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yeyinde · 2 years ago

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BARKING DOG | Jealousy + Price x GN!Reader

Jealousy comes easy for Price, but it's rare he ever acts on it. Until, of course, he does.

》 WORD COUNT: 4,9k 》 WARNINGS: None (don't look at me, i'm just as surprised as you are). 》 TAGS: Fluff. Angst. Coarse language. 》 NOTES: I've gotten a few asks (read: two) about my take on Jealous!Price, so this is that. —Jealousy would be rare in an established relationship. He sees jealousy as distrust, and since trust itself is the foremost foundation he'd want before even pursuing a relationship, it would be extremely out of character for him to give into it. —That being said, before you get together? When feelings are not yet Actualised? Ooof.

The heavy bass pulses through the unusually packed pub. The rhythm of it seems to reverberate through your body, harsh enough to rattle your bones like a second heartbeat in your marrow.

You can feel the re-echo of it through the worn herringbone floorboards, bleached in some parts by the repeated spills of ethanol, and the scuff of countless soles dragging across the wood. It pulses beneath you, alive with the leaden stomps of the pub-goers matching the rhythm of the band on stage—the very thing that drew the dense crowd into the ramshackle pub off the corner of Pilgrim and Rice Street.

It's nestled between Knowledge and Georgian Quarter, a place he'd said was quiet, but good.

Quiet, you think as cheers erupt when the band trails off their latest rock version of a Sea Shanty from somewhere in Atlantic Canada. If only.

It was clear when you arrived that Price hadn't anticipated the crowd. The placid look on his face crumbled into something sour, and surly, and you'd taken to jabbing your elbow into his side when he tried to turn around and flee.

"Who cares," you yelled, shrugging. "We're already here."

Who cares, indeed. You'd come to regret those words within a half hour of sitting in a booth in the farthest corner away from the makeshift stage you could find. The writhing mass of bodies heated the balmy room until the windows fogged over with a layer of thick condensation, and the air became humid, permeating the scent of people—sweat, the heavy admixing of perfume and cologne, rotten, waterlogged cigarettes and the lingering staleness of tobacco-saturated smoke, and rich ethanol from the abundance of alcohol sloshing against the raw floorboards.

It clots in your lungs until you're dizzy with its potency.

This was meant to be a way to unwind and relax. The mission had been a disaster—weeks of stress that you could only grieve about from your safe perch behind a desk—and you could tell when you met Price at the base in Hereford, the duffle bag, that was more his home than the flat he owned by the docks in Liverpool, slung loosely over his broad shoulder, that it was bad.

Terrible, even.

No lives were lost, but he carries the near-misses in the deep canyon between his brows and drapes each failure over his shoulder as if he was Atlas, cursed to carry it all.

There was a moment when he seemed to stagger, knees folding in under the neverending pressure that loomed over him, and it hardened something inside of you. The filaments of your tender joints were fitted with concrete, and as you hurried to his side, fingers looping around the strap of the duffle bag to try and alleviate some of his stress, it slipped out.

"Lemme buy you a drink."

Relax, you silently implored him. Let me help.

(Let me in.)

The unvoiced words lingered in the tense atmosphere that always seemed to bloom like a dense thundercloud around the two of you. It's one that starts when his eyes lift, meeting yours. It feels like a spark—like a rubber band being pulled tighter and tighter until the middle burned hot from the crystallising polymer molecules. Heat, white hot, settled in the thick space between your bodies, in the uncrossable impasse of your matched stare.

Sometimes, you almost convince yourself that he might shatter the opaque haze that clouds in the distance, that he might say something that will disperse the looming plume of separation. The uncrossable, crossed.

You're not oblivious to how he looks at you—listing across your flesh with nothing short of raw want in the pelagic gaze that brands you from afar. It's an aching sense of want that is so palpable you can feel the weight of his greed on your skin like a physical touch, like the steady hand he keeps notched into the space of your back, leading you steadily through the pandemonium of the battleground that is downtown Liverpool, or a crowded bar filled with rowdy adults.

An anchor. A guide. The solid ground beneath your feet amid the ever-changing plates that threaten to compromise your balance, sending you off the edge of a precipice.

Almost unconsciously, you lean forward, as if trying to meet him in the middle, to carve a perfect equilibrium between the asymmetrical chasm that sits, oppressive and unchartable, between the two of you.

It's then, always, when he seems to shake the reverie that overtakes him.

But he always takes a step forward before he steps back.

You consider that single moment of weakness more of a victory than anything else—pyrrhic as it might be, because when he notices he's now closer to you by his own design, carried by the slippage of his staunch control, the distance he pitches between you lasts longer than the winter months in the apex of a polar vortex.

He clears his throat, but his voice is still thick when he speaks. A rasping noise sticks, reluctantly, to the side of his throat.

"Right, mmm."

And then he'll say something that isn't quite goodbye but sounds like it all the same.

In a world of defensive pessimists, you've always tried to be an offensive optimist. Pushing, pushing, pushing until the bricks wobble and the walls crumble. Until you can see through the gaps to the other side.

But, in spite of it all, you get it.

If he wanted to, he would have. Simple. You know this. Echo is sharply like a mantra whenever he takes that single step closer, and the air in your lungs catches fire as you wait for the second—the one that never comes.

You push because you know you'll be good for him. It isn't the egotist in you refusing rejection, the optimist who refuses to yield, but before there was measured distance, purposeful silence, and accidental steps, there was friendship.

You were his friend first.

His confidant. The one he called after missions just to talk to someone who was firmly fixed on the ground of reality, but still tangled up in the world he spent most of his time in. You knew, then, that you'd be good for him.

And then Al Mazrah. Banter over the airwaves. An explosion. Radio silence for three days.

Everyone thought his group to be beyond saving—pieces scattered amongst the dunes, being picked at by the vultures and vermin; nothing to bring home, not even partially melted dog tags.

It was something greater than fear in those excruciating hours of nothing but the static in the airwaves. Nothing. Nothing—

And then—

"Lost my last fuckin' cigar—"

You had a job to do first. A role. You radioed in and pretended as if your lungs were collapsing in on themselves as if your heart hadn't torn out of your chest, and led to Al Mazrah to rot beside him in the scorching sun.

You managed (somehow, somehow) to forge some facsimile of normalcy into your voice even your fingers spasmed from being compressed into tight balls by your side, aching now as you tried to unfurl them. If your inflection gave anything away as you barked out coordinates to the rescue team, demanding a safe—and swift—extraction, it was only Price could ever pick it up.

Later, when the darkness around the edges of your splintering world started to recede, he called you. Nine hours on a jet to get to where you were. Two days in the scorching desert. And he still called.

It was the moment of fiction when the hero reached out to the sidelined love interest, that picturesque moment in film when the music rose to a deafening crescendo, and words of curated adoration slipped from the lips of the leading man. When the audience cheered with a sense of relief—fucking finally.

But it isn't fiction.

"Need a goddamn bottle of scotch after this one, love. Fuckin' hell, what a shitshow—"

It's reality. And Price.

It was in the aching nothingness when it clicked.

You might have been good for him, but that was in another life—when he wasn't already entangled in a sordid affair with his work, when even a brush with death and all its glory wasn't enough to change his mind. When the shakiness in your voice couldn't sway him.

And—

Sure. Okay.

You forced another wan smile that he couldn't see and offered to buy him a whole distillery as long as he came home.

"Might take you up on that."

And so, it was with the crushing absolution of rejection, and the firm friends-only label you slapped across the gaping hole in your chest to stem the bleeding, that you invited Atlas, with his sagging shoulders and trembling knees, out for a drink.

Eventually, of course, because he'd spent two days in the wilderness, in the unrepentant grip of the elements, and then another nine hours on a jet being fussed over by the medical team and getting only a blink of rest, and—

"Alrigh', but you're buying."

Eventually, of course, because he needed his rest.

But you've yet to meet another man nearly as stubborn as he is, and it didn't surprise you as much as you thought it would when he simply nodded, let you take his duffle bag, and followed you to his parked car. He drove, too, despite the fatigue around his eyes because you told him how much you despised the idiots on the Motorway near Heathrow, and he listened, of course, and said nothing at all when he pushed into the driver's seat, offering nothing more than a glance that said well? What are you waitin' for?

You didn't mean right now but maybe the brush with death softened him to your presence. Maybe, just maybe, he needs your company now just as much as you need his.

(Maybe, maybe—everything with Price has always been filled with maybes—)

Exhaustion clots in the corner of his eyes, deepening when he saw how crowded the pub was, but he still followed. Still went along with nothing more than a soft grunt.

So, here you are. Toasting to yourself about the quiet rejection he gave, and weaving through the throng of bodies, two glasses clenched in your sweat-slicked palms, as you try to get his promised drink back to him.

It doesn't hurt as much as you thought it would.

(And other lies you tell yourself—)

That might have more to do with the absence of anything living inside the rotting hole where your heart once beat. A gap, now, as that pesky little nuisance has fled the confines of its fleshy prison for the scorching heat in the desert to remain, forever, beside whatever it was that Price left behind when they found him.

(—at least they're together—)

The amber in the glass sloshes when someone backs up, clipping your shoulder. Droplets spill over the rim, running down your fingers clutching the drink. It's cold despite the heat that permeates the crowded pub. A sharp contrast that makes you shiver.

The nameless, faceless entity whirls around when you stop, stabilising the drinks in your hand, and you catch wide eyes in your periphery, a mouth moving but the words are swallowed by the vacuum of noise booming from the patrons, the speakers.

"...shit," you vaguely make out. "I'm so—shit—I'm so sorry, did I spill your—ah, fuck, let me get you a napkin—"

He's cute, you note. Boyishly handsome with his thick, dark curls and soft almond eyes. The warm glow of the strung lanterns overhead cast a halo of pale orange and muted yellows on his flushed skin, making him look like a bronze-dusted cherub in hazy, ethereal gold.

Handsome, like the men on the covers of Vogue.

His eyes are dark—bewitching—and when they crease with shame, and contrition, you find yourself conjuring the image of a guilty golden retriever, head bowed in consternation but tail still sweeping low.

The comparison makes you huff.

"I'm alright," you say, more for his benefit than your own.

He turns at the sound—startling as if you, too, were a nameless, faceless stranger in the middle of everything— and you catch the sharpness in his features when he looks back at you. Beneath the boyish veneer are chiselled cheekbones, full lips, and a divot in his chin. Perfectly symmetrical in his beauty. His eyebrows are groomed, but thick. Black against raw topaz.

(You've always loved uncut gems.)

"Hi," he murmurs, eyes darkening as he takes you in. "I, uh—sorry, I wasn't paying attention."

But he's paying attention now. There's a cut of appreciation, intrigue, in his eyes when they trail over the features of your face. Differentiating you as an individual person amid a sea of so many.

"You, uh—" he blinks, and then his mouth peels open in a grin that's just as charming as his boyish features. It's soft, if a little windswept. "Hey."

It isn't the smoothest transition from nervous fretting to something that seems like it's meant to be suave, but it's endearing in an inelegant way. it feels unpolished. Authentic. Like the word slipped out of its own accord.

Stunned. You stunned him.

"Hey," you echo, offering a small smile of your own.

And it's a bad idea. One that dips in an almost tangible glimmer of hindsight, like some portent proclaiming an inevitable regret when your senses clear, and the ache in your stomach fades into a sore knot that you can ignore on a good day.

But he's cute. Charming in his clumsy attempts to make sure you're okay. He isn't something that can fix the ache in your chest, but he's certainly a balm to it. A temporal crutch. One you think you can live with.

"Are you from around here?" He has a soft voice—low, dulcet. Plummy, but not gratingly so. Refined, you think. There's a soft elegance to him, and in the way he moves, speaks.

The balm spreads as his head tips to the side when you tell him where you're from, curls bouncing freely against his cheek.

"Oh," he notes, his lips falling together to make a pretty, pink circle. Adorable. "That's far. Come to see the show? My mates and I came out to see them. They're kind of a big deal where we're from, and—"

Someone pushes through the gap behind him, pushing him forward. You reach out, but the glass in your hands stops you from doing much when he stumbles, losing his footing from the sudden shove, soles of his oxfords (of course, of course, he's wearing oxfords) catching on the spilled drink from earlier.

Blearily, you have a moment to admire witnessing the sequence of events come full circle before his hands reach out, scrambling for purchase, and fit across your shoulders like he's searching for a climbing hold to catch himself from the fall. You tetter back from the brunt force of him stumbling into you, before catching yourself on the pillar cutting through the room.

He's muttering apologies as he straightens himself out, but your eyes are drawn to the rivulets of scotch dripping down the back of your hand. Three fingers dwindling quickly down to one.

"I'm—shit—I'm so sorry—!"

He looks cute frazzled like this. His coiffed curls tangle across his sweat-slicked forehead, dangling over his dark eyes. There's a flush growing across the bridge of his nose, colouring him in a distinct palette of rose, bronze, and gold.

You've always been partial to blues and browns, but this wedges inside of you—different, but not overly so.

"What a jerk—" you lift your chin, glaring over the top of his tousled curls.

"Yeah," he breathes, the word nearly eclipsed by the pounding in the background.

His hands are still on you. When you turn back to him, you're almost a little surprised by how close he is. A short step, and suddenly you realise that it wouldn't take much for you to lean up, and kiss him.

It's an odd, aching contrast to the one step forward, nine steps back with Price.

You think about it. About kissing him. About going back to the booth in the back where Price is waiting, and demanding he rejects you already so you can pull yourself out of the limbo you've fallen into, run your fingers through this man's hair, and feel nothing at all except satisfaction.

(Instead of guilt. The stifling sense of betrayal.)

You tilt forward as if trying to meet him somewhere in the middle. As if a kiss would break this skein web where you can still, somehow somehow, feel Price's presence around you like a nebulous cloud. A magnetic pull that keeps some facet of your attention on him, always.

Still. Still.

The tether is short. You stop before you close the minuscule gap, and let your body fall back on your heels.

"You know—" You start, but the words—one with no real objective outside of salvaging something from this mess—are swallowed by a call.

He startles a little at the noise, craning his chin over his neck to see what is vying for his attention. You follow the breadcrumbs of his gaze, locking onto a man waving his hand over his head.

"Ah," he says. He knows him. Obviously. He turns back to you, something sheepish flickering across his keen expression. Reluctance settles in the crease of his eyes. He huffs. "I, uh, guess I should get back to them."

You nod. "Sure. Enjoying the riveting show, right?"

"What can I say?" He grins, wide and bright. "I'm a sea shanty kinda guy, and they've been gearing up toward Stan Rogers all night."

"Wouldn't want to miss that."

"No," he shakes his head. "You really wouldn't. But, uh—"

You know what he's going to ask for before the words are out, and you give it to him.

Your name. Your number. His hands fly to his pocket, hastily pulling out his phone, and tapping the numbers into his contact screen.

"I do owe you a drink," he jokes, eyes skirting to the lonely swallow in a glass meant for another man. "So, uh, if you ever want to cash in on it tonight, um. Text me?"

It tapers off into a question, and the vulnerability, the softness of him, blooms something warm in your chest. He won't just be a balm, you think, but a bandage.

Your smile is loose, even. It's the first one in weeks since the radio was cut and your world was thrown into a staticky silence. A communications blackout.

"I could buy it for you now if you'd like…"

It's sweet. He's sweet. Different from the men you're surrounded by—ones with hard edges, and brittle trauma.

"I think you should get back to your friends," you say instead. "But I'm sure I'll see you around."

You want to feel selfish, but you don't. There is nothing between you and Price but a tenuous thread he tries to pull as taut as he can, and the chiaroscuro that paints him and this man are like night and day; normalcy and—

Well. Price.

He gives you a slow nod and then slips his phone back in his pocket. He doesn't even try to call the number you gave him, so trusting that everything you said was the truth. Your phone is back on the table where you left it, but you're sure it buzzed with his text.

"I'll see you around."

He waves you off with a two-fingered salute against his temple and turns back to his friends when the moment passes. Without soft brown pinning you against the pillar, and spilling comfort into the aether, the world around you snaps like a rubber band to your skin.

Something shakes loose inside of you, and you turn on your heel, balancing unequal glasses of scotch in your hand. When you lift your head, seeking out the booth, you meet noctilucent eyes boring into yours.

The tether wobbles. The noise fades into a whisper drifting through the pews in an empty church.

Right.

You forgot what it felt like to truly be pinned in place by blue.

The noise floods in a strange, distorted echo the closer you get to the table.

"New friend of yours?" He asks, expression clouded with impassivity honed before you even knew what the threads of apathy felt like beneath your fingers.

His eyes drop to the glasses, curving along the knob of your wrist when you push the fuller glass toward him. Derision blooms, splicing through cerulean-tinged disinterest.

You wonder how much he saw, and—with a bitter touch of trepidation—if he kept watching.

It's answered when he scoffs. "Couldn't even buy you a new one, eh?"

"It's only a little off the top."

"A little, hmm?" Bruised knuckles, split and cracked at the crease of his bone, curl around the glass leaving a smear of tobacco stains behind. "Your phone rang earlier."

It sounds testy. Cross. It makes you bristle like a cornered cat.

"I know. He texted me his number so I can find him later."

"That so?"

Your nod is short. Clipped.

Price leans back in his seat as you slide into the bench across from him. His gaze never wavers. It never does. You feel it like a warm hand against your throat, and the thought alone makes you swallow hard, and breathe harder.

"If that's what you want—a clumsy fuck next in an alley with a man who doesn't know how to really please you, then by all means, love. Go for it."

His words are scraped out of his throat by the fine edge of a scalpel; grizzled and raw, and drenched in the heavy ethanol of his scotch.

He normally sounds like this after a mission, after he stood in the middle of a bloodsoaked battlefield, and bellowed out harsh commands until his vocal cords swelled up, and split apart at the seams.

When he speaks, you scent the coagulated blood of the pulsing wound, ripped open by the scotch and irritated by the cigar clenched tight between his thumb and forefinger.

"But when you get tired of quick fumbles with an idiot who only cares about himself, I'll be waiting. Just don't keep me too long, love. Ain't gettin' any younger."

His words are meant to cut. To slice through flesh, and saw into bone.

"Neither am I—" Those icy eyes meet yours. You shiver. "You—I mean, honestly, Price; I've been putting out pretty clear signals since the beginning, and—"

"I know."

And—

Oh.

"Great." You say. "Good." But it isn't. It hurts like a knife to the gut, serrated edge tearing through soft tissue. A blunt pressure against your sternum until it bruises, and then cracks.

(You always knew he'd be brutal in his rejection.)

You're a distraction, is the underlying accusation to everything. Unneeded. Unwanted.

But something splinters in his glacial gaze; a frisson that splits into a crevasse, a chasm. Darker than midnight, and endlessly wanting. Harsh winds billow from the moonlit depths, howling against the icy walls.

"Good?" He echoes, tone gritty and unrefined. A jagged gem with sides sharp enough to cut. "Don't think you understand what you're startin', love."

It's not anger that clots between his teeth, that colours the divots in his brow harshly turbid, but you feel the blistering heat leaking from his skin all the time.

"And what am I starting, Price?"

There's picking at wounds sealed over with a scab, and then there's reaching into the pyre with both hands just to cauterise a paper cut.

This, you think, when he shifts in his seat, eyes narrowing at you, is that. The latter.

You smell burning flesh and feel the heat scorching your palms when he moves forward. There is nowhere for him to go, but he wouldn't be Price—indomitable Captain John Price who still threatens his superiors after almost dying in the desert because they want him to take a mandatory leave—if he didn't make room, didn't force his way through.

He leans over the small, three-plank table that divides you, and roughly grounds your name out between nicotine-stained teeth. It's a warning, of course. A rotting barbed wire fence that says keep out, no trespassing. But beneath it, you hear a plea.

Please don't come any closer.

It occurs to you, then, when his eyes grow lidded and heavy, weary. When they clove with uncertainty, and a brittle vulnerability that seems out of place across the staunch, hardened veneer of a man who finds screaming through a fusillade easier than taking a step forward.

You get it. It isn't mocking scorn or brutal, vindictive words. It isn't him mercilessly picking apart the soft, gentle exchange of a man you'd willingly given your number to. It's—

"Too much," he says, and the tether sways.

—basal. Naked jealousy.

He seems to gaze inward for a moment after his confessional fades, and the sounds of pulsing bass, jaunty music, and rhythm thuds against the floorboards flood the space eked out with his voice. It's a brief flicker. And then the mask is pulled back on.

One step forward. One done almost unconsciously.

But it tugs on the line connecting you both, and so:

You take that step instead.

Meet him in the middle. Connected by one end of a short line. It drops loose against the table, tangling in the spilled drinks that have come before you. Top sticky, scoured raw with ethanol, but still attached. A tether, a red string of fate. You're locked, somehow, in his pull. An orbital eccentricity: forever circling a sun that threatens to burn you whole when your alignment gets too close.

There's hesitancy in the angles of his face, casting shadows of uncertainty in the murk. Always pulling back. Always only one step in.

You might have, too, if you didn't see the brief flicker of midnight blue dropping to your mouth. The flash of greed—dark want; covetous florentine—as he gazed at you.

You know John. A man who gives, gives, gives, but seldom ever takes. Content, you think, with just this unignorable strand arching between the chasm of your hearts.

(But you've always taken more than your hands can carry.)

So, you chisel a space in that glorious want, shape in until it fits you perfectly, and press your lips to kiss in a truculent kiss, braced for the recoil.

But he doesn't.

It feels natural when he rasps your name out between lax teeth.

Feels, you find, even better when you slot your mouth against his, gently this time. Peppering a litany of devotion across bristly lips that feel more comfortable spitting vitriol than sweet nothings.

"Been waiting a long time, John."

Against your lips, he groans. "Guess I better start makin' it up to you."

"Guess so."

His eyes flash, then, aposematic; burning bright in a pretty circle. The rich colour reminds you of a blue-ringed octopus.

Captivating, vibrant, electric.

His chin tilts toward the stage, hypnotic, iridescent blue pulling away from you to follow the list of his head. You know when his brows furrow, a deep canyon of displeasure and sullen irritation, that he's staring at the man who gave you his number. His lids fall, eyes narrowing into a tight slit.

Deadly, dangerous.

Tetrodotoxin taints pretty cerulean in a shade of inky black.

You reach out, eyes never straying from Price, and curl your fingers around the thick bulk of his tensed wrist.

"Wanna get out of here?"

He doesn't look away from the man. You don't look away from him.

"Yeah," he grumbles, but the gloss in his gaze reeks of victory. "Let's go."

"Thought you'd make me wait forever."

He hums, considering your words. The streets are lively despite the late hour, reeking of ozone and malt. A kaleidoscope of colours spills out from the cluster of shops, drenching the gunmetal cobblestone in a varicoloured smear.

"Might'a," he agrees, tone light and cooler than the breeze.

"I guess it's a good thing I got bumped into. Without your jealousy, this might've gone nowhere."

He stills suddenly, body tensing like a coiled cobra.

"John—?"

You get a glimpse of prowess when his hand snakes out, snagging your shoulder, and before you can even pry apart your teeth, he moves you in three quick steps, pushing your back against the dewy wall.

His hands are hot on your collar, your waist, and he holds you firm to the brick. But the heat of his palm is a mere ember compared to the blaze in his eyes—lavascapes in midnight blue.

It leaks down, molten puddles, before it congeals around the soles of your feet, keeping against brick, and under the weight of his stare.

His gaze sharpens when you settle in his hold. "And that guy?"

You smile in a facsimile of placating condescension as his hands tighten around you. "Which one?"

He lifts his hand from your shoulder, dragging his bare knuckles over your dewy skin, letting himself feel the flutter of your pulse under burning flesh. They're rough, split and scared, and you want to take them into your mouth. To taste the ichor rushing through his veins.

They're dragged up, away from your parting lips, and you nearly pout from the loss before his fingers brush over your nape, where they curl around your neck, holding you close as he growls out your name, breath ghosting over your lips.

"None, love. Won't want any by the time I'm done with you."

"And when are you gonna be done with me?"

"Never," he murmurs, fingers tightening over your nape. "Kept thinkin' 'bout you the whole time I was in the desert. Dyin', and my only thought was fuckin' hell. I've been a goddamn idiot."

Price takes a step closer to you, and your blood burns. One forward, and—

He takes another. Another.

He kisses you, then, like he's trying to devour you whole; trying to carve a place inside of you just for him. A space inside each other where nothing else can fit.

A rogue planet, a stellar collision.

Every atom inside of you burns bright blue, and you find purchase on his broad shoulders—Atlas carrying the world, and you.

#captain price x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #john price #captain john price #i am once again sick (sobs) and so #this was not edited #none of my fics are tbh #but i left this one in gods hands #if anyone needs me i'll be weeping in bed and playing far cry 5 #gn!reader x price #gn reader

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simplegenius042 · 2 months ago

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Late WIP Wednesday, OC NSFW Sheet & OC SMASH or PASS Poll

Tagged by @imogenkol

Tagging @direwombat @spookyrares @derelictheretic @inafieldofdaisies @socially-awkward-skeleton @noodlecupcakes @voidika @cassietrn @adelaidedrubman @aceghosts @josephseedismyfather @icecutioner @shallow-gravy @strangefable @statichvm @cloudofbutterflies92 @carlosoliveiraa @wrathfulrook @starsandskies @ladyoriza @la-grosse-patate @minilev @thewanderer-000 @omen-speaker @justasmolbard @alypink @shellibisshe @josephslittledeputy @skoll-sun-eater @g0dspeeed @afarcryfrommymain @strafethesesinners @turbo-virgins @softtidesworld @florbelles and @yokobai + anyone else who want to join.

WIP Wednesday for my Fallout series A Radioactive Calamity Of Love, Bombs & Gore and an NSFW sheet + an OC SMASH or PASS poll for Silva's half-sister Elsa Omar from The Silver Chronicles. Read and decide under the cut:

Got a snippet from my Fallout series A Radioactive Calamity Of Love, Bombs & Gore, specifically my FO3 WIP. Amata awakes from a nightmare, and unfortunately Alph isn't present to comfort her. Although things are tense between her and her fellow travel companion Ress, things are surprisingly undisturbed between them. Read below:

Amata awoke with a startle, chest heaving as she looked around the trailer for her tormentors. She expected the cold, disappointed gaze of her father glaring down at her, or perhaps Stevie Mack sadistic grin, or feel the hungry, prying hands of the Andale families that he dropped her into.

Finding neither men nor the vile family, she flopped back onto the dirty mattress as she covered her face, trying to take calming breaths as the terror regressed from the corners of her mind.

She felt hot, hair and forehead damp with sweat, shirt clinging to her body like wet toilet paper.

She glanced at the trailer's square windows, only seeing the dark sky, no sun in sight.

She frowned and brought her pip-boy to her face. The faded green light of the screen was enough to make her tired eyes squint as they adjusted. She noted that it was early in the morning, early enough that the sun wouldn't be up for another five or so hours.

Amata huffed as she brought the screen away from her face. She glanced to the exposed doorway to see Ress laying on top of the picnic table she dragged over. Amata noted the shades the Bishop woman adorned to her face, and shoved away the thought questioning why she'd where them in the dark.

The woman hardly made much sense to Amata; from her unnatural platinum blonde hair to her arrogant, apathetic attitude to the incredulous impossibility of her abilities of unknown origin. Amata learned radiation could do many things, and she knew manipulating energy could not be one of them.

And yet, she's helping me look for Alph, Amata reminded herself. She still couldn't figure out why Ress would go out of her way of helping her, considering her previous words some time after she held them hostage as her guides.

She shook her head, clearing those thoughts. Regardless of whatever reason Ress possessed to aid her, Amata was glad that she had some powerful protection against the hostility of the Capital Wasteland.

The shootout between the raiders and super mutants from yesterday being the most fresh example on her mind.

Amata debated on whether she should return to sleep or not. Usually she'd seek out Alph whenever she had a nightmare, dating back to when they were kids inside the Vault. Simpler days... easier days.

But Alph isn't here right now, she grimly remembered, He's in a hub full of those fucking slavers. All because he put my safety above his own.

That was quite a pattern Amata seemed to be repeating; finding herself in some trouble and then needing to be protected and saved. Like with Springvale, like with Andale, and recently Evergreen Mill.

This time, neither her nor Alph had Ress to bail them out at the time. And now Alph was suffering the consequences of her inadequacy.

Knowing she'd find no peace in her slumber, she instead decided to get up to get some fresh air.

Ress' resting spot just happened to be where she needed to get said fresh air.

Ress didn't immediately acknowledge Amata, though the younger of the two wasn't foolish to believe she just didn't hear the vaultie.

Amata exhaled into the cold air as she pretended to admire the morning sky, although a morning sky was better than no sky in her opinion.

"Rough sleep?" Ress inquired from where she laid on the table, head tilted towards Amata's direction.

A breeze brushed past, the chill causing a shiver to wash over Amata's body. Regretting leaving her jacket in the trailer, she answers Ress with a nod and murmur.

Amata saw that Ress nodded slowly, one expensive slacks tapping against the other. "Bad dreams?" She guessed, though not unsurprising to Amata.

"Yeah," Amata said lowly, rubbing her hands together as she tried to generate enough heat to support her entire body. She didn't exactly want to talk to Ress about it, even if she was seeking at least another's presence.

Ress leaned up, left fingers suavely taking her shades off. Her piercing blue eyes focused on Amata, before breaking the focus to brush her hand over her long hair.

Tapping the hilt of her slacks against the table leg, and smacked her lips together. Amata had noted that Ress was taking time in piecing her words together this time.

"The Capital Wasteland sure is something," Ress began, wringing her wrists, "Chaotic and hostile and full of conflict."

Amata only nodded along, both out of habit and having learned from experience the Wasteland's environment.

"Though this place is only a corner of the world," Ress stated, "My brother's been all over the states. Contrary to what you vaulties may believe, the country isn't actually like this."

She gestured to west, a twinkle in those blue eyes, "California's developed a new republic that's been around as long as Ore has been."

She gestured north, Amata followed the direction obediently, "Boston's apparently doing quite well compared to the likes of Orleans and Oklahoma. Not thriving like California but certainly not a dead zone like our neighbor West Virginia."

Amata listened closely, absorbing what little information she could infer from Ress' words, "This may be one of the less appealing areas, I know, but once you find your way to other states, it'll be like this place to be another passing memory."

Amata scrunched her face, though she wasn't entirely discomforted by Ress words.

"Whether my word means anything or not, I just want to make sure you know one thing right here, right now," Ress says as she stares into Amata's caught gaze, "I won't let you down. I'll get Alph back for you, alive and in one piece."

Here's my Captain of Security Ezekiel's NSFW Chart that no one asked for. Be sure to see the information of his mutual lover in the SMASH OR PASS section too:

SMASH OR PASS

RULES: pretty self explanatory. include physical descriptions or pics, and propaganda. the “other” label can be used for “sexuality misalignment” (ie: oc is femme and you’re gay, vice versa or you aren’t into smashing but a specific thing you wanna do with them like perhaps hug or study them under a microscope idc).

ELSA OMAR (THE SILVER CHRONICLES)

[NOTE: Elsa is supposed to have natural blonde hair, something she inherited from her father, Adam Omar (for better or worse considering how shitty of a person he is)]

QUICK FACTS:

HEIGHT: Around 5'5.

Age: 25 (if she was alive in 2018)

Gender: Female

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Polyamorous Bisexual

PROS:

Elsa's got a successful business in floristry and is very well-off (which may or may not involve her less-talked about methods of attaining finance).

Dominant Feminine Aura radiates from her.

You want affection? Don't bother saying what type she'll give you it all.

She's a flirt, a wooer, a love-bomber and just about knows all the ways to court you like a gentlewoman (and get you hot and bothered... as well as wrap you around her finger).

Actual comedian (potentially learned from one of her financial gigs?).

Knows all the dirt on everyone and the hottest gossip (hot out of the oven kind of gossip).

You want to try scary new things? She also wants to try scary new things.

Quite an intelligent, cunning adapter.

Social etiquette and fashion queen and occasional rule-breaker (but no one can prove it).

Bisexual goddess honestly.

Very experienced in the bedroom, so rest assured you're in good hands if you've got none. She'll be gentle, don't worry. (And if you like rough, rest assured, in spite of her medical condition with her bones, Elsa HAS creatively found many ways around that which can satisfy both of your wants for a little roughness).

She's got connections. Legal trouble? She's got her godsend lawyer pal Gavin Turquoise to bust you out of court swiftly and cleanly. Social reputation under fire? She'll endorse you and shame the non-believers. Being messed around with by some punks? Ningún problema, she's got her older hermana Silva who'd do anything for her litter sister.

Fun aunt so if you have any nephews/nieces she can give you a hand.

Wine aunt (also knows all the good alcohol).

PDA and compliment dependent.

If you're wanting to go up and talk to her but are intimidated by the sheer elegance and divinity of this walking goddess, no need to worry, you've got the ultimate encouraging wingman who's got your back... her boyfriend! (Ezekiel, if he's around, who've you recently read some intimate info above. His kinks can be a window to what she's also into).

"They ordered no pickles!" kind of girlfriend.

Will punch a jerk for you (avoidance of this is highly recommended though).

She'll accept you as you are, and will accept whatever changes you go through too.

Expect to be roped in some prank wars with her and Ezekiel.

100% okay with being friends with benefits or a one-night stand. You don't have to pursue a romantic relationship.

CONS:

Okay now time for the tough to swallow shit.

Dating Elsa is asking for a lot of trust issues, questions over the genuineness of her love towards you and her manipulative, multi-masked, self-centered selfishness, and egotistical bullshit.

Elsa is someone who pretends to be one way with you and another with others.

It may not be obvious, but Elsa craves attention, and wants to fuel more of her inflated ego, and will use you as a way to get that (okay, but that is legitimately Adam's fault right there, with his parental favoritism of Elsa over Silva. Yeah she knew he was a dangerous monster of a man and the shittiest person alive, but spending almost two decades with the man, Silva's presence and absence notwithstanding, will have affects especially when her strongest moral compass wasn't present to protect and nurture her, albeit not by choice).

Just because you may be amongst her lovers, does not mean your value goes above her family (Silva and Persephone), but if you're lucky enough you may end up amongst Ezekiel's level of importance to Elsa.

Elsa may be doing illegal shit and there is a chance she might frame you for it (if only to avoid being scolded by a disappointed Silva. Like if she went to prison, she'd be fine, it's just Silva's approval and her dependence on Elsa is not something Elsa is willing to compromise). But she generally doesn't do that with people she likes (those she dislikes on the other hand...)

Elsa's impulsive daredevil shenanigans are extremely stressful to deal with considering the severity of her physical condition.

Much like her older sister, Elsa will not talk about her past, and will outright fabricate a non-existent one without hesitation.

Probably knows therapy exists but chooses not to go because she doesn't believe she needs it.

Knowing Elsa may put a target on your back (whether it be the Congregation of Adam's Guard or whoever she's pissed off now).

Girl will gaslight, gatekeep and girlboss her way out of the "be a nicer and more considerate person" even if it's to you. You cannot “fix her”, she’s happy as is.

Toxic. Silva is 100% unaware of this fact (as far as she knows her little sister is just a little troublesome at times) and Elsa intends on keeping it that way.

If you're rich or influential (like say... Joseph Seed), she will one-hundred percent scheme a way to either steal the inheritance (which may or may not involve murder) or take your power for herself, all through the art of seduction, deception and backstabbing.

Either-Either

She doesn't want kids. Or to raise one either. She helps Silva with Persephone because that's how much they mean to her. Though she can tolerate being a babysitter and aunt-figure, actual motherhood is a no-go, not just because she can't have kids herself (a personal choice of hers), but because she's generally disinterested in the idea of raising children. Motherhood, or parenthood in general, is something she mostly doesn't want to be associated with, which is perfectly fine (unless you want kids and have managed to achieve a long-lasting relationship with Elsa).

She's not interested in marriage either. The idea of, in her own eyes, being tied down in any shape or form is something she deeply resents, especially if it's overlooked by an authoritative force that declares it official (either it be lawful or religion). Perhaps that's one of the reasons she has an affinity towards Ezekiel, as they share similar ideals with one another. He's just more chill and down-to-Earth.

Open Relationship; she's not tied down with you and you're not tied down with her. Cool for those who don't want to be restricted to just a relationship with her but not so much for those seeking a closed relationship.

Blank template for NSFW Chart:

#wip wednesday #oc nsft #oc smash or pass #series: a radioactive calamity of love bombs & gore #wip: the waters of life flow #fallout 3 #oc: marissa “ress” bishop #amata almodovar #series: the silver chronicles #far cry 5 #far cry new dawn #oc: ezekiel #captain of security #fc: álex gonzález #oc: elsa omar #fc: juliana alves

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