
He is not entirely selfless, but he has the correct aim. It shall never be said his most base intentions aren’t pure. Not when his track record (years and years and years of blood, guts, sleepless nights, MRE’s, crippling addictions to caffeine and nicotine, hours spent in meetings, debriefings, on reports, and training, and talking, and talking, and talking, and travelling, and shooting, and, and, and-) shows quite the opposite. Price is not selfish. He is ambitious.
He likes to be in charge. He’s provident. Calculating and dominant.
Can’t blame a man for knowing his strengths.
Strengths that make him a good captain. A great one, even. Strengths that carry over to his civilian life. That provide him with the necessary capabilities to help you, protect you.
A man talking to you when you get off of work.
Price’s large car already sitting in the parking lot. Him, standing outside, smoking a cigar. Watching.
Monitoring the sleazy, skinny, weak man’s pathetic attempt at inviting you out for drinks.
And then-
“I’m sorry, I’m already busy tonight. I planned this whole dinner with John-“
He stops listening as blood shoots from his ringing ears down to his cock and warmth spreads across his chest. With John. With him. You were ditching your coworker for him.
Good. Very good.
He can only drive you to town on Wednesdays.
If that’s the day your best friend usually calls, well, then that’s just bad luck.
And when he lets you fall asleep on his couch after movie night, and you don’t get up in time for your little book club, then it’s really not your fault they chose to schedule the next meeting without you in mind. John just couldn’t bring it over himself to wake you when you looked so peaceful (limp, drooling, innocent) sleeping on his soft cushions.
The ever-creeping curl of his claws around your life’s pulse tightens.
Nightly dinners become routine.
John promises you to replace your book club. We can just make our own.
Walking through the dead of winter on your own is a thing of the past. Heard and seen too many horror stories, sweetheart, he drawls. There are bad men just waiting to snatch you up.
I just want you to be safe.
You can tell me anything.
If you need something, I’ll be there.
And the claw tightens.
Closer.
And closer.
And closer.
Nothing is forever, and soon, he has to return to base.
He knows his claws have fully sunken down into the giving flesh of your body, when he’s halfway across the world and you call him to ask him how to check your oil level (he’s not surprised your car broke down when it did). And isn’t that just precious.
Out of all the people you could’ve asked, it was him.
You need him.
And yet, he feels fear nagging at the back of his mind.
He doesn’t want to label it as such. But John is above lying to himself, when he knows very well what the snake pit coiling in his nervous stomach represents; pure, unadulterated fear.
Fear of losing you.
Yes, you call him every day.
Yapping about mundane stories of your life. Asking him silly little questions that have his instincts howling with the need to guard you, protect you, wrap you up in cotton and tie it up in pretty little bows.
Yes, you rely on him. He’s your emotional anchor. Your steady rock in the tumultuous sea you often seem to drown in. The one person (the only person) you spend time with.
But- and it’s a pesky little but – the stories on your phone calls spread out. Drawing bigger and bigger circles around your life. At first, it’s you. Reading. Cleaning. Looking up recipes. Going to work.
Then-
Gossiping about your coworkers.
Going to another book club meeting.
Telling him a story your best friend told you over the phone.
Going out to dinner with your coworkers.
Getting drinks with the sleazy fucking asshole that chatted you up weeks ago.
And Price sees red.
Price has a neighbour.
And the word starts to grate on his nerves.
Has him pacing around his office, thick smoke hanging in the air, half a pack consumed and burned away, as he rotates the word around his mind.
He has no handle over you.
He’s not your boyfriend. (A truly juvenile title he’d quickly replace with something permanent).
He’s not your guardian.
He’s a neighbour.
The ephemeralness of the relationship binding you two together has his stomach in knots.
He knows you. Knows you more intimately than most people. He’s been watching you. Knows your routines. Knows you hate taking out the trash. That you change your sheets twice a month. That you own a little bullet vibrator you use when you’re too tired after work to get yourself off in any other way. Knows what it feels like to have you fall asleep on him. To have to angle his hard, rutting cock away from your sleeping form. Knows what it’s like to drive 40 minutes with you in the car every day, and how you always yell out cows when you see them.
And he’s still just a neighbour?
Fear bubbles beneath he surface of his heart, blackened tar oozing from the muscle with slow, anxious pumps.
The surgical knot on the purulent, festering wound tying you to him has loosened.
John takes another deep drag from his cigarette.
When he exhales, he knows what he has to do.
His vacation request in granted without much of a fuss, to his own surprise.
The drive back home is spent white-knuckling the steering wheel, ivory against black.
The howling in his head, the maddening fear has ebbed down, has diluted from pitch-black to sluggish grey; it slithers and writhes in his guts as before, but he refocuses it on a purpose. Channels that anxious energy into a tool. Hard, and sharp, wielding it with practiced control, until its sharp blade nicks right against your milk white throat. Until his claw holds you so tight your bones crack.
For a while, everything returns to normal.
Price has a plan. But planning, aiming for success, requires patience.
He can’t go at it like a bull at a gate.
He takes on the role of the doting neighbour. It fits him like a glove.
And little by little, he chips away at the new supposed independence you built for yourself.
You’re lying under him, crushed beneath military muscle and the layer of fat that his doctor’s aren’t too concerned about yet-
Your frail wrists are interlinked, held in place above your head by his massive paw, keeping you locked down, tied up for him.
The other is placed right on your throat.
Not quite the collar he wants for your pretty little neck, but it’s enough for now.
Enough to see you held in place by his own making.
To see, feel, hear himself buried down, deep, so very deep in your tight little hole. A weeping, desperate thing that all but begged for his dick.
You’re almost too eager to fall back into your place by his side and let yourself be doted on.
On his first night back, you’d already complained how draining it was to commute to work by yourself every day.
Your coworkers only wanted to go out and drink, when you’d much rather go to the movies.
You didn’t even cook half as much without him and ate way too much junk food while he was away.
“Missed you”, you’d cooed when he knocked on your door, after parking his car. Hugging him so sweetly he almost forgot all those nights out, in the dark, with strange men, and alcohol running through your system.
Almost.
“You belong to me”, Joh grunts out “Say it”.
“”Yours”, you moan, half-conscious, delirious. “Only yours, John. Need you.”
You had cooked a massive spread. An apology meal, he’s sure. A feast to welcome home the man that kept you safe. The man you betrayed. The man whose claim on you you had so openly denied.
But John is forgiving. He has a soft spot for you. A rotten, bruised pressure point on his bleeding heart. A voice telling him you didn’t do it on purpose. You were just missing his gentle, guiding hand.
He’s forgiving, but you need to show penance.
And this is your punishment.
Shoved down on the bed right after dinner. Gasping into his kisses, wet and breathy, already so overwhelmed he had to shove his fingers down your pants and check just how wet you were.
And oh, you were drenched.
The same slickness that sticks to your inner thighs now, and coats the length of his cock with every hard knock into your cunt. She’s weeping as she takes your punishment.
You’re no better.
Face a beautiful summer-cherry red as he tightens his hand around your throat. As he controlled your breathing. Your life.
Your wrist were pushing uselessly against his hands, not even hard enough to make him move an inch, insect battering against a window.
You need to learn your lesson.
He’s in charge.
So you can be save.
So you can never leave him.
He wants it to bruise.
Pretty purple markings. Wants people to gossip. Wants them to ask what happened. Did anyone hurt you?
And for you to lie.
Because you know he only did it to protect you, didn’t he? Because he loves you so.
Your dear neighbour.
When tear threaten to spill down your cheeks and spit bubbles at the corner of your mouth, Price loosens the grip on your throat, and you gulp down air with a heaving cough.
Eyes near bulging, big, and watery, pupils blown.
You never looked more beautiful.
“Need you to remember this”, he says, and grinds his cock into you. “You’re mine.”
When he wakes up the next morning, he finds your half of his bed (your bed) cold.
The tar begins oozing again-
You were ungrateful.
Just like everyone else.
You didn’t recognize the work he put in for you, how much he’d sacrifice-
Then he hears it. Your steps, muffled, careful. Not wanting to wake him. And Price remembers that it’s a workday.
Hm.
Work’s stressing you out.
Eating up your time, leaving you tired. Maybe he should tell you to quit.