#PLEASE don't look at me right now i will be taking NO questions on my state of mind

[eddiazx]

cold call - evan buckley x reader

Based on this request: Hello ☺️ could I please request something along the lines of "oh no, we are going to freeze to death if we don't get naked and share body heat" with Buck? 😂

Of course this would happen.

You and Buck were tasked with inspecting a restaurant's industrial-grade kitchen, making sure everything was up to par. You both decided to go into the freezer at the same time, and of course, Buck accidentally locked the two of you in there.

"Where's your phone, Buck?" You ask, trying your best to shoulder open the freezer door, before giving up entirely.

Buck chuckles nervously. "I forgot it in my locker."

"Wonderful." You groan, knowing that yours was also left charging in the firehouse kitchen.

"Okay, it's fine! I've seen this before, we just need to get naked and share our body heat before we freeze to death." Buck announces seriously.

"I don't think that's how hypothermia works, Buck. We could huddle for warmth though."

"We can?" Buck asks, brightening up immediately.

You respond by shuffling forward to lie your head on Buck's chest and wrap your arms around his back to hug him.

Buck rests his chin on your head and puts his hands on your waist to hug you back. "This is nice." He murmurs.

"It is." You agree, and then feel something poking your stomach. "Buck!"

"I'm sorry! He has a mind of his own."

"He?"

"Buck Junior."

"Oh my god." You laugh, but the two of you are quickly interrupted by Eddie opening the freezer door from the other side. Eddie stares at the two of you, an amused but unimpressed look on his face. "We only left you two alone for three minutes. Does this hug mean Buck finally asked you out on that fancy dinner date?"

You look from Eddie to Buck, who had been shaking his head and making "stop talking" gestures at Eddie behind you.

"You were going to ask me out on a date?" You question Buck.

Buck starts fidgeting. "Well, I didn't want it to be done surrounded by frozen carrots but yes, would you go out with me on Thursday?"

"Not this restaurant right?" You tease, but nod in the affirmative, giving him another quick hug.

"I mean, it wouldn't be so bad. I kind of have a soft spot for it now." Buck says fondly, taking your hand in his. The two of you might've been in a cold room, but the warmth in your heart was indescribable.

[vettelsvee]

lewis hamilton + lawyer + enemies to lovers for city of stars au

LET'S CALL IT A CASE CLOSED | Lewis Hamilton Lawyer AU

Part of City of Stars Universe game (active until May 14th so join us!) Read until the very end to find out if you guessed right Lewis' plot 🔮 Become a beta reader of City of Stars F1 AU Universe 🏎️🏁✨

⋆ PAIRING: Lawyer!Lewis Hamilton x Lawyer Female!Reader ⋆ SUMMARY: Daniel Ricciardo, famous actor, gets involved in too much trouble. Lewis Hamilton, his lawyer, needs to help him... but you're the main problem and what will be making him difficult to win the case ↳ REQUESTED: Yes! Thanks for requesting and hope you like it anon 💖 ⋆ WARNINGS: Mentions of drugs, alcohol, public arguments and fights. A few of undercover spoilers from my upcoming F1 AU Universe, City of Stars hehe ⋆ WORD COUNT: 2647 ⋆ VEE'S NOTES: It's been a long time but I'm finally back! Honestly, I procrastinated today everything I had uni related just to write and post this, so I hope you liked it! Also, let's call it a celebration for Lewis' first ever Ferrari win (I don't mind it's a sprint race you guys). Hope you're all doing great and better than I am, as well as I hope you like this a lot (and please take part in the City of Stars game!) <3 ↳ TALK TO ME! | FORMULA 1 MASTERLIST

© VETTELSVEE (2025). please, do not steal, copy or translate my works. thanks for reading!

If there was one thing Lewis Hamilton was proud of, it was the lawyer he had become.  

Years of studying, effort, and above all, sacrifice, losing more than one relationship along the way for "spending too much time studying" or "never leaving the courtroom", had led him to where he was now.  

After several years working in London, the city that had shaped him as a lawyer, he decided to leave it all behind and move abroad, settling in Geneva, Switzerland. It was the city that had earned him the reputation he had fought so hard for, the one he had dreamed of, whether he admitted it or not.  

He had lost more than he ever imagined when he first decided to study law. But did he regret any of it?  

Not the slightest.  

Lewis was used to high-stakes cases, the kind that kept him up at night not just because of the endless hours of work they required, but because the sheer adrenaline coursing through him wouldn't allow sleep to take over. Cases that were more about strategy than law were his specialty, the ones he thrived on. But this one? This one was proving more difficult than he would have liked.  

Daniel Ricciardo, one of Hollywood’s most renowned actors, had turned his life into a disaster. Wild nights, substance use, and questionable company had drawn attention, but it was the public altercations with paparazzi and even a few fans that had truly damaged his reputation.  

The media had already judged and condemned him. And while the upcoming trial had been kept as private as possible, everyone knew exactly when and where the Australian actor would stand before the court, perhaps to be saved by his trusted lawyer, Mr. Hamilton, as many already speculated.  

Lewis, however, cared little for the headlines. He couldn't care less about the relentless criticism for taking on such a controversial, high-profile case with little chance of walking away unscathed.  

What truly bothered him was the woman sitting across from him in the courtroom: Y/N Y/L/N.  

You were brilliant, ruthless, and willing to win at any cost, no matter what it took. While Hamilton had won most of his trials, the few he had lost had been against you. Your rivalry was legendary; even judges and courtroom regulars were familiar with your dynamic: pure, unfiltered hatred, and nothing more.  

"You look like you've been up all night, Hamilton," you remarked, your voice smooth yet laced with that infuriatingly smug tone. "I hope you’re not planning on making this easy for me, like you always do. It would be such a shame to see you fall so easily." 

"You’re not getting away with anything, and you know it, Y/L/N."

You smirked in satisfaction, leaning back into your seat before turning your attention back to your client’s defense, one of the paparazzi, and the one who had suffered the worst of it. Yet, despite your focus, you couldn't help but steal a few glances at Lewis whenever he was deep in the case files. Unfortunately for you, one of those times, he caught you in the act.  

To your surprise, though, he said nothing. Not until the trial began.  

Two hours later, the courtroom erupted into a theatrical spectacle, as expected from a case of such media frenzy. Stepping outside for air had barely been an option. The press swarmed the courthouse, desperate to capture any moment that could make them enough money to never work again. Even Ricciardo’s arrival had been a disaster; he had to sneak in, and once inside, you had almost been ambushed yourself, accompanied by a chorus of shouts and insults from those who had already condemned him.  

The battlefield had been set long before the trial had even begun, and despite facing worse cases in the past, neither you nor Lewis felt particularly confident.  

When Lewis started presenting flimsy arguments about Ricciardo’s alleged drug use—insisting he hadn't consumed any at the party, nor had he been excessively drunk—and claiming the attacks on the press were nothing more than social media manipulation, it was your turn to present your case.  

You always maintained a sense of ease, carrying the unwavering confidence that you had already won before even setting foot in the courtroom. Your ability to remain composed in moments like these was both infuriating and, to some, downright inspiring. The key wasn’t just to win: it was to make your opponent doubt themselves.  

Today, however, things felt different.  

Your legs trembled as you stood, and as you began to speak, the nervous fidgeting with your hands became painfully obvious. Lewis noticed, of course he did. And, as expected, he used it to his advantage, keeping his gaze locked on you, unsettling you even more.  

"Your Honor," you began, taking a quick breath before continuing, "this case is not what the media or social networks want the public to see. I believe in facts, and there is overwhelming evidence that cannot be ignored. Mr. Ricciardo has not only been involved in incidents related to excessive drug and alcohol use, but also in acts of physical violence against individuals who were simply doing their jobs."

Lewis clenched his jaw. He held his tongue at first, but he couldn't stop himself. He wasn’t going to lose another case, not to you. He stood abruptly, his eyes locking onto yours.  

"Ladies and gentlemen," he started, his voice sharp, almost venomous, "we are not here to entertain or speculate, as Ms. Y/L/N seems to believe. We are here to present facts. The so-called evidence the opposing side has presented is, at best, weak. And if anything, this trial has only proven how the media has painted Mr. Ricciardo as a criminal before the truth has even been brought to light."

The room fell into an eerie silence as you exchanged words, your arguments clashing like poisoned daggers, not just in an effort to win the case, but to defeat each other.  

It had become personal. Too personal. And the inconclusive trial verdict was proof of that.  

In the days that followed, your rivalry only escalated, if that was even possible. Every glance exchanged in the courtroom grew sharper, every objection felt like a personal challenge. Neither of you backed down. The tension between you two had become so unbearable that you were even threatened with case reassignment, to be replaced by lawyers who were, in the court’s words, "more professional than the both of you."

Tired and, let’s be honest, afraid that the legal career you had worked so hard to build was slipping away, you decided to call Lewis at the very least, to try and put things in order.

When he saw your name light up on his phone screen, he had no desire to answer. But a small, nagging fear that it might be something important, something crucial to tipping the scales in his favor and winning the case, made him take a deep breath before picking up.

"Y/L/N."

"I need to talk to you." Your voice was calm. Too calm, in fact. It was a stark contrast to the one he was used to, and that alone unsettled him. "About the case, of course."

"What about the case?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. "Are we finally going to agree on something?"

You had no idea how to respond to that. The silence that followed was uncomfortable, enough to put the Brit on edge.

"I'm not sure anymore, to be honest." You exhaled slowly, struggling to find the right words. "The more I look at this case, the more I wonder if we’re just playing a game. Is this really about justice, or just about how much attention it gets? About what winning means for either of us?"

Lewis remained silent for a moment. He hadn’t expected your call in the first place, but what he expected even less was hearing that. Hearing you doubt yourself.

"I don’t play games, Y/L/N," he finally said, his voice firm, authoritative. "I don’t lose. Not in court, not in anything."

"I never said you were playing." You corrected yourself, your tone measured. "I just think… maybe you should ask yourself if this case really matters to you. It’s not about Daniel anymore, is it? It’s about proving something. To yourself. To me."

The truth in your words hit harder than he’d like to admit.

Because deep down, you were right. Taking this case had never been just about defending Daniel. At least, not entirely. If there hadn’t been a fortune involved, would he even be here?

No.

Now, it was personal. A way to be close to you. A way to prove himself to you.

A desperate attempt to make you see him as something more than just a rival. To make you realize he was someone worth fighting for, not just against.

"Why the hell do you care?" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Every time we've faced each other, you’ve won. So why the hell does sentimentality matter to you now?"

A long, heavy pause stretched between you.

For a second, he thought you had hung up. But then, your voice came through soft, trembling.

"I don’t know." You hesitated, as if saying it out loud made it all the more real. "Maybe I’m just tired of being what everyone expects me to be. I’m tired of being the villain."

Of being your villain.

Of you seeing me as nothing more than an opponent, when all I’ve ever done is try to be the best at my job.

But you couldn’t say that. You wouldn’t allow yourself to be that vulnerable with him.

Lewis didn’t say anything else either. Instead, he ended the call. And in that silence, he realized something… Something neither of you were ready to admit.

At least, not yet.

The next day, the trial reached its boiling point. The media frenzy had escalated, and the pressure was mounting from both sides. Daniel, exhausted by it all, was ready to end it, even if it meant things wouldn’t go in his favor.

By the time closing arguments began, the tension between you and Lewis was unbearable.

"Your Honor, this case has been nothing but a web of lies and excuses," you said, your voice cold, authoritative. "Mr. Ricciardo must be found guilty of every charge brought against him. And it’s time for his fans, his family, and even his legal team—" you paused, looking directly at Lewis, "to stop covering up the damage he has caused. Not just to others, but to himself. Dragging this on will only make things worse. His career is already in ruins. Let’s not pretend otherwise."

The weight of your words hung in the air.

Lewis met your gaze, and for a fleeting moment, it was as if you were speaking in a language only the two of you understood.

He was about to respond, but before he could, the judge called for a recess.

As you both stepped outside, Lewis exchanged a few words with Daniel just as you did with Mark, the only photographer who had dared to press charges. But eventually, you found yourselves alone in the hallway, the weight of the case pressing down on both of you.

"I never wanted this to get personal," Lewis admitted, breaking the silence. His voice was soft, calm. It was the first time you’d ever heard him sound like that.

"But it did," you replied simply. "From the very beginning, it always has."

You studied him, searching for what he wasn’t saying because if there was one thing you knew about Lewis Hamilton, it was that his words always held truth.

But right now, with you, that wasn’t the case.

"I know." You nodded. "But that doesn’t change anything. At least, not yet."

As the trial neared its conclusion, the outcome remained uncertain. The jury deliberated for hours, longer than either of you had anticipated, before finally delivering their verdict.

Daniel Ricciardo was acquitted on all charges, provided he paid 500,000 francs in damages to the photographer.

It wasn’t the victory either of you had expected.

Outside the courthouse, Lewis stood, staring at his phone, feeling the weight of the case lift, but not the pressure in his chest.

There was still something unresolved.

You walked down the courthouse steps, stopping beside him. Your presence was as cold as ever. You didn’t speak right away, instead crossing your arms and alternating your gaze between the journalists still hovering nearby and Lewis, who was engrossed in a conversation on his phone.

A conversation with an Amelie and with a Sebastian, a name you knew all too well.

"You won. You must be happy now," you remarked calmly.

"I didn’t win," he replied in a low voice, somewhat disappointed. "At least, not fairly. You know Ricciardo has a lot of influence as an actor, and..."

You simply watched him, your gaze filled with a tenderness you had never allowed yourself before, letting him speak.

"I didn’t win either, so I guess we’ll just have to take what we can get."

For the first time, there were no grudges between you. No rivalry. At that moment, you were simply two professionals who had done their best, caught in a media storm so overwhelming that you weren’t sure how to turn the page now that the Ricciardo case had come to an end.

But if there was one thing you were both fully aware of, it was that more than needing closure, you longed for it.

"You know, I think you’re right," Lewis said suddenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "And I think our colleagues might be right, too. You know what they say…"

"What do you mean?" You turned to face him, your expression as unreadable as his.

"That it was never just about the cases we were up against each other in," Hamilton murmured, almost embarrassed.

"It never was, and I think you know that just as well as I do."

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at you. Then, slowly, a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Maybe we always knew, and we just refused to admit it. But… what are we going to do about it?"

You lowered your gaze, considering the endless possibilities, until he pulled you from your thoughts.

"Let me take you to have dinner."

The words caught you completely off guard. For the first time, Lewis saw you hesitate—and he took it as a small victory, one he couldn’t deny he was proud of.

"Dinner… as in a date?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. Your voice told him there was something more there. Something, luckily, different from rejection.

"Call it whatever you want," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets, clearly nervous. "I just think it’s about time we had the conversation we keep avoiding… without trying to kill each other in the process."

"So that’s your strategy now? Take me to dinner and hope I suddenly start liking you?" You let out a laugh, shaking your head.

"I don’t need you to like me. I just need you to admit that you’re curious about me."

Lewis took a step closer. Instinctively, you found yourself leaning in as well. Then, despite your best efforts to resist, you smiled.

"Fine," you said, feigning indifference. "One dinner. And don’t get any ideas. This changes nothing between us, Hamilton."

"I wouldn’t dream of it, Y/L/N."

As he walked away, already pulling out his phone to book the best restaurant in town, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of something you both had been searching for far longer than you had ever dared to admit.

And for the first time, neither of you minded losing to the other.

I'm sad to announce that you didn't get it right, anon, and Lewis won't be a lawyer in City of Stars Universe! But no worries: keep trying please! ✨

Also, if you like my content, and would like to support me, you can do it here <3 Thank you so much for reading until the very end! <3

[breeding101]

I'd look so good pregnant, wouldn't I?

Hearing those words made my heart drop.

You're joking, right? I asked nervously.

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Just a couple hours earlier I wouldn't even imagine being in that situation. I've invited you to dinner to catch up after you came back to town, something about a new branch of your company, not that I could remember right now if I tried to.

A good meal and couple of wine glasses later you were straddling my lap and playing with my hair, all while giving me a look that could melt icebergs.

I wasn't ready for this. You were a friend, one that I always admired and confided with, but never looked at sexually. Even when you showed up in a short, black skirt and fishnets, a combination you knew well drove me nuts, I didn't suspect a thing.

And oh, how blind I was.

As soon as I felt your hips press on my growing bulge, I remembered something and a wave of embarassment washed over me.

Shit, I don't have protection. My cheeks burned red, a dumb oversight was about to ruin the moment.

Oh shut up, I don't care. A passionate kiss shutting my mouth, your pillowy lips covered in matte black lipstick cutting off any objections I had.

Besides, I'll let you pull out. You trust me, right?

The motion of your hips, slowly pressing and grinding on my crotch dispelled any doubts I had as I let out a soft whimper, feeling your hands pin my wrists to the bed over my head.

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Nervous silence grew excruciating as my question hung in the air. My racing heart threatening to jump out of my chest, not in small part thanks to your constant movements, softly bouncing up and down on my rock hard cock.

I couldn't run if I tried. A pair of cold metal handcuffs bound my wrists to the bed frame, while you straddled my hips, holding onto me tightly with your legs.

Your pure, melodic laughter broke the silence.

Of course I'm joking dummy, you're so easy to tease!

A wave of relief washed over my body. Relief and... a tinge of regret? This couldn't be right, I never wanted kids, but that adrenaline spike...

My cock twitched at the thought, and a playful smile appeared on your face.

You thought about it, didn't you?

As my face turned crimson a suddent clench of your pussy squeezed out a pathetic whimper out of me.

I did, now stop teasing me! I half moaned in response.

Or what, you're gonna cum too fast, darling?

As if trying to make that happen you've picked up the pace, expertly riding my cock.

Overwhelmed with pleasure and adrenaline all I could do was watch and squirm underneath you.

Fuck, how didn't I fall for you sooner? Your soft thighs squeezing me each time you moved up, your perfect butt slamming onto my lap every time you came down, and those perfect handfuls, gently bouncing with your moves.

Soon your own moans grew louder, matching my whimpers and gasps, and a new sensation, one I couldn't ignore, started to take over my body.

I welcomed the familiar feeling of warm, mounting tension with a pinch of regret. Being inside you, feeling your warmth and wetness around me was as close to heaven as I've ever been, but I knew it couldn't last forever.

F-fuck... I'm c-close. A pathetic whine broken up by my quickening breath was all I could muster.

I know, darling, but I'm not done yet.

The pleasure fogging up my mind suddenly skyrocketed. You've clenched around me, your movements speeding up even harder than before. the warm tension I felt just a minute ago now searing hot and threatening to explode at any moment.

Stop! Please! Fuck! I can't hold it any longer! My whimpers turned into screams as my body tensed up and thrashed under you, my hands painfully straining against the handcuffs as I desperately tried to pull out.

My eyes went wide with panic as your lips pressed into mine, your long black nails adding thin red lines to my chest, already covered in black marks of your lipstick.

And then it happened.

As your hips slammed down on me one last time, pushing my rock hard cock deep inside you, my willpower broke.

As mind-breaking pleasure shot up my body, warm cum flooded your womb. Thick streams of seed pulsing inside you, each twitch of my cock making me spasm and whimper with strongest orgasm of my life, pure adrenaline coursing through my veins as tears of fear and pleasure formed in my eyes.

There, see? Wasn't that hard now, was it? You laughed deviously barely hiding your own orgasm, your pulsating pussy making sure to milk every last drop inside.

Now keep at it darling, we need to make sure you fuck it in as deep as possible!

Barely able to to react I stared at you, a mix of fear and lust in my teared up eyes, but as I tried to protest you've stuffed my mouth with your panties, still drenched with your juices.

Be good and I might let you beg to stop again. You chuckled as your hips picked up the pace again.

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Epilogue, requested by one of my wonderful mutuals:

Time went by, our friendship grew, and our "dinner dates" became our favourite pastime.

Adrenaline fueled our orgasms. Feral, mind twisting pleasure making us throw caution to the wind. Soon we could hardly go a day without our little game of chicken, your womb filled to the brim every time, as our bodies surrendered to bliss.

You never bothered with tests. We were always going to be lucky, right? Even after you missed a period, then two, you always found an excuse. Nothing could stop our fun after all.

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Fuck, you were so right. I gasped as I entered you.

I'm always right, dummy.

I looked up at you with awe in my eyes. Your body has became so soft. A big, round baby bump perfectly complimented your curvy figure.

I couldn't resist placing a hand on your belly, making you chuckle softly.

Admiring your handiwork? You teased me.

Pfff, as if you didn't have anything to do with it. I replied, moving my hand to your oh-so-sensitive-now breasts.

A soft squeeze was all it took to get you to moan, a soft trickle of milk dripping out of your dark and swollen nipple.

Ready to start darling? I giggled, admiring your body.

Oh shut it you brat. A sudden jolt of pleasure as your hips started moving was all the confirmation I needed.

[duckprintspress]

Just used this template from the Author's Guild to send this letter (I edited/expanded on the template.)

I am writing to you as an indie publisher. I have discovered three of our books, including the work almost 30 creators, in the data you used to train your generative AI model. This usage was not authorized and violates both the Press's copyright and the authors' and artists' whose work was included. The books in question are Hockey Bois by A. L. Heard, And Seek (Not) to Alter Me: Queer Fanworks Inspired by Shakespeare's "Much Ado About Nothing," and Many Drops Make a Stream by A. L. Heard. This letter is to put you on notice that you do not have the right to use my work to train your AI models. You must obtain express permission and provide reasonable licensing terms for authors’ works. I hope you will set an example of responsible, legal, ethical AI use by obtaining permission before using authors’ and journalists’ works going forward and compensating us for the use you have already made. I'd say thank you for your time, but honestly I hate that I have to worry about this, hate that I have to take my own time to write this, and hate that generative AI-loving technocrats are actively destroying the arts in supposed pursuit of creating the arts. So I don't really thank you for anything. Please stop it, and if you refuse to, at least you can pay us with the billions of dollars you've earned by preying on the rest of the world. Claire Houck Owner, Duck Prints Press

The Author's Guild wrote up a list of actionable steps that authors whose work has been stolen can take, so I'll be looking at that more to see what, if anything, else I can do. Several require membership in the Guild, tho, and that's not happening right now. This is US-oriented info.

[cherryblossompink303]

Patience S2:05:~The Lobelia girls academy meets their match!~

➼ pairing: Kyoya Ootori x Reader ➼ summary: The lobelia academy returns with a strange proposal ➼ what to expect:  "don't let him have any more power over you" ➼ warnings: n/a ➼ S2:04 / S2:06

As the first day of the cultural festival started you all knew that it was a matter of time before the zuka club showed up, you knew the Lobelia academy had already arrived at Ouran that morning, it was a matter of when not if.

"Tamaki you need to stop pacing you're gonna give me motion sickness" You watch as he does laps up and down the music room. "I don't like this, it's too quiet, they're up to something"

"Maybe after seeing y/n and Kyoya kissing they've given up on the whole 'rescuing y/n from the taint of the host club' mission?" Hikaru shrugs.

"Are you kidding me, did you see benibara at the academy? We barely escaped!" Tamaki cries, staring at the twins in horror. "I must admit from what I know about the Zuka club they don't seem like the type to give up like that...Tamaki's right it is too quiet"

"See!"

As if on cue the door opens, and low and behold the three girls you have come to know as the Zuka club are stood in the door way. "You" Tamaki near growls at the sight of them.

"I knew it!" Hikaru exclaims, the twins standing up, all the host club becoming defensive.

The girls raise their hands "We come in peace"

"I find that hard to believe"

Benibara sighs, slowly approaching the host club, Tamaki tensing up as they approach. As they get closer, benibara raises up a hamper. "We are here to ask for your help"

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The Lobelia Girl's Academy meet their match!

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"What?"

"Please, we need the host club's help"

It is safe to say that the zuka club had very easily rendered the host club speechless. "This must be a trick of some sort, a ploy to lower our guards"

"No trick, we are....well we are desperate"

"And you want our help? If I remember correctly the last time you saw us you were going on and on about how pathetic we are, why would you want our help?"

The girls exchange hesitant glances, in the end Chizuru sighs "Because we are on the verge of getting shut down" Benibara lets out a groan of pain at the words, clutching her chest as she nearly drops to her knees.

"After the performance at Lobelia our fans abandoned us, said that we were a disgrace to the name of the white lily league....they formed their own club, and now the drama department has decided they can only facilitate one club....if we do not prove to be the most popular performance at the cultural festival we will be forced....to disband"

Tamaki's face falls, if there is one thing that will always work against him it is a good sob story.

"And so you're asking for help because...?"

Benibara sighs "It is clear that you all at least have a flare for the dramatic, we can't put on a rival worthy performance with just three people....however we are most interested in..."

The three girls turn to you "Me?" You look at them in skepticism, eyes darting between the zuka club and Kyoya as if to check that this was real.

"You are a brilliant performer maiden, not to mention an incredible singer, you are what can save us"

You raise your hands up to wave it off "Oh no, I am not doing that again, my days on stage are long over" The girls rush over "Please!" They beg.

"How do we know that this is not just another plan to steal y/n away from us again? You don't exactly have a good track record with this type of stuff" Kaoru questions, taking a bite out of a muffin from the girls care package.

"The reason the rest of the club abandoned us because of Benibara trying to kiss y/n against her will, we don't want to make things worse for ourselves" Kyoya's chin picks up, looking the girls up and down for any signs of them lying.

"Y/n?"

"Hell no, why should I help you?"

Tamaki nearly scares the life out of you as he appears behind you "Y/n....their club is going to get shutdown...their family is gonna get torn apart"

"Tamaki they are together im not sure family is the word you should use"

"You said the same thing about the newspaper club and look what happened there"

Tamaki stares at you and Kyoya as if you had just kicked a puppy in front of him. "B-b-but-"

Benibara sighs "Help us and we will owe you, anything, at anytime"

"Oh you don't want to say that with those two here" Hikaru nods to you and Kyoya as you exchange a glance, locking into a silent battle of wits.

"Call it an I owe you and you all swear to not meddle in my love life again and I'll do it"

"Done"

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"what exactly is this performance about anyway?" You ask, the combined forces of the Zuka club and the host club entering the academy's theatre department.

"It's more of a musical thing than the last one, portraying a story through the medium of song"

"Benibara, I am suprised to see you here" A group of girls enter the auditorium. Chin's high as they approach the stage. "It is our time to block out our performance"

"I meant just at the theatre department at all, I would have though that you would have dropped out by now"

"come on you've gotta give them a fighting chance" the words come out of your mouth somewhat involuntarily, you almost do a double take as you realise that you are actually defending them.

"Do I know you? You look familiar"

"Isn't that the girl that Benibara tried to kiss?"

"Why would you help them?"

You freeze at the crowd of girls that has suddenly approached you, throwing question after question at you. Benibara seems to pick up on this, placing a hand on your shoulder "Y/n is a friend of Chizuru's family, she heard of our troubles and decided to help us with the performance"

"But you are the girl who Benio tried to kiss even though you have a boyfriend, right?"

"i....yeah..." With every question that passes the more and more you realise how strange this entire situation is.

The girls surround you "Oh you poor thing, they must be manipulating you again"

"You should come with us, these ladies have no respect"

"Woah" you blink twice at the statement, what was it about Lobelia Academy girls thinking that just because you are doing something that they wouldn't they just assume you are being manipulated?

"I am not, I am helping them save their club as a favour for Chizuru's father as he has strong ties with my and my fiance's companies"

The girls all stare at you with skepticism, in full honesty you hadn't even convinced yourself with that explanation. "Hmm...well she is seemingly here voluntarily...okay benibara, but just know that even with this...peculiar recruitment, you still won't win" the girls walk out with their heads high, you let out a breath that you were unknowingly holding.

"Just so we're clear, once this performance is over with, this is the last time I am helping you with anything"

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You had to admit, while you did not love the situation that you have found yourself in, watching Benibara bark orders at the host club in a desperate attempt to make sure the rest of the host club doesn't look like a heard of elephants in pointe shoes was certainly the silver lining of it all.

"Just so you know...I didn't know about Benibara's plan when you came to Lobelia academy, if i had I would have tried to talk her out of it" You look over to Chizuru, who sits down on the seat next to you in the audience.

"What did you think was going on?"

"In full honesty? We thought that if you got a taste of what Lobelia was like and enjoyed it enough then you may be inclined to transfer, I don't know if you've noticed by now Benio has a bit of a crush on you and we also thought that you were locked in your engagement unwillingly, if we knew you were dating him earlier then it would probably be different"

You sigh "Well Kyoya and I weren't together at that point...or at least not properly, it's confusing, but that is besides the point. It shouldn't matter whether or not I am or was single, surely you can see how staging such a plot, or even the first time demanding that I transfer isn't a normal thing to do"

Chizuru pauses, turning to look at the stage once more. You do the same, watching Tamaki being overly dramatic with each move.

"It's funny, the main grievance that you all have with the host club is that you think they take advantage of girls. When in reality the girls know what they are getting into, and visit willingly, what Benio did was the opposite, and that's why the rest of the Zuka club walked out"

Chizuru pursed her lips, eyes still trained on the stage "I think...that benibara has let the fan club get to her head"

"I think so aswell"

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Day 5 of the Cultural fair

You have been pacing back stage for about an hour now, so long that your step count must have hit a record high. "Hey, it's y/n, isn't it?" one of the girls from earlier approaches you. "Hm? yeah" You make an attempt to calm yourself down and sound normal.

"Is it true that you volunteered to help Benio"

"Well...not exactly, but they came to our club for help and we agreed"

"i see..." She trails off, walking away "Okay?" You raise an eyebrow, turning around as you almost walk directly into Kyoya "Woah" he places his hands on your shoulders, lightly gripping them for stability.

"Sorry Kyoya"

He nods "It's okay, are you alright you feel tense"

"I...I don't like being on stage really... I used to do theatre a lot but i um...had a few bad experiences that caused me to stop, I guess that whenever I return It causes me to think about it."

"yeah...you're cousin clued me in to a bit of it when we came to get you out of Lobelia academy" You nod, taking a deep breath.

"hey, listen, don't give your father the satisfaction of getting your head even now, you have gotten the one up on him, don't let him have any more power over you. You're a good performer, we all know that, you just have to go out there for three minutes and show them what we already know is true"

You sigh "Yeah... okay"

"Good news!" Benio steps backstage, arms in the air as she is surrounded by the girls who had abandoned the zuka club.

"huh?"

"The fight is over, the zuka club is reunited!"

"What?"

"Well we figured that if you forgave Benio then so can we!"

"I have missed you all maidens" The girls start to fawn over Benibara.

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose "Thats not...okay...sure, does that mean the performance is cancelled?"

"Oh yeah we don't need you anymore" Benio waves you off, not making eye contact.

"Okay"

You and the rest of the host club walk out the theatre department letting out a sigh "you know, it is probably for the best, I'm not sure our dancing skills would have helped the performance anyway" Kaoru mutters.

You laugh "Yeah, probably"

Next time on patience....'Join the black magic club!'

'Nekozawa makes an appearance in the host club, Honey has a secret admirer, and Kyoya's asked for relationship advice? find out next time on Patience!'

We'll see you then!'

Tag list (reply to be added): @skottch @cgmajor @rebirthbunbun @bbybubbles @blueberry19000 @katgirl05 @smellslikelovinglies @veras-fanfic-reblogs @sadprimrose @mirtalikesdr @sleeplesssskeleton @ritzes28 @crackpeole @rory-cakes @renjunniex @II-kita-san-II @angelicwillows @missbrebre1012 @sleep-7372 @strawberrbitch @reticent-writer @eternal-dokja @meme848 @mistyhydrangeagarden @nanaloverz @hyuninslutbbgirl @rebel-author-chick @voyager1fan @bubbabobabubbles @haowonbins @justtryingtosurvive02 @darlingxym

[soldearestsoulmate]

Wanted to get this idea out of my head finally. lol

Sol x GN!Reader

Warnings: Drugging, somnophilia, yandere stuff in general. Proceed with caution. (Extra warning/spoiler: Reader in this turns out to be a freak for Sol's secret)

"Sol?"

Sol was busy washing the dishes from the dinner he made for you both while visiting your place again. You were in the process of drinking orange juice again. Something you had commonly now while he visited.

"Yeah Pumpkin?" Sol turned his head to look at you, you were sitting at the table in the kitchen, watching him closely.

"...How long have you been drugging me?" Sol froze in his actions. Silence consumed the room and his body grew cold when he heard that question escape from your lips.

"...W-what?" Sol finally spoke as he slowly turned his head. All while trying to show a convincing smile.

"The drugging...The sleeping pills I'm guessing they are?" Now Sol's heart was racing as he fully turned his body to face you, but his hands were still behind his back...And he was slowly reaching over for a knife. Not to hurt you, but to protect himself if you were to try something now.

"I...I don't know what you're talking about Pum--"

"Cut the shit Solivan. I know. I know because last night I remember what happened, at least some of it. What you did to me...Did with me..." Sol struggled to respond now. He was wondering what went wrong. How could you remember unless--

Shit.

Maybe Hyugo gave him pills that were less stronger now. Perhaps worried they were working too well after learning he was nodding off in class a few times. But it wasn't because of the pills, or pills he clearly wasn't taking better to say.

Or could it be something else...

No...It couldn't be weaker pills.

Then Sol noticed in your hands the empty cup. Yet you were wide awake and alert. A empty cup...He dosed with those sleeping pills again.

"...They aren't working anymore." He finally muttered out.

"No they still work...Just not as strongly as before...That can happen with some medication. Body just grows accustom to it, you can gain a immunity to it...I expect I'll be passing out in a few minutes but I need to know before it happens."

Sol's eyes grew wide as he watched you get up from your seat and walk to him. He gripped the knife behind him, scared to be forced to use it.

"Answer me please...Say it honestly. Have you been drugging me to have your way with me?" Sol looked into your eyes, seeing the serious yet pleading gaze given to him.

"...If I said yes...What are you going to do? Call the cops on me? You know it's dumb to do this before calling them unless--" Now he felt some panic setting in.

Shit. Did you call the cops?!

"Calm down. I didn't call them...I don't plan to if anything." Now Sol looked confused as he stared at you.

"W-what?" He felt his grip on the knife loosen.

"Why call them when I have no problem with this?" Sol finally let his grip on the knife go as shock hit him.

Was...Was he hearing this right? No...He must be hearing things. This must be some fucked up delusion. But then he realizes it's all too real when you finally lean in to kiss his lips.

At first he froze from it...Then finally he returned the kiss at the second go, and then again. Until he was practically eating you alive through that action alone.

"Y-You're going to pass out soon...Shit...I shouldn't ha--" You shushed him with a finger on his lips and smiled.

"It's fine. I actually found myself enjoying it as you were fucking me as I drifted back off last night...I want to experience that again...Can we?"

This had to be dream. A wild dream. But it was one he didn't want to wake up from as he smirked at you. Then pulled you in close and picked you up in his arms to carry you.

"Of course, but not here...Your bed is best for this~."

[pinkcowzz]

finally watching daredevil born again, and i have. THOUGHTS.

everything feels SO intentional. like, i was really concerned for this show cause the first three seasons hold such a special place in my heart but it seems like this show was handled with such care.

there will be spoilers for episode 1 below the cut, so. proceed with caution. (i'll be making a separate post for ep. 2 later because this got way out of hand)

so, to start off with the opening credits. i was. SO impressed. the og credits like genuinely they are some of my favorite credits to have been done. and the new ones, using some of the same symbols but having them be concrete and broken to literally rebuild matt is SO neat.

admittedly, i am not a marvel comic reader, have not touched more than maybe 6 in my whole life. so- please don't take what i have to say about characterization too seriously. that being said!

i have no idea how to feel about foggy dying. i have heard that in the comics, it's karen that bullseye kills. i think narratively it does make more sense for foggy to be the one to die. he was the glue within their group, he was the one who always saw more within matt, who believed in him to make the right choices.

my biggest thoughts on foggy's death is that, AHHH it's about the suit. it's always about the suit. foggy is the person who brought matt the suit, back during the arc with elektra and the hand and everything. and he regretted it. a lot. that much we knew. and then to open this new season with foggy clearly and deliberately keeping matt from the suit. ("look im sorry, maybe i didn't wanna give you an excuse")

then, matt chooses to use the suit to 'solve' his issue. and his consequence? he loses foggy. and immediately he loses his morals, pushing ben off the roof. did he know that wouldn't kill dex? we don't know! but he did it. it's, poetic in a way. foggy was the one person that was grounding matt.

it's also just, a really interesting path to take for matt's character. like, the entirety of season two was matt trying to decide who he was. in one direction was the suit, and elektra and the adrenaline of it all. on the other was foggy and working within the system. matt saw both as a way to help, he saw both as a means to fix hell's kitchen. in the end, he lost elektra and chose to walk away from foggy. but then the series opens with the line

"i like to think that i have- we have evolved"

this means something, at least to me. we are seeing matt once again questioning who is he, why he is making the choices he has been making. is it worth it?

then cut to one year later, and we see that matt is still caring foggy with him- literally. he carries the program from his funeral, what i can only assume is daily. kept on his kitchen counter along with his other daily essentials. a reminder of his failings, of what he has lost.

moving onto karen, i really hate her running off to san fran but i can't say i don't understand it. she ran after her brother died, it's CLEAR that something went down between her & matt after foggy died, she felt unsupported and left alone again so she left. but for her to come back and ONLY talk to matt about the suit, whewwww baby. that's some heavy shit to dig through.

she had always understood the 'devil of hell's kitchen'. until she knew who he was and realized he had lied to her. they have such a messy relationship. idk, her giving matt the horn from his costume but refusing to allow them to actually talk, to actually heal, it's fucked up. she's, in a very round about way, telling him that she only feels he's useful in the suit. that this other person, (daredevil) the one who drove them apart years ago, is the only thing they have in common now.

and then. vanessa and wilson. what the FUCK is going on between them. i think the most important piece of information that we got about them, is the painting that is shown right before vanessa is reintroduced. it's titled "ivan the terrible and his son". for those who aren't familiar, the scene it is depicting is of ivan holding his son right after he murdered him. the motive has been argued, either a political disagreement or perhaps because of ivan's son's wife passing by in her robe (a disrespect at the time).

to me? this is saying that fisk is going to kill vanessa at some point this season. i think it will either be motivated by her making business moves that he disagrees with or perhaps because she has essentially made A CUCK OUT OF HIM HELLOO?????? (no im not not over that, it fits their dynamics so well but is just. so wild)

i also just want to compliment on how it has introduced so many new characters, without making it feel crowded or annoying. i miss the old supporting cast that was present, but this show has managed to make me not hate the new one. mcduffie's relationship with matt seems to be one with lots of history and care. cherry is already in on the secret and seems to not be afraid to use it to his advantage.

even the doctor that matt is dating, heather seems to have genuine chemistry with matt.

onto the next! the scene with matt and fisk is. i could watch it a hundred times and not tire of it. starting the scene with fisk telling matt "im not going to spar with you" to then have one of the BEST verbal spars i've EVER seen is so fun. i truly love the writers of this show, it's so clear to me that they really love these characters and wanted to do right by them. (i also completely forgot about fisk being in hawkeye until this scene, whoops)

the irony of "fisk will fix it" and maga is not lost on me, it's a bit exhausting but, i can understand the statement they were wanting to make with it.

there was an interview with charlie cox and vincent d'onofrio where they both comment how matt can't exist without fisk, and the same vice versa. they serve as such fun foils of each other. they want to catch the other tripping up. they want to be the one to bring the other down. they don't want to prove the other right. GOD it's fun.

last thing, i really like the score. okay! well this got way out of hand, but i just needed to get these worms out of my brain or else they would eat it whole so.

[omgidklolwtf]

Annual Deepspace Fleet Ball

Content: long read, attending the ball as Caleb‘s date, reunited after a month apart, smut, teasing, begging, "please", talking him through it, cumming inside

Since you and Caleb reunited and made your relationship official, this has been the longest the two of you have gone without seeing each other. And the longest since you've had sex.

"I can't believe it's been almost a month since you've been gone...I miss you." You're rummaging through your closet, phone held between your ear and shoulder while you look for the perfect dress to wear to Caleb's Fleetspace ball. It is held once a year to celebrate the Fleet returning from their exploration through the Deepspace Tunnel. It will also be your reunion with Caleb so you want to look exceptional.

"I miss you too Pipsqueak. I can't wait to hold you in my arms again." Caleb's connection is staticky but you'll take what you can get.

"Anything else you want to do when we're back together?" You've lowered your tone, slowing the pace of your words. The suggestive question provoking Caleb. You know he's not alone right now, Giddeon and the rest of his flight crew talking in the background.

Caleb clears his throat, "I can think of a few things," you hear the need in his tone.

"Mmm, something like our activities the night before you left? I don't think we slept at all that night. I was sore for days afterwards." You bite your lip, the thought of Caleb's big hands gripping your waist while he took you in the shower, on the kitchen counter, on the balcony, literally everywhere but the actual bed.

Caleb exhales a shaky breath, his swallow audible through the phone. "Yes that would be great. We could do that again" he says casually, the background noise getting louder. You know the call is going to have to end soon, the boys are about to interrupt Caleb in precisely 10 seconds.

You secretly love making Caleb squirm, knowing he will be thinking about you every second until he returns. "I miss the taste of you Caleb. Don't forget what you promised before you left."

You hear Giddeon's voice loudly, "we're ready for orders Colonel."

"There's a few changes I need to share with everyone before take off. I'll meet you in the briefing room." Caleb says in his commanding Colonel voice, authority punctuating every word.

Caleb softens his tone before saying, "I know honey. Don't worry, I'll be home soon." The line disconnects, a mixture of emotions swirling inside you. Excitement and anticipation but also worry. The return trip from the tunnel is a difficult one and you won't be able to fully relax until Caleb is boots on the ground again.

Later that night you are showered, shaved, exfoliated, primped and ready for your reunion with Caleb. You decided to wear a dress you know will compliment the Colonel's Farspace Fleet Uniform. It is a black lace dress with off the shoulder sleeves, a corset top and a long lace skirt that trails behind you. The thigh high slit shows off your legs and the dress is so tight it looks painted on your skin. Your hair is up, revealing your long neck. You went for a minimal, dewy makeup look. Your black wing is sharp enough to cut and your pouty lips have a juicy apple red stain. You are dressed to impress and you have your sights set on Caleb.

The ball room is crowded. Tables surround the dance floor where small groups of people are talking, dancing and drinking. You have yet to see Caleb. He's likely having to make his rounds among the leadership and mingling with the guests. You are growing impatient, scanning the room, heart racing, waiting for the moment you see him again.

You sense him then, like magnets being pulled together. Your posture stiffens and your breath catches in your throat at the same time you hear his voice, tone lowered and gravely coming from behind you. "Looking for me?" A wall of solid muscle pressing against your back. His breath tickling your ear before he plants a kiss on your neck. Your eyes close for just a moment, leaning back into him. "God I missed you."

You slowly turn to face him. Caleb's eyes roaming over your body. His gaze sends shivers down your spine. It takes all of your restraint not to mount him in the middle of this ballroom. "I'm actually looking for my boyfriend, have you seen him?"

"Oh? What does he look like?"

"He's tall, dark hair, the most handsome man in this room." You trail your finger up Caleb's arm, leaning into him slightly. Your eyes collide with his and you bite your lip. You can feel Caleb hardening against you.

"Oh, yeah I think I saw him head into that room in the back. The private one next to the bar. I could help you look for him." Caleb grins down at you. The heat in his eyes promising the second he gets you alone he is going to pound you into oblivion.

"That would be appreciated."

You turn to leave just as one of Caleb's superior officers approaches you both. "Colonel" he says with a nod. Caleb reaches out to shake his hand then. "Sir, nice to see you." He turns towards you then. "Who is your companion?"

You reach out your hand then, introducing yourself before Caleb can answer for you. "Hi, I'm y/n. It's a pleasure to meet you." After exchanging pleasantries, you are ushered to his commander's table, insisting you both join him for a drink. Caleb nods politely and follows, you close behind. Your sexy reunion with Caleb is going to have to wait. You are doing your best to engage in the conversation, answering questions about your work as a hunter and how you know Caleb. You have your phone hidden in your lap under the table. You nonchalantly send Caleb a text containing an image of the lingerie you are wearing under your dress. You can see the effort it takes for him to maintain a neutral expression. However you cant help but notice how he adjusts in his seat, trying to make room in his pants for his growing erection. His hard cock likely pushing against his trousers uncomfortably. You can't help but smile at that. A muscle ticks in his jaw. Oh he's hungry for you. Pent up from a long month without your touch and in desperate need of release.

You politely rise from your seat, nodding at the commander and excusing yourself for the ladies room. You try to keep a casual pace as you head towards the back room Caleb pointed out. However the only one you see is right next to the kitchen and does not appear to be very private at all. Wait staff are coming in and out of the kitchen, preparing to start serving the plated dinner.

You are barely two steps into the room when Caleb enters behind you. He yanks you against his body, your arms going around his back as his fingers thread through your hair. You both open your mouths, tongues fighting against each other. He kisses you passionately and you return everything he's giving to you. He pulls his mouth away to assess your face, making sure you are okay. His chest heaving rapidly, breath shaky. "Pipsqueak I..."

You hear a door open then. One of the servers enters the back door of the room, looking for extra napkins. You both freeze, trying to steady your breathing. When you are sure the waiter has gone, you place your hand on Caleb's chest and shove, pushing him back against the wall. You press your body against him, gliding your tongue across his bottom lip before sucking it between your teeth and biting down gently. You run your hand down the front of his body, rubbing him through his pants.

He groans, head kicking back against the wall, eyes rolling to the back of his head. You love seeing this man unravel at your touch. "Mmm, I missed this" you say against his mouth, before sweeping your tongue inside.

The door opens, interrupting you again. It becomes obvious this is not going to be a location where you will be able to do everything you want with Caleb. "We have to stop."

"What? No baby no. Please. Please I need you so bad. I've been going crazy please." He wraps his arms around you, nuzzling into the side of your neck. "Please baby, we can be quiet."

You know Caleb would never push a boundary you are not comfortable with. As much as he craves you, your happiness and consent will always been his priority. "Oh I know, my poor baby." You tease, pulling him down to you so you can kiss his neck. "But you're going to take what I give you and you're going to like it." You trail kisses down his neck, your hand resting on his chest. His heartbeat thundering under your palm. Caleb takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "Come on let's rejoin the party. This will have to wait until we're in a more private location."

Caleb acquiesces, albeit a little pouty. You are going to reward him later. The two of you eat, dance, laugh. The rest of the ball is incredibly fun. Caleb is the life of any party. He can get even the biggest party pooper to have a good time. You love that about him.

Midnight rolls around before you know it and you and Caleb are finally alone back at his house. Caleb begins kissing you the second you walk inside. You are ripping at each other's clothes, desperate to be skin to skin. "Touch me Caleb," you whisper through panted breaths. His hands are on you then, electricity sparking wherever his fingers touch. Your breasts, your stomach, hips, ass. Your wetness already dripping down your thighs. When he feels how slick you are he growls deep in his throat, the sound carnal.

"You are so wet y/n."

"Only for you Caleb."

Caleb unleashes on you then. Picking you up and pressing you against the wall. He wastes no time entering you. His cock is rock hard and dripping with pre-cum. Your pussy so wet that he glides in effortlessly. He is fucking you into the wall. You rock back against his thrusts, your orgasm already building. Caleb's eyes are squeezed shut. You can tell he is focusing on not cumming too fast. He always wants you to orgasm first.

His cock curls into you so perfectly. Your pussy has been starved of Caleb for so long you can tell this orgasm is going to have you squirting all over him.

"You feel so good Caleb, please don't stop" your pussy clenching his cock, ready to milk him of every drop of cum. "Just like that. Keep going baby. Yes faster."

Caleb's muscles are tense. He's using his strength and weight to grind his pelvis against your clit. "F-fuckkk" he groans, "you feel amazing."

"Look at me," you breath. Caleb's eyes flaring open and locking with your eyes. "I'm all yours."

That was all Caleb needed. He pounds into you, your hips rocking back against him. "Grind that fucking pussy on me baby."

You erupt then. Your orgasm explodes out of you. The walls of your pussy tensing as you squirt all over Caleb. "I'm cumming Caleb, come with me." You dig your nails into his back, the two of you fucking each other as hard as you can.

Caleb cries out then, cumming deep inside you. "Yes, oh my god," you say as you clench your walls around him. Milking every drop of his cum. "Give me every drop."

You two stay connected as you catch your breath. Slowly coming down from the strength of your shared orgasms. "Oh my god we made a mess." You laugh as you survey the room. Your clothes are tossed all over the space and you two are dripping in each other's essence.

Caleb doesn't care. He's looking at only you. He brings his forehead to yours, not yet ready to let you go. You smile at him. "I guess you should spend time away more often. That was so good," you say as you kiss his cheek.

He kisses your lips while saying, "then" *kiss* "can you" *kiss* "give me a chance" *kiss* "to make your good day even better?" *kiss kiss kiss*

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

Lando... What?

summary: y/n questions why Lando’s name sounds fake, sparking a chaotic roast session with Max.

The three of them were sprawled across the couch, completely wiped from the day's chaos. Some random show was playing on the TV, but none of them were really paying attention. Lando was half-asleep, lying on his back with his head resting against y/n's lap, while Max was scrolling through his phone. It was one of those rare calm moments.

At least... for them.

y/n, however, was having an existential crisis.

She stared down at Lando, her fingers absentmindedly playing with his curls. The thought had been circling in her mind for the past ten minutes, and she just couldn't shake it.

Lando.

Lando?

What kind of name was Lando?

Like—if he wasn't Lando Norris, then what? Just Lando? Lando who? What if he had a different last name? Or a different first name? Lando Smith? Lando Johnson? No. That was weird.

Actually... Lando in general was just a weird name.

Max suddenly looked up from his phone, catching the way y/n was staring at Lando like she was trying to solve a math equation.

"What's wrong with you?"

y/n blinked, finally snapping out of her thoughts. "Huh?"

"You're staring at him like he's a science experiment."

Lando lazily opened one eye. "What'd I do?"

y/n hesitated for a moment before finally blurting out, "Your name is weird."

Lando frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Lando." She repeated, testing it out again. "Lando. It's just... weird."

Lando scoffed, sitting up. "Okay? Bit rude."

Max, suddenly very intrigued, leaned forward. "No, no—go on. I wanna hear this."

y/n gestured vaguely at Lando. "Just imagine if he wasn't Lando Norris. If he was just... Lando. Lando who? It doesn't sound right."

Lando blinked. "It's literally my name."

"But why?" y/n pressed. "Like, what if you were named something else? What if you weren't Lando? What if you were like... Greg?"

Max choked. "GREG?!"

Lando's jaw dropped. "Do I look like a Greg to you?!"

y/n shrugged. "I dunno! Now that I think about it, maybe... Brad?"

Max was losing it, already crying with laughter. "BRAD NORRIS?!"

Lando looked personally offended. "That is disgusting. Take it back."

y/n held back a laugh. "Alright, alright. Maybe not Brad." She tapped her chin, thinking. "Kyle?"

"OH MY GOD." Max was wheezing at this point, practically falling off the couch.

"STOP NAMING ME GENERIC WHITE BOY NAMES!" Lando shouted.

y/n burst out laughing. "I CAN'T HELP IT! Lando is just such a fake name! It sounds like a nickname for something else, but it's not!"

Lando crossed his arms, looking dramatically betrayed. "I can't believe this. Five years together, and you're only now deciding my name is weird?"

y/n grinned. "I've always thought it. I just never said it out loud."

Max, still wiping tears from his eyes, shook his head. "Brad Norris sounds like a failed country singer."

Lando groaned. "You both suck."

y/n leaned against his shoulder, still giggling. "I love you, but you have to admit... Lando is a bit of a weird name."

Lando sighed dramatically. "I regret everything."

Max smirked. "At least you're not Kyle."

Lando shot him a glare. "I will fight you."

y/n just grinned.

Lando slumped back against the couch, arms crossed, still pouting like a child while y/n and Max continued to lose it.

"Brad Norris," Max muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "Sounds like a bloke who sells used cars but has terrible reviews."

Lando groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Can we please move on?"

y/n, still very much enjoying herself, leaned closer. "Alright, Kyle."

Lando whipped his head toward her, eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare."

Max jumped in immediately. "Nah, I'm feeling Trent."

"STOP IT." Lando shouted, but he was already fighting back a smile.

y/n clapped her hands together. "Wait! What if—hear me out—you were Todd?"

Max let out a gasp, as if she had just uncovered the truth of the universe. "Todd Norris."

Lando launched a pillow at Max. "I swear to god—"

But Max was already dodging, cackling as he rolled off the couch. "T-BONE TODD NORRIS ON THE GRID!"

y/n could barely breathe at this point. "Todd Norris sounds like a guy who makes BBQ tutorials on YouTube."

Max nodded. "'Alright, guys, welcome back to Todd's Smokin' Grill! Today, we're making some killer ribs!'"

Lando threw another pillow, this time at y/n. "ENOUGH!"

But y/n, still wheezing, wiped a tear from her eye. "I love you, but I can't believe your parents named you Lando."

Lando sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "I hate both of you."

Max grinned. "Aw, come on, Todd—"

"I'M GOING TO BED." Lando launched himself off the couch, dramatically storming toward the bedroom while y/n and Max collapsed into laughter behind him.

"Goodnight, Todd!" y/n called after him.

"Hope you don't have nightmares, Trent!" Max added.

Lando flipped them off without looking back. "You two are the actual worst."

y/n just grinned, curling up into the couch.

[thx-immortal-harxm]

Thankfully, it didn't take long for the two of them to pounce of Kyle and shred off the top layer of his clothes. The lower half would have to take some more time, but Damian and Michael were in no rush. The two of them had the rest of the night to have their way with Kyle again and again, and they were happy to indulge the journalist in his wants and needs. With the three of them kissing each other, both men happily moved closer when they felt Kyle's hands tugging on their asses. Their broad, bulky shoulders bumped against each other, but they provided a nice wall of muscle for the other man to grope and squeeze as he pleased.

With Kyle finally shirtless and dazed from their kisses, Damian couldn't help but smiley cheekily at the sight. "How was that kiss for you? Better than watching us kiss each other, wasn't it?" he chuckled in amusement. He raised a brow at the other man's question, only shaking his head in response. "Michael and I haven't slept together before, no. Nor have we shared someone with each other. You're our very first, and the only one for both of us," he said firmly. There was little room for argument in his tone, as he wanted to make it clear to the other man that they were both attracted to Kyle and only Kyle. But it didn't mean that they weren't willing to share with each other.

He grunted as he felt the journalist's hands roaming over their pecs, only bouncing and flexing each of his muscles so they jumped underneath Kyle's touch. "So hungry... You don't know how badly I wanted to strip you naked downstairs and fuck you in front of everyone. Let them see me claim you as mine. Let them see you being loved, being pleasured, as you deserve. Perhaps with Michael filling your mouth and me filling your hole, or the other way around. I won't ever give up my pursuit of you, Kyle. My hunger for you is larger and deeper than the sea, and I'll continue to try to make you mine," he promised.

Michael watched the interchange with amusement, only humming gratefully as he felt Kyle begin to unbutton both of their pants. "What he said," he chuckled, sighing as he felt the tight slacks finally pulled down and his thick, heavy cock pressed up against the thin fabric of his underwear. He licked his lips at the sight of Kyle now kneeling between them, his head at the right height between both men's bulges. "Although, Damian, would you pass me my phone? I don't think I ever want to forget this angle. You look so pretty down there, Kyle. Like sucking on two cocks was what you were meant to do."

"Oh, I love that idea. Especially I know I'm bigger than Damian," Michael said with a grin. He pushed his hips forwared, letting his clothes bulge brush up against Kyle's lips. "But careful with that wish of yours, Kyle. Letting Damian do whatever he wants to you while you suck on my dick... I think you might be getting that public showing after all," he teased.

The CEO was already on the move, already pulling and guiding the two of them over a futon by the large windows in his office. It was the perfect location for Kyle to bend over or lie on. "Climb up," Damian ordered with a growl. "You're still far too dressed for this occasion. And I want you to get a good view of your new world now. With us, you'll be on top of the world. Nothing and no one can ever get in your way again," Damian hummed. The large man was already reaching down to hook his fingers along the waistband of Kyle's slacks, as if giving him a slight warning before he yanked them off or tore them into shreds.

Kyle stood between them, his attention shifting between both men as he saw the actor move closer to the CEO, smirking as the idea of them kissing in front of him seemed really hot. As they stopped, confusion filled the journalist, something obvious thanks to his expression. That weird feeling transformed into deception as he listened to them talk about him, confirming that the kiss wasn't going to happen, but all that got pushed away as soon as both moved to kiss him at the same time.

The shift was a lot. They started the encounter slow, almost unsure of how to proceed or so Kyle thought, but their actions let him know that they were only holding back because of his requests and now, both men were as desperate for him as he was for them. He tried to keep up with them, parting his lips at their rhythm, his tongue playing with theirs. Slowly, he lost himself in what was happening, moaning against their lips thanks to the way they were touching him.

The one in between was impressed by how quickly the other two acted as one, which made him wonder if they had done this before; a question that he would try to get an answer to once they were done since he could barely focus on anything other than what was happening.

While he continued kissing them, Kyle could hear the sound of fabric tearing, a fact that would've bothered him before, he was wearing his nicest suit, but at that moment, he simply moved his arms back, shacking them to try and get rid of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. He tried to the the same with his shirt but it was already in shreds, barely hanging over his shoulders so instead he moved his hands forward.

"Fuck..." He moaned against their lips as he grabbed their asses, pulling them closer, trying to get their bulges against his but the triangle they formed prevented it. So, he tried to move away, moving his body back but the actor still had his hand against his back, stopping him completely. Instead, he simply moved his head back, moving his hands up to cup both of their faces, staring at them, breathlessly.

"Have you done this before?" He asked them once he could, a smirk on his face. His hands fell down to their chests, cupping the pec he had closer of each of them before moving further, reaching their pants and unbuttoning them as he waited for an answer. His head was down, his attention shifting between their bulges, licking his lips at how big they looked. Once again, unsure of which one he should pay attention to first. Still, he kneeled, opening Michael's pants and pulling them down, getting rid of them, and then doing the same to Damian's.

"Michael was right, choosing between you two is one of the hardest things I've had to do in my life so—" he spoke and looked up. "I won't, I'll let fate decide. I'll suck whoever has the biggest dick, the other one can do whatever he wants to me, do you gentlemen like that idea?".

[makoodles]

ミmy daddy didn't love me so i guess i've moved onto you

🍓 pairing: captain john price x fem reader

🍓 tags: nsfw, daddy kink, undefined age gap, oral sex, unprotected vaginal sex, rough(?) sex, both reader and price have a daddy kink that they indulge in with very little discussion, allusions to reader having a bad relationship with her father (but nothing concrete), price uses a lot of pet names for reader and also calls himself daddy several times

title is inspired by the song peter bogdanovich by my queen CMAT

masterlist

reblogs are always enormously appreciated!

If there’s one thing you know, it’s that you’re damn good at your job.

You have to be in order to survive in this ridiculous goddamn base. There are protocols to be followed, risk assessments to carry out, weapons and equipment requisition requests to send off, and you have to handle almost all of it for Task Force 141. That’s one thing about working with the military – they’re all about action, and rarely have the patience to fill in their paperwork, and then when they do it’s never done properly.

You’re patient when you need to be, willing to push when you have to, and you make sure shit gets done. It’s not an easy job; you work your ass off, and it’s often thankless. Most of your job is done behind the scenes, whether that’s requisitioning on-the-fly tactical or strategic airlifts, liaising with other units, or trying desperately to smooth over any little problems that might crop up with the higher-ups. 

It’s challenging and exhausting, and you love it, but damn, it can be fucking infuriating. Working in a male-dominated environment is a little bit soul-destroying, with every condescending comment and lascivious gaze that lingers over your body. But none of that matters, because you don’t need male approval to excel at your job. You don’t need male approval for anything.

You repeat it to yourself on the daily, which is something that you’ve never had to do before. But before, you weren’t working with Captain John Price.

He’s not… rude, per se. If anything, he’s always coolly polite. But it’s obvious, so obvious, that he just barely tolerates you. He’s gruff, short, to-the-point, and never speaks to you outside of brusque orders. It takes weeks for him to start trusting you with even the most basic of files, and even then chunks of information are often redacted. And it shouldn’t matter; you’ve worked for men like him before, you know how it goes, and if anything he’s one of the better ones.

In the beginning, when you had first been assigned to the task force, Price had not been happy about it. It had been a tough transition; your assignment had been approved by Laswell in order to take some of the strain of liaising off both her and Price, but the Captain hadn’t been too pleased about it. He had seen you as a sort of interloper, a silly little pencil-pusher sent in by the brass to do the grunt work of administration that no one else wants to do.

But you work hard, you always have done. And maybe… maybe, part of the reason that you end up busting your balls so hard is because you want– no. Maybe you need his approval. You’d prefer not to think about it; it’s easier to throw yourself into your work, and pretend that you’re doing it for you.

You’re not even sure how it started, but at some point, Price starts looking at you differently. Maybe he realises that you’re competent at your job, or maybe he just needs to get used to you. Maybe, you hope, he’s finally starting to realise that you’re good at what you do; that you can be an asset to the team, so long as they actually work with you. 

Whatever it is, he eases off. Stops being such a hard-ass, starts giving you space to do your thing. Eventually, he starts delegating too — stops hoarding the work like a miser, and finally starts treating you like you’re capable of something more than just photocopying.

He’s not a bad boss, not by a long shot. He’s kind, determined, patient when it matters, with a wry sense of humour. He’s also fiercely protective over his team, and that includes you now. 

But he’s also older, by at least fifteen years, and he’s not always the most diligent with paperwork. Typical man of action, you’ve seen it a hundred times before. There’s always something more important to do, and while he’s always so cognisant of your workload and careful not to add to it, he is also all too happy to let you take the reins when it comes to bureaucracy. You like to think that you’ve proved yourself to him, but maybe he just respects competency.

That should be it.

But you’re so ashamed to admit that even when Price stops treating you like you’re a hostile target, you can’t stop hoping for his attention. Your mental chants of I don’t need male approval for anything, I don’t need male approval for anything become a daily thing, and sometimes a several-times-a-day thing.

Because the thing is, Price can be a difficult man to please. He’s always so busy that he doesn’t have time to give you the approval that you’re straining for, but when he does it gives you the most shameful warm glow in your belly. 

A brief nod or a low grunted ‘Thanks, sweetheart’ is enough to fuel you for days now. Even better is when you’re walking along beside him, briefing him on the latest update from the higher-ups, and he leans his head in towards you as he listens intensely, sometimes even laying his large palm against the small of your back. Ostensibly, it’s to lead the way and guide you out of the path of the running cadets, but it just toes the line of professionalism and you flounder under the touch.

It’s stupid. You’re stupid. He’s just a coworker, and you need to keep your issues to yourself.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

You’re perfectly self-aware enough to admit when you’re in a bad mood.

You start the day tired, and when you check your reflection in the mirror first thing that morning you’re greeted with the sight of a big, fuck-off pimple on your chin. It’s big, it’s throbbing, it practically has its own fucking heartbeat. You barely restrain the urge to pick at it, though you can feel it even when you’re not looking at it.

Your mood doesn’t improve when you get to the small kitchenette by your office and find that someone has used the last of the fancy French Vanilla flavoured coffee that you’ve stocked for yourself. As if that’s not bad enough, your little stash of chocolate digestives you keep for yourself for emergency bad days have disappeared too.

You clench your jaw and continue about your business. Whatever. You can survive without your coffee and chocolate.

Your resolve falters when you see the pile of paperwork on your desk, but whatever. It’s all part of the job. A little chocolate biscuit to nibble on would definitely make your job easier, but you’re a big girl and you’re just going to have to go without.

Then you get the phone call. One that makes you want to bang your head against your desk hard enough to knock yourself unconscious so that you don’t have to deal with this.

It’s time to update the TF141 personnel files. Orders from above, since there’s been significant changes to medical and surgical history in the last couple of months from injuries on missions.

 Normally, that’s not such a big deal. It just involves updating their medical and technical files, making sure that nothing major has changed with regards their addresses or other personal information, even though a big portion of it ends up redacted anyway. 

And, naturally, updating their photographs for their files.

You start easy. 

Gaz is happy to come to your office when you text him, and he stands obediently for you as you take his picture. He’s gotten a metal plate fitted in his kneecap from the last time his file has been updated, and he sits and chats easily with you as you go through his information. He’s a sweet guy, and so easy to talk to, and you sigh with the knowledge that no one is going to make your job as simple and leisurely as Gaz just has.

After he leaves, you target Soap. He comes to your office as easily as Gaz, but he’s significantly more difficult to photograph.

He just keeps smiling, no matter how many times you tell him to quit it. 

“It’s a personnel file photograph, not a photo for your Instagram.” You sigh, irritated. “I need you to have a blank, neutral expression. It’s like a passport photo, Sergeant. It’s for a government document.”

“Can’t help it, lass.” Soap says easily, that stupid grin not even dimming. “I see a camera, I smile. It’s muscle memory.”

You think that your irritation is only encouraging him, which only worsens your mood. In the end, you don’t get a single usable photograph of him for his file. You have to give up on him, swearing that you’ll come get him to try again later. He leaves your office still chuckling, like he thinks your frustration is cute.

You have tougher targets to tackle.

The difficult part isn’t even taking Ghost’s photo — the difficult part is catching him in the first place.

You spend almost three hours trying to track him down (because he won’t read your texts and your phone calls go unanswered), wobbling all over base in your stupid high heels and somehow missing him by mere moments every time. You arrive in the gym, the mess, the firing range, even the barracks, only to see the man’s enormous broad back disappearing out of the other door as soon as you get there.

You can only assume that Soap had given Ghost the heads up that you were on the prowl with a mission and a camera, because the lieutenant is avoiding you like the goddamn plague.

So yeah. You’re in a real bad fucking mood. But you can’t help it — some days your job is entirely thankless, and your mood drops so low that you feel like going home and crying. But you can’t, and you don’t want to show weakness in front of these military idiots, so all you can do is lock your jaw and go about your business the best you can.

You go back to your office, jaw and fists clenched tight, and collapse at your desk with your head in your hands. You have to take a few deep, slow breaths to try and calm yourself, but then you make the mistake of checking your reflection and your mood sinks lower again when you see that the stupid pimple on your chin has worsened.

God, this is just not your day. You have to get these stupid files updated, or it’ll fall on your head. 

Eventually, you reluctantly stand up. There’s no point moping; you have a job to do, whether you like it or not, and your next victim is Captain Price.

You walk to Price’s office swiftly, your feet aching in your stupid heels. You wish you had worn something more sensible, but… well. Even subconsciously, you want to impress.

When you reach his office, you throw the door open and march inside without even bothering to knock. 

Price is sitting behind his desk, and his head snaps up as soon as you walk in. His expression is set in a hard scowl, though it softens when he sees who it is. You guess you don’t exactly pose much of a threat, so he sees no use in posturing.

“I need you for a moment.” You bite out, allowing the door to slam shut behind you.

You hear Price sigh, before he leans back and settles into his chair, making himself comfortable. He’s wearing the same dark compression shirt that he usually wears for training exercises or to the gym, and he’s recently groomed his beard down too. He looks good, though it takes a colossal amount of effort for you to not notice, because you have other things you need to focus on right now.

“Hello to you too, love.” He grunts, wiping a hand over his eyes. “What’s the problem?”

You struggle not to react to that, his low voice both soothing and igniting something in your blood. You take a breath, try to calm down. You’re a professional, and you’re not here to embarrass yourself in front of the captain.

“I’m updating personnel files,” You say, and this time it comes out calm and steady, “I need to take a picture of you.”

Price’s gaze lingers on you, his stern brow softening a little. For a moment, you think that maybe this is actually going to be easy. That he’ll just stand up and take the fucking picture, so that the two of you can go back to your jobs and relax for the rest of the day.

But then–

“Jesus, kid.” He sighs, already shaking his head. “I’m up to my eyes right now. Leave it ‘till tomorrow.”

For a moment, you don’t react at all. You just stare at him, letting those dismissive words settle over you. He’s already looking back at his paperwork, mission briefings and maps littering the desk, and you feel so effectively dismissed. You feel small, so silly and stupid standing in front of him in a way that you haven’t felt since you first started working with the task force. You had thought that you were past this, that you had earned some meagre sort of respect from him.

“I need it done today.” You say, and your voice comes out a little hollow to your own ears.

You don’t need male validation. You don’t. But damn, you’ve had a rough day and the fact that your captain isn’t even bothering to look at you makes you want to cry.

Price sighs, and rubs at the crease between his eyes. He looks just as tired as you feel.

“Yeah, well. I don’t have time. Tomorrow.”

You swallow, pursing your lips. He’s so effortlessly dominant, which means that his careless dismissal stings all the more.

“I have to get the whole team done,” You say, struggling to keep your voice firm. “Soap wouldn’t stop smiling for the camera, I couldn’t find Farah anywhere, and Ghost–”

Price gives a sharp, derisive snort. “Forget Ghost.”

You scowl. “I need to do the whole squad.”

“Not Ghost.” Price repeats, this time slower and with more emphasis. “Simon doesn’t do photos.”

You take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. You’ve been working alongside the task force for a while now, and you’re familiar with Lieutenant Riley’s penchant for covering his face. It’s not something you have a problem with – usually.

“There’s no reason for him to be the exception to personnel photos, Captain.” You say through gritted teeth. “Everyone else is being photographed. The task force might be covert, but Lieutenant Riley is no more–”

“Christ, enough.” Price snaps, his voice a deep boom that has your mouth closing with a click. “The One Four One is my squad, in case you’ve forgotten. I know these lads, and I’m telling you to leave it out.”

You stare, a little taken aback by the harshness in his voice. He hasn’t been this sharp with you in months, not since you had started to prove yourself competent, useful. Now, you can see the warning signs of his bad mood; the circles under his eyes are pronounced, his skin dull in the ugly fluorescent lights of his office. He looks exhausted, his skin lined and dry like he hasn’t been drinking enough water.

You realise, a little too late, that you might have been pushing your luck by insisting on something as silly as personnel file photos. TF 141 had only returned from deployment at the beginning of the week, and Price has no doubt been drowning in reports since.

“This is why I told Laswell you weren’t necessary,” His snarl is entirely unlike him, and he rubs his face furiously, his palms rasping through his beard. “I don’t need someone coming in here and making demands of my squad for– for fucking photographs.”

You inhale shakily through your nose; to your utter horror, you can feel your eyes burn with hot wet tears. It’s stupid – you’ve dealt with far crueller words from far harsher men. The nature of your job often puts you in the firing line for frustration, and when it bubbles over it’s frequently directed at you. 

But this… this feels different, for some reason. You’ve been working your ass off to try and earn some recognition from Price, to show him that you’re a valuable asset to the team, and so his sharp, frustrated dismissal of you cuts deeper than it should.

You hate that your eyes are burning like this. You don’t want Price to think of you as useless, or as the silly little girl who was put on the team by the brass who can’t even do her job right. He was just starting to think of you as competent, and it hurts your ego to have to go to him for help with something that you should be more than capable of handling yourself in the first place.

“Right,” You say, and even you’re startled by the sharpness in your tone. “Fine. Forget the file updates, then.”

You step forward, jaw clenched hard, and toss the files you’ve been carrying around all day onto his desk. They hit the surface with a smack that feels uncomfortably loud in the tense silence that’s fallen over the room.

“I’ll tell the higher-ups that you’re handling it.” You continue, your voice coming out brattier than you’d like. “Since obviously I have no idea what I’m doing–”

“Oh, don’t do that.” Price sighs, as though you’re the one being unreasonable. “What I’m saying is, if you’re going to work with the team, you have to understand the team–”

That, you think, might just push you over the edge.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” You snap out, and Price’s mouth closes. “D’you think I’m– that I’m some kind of idiot?”

Price blinks. It seems like you’ve managed to take him by surprise, as though your bad mood rivals his just enough to pull him out of his own grumpy form entirely. He opens his mouth again, but you’re not ready to hear him speak again just yet.

“I’m here because Laswell put in a request for me to work with you and your squad, Captain. I’m considered an asset to the teams that I work with,” You’re scowling thunderously, all the tension and frustration that’s been mounting all day spilling over. “And I don’t have to put up with being dismissed and unappreciated when I know that I would be respected in other squads for the work that I do.”

Price raises his hands, a frown creasing his brow. “Kid, that’s not–”

Usually, being called ‘kid’ by Price has a warm glow settling in your stomach that you’re absolutely not interested in examining, but this time it only lights an infuriated fire in your belly. 

“Don’t!” You snap, your breath juddering unsteadily. “God, you think I enjoy being treated like an idiot? You think I haven’t had to deal with this from men my whole career? My whole life? Even my father–”

To your abject horror, a lump forms in your throat and you can’t finish that sentence. Your eyes are hot with unshed tears, and you’re pretty sure your lip is trembling. 

Price stands, his stern expression slackening into something like uncomfortable surprise as he moves to step around the desk.

“Hey,” He soothes, lifting his hands. “I’m not your father.”

“I know that!” You snap, irate. You’re frustrated with yourself, embarrassed at what you’ve unintentionally given away. “I wouldn’t want you to be!”

Price’s expression flickers, as though he can’t decide quite how to react to you. You’re more than aware that you’re being childish, but you find yourself unable to temper your overreactions. In the face of your tears and your frustrated anger, Price looks like he’s at a loss.

“All I’ve done is work hard, and tried to take the burden off you to make your job a little easier.” You continue before he can interrupt again. “And all I get in return is stress, and my chocolate biscuits eaten, and breakouts, and– and–”

“Kid–”

“The only person who wasn’t an absolute dickhead to me today was Garrick,” You rage, on a roll now. “Everyone else has just been so– and look how bad my skin has gotten from the stress of having to deal with men who want to act like children–”

Price watches you with an expression that is plainly bewildered as you gesture at the stupid pimple that’s been throbbing on your chin all day. You don’t even think you’re making sense, too lost in your frustration and humiliation to be properly aware of what you’re saying. 

“Your… skin.” He repeats, a little disbelieving. 

You whirl away, agitated. You’re not getting your point across well, and Price must think you’re simply demented. 

“Hey,” He says slowly, approaching from around the side of his desk. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you weren’t doing a decent job–”

“Whatever.” You mutter, running your hands over your skirt in an attempt to straighten out the creases. “Whatever.”

It’s too little, too late. He’s always been a bit of a hardass, and you’ve always tried so hard to please him, to impress him. But you can’t bear to make a fool of yourself like this any longer.

“I’ll leave the paperwork to you. Update it, or don’t. It doesn’t matter.” You say shortly, turning on your heel and marching towards the door.

“Wait,” Price calls out. His voice is firm, echoing with the grim certainty of a man who is used to being obeyed.

But you’re not one of his soldiers, and his command falls on deaf ears. Your skin is still prickling with humiliation; you don’t think you’ve ever been so desperate to get away from the Captain before.

“Sweetheart, just wait a minute,” Price says, and this time you can hear the exasperation in his voice. “I understand that you’re stressed, that’s normal. Everyone gets stressed in this line of work. But you can’t just go and get your knickers in a twist because some of the lads are bein’ difficult–”

“My knickers are none of your business!” You yell. Truthfully, it’s more of a shriek, high-pitched and unsteady enough to have Price’s eyes widening and darting towards the door as though worried about someone overhearing from the corridor.

“Whoa, okay,” Price says with the air of trying to soothe a spooked horse. “You're right. Your... knickers... ain't my concern. But helping keep this squad running smoothly is, and that can't happen if my admin is on edge."

“Oh, give me a break!” You’re beyond on-edge now, sailing right into fury. “You ignore me most of the time when you're not on deployment, you dismiss me when I’m just trying to do my job, but now you’re telling me you need me to not be on edge?”

You’ve reached the door now, your hand clenched tight around the doorhandle as you take one last moment to turn and look at him. He’s stepping towards you, no doubt with the intent to stop you before you can leave, but you don’t plan on giving him the chance.

“Kid, just hang on a damn minute–”

“Sort the files yourself, or do whatever you want.” You bite out, yanking the door open but pausing in the doorway. “I don’t even care anymore. It’s your squad, you do it.”

Price takes a breath, visibly fighting for patience. Truthfully, you don’t know how he hasn’t lost his head with you already. He was already exhausted and in an obviously bad mood when you had stormed in here, and it couldn’t be more obvious that you’ve just made it worse with all of your frenzied anger and borderline hysteria. 

The fact that Price is staying calm and level even in the face of your stress-induced meltdown only makes you feel all the more ridiculous. You wish he would get angry, that he would snap at you like he had when you had first walked in – at least that way you could pretend that you don’t notice the way his stressed scowl had melted into a look of concern as soon as he had seen the tears welling up in your stinging eyes.

“And you don’t have to wear that stupid hat, we’re indoors!” You yell, your voice teetering on the edge of hysteria.

You just have enough time to see his hand reach up to touch the brim of his boonie hat before you hurriedly bolt out of the room, escaping into the corridor before he can stop you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

“— just thinking that maybe I’d be better suited with another team, that’s all. I heard Kortac’s liaison is approaching maternity leave—”

“That position is going to be filled internally,” Laswell’s voice is calm over the secure phoneline, a stark contrast to the shaky undertone of stress in your own. “Besides, organising a transfer like that is more trouble than it’s worth.” There’s a pause, then a sigh crackles over the phone. “You still haven’t explained what happened. As far as I can see, you were doing good work there.”

Yeah, you think sourly, because all you see is the paperwork end of it.

“... Internal conflict.” You mutter, playing with the fraying edge of your sweater sleeve. 

There’s a long pause, protracted enough that it makes you squirm. You know what she’s thinking – in your line of work, it’s impossible to avoid clashing with some of the big dominant personalities who are used to getting away with whatever they want. But you’ve always been able to handle it, well-versed enough in diplomacy to know when to stand your ground and when to bow out to avoid unnecessary strife. 

“Internal conflict.” Laswell repeats, her voice as bland as you’ve ever heard it. “Meaning?”

God, it feels like you’re disappointing your mom or something. You scrub a hand over your face, pacing in the living room of your small apartment.

“I know how it sounds,” You say, “But– they don’t want to work with me. There’s only so much I can do if I’m being met with resistance at every corner–”

“You’ve worked with resistant squads before,” Laswell interrupts. “It’s part of the job.”

“Yes, but…” You start, before trailing off. 

She has a point, of course. It is part of the job. There’s no way to professionally explain to your superior that the reason this assignment is so difficult is because you have a mortifying crush on the Captain of the Task Force. It’s making you stupid, making all the stupid bullshit that you’re usually able to look past feel so much worse, especially because all you’ve ever wanted was Price’s approval.

Another sigh. This one, at least, sounds a little more sympathetic.

“Look,” Laswell says, and this time her voice is a little gentler. “I’ve never given you an assignment that I didn’t think you could handle. Whatever is going on, you need to sort it. You’re a capable girl, and the One Four One is far from the most difficult team you’ve had to deal with. There might be some big personalities there, but nothing that you shouldn’t be able to tackle.”

“Mhm.” You grunt noncommittally.

“Sort out whatever’s going on with you.” Laswell’s tone leaves no room for argument, her suggestion falling just short of a command. “If whatever issues you’re experiencing continue, I’ll talk to John–”

“No!” You blurt.

God, you can’t think of anything worse. You’ve already made a show of yourself in front of him, the last thing you need is for him to learn that you’ve gone crying to Laswell about the whole thing. You don’t want him to think of you as any more of a useless little girl than he doubtlessly already does.

“No,” You repeat, calmer this time as you clear your throat. “I’ll… sort it. Sorry to bother you with this, ma’am.”

Laswell hums, and you can imagine her eyes narrowing. Judging by the wind whistling in the background of the call, she’s not anywhere near her cushy office. You’ve interrupted her on whatever assignment she’s on, and she’s been kind enough to listen to your silly little complaints for at least fifteen minutes of her valuable time. You feel more ridiculous than ever, and you pinch at the bridge of your nose.

“... Right.” She says. “Fine. Keep me updated on the situation. I want a sitrep by the end of the week, understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

You understand what’s not being said. Laswell expects you to work your own shit out, but you can hear the concern in her voice when she demands an update. All you can do is agree. Laswell has been by your side throughout your whole career, always having a hand in your assignments and your progression, and she’s always been an advocate for you and what you’re capable of. Now, after this conversation, you feel silly for getting so overwhelmed in the face of what is a relatively minor obstacle.

“Good. I’ll speak to you then.”

You hum, wish her goodbye and good luck, and hang up the phone.

For a long moment afterwards, you sit in silence in your living room. God, how did all of this spiral into such a mess?

For the last few days, you’ve been avoiding the base entirely. You have a few PTO days built up, and you’ve taken the opportunity to just chill out. It’s the first chance you’ve had to relax properly in months, since you had started working with the task force. The space is good, and it’s needed.

You get out of the headspace of work, and reports, and files and requisitions and debriefs, and instead treat yourself with full body self-care. You exfoliate, you moisturise, you use a hair mask, you take bubble baths. You even catch up on the trashy Netflix romance series that you had put on hold for ages, just waiting for some free time to indulge.

And you almost, almost, forget about why you’re hiding away in your little flat in the first place.

But your third day off creeps around, and you can’t help but feel as though your little bubble of isolation is about to pop. There’s only so much time away from the office that you’re able to swing, and the longer away the more you feel that your position on the team is untenable. No matter how you currently feel about the task force and your place with them, you’re not willing to let your hard work go down the drain just because you’re too cowardly to face them again after your little meltdown.

So, you go back to work after your little break away.

You manage to slink into your office mostly unseen, other than polite hello’s from other admin staff as you slip through the halls. Your office is far from prime real estate when it comes to office space on base – it’s well out of the way, down several corridors that no one ever goes down, and once you get past the main thoroughfares you don’t come across anyone. Even still, it feels a little like you’re doing a walk of shame, but you walk with your head held high before you finally get your office door closed behind you. 

To your surprise, your desk is clear. Typically, any slight break away from your desk results in work piling up on it, just waiting for your attention once you get back. You don’t know what to make of the absence of work; you can’t help but wonder, somewhat uncomfortably, if Price had taken your words to heart and dealt with all of the paperwork himself.

You check the drawers of your desk too, just in case, and come up empty yet again. 

Well. Okay, then. 

You sign into your desktop, waiting for the encryption program to load before accessing your emails. There’s a lot to catch up on, so you spend the next hour or so organising your to-do list in order of urgency.

You get lost in making your little lists, allowing yourself to relax into finding order in your schedule. You barely even look up until there’s a soft knock on your office door, and by the time you’ve raised your head the door has opened and Farah has slipped inside.

“Oh,” You straighten up in surprise. “Commander. What can I do for you?”

It’s a surprise to see her, especially since you hadn’t received any email correspondence. Your office is tucked away down a remote corridor, and soldier’s usually prefer to just email you their requests rather than make the trek down.

Farah offers a polite smile, approaching your desk. “I hear you are taking photographs.”

Your smile slips a little. “Oh. No, actually, I wasn’t–”

“Captain Price said I was to be photographed,” She says, pulling the chair out opposite you and watching you expectantly. “I tried to find you yesterday, and the day before, but I believe you weren't on base.”

You shift, feeling abruptly rather awkward. “Right. I was– Price said that to you?”

“Mhm.” Farah leans back in the chair, her dark eyes alert as they track over your face. “He said that you have been stressed.”

You feel your face heat, mortified. Oh, god. How embarrassing. Has Price given the team a goddamn debrief on your little meltdown? Farah tilts her head as though she knows what you’re thinking, and a tiny smile quirks at the corner of her lips.

“That’s all he said,” She says. “That, and that we should try to make your job a little easier.”

“Oh.” You shift, embarrassed and awkward. “I– Listen, I had a… rough day at work a few days ago, that’s all. I’m not– things are fine.”

Farah just nods as though that’s perfectly convincing, and you find yourself wildly appreciative of her for a moment.

“So, then,” She says, and raises her eyebrows. “The picture?”

You can’t find a way to explain that you had thrown that particular responsibility right back at Price in a fit of pique, but it turns out you don’t have to. Farah produces a slim folder that you hadn’t noticed her holding, and you realise with another flush of embarrassment that it’s her personnel file.

“There wasn’t much to update, just a recent blood work test.” She says as she lays it on your desk. 

“That’s… thanks.” You say weakly, taking the file in hand. You flick through it briefly, feeling something in your stomach squirm at the sight of Farah’s details all filled in – Price’s handwriting is unmistakable, the small neat blocky letters standing out amongst the messy scrawl of Farah’s medical report.

You dig out your camera, still a little flustered, and direct Farah to stand against your plain white-painted wall. She’s an easy subject to photograph; she stands perfectly still, unsmiling, and you get the perfect picture after only a couple of attempts.

“Lovely,” You murmur, flicking through the pictures. “Thank you.”

Farah hums. You’re expecting her to dismiss herself, and it takes a moment for you to realise that she’s still lingering. You glance up, blinking, only to find that she’s standing with her lips pursed, obviously considering something.

“The Captain is worried about you.” She says, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Is everything alright?”

You gape at her like a moron, camera still hanging loosely from your hands. You feel uncomfortably seen; there’s no way that Farah could know what happened, but she’s looking at you with an awful lot of sympathy right now.

“What?” You squeak.

“You fought?” Farah speaks slowly, obviously conscious of overstepping her boundaries. “I don’t mean to pry, it’s just…”

“No, that’s okay.” You say hastily. “We didn’t– there was no fighting, exactly.”

She just nods, as if you’re making perfect sense, then smiles politely. She gathers herself up and steps towards the door, and you feel your head spinning as she turns to go. 

“You look tired,” Farah murmurs, low enough that you almost miss it. “When Price wants to fix things, let him.”

“Mhm.” You nod quickly without really hearing her. You’re pretty sure you’d agree to anything right now just to escape the knowing intensity of Farah’s gaze. “Yeah, of course.”

After Farah leaves, you feel like you need another day off. It’s all you can do to just sit in your comfortably padded office chair and groan like a moron, because Jesus Christ you’ve made such a mess of things. 

It was bad enough when you were pining like an idiot from afar; you’ve had crushes before, and you know that you would have outgrown it eventually. But then you had your stupid little meltdown in front of Price, and revealed more than you intended, and all of a sudden you’ve made yourself into a fool in front of the squad you’ve tried so hard to impress these last few months.

You have to try hard not to spiral. In fact, it’s a challenge not to cave and grab your phone to call Laswell all over again to demand a reassignment right this second. You have a pretty good idea of what she’d say to you in response, but still, the impulse remains.

All you can do is put it from your mind. You potter about, printing Farah’s photograph so you can tuck it neatly into her file with a paperclip, and then decide to start replying to the many emails that have built up in your absence.

The emails vary in tone, from polite enquiries to not-so-polite demands for you to solve some administrative issues, and you sigh quietly as you respond to some of the more snotty messages from upper management. And if you’re a little bit passive aggressive, then you don’t think anyone can blame you.

Your mind has finally quietened, focusing on your work as the buzz of your thoughts settle down, when another knock sounds out from your door. This one is firmer than Farah’s soft knock from earlier, and a little louder, though this time you don’t look up from your screen.

“Come in.” You call, chewing at your lip as you struggle to keep the wording of your email civil.

You’re half-expecting it to be Soap this time around, or maybe one of the recruits hoping to get you to sign off on their leave. So when you finally glance up only to catch sight of the broad, thick-shouldered figure of Captain Price stepping into your office, you think you might go into cardiac arrest.

Email abandoned, you half jolt to your feet before changing your mind mid-movement and attempting to sit back down. It ends up being a humiliating sort of jerky motion, and you pray that he somehow missed it entirely.

“Captain.” You wheeze, your voice coming out a little weak.

Price’s cool blue eyes dart over your face and then down the length of your body, and you become suddenly, mortifyingly aware of the state you’re in. You might not want to admit it, but your wardrobe definitely changes when the Captain isn’t on deployment. Instead of professional trousers, you wear your tight knee-length pencil skirts and fitted shirts, and totter around in your heels. And it’s silly, but… well, you can’t help but notice the way Price’s eyes follow you when you dress like that, and you like his attention on you.

Except today, you hadn’t been planning on running into Price. You hadn’t planned on seeing anyone, so you had dressed for comfort — you’re wearing a pair of frumpy grey wool trousers and a super over-sized soft purple sweater that practically swallows you whole. You haven’t even done your hair nicely, and you curse yourself. This has to be the least sexy you’ve looked in months.

“D’you’ve a moment, love?” 

His voice seems loud in the quiet of your office, even though realistically you know he’s only speaking in a murmur. In the quiet days you’ve spent alone in your apartment, you’d almost forgotten how lovely and low and gruff his voice is, and you feel your toes curl in your shoes at the sound of it.

It’s not as though you can refuse him, though you’re already embarrassingly aware of the way in which you had stormed off the last time you had seen him.

“Yeah.” You swallow thickly in an attempt to strengthen your voice, but it still comes out high and thready. “Sure.”

As if he had just been waiting for permission, Price steps into the room properly and closes the door behind him. All of a sudden, the room feels a little claustrophobic. Price is a big man, broad-shouldered and thickly built with a soft layer of fat cushioning those hard muscles, and you can’t help but feel as though his presence is sucking all of the air out of the room.

But still, he approaches slowly, like you’re some kind of feral cat. Those sharp eyes of his are still tracking over you; he never misses a beat, and you know that he’s taking stock of you in the same way he would for an enemy out on the field. You feel raw, uncomfortably vulnerable. You find yourself wishing wildly and ridiculously that you had worn your usual fitted shirt and pencil skirt, or at least put on a bit of makeup.

“You look rested.” He notes, coming to a slow stop just in front of your desk.

You suddenly curse your last minute choice to stay seated, because now Price’s big body is towering over you in a way that’s honestly making your head swim a little.

“Yeah.” Your voice is a little hoarse. “I guess.”

Price nods, inhales through his nose. A moment passes before he clears his throat and reaches out to place a handful of files on your desk. Despite the plain manila envelopes, you recognise them for what they are almost immediately; the personnel files for 141.

“Finished ‘em off for you while you were gone.” He says gruffly, as though it were no big deal. “Nearly had to nail Soap down to a chair for that damn photo.”

You stare at the files for a long moment, making no move to open them. You find yourself totally, utterly lost for words. 

“This is–” You start to say, and truthfully you’re not sure where you’re going with that. You think you’re about to thank him, but he doesn’t really give you the chance to.

“Why don’t we talk?” He says, and motions to the dinky little couch in the corner of the room as if he owns it.

You hesitate a moment, a little peeved about the effortless way he takes command in your own office, but relent and push yourself up from the desk. You don’t make eye contact with Price as you step around him, walking to the corner, but you can feel his eyes on you all the same.

 The couch had come with the office, and you don’t even really want to think about how old it is, but you sink down awkwardly onto it anyway. The cushions are worn and threadbare and the springs creak gratingly when you settle your weight onto it, but it’s fine. It does the job.

You’re half-expecting Price to drag the spare chair at your desk over so he can sit opposite you – you’re not expecting him to step right up next to you before he drops down next to you, sighing as his thick thighs spread wide.

You barely bite back a squeak, a little bewildered. You’re not surprised that he’s asked to talk to you. Your behaviour had been wildly inappropriate, and you couldn’t exactly protest if he’s decided to caution you or something.

But you had expected it to be a more formal affair; sitting together on the pathetic, dingy little couch in your office feels entirely too casual for the dressing down you’re sure you’re about to receive.

“Think we’re due a discussion about the other day.” He says, gentler than you had been expecting.

You avoid his eyes, though you can feel his stare boring into the side of your face. Ugh. Time to eat humble pie, you think miserably. 

“I’m sorry, sir.” You keep your voice as dispassionate and prim as possible. “My behaviour was unprofessional and entirely unacceptable, and I have no excuse. It won’t happen again, I assure you.”

It’s as professional an apology as you can manage, and you chance a quick side glance at him to see his reaction. Your stomach sinks when you see that his brow is creased in a frown, and you panic a little at the realisation that your apology hasn’t helped matters at all.

“Well,” His voice is gruff enough to elicit a little shiver from you. “I wasn’t–” He clears his throat. “I wasn’t looking for an apology.”

That finally makes you turn properly, your eyes darting nervously over his face. He’s already watching you, his blue eyes searing under the brim of his stupid hat. He’s trimmed his beard since the last time you saw him; the salt and pepper bristles of his moustache and chops are neat and shortened. He looks good, though you try not to notice. He doesn’t look as dehydrated or drained as he did a few days ago either, though he still leans into the couch with an air of quiet exhaustion.

“Paperwork has never been my favourite thing in the world,” He confesses with an air of chagrin that’s painfully endearing to you. “Always found it a pain, to be honest. Puts me right out of sorts. I was… short with you, the other day.”

You frown, making yourself small on the couch. “You said I wasn’t necessary.”

Price winces, then reaches up and pulls his boonie hat off his head so that he can drag a hand over his short-cropped hair. Though you had insulted it only the other day, it strikes you as odd to see him with a bare head.

“Shouldn’t have said that.” He mumbles, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his hat hang from his hands. “You’ve been great these last few months. Don’t know what I’d have done without you, sometimes.”

You’re stupid. It’s the only reason you can think of to explain the way blood rushes to your head and turns your face hot, your whole body going hot and prickly in response to his low praise. You fidget, glance away, and pray he doesn’t notice. 

“You know I’m no good at deskwork,” He says, and leans in a little closer like he thinks you’re not listening properly. “Don’t have the head for it. I think you’re the reason the team runs so smoothly in the first place, love.”

The flattery is being laid on a little too thick, but it works. You fall for it entirely, a warm glow settling over you like a blanket, wrapping around you tight and soothing the jagged edges of your anger and anxiety. You hate that you’re so easy to appease, a couple of sweet compliments and assurances falling from your Captain’s lips assuaging all that upset that you’ve been carrying around with you for days now.

But still, part of you isn’t quite willing to let go of the sting, the hurt that his words and his harsh tone had caused. 

“Is this you apologising, then?” You ask, watching him from the corner of your eye.

He smiles, close-mouthed. “Yeah. It is. Not doin’ too good, am I?”

“You’re doing okay.” You murmur, before deciding to try to be a bit cheeky. “But you can keep going, if you’d like.”

Price laughs, rich and warm and low. You don’t think you’ve ever actually heard him laugh in all the months you’ve been working with the task force, and the sound of it rumbles right into your bones, settling something inside of you and finally allowing you to relax. No longer tense with stress, you melt a little into the corner of the couch.

“Shouldn’t have snapped at you,” He says slowly. “You do good work. Great work. You shouldn’t feel like you’re not a valued member of the team.”

You swallow thickly. You feel too warm, your head swimming a little. His attention feels too heavy, heating your blood and going straight to your head.

“I overreacted,” You mumble reluctantly. “I shouldn’t… your hat isn’t stupid.”

That gets another bark of laughter out of Price, and he slaps a hand down onto your knee. The contact makes you jolt, eyes widening, but Price’s hand doesn’t shift. His palm is so large, spread across your thigh as his fingers curl over your knee. The touch feels almost scorching even through the thick fabric of your trousers.

All of a sudden, your tongue feels very thick in your mouth. The hand on your knee is not in any way suggestive; it’s chaste, innocent, just resting there like a reminder that he wants your attention on him (as if it could be anywhere else). But your nerves are jangling all of a sudden, every one of your senses straining towards him as you hold your breath.

“The hat isn’t the problem,” Price mutters, though you barely hear him. “I wanted to ask you about something else you said, love. Something you said about your father.”

That has some of the heat in your veins cooling, your eyes blowing wide. “I– what?”

To your bewilderment, Price’s cheeks have reddened beneath the whiskers of his beard and moustache. Despite his clear chagrin, he doesn’t break eye contact with you, his thick fingers squeezing cautiously around your knee. 

“Don’t mean to overstep,” He assures you quietly. “And– and don’t mind me if I’m talkin’ nonsense. But I know that you’ve been working so hard, and you’ve got a tough job. Can’t be easy. And I just wanted to say that if you'd like some… guidance – someone to steer you on the right path, that is– well, that I’m here if you ever want to talk."

Oh god. You feel your mouth go dry. 

It’s funny, because even though Price isn’t even yet forty, he’s always seemed so much older. Maybe it’s the weight of the responsibility that he carries on his shoulders, or the battle-hardened icy blue eyes, or the paternal sense of protectiveness that he shows over his team. He’s always been like an almost father figure for the squad, regardless of age; you’ve seen the way he’s so protective over Ghost, the way he claps Soap on the back or shoulders in praise to boost him up, the way he beams with pride when Farah excels, the way he always makes time to guide or give advice to Gaz.

It’s sweet. He’s always been sweet, so aware of the personalities on his team, even when he’s acting like that typical military authority figure. 

"Sounds like you want to be my daddy." You mean to say it in a derogatory fashion, laughing as though it's ridiculous, though when it comes out you can hear that it’s missing some of the sarcasm you had intended.

Price reacts instantly. He reels back, eyes widening, the pink in his cheeks flares into a deep red flush, and you see his chest heave as his breath catches. You hadn’t been expecting a reaction like this; Price looks as though the words have hit him like a physical slap.

“Jesus. That’s not–” He says, and the gravelly hoarseness in his voice is a shock. “That’s not what I meant.”

There’s a moment of charged silence. Fuck, what have you done? Why would you say that? Why would you say that, to the captain of your task force? Hadn’t you embarrassed yourself enough in front of him the day you had had your silly little meltdown? It’s like you just can’t keep your damn mouth shut around him, like your brain turns to mush the second he looks at you and you just lose the run of yourself.

“I’m sorry.” You blurt. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know what– I didn’t mean it.”

The next silence is even worse than the last, tension humming between you like a live wire. He’s so close to you that his scent fills your nose – a blend of sweet cigar smoke, sharp gunpowder, and a heady masculine musk. You feel so fucking stupid, and more than a little panicked. You don’t think you could survive the humiliation of having to call Laswell and beg for a reassignment twice in one day just because you’ve completely humiliated yourself in front of the Captain again.

Price swallows, the sound painfully loud in the silence.

“Right.” He says slowly, before coughing roughly to clear his throat. “Mm. ‘Course. I didn’t mean to– perhaps I overstepped. Since you mentioned your father–”

“I don’t want to talk about my father.” You say swiftly.

God, you feel like your issues are out on display with a big damn spotlight. You feel so pathetic, so damn pitiful, as though your desperate need for approval and affection from an older male authority figure is written across your forehead.

But if your issues are on display, then so are Price’s, because you can’t help but notice that the vibrant red flush on his cheeks hasn’t faded. If anything, that deep flush has spread down his throat and over his chest; you can see how the skin that’s stretched over his pectoral muscles is glowing crimson beneath his shirt.

A niggling boldness begins to creep in, and you find yourself straightening on the couch. You turn, bring one of your legs up on the couch so that you can turn your whole body towards him, one of your elbows resting on the back cushion of the couch. 

Price’s eyes sharpen when your body turns towards him, and his body draws tense. Those cool blue eyes dart over you, and you’re surprised to see heat in them despite your oversized purple jumper and unflattering wool trousers. The whisper of his fatigues brushing against the fabric of your own trousers is both a distraction and an invitation, your thighs sliding surreptitiously against each other.

“What if I did mean it?” You blurt out before your courage can flee you.

Price goes so still it looks preternatural, even the breaths in his chest slowing. 

“Kid.” He says, and it sounds like a warning.

You don’t heed it, adjusting yourself so that you’re shuffling closer yet again. You don’t think you’ve ever been so close to him, his scent and his body and his heated gaze filling up your consciousness until he’s all that you’re aware of.

“What if I meant it?” You ask again, the whisper coming out low but charged. 

Price takes a breath that sounds like a groan, and it surprises you. You hadn’t expected that reaction; it sends a trickle of heated desire running down your spine, and you’re startled by how much you want him in this moment.

“D’you know what you’re asking for?” He asks, the gravel in his voice flooding wet heat between your legs. 

His carefully laced words linger in the space between you, daring you to accept, to shred the formal boundary that looms between the two of you. You get the sense that you’re walking a fine line here, that you’re getting close to the point of no return. 

“Yes.” You breathe, although you’re not entirely sure that you do know what you’re asking for. All you know is that he’s so close, and he’s staring at you with an expression of such hunger that it’s making you feel weak.

Price moves fast for such a big man, and all you can do is let out a soft sound of surprise when one of his big hands wraps around the back of your neck to pull you in. A deep, guttural sound escapes him when his lips crash into yours, his mouth demanding and greedy.

It feels like you go both lax and rigid simultaneously, before you positively light up. The hand that Price has wrapped around the back of your neck keeps you grounded, and before you can stop yourself you’re burrowing closer. It feels like the tension, your childish argument, the sexual friction – everything has culminated to this electrifying moment, where Price’s full lips are consuming yours, the hair of his beard rubbing over your cheeks and chin and keeping your nerves straining towards him.

The kiss doesn’t start out slow; it skips straight to hungry, fast and dirty, with Price’s big hands on your hip and the back of your neck, holding and guiding you. Overwhelming. 

Price’s big fucking body is leaning in, caging you against the couch. The wide shoulders and barrel-chested mass of him pressing you into the cushions is just short of breath-taking, but it’s not enough. You want to be right up against him, under his skin.

You swing your leg over Price’s, and climb up into his lap. His thighs are thick beneath you, wide and muscled, but you’re still hesitant to fully settle your weight against him. You just want to be closer, to feel the heat of him pressed against you, but the second you start moving Price grabs at your hips and pulls you down properly, uncaring of your weight.

“I’ve been–” You manage to say in between kisses, your words muffled and a little wet. “I’ve been working my ass off, for the squad, for you, and you never say or do anything–”

Price grunts, grappling with his sudden lapful of you. His eyes meet yours, and in them, you think you might see the spark of admiration, for your brave stupidity if nothing else. 

“Sh, I know,” He says as he grips at your hips under your oversized jumper, encouraging you to settle down your full weight on his thighs. “I know, love, you’ve been working so hard. What would I do without you, huh?”

And the thing is, you’re a very capable woman. You’ve had to be, in order to survive in your line of work. You know that you’re capable, you know that you do good work, you know that you help keep the wheels greased and everything moving behind the scenes for the 141, but even still, Price’s praise sinks into you like warm honey.

“Watching you walk around in those tight little skirts, Christ.” He hums, and his big palms land on your ass and squeeze there suggestively. “And those heels– completely impractical for a military base like this.”

You wheeze a laugh, clutching at his shoulders. It feels completely surreal that you’re currently perched in your Captain’s lap, with his big shovel-like hands groping your bum as he nips at your lips and confesses that he’s been watching you. It goes straight to your head, makes you dizzy, makes you wish wildly that you had worn one of those skirts for him today.

Oh, you could get used to this. Realistically you know the size difference between you two isn’t that immense, but Price is built like a man whose reality is all war, and when he shifts beneath you his muscles roll, unwittingly showing off his physique. You think you could stay here forever, feeling safe in a big man’s lap, cushioned by his body as he tells you that you’re valuable, and important.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Price groans, nipping at your lower lip before capturing your mouth wholly again. “You’re a handful.”

You’d love to argue that – you like to think that you’re perfectly measured and sensible, after all – but you’re already squirming in his lap, your legs spread wide over his thighs. Arousal pools in your stomach, makes you slick your knickers, and you can’t stop the slow grind your hips trace against his thigh.

Price’s breath shudders out of his chest, and his hands clench tight around your hips. “Hang on a sec,” He breathes, “Hold on. I’m still– I’m still your Captain–”

You think that it’s meant to be a warning, or at least a word of caution about the precarious situation you’re in regarding professionalism and inappropriate workplace relationships. What you’re doing right now is ridiculous, after all. You’re still on base, you’re in your office, and if the two of you get caught you don’t even want to think about the consequences. The fraternisation rule shouldn’t apply here, since you’re only considered part of the team by a mere technicality, but even in your lust-hazed mind you can still recognise that sitting on his lap and kissing like this at your workplace is wildly inappropriate.

But if it is a warning, it doesn’t work. The reminder of his authority only inflames you further, and a quiet whimper is torn from your throat when you rock against his lap.

He swears, and beneath you his cock stirs in his fatigues. You can feel the way it fills out where it’s pressed against the seam of your trousers, right between your legs. You reflexively squish your thighs together, tightening them around his hips.

“Christ,” He grits out like a curse. “Alright, then.”

He moves quickly, his hands secure on your back as he lunges forward, flipping you over so that you’re laying on your back on the shoddy, worn-down couch. You go so easily – 

you’re soft now, pliable and eager to please, and he could direct you anywhere he wanted.

He’s too large to be climbing on top of you on a couch like this, but somehow it doesn’t even matter. Now that he’s above you, holding himself up with those strong arms on either side of your head, he looks down on you with an expression that you don’t know what to make of. His eyes are still intense, but the lines around them are softened as he stares down, his gaze tracing your face. 

“You think I haven’t been looking?” He asks, and his voice isn’t as harsh or gritty as you’d been expecting. It’s softer now, fond, almost. “How could I fuckin’ miss you? Always so pretty, always workin’ so hard. ‘Course I noticed.”

When his fingers creep beneath your big purple jumper, you launch into helping him remove it, eagerly stripping it off so you’re laying in your bra. It’s one of your simple utilitarian ones, and you curse yourself for not wearing a sexier one.

But Price groans at the sight of your simple white cotton as though it’s premium lace. His palms are rough as they trace up your sides, the callouses on his fingers coarse against the soft squishy flesh of your belly. He leans forward and nuzzles at your ear, kissing behind your lobe before scraping his teeth along your jaw until he’s kissing messily at your mouth all over again.

“So gorgeous.” He says, his voice a low rumble that has your nerves buzzing. “I was too mean to you before, wasn’t I? Too harsh, when all you were trying to do was help.”

“Yes.” You whisper, though you feel a little bit petulant for it.

“Let me make up for it, darling,” He whispers back, and it sounds like a plea. “Hm? I’ll show you how good you’ve been.”

You’re nodding before he even finishes, desperate. God, yes. You’re not even sure what it is that he’s offering, but you know that you’ll take anything that he has to give you.

He’s looming over you, so large, as his hands fall to the closure on your work trousers. His fingers are so thick that he fumbles with the delicate button and little zip, and it takes him a couple of tries to pull it open and down. When he’s got it, he shucks your trousers off easily and tosses them aside, then stares down at you in your ugly shapeless underwear as though you’re wearing something else entirely.

Even though you’re laying unclothed and vulnerable, squirming and wanting, Price is so slow to get moving. He doesn’t grab at you, or grope greedily, or take impatiently. He acts as though he’s got all the time in the world, leisurely looking you over as though he’s committing you to memory.

“Need you to say it,” He says, strained like he’s trying to hold himself back. “Need you to say it out loud.”

“Want you to show me how good I’ve been.” You say immediately, your desire leaving no room for shame. “Want you to look after me.”

The request comes out a little bit plaintive, and Price sighs out before ducking his head and kissing you again. He’s so much more affectionate than you had ever imagined, and you feel as though you’re drowning in it. His attention is like a warm blanket, settling every craving you’ve ever had.

“I will,” He breathes like it’s a promise. “Oh, I will.”

His palms are rough and hot as they drag over your skin, deceptively gentle as he reaches your tits and pushes your bra up so that he can knead at the soft flesh there. He doesn’t even bother to unclasp it, impatient enough that shoving the cups up so to free your breasts is enough for him. 

He bends his head down, and licks a stripe over your nipple. His tongue feels scorching against you, like you’re hypersensitive to his touch, and he groans against your skin as though he’s tasting something incredible.

You writhe, hips arching up in search of some kind of friction, but Price doesn’t give it to you. He’s too distracted, peppering dozens of kisses over your tits as though they’re something precious even as his hands coast down your back to grope at your ass again where your plain cotton underwear is riding up.

“So pretty, ain’tcha?” He groans against your chest. “Fuck, even when you were walkin’ around with a face on you like a slapped arse, I thought you were the sweetest fuckin’ thing I’d ever seen.”

“Charming.” You snap, but there’s no anger in your tone anymore. In fact, you don’t think there’s a lick of anger anywhere in your whole body anymore, like Price’s hands and mouth on you have washed it all away.

All the brattiness, and the prickliness of your bad mood, is entirely forgotten now that you’re laid out and squirming beneath him. You can hardly even remember what you had been so stressed and angry with him for.

He finally reaches around to unclasp your bra, then tosses it to the side to let it slump sadly to the floor. His next target is your underwear, pulled from you roughly enough that you think the fabric might tear even as his hands cradle the plush flesh of your ass like it’s a treasure.

“Mm, so gorgeous, princess,” It seems like the name just slips out of his mouth, and you feel your whole body draw tense and hot. “So lovely, and I bet you taste even better than you look… like sugar, my sweet girl.”

Jesus Christ. You think your whole fucking body throbs, blood pounding and nerves straining as you wish so desperately for him to touch you. You can’t handle him talking to you like that, so fondly, as if you haven’t just acted like the biggest brat in the world for several days straight.

You can hardly even reconcile this man with the usual stern, gruff man that acts as your Captain, and you let out a choked whine of bewilderment as he slides down your body.

Your thighs are clamped together, shy under his gaze despite how desperately eager you are. You want this, you want him, but you can’t help but feel so mortified by the vulnerability of being nude beneath him on the couch while his big formidable body is still entirely clothed.

Price’s fingers stroke against your hip, his tone low and rich as his lips find your throat again. You can feel his tongue darting out against your skin, his hunger so palpable now that it’s infectious.

“Let daddy see you,” He croaks against the hollow of your throat. “Spread your legs, sweetheart.”

It’s not like you could ever say no to that. The request sends liquid heat shooting straight to your cunt, making you hot and sticky. You spread your thighs, and feel embarrassment flare when there’s a squelch as your cunt unsticks. And– Jesus, Price’s eyes fucking light up, and you realise that he’s clocked your reaction to his honeyed words, the way he calls himself daddy.

The kiss he gives you is claiming and hungry, consuming your lips with a fervour that leaves no room for doubt about his intentions. It’s a taste of both command and reverence — in equal measure. When he pulls away from your mouth you’re breathless, still gasping softly even as he pushes himself down the length of your body.

In the blink of an eye, he’s there — between your welcoming thighs, his hands resting securely on your soft hips, as much a lifeline as a promise of what’s to come. Your pussy is already sloppy, slick and wet in anticipation of him. He shoves his head between your thighs, using his thumbs to spread apart your folds and just look at you.

Your back arches at even the suggestion of his touch, feeling his breath ghost over the heated slick flesh of your cunt. Despite your obvious willingness, and his apparent eagerness, he doesn’t immediately touch you.

You crane your neck to see that he’s staring at your pussy as though the sight of it is earth-shattering. His gaze drinks you in, heated blue eyes taking in the sight of your swollen sticky folds, no doubt throbbing invitingly under his attention. You’ve never seen a man look so hungry, like he’s about to risk anything for it. A dark, groaned "fuck" escapes him as he kneels between your spread legs, head bowed as if in reverence.

"Daddy needs a taste, sweet girl," His deep voice a heavy rumble, vibrating against your soft inner thighs. 

It takes a beat for you to realise that he’s holding himself back, that he’s essentially asking for permission to lay his mouth on you, but then you gasp, “Yes, fuck, yes, please–”

Price takes it as the enthusiastic invitation that it is and bursts into movement immediately, reaching out and guiding your legs wider so that he can muscle in between them properly, before leaning in and finally getting his mouth on you.

You choke, hips aching as you try to spread your legs even further. Price drags the flat of his tongue along the seam of your cunt, groaning as though he’s savouring the taste of you, before wrapping his arms around your thighs to keep you all spread open for him as his tongue rasps over your sensitive flesh.

You want to call out for him, but his name stalls on your tongue. What would you call him – Price? John? Captain? Daddy? You think you would die if you said it out loud.

Then his tongue finds your clit, and your thoughts scatter. He flicks the tip of his tongue over you, back and forth, then flattens it to grind eagerly. You had thought, given the way he had taken that moment just to look at you before he’d pressed his mouth to you, that he would start slow. But instead, he gives you everything he has.

You cry out as he devours your cunt, his bushy eyebrows pulling up in delight as you give him your first moan. While your legs had spread wide in the beginning, eager to let him in, you now close them tight around his head to keep him in place. You have a brief, hazy thought that maybe this is an asshole move of you, a little like if a man were to hold your head down while you were sucking cock, but Price doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, judging by the snarl he lets out when your thighs close around his ears, he likes it.

You toss your head back against the worn couch cushions as jolts of white-hot heat spread from where his mouth is working at you, playing with you, tongue painting long, broad strokes up and down your pussy. 

Your cunt is syrupy hot, throbbing as his tongue rubs relentlessly at your clit. You’re so fucking wet, and you can’t help yourself from rolling your hips more assertively into his mouth. You’re leaking on his mouth, his tongue, your slick drenching his cheeks and his beard.

Seized by a sudden urge to watch, you clumsily raise your head so you can look down. It feels entirely illicit, watching Price’s head between your legs as he buries his face so enthusiastically into your folds. His eyes flash as he glances up, the bottom half of his face hidden entirely in your pussy as his jaw works, the soft hair of his beard tickling your sensitive inner thighs.

With a jolt, you realise that one of his hands has fallen to his lap, his trousers hastily pushed open. He’s fisting at his dripping cock, red and angry and still begging for release against the thick dark hair of his stomach. Sticky pre-cum leaks from his flushed head, pooling into his skin and clothes as his cock bobs and twitches at the sounds of your moans.

The sudden realisation that Price is getting off on this, on the taste of you and the smell of you and the way you’re whining, sets you aflame. He grunts, one of his big hand’s wrapping around his throbbing skin to pump his length to the rhythm of his tongue inside of you.

“Oh, oh fuck,” You press your lips together, stomach pulling tight as his tongue thrusts up inside of you, “Fuck, fuck, fuck that’s so good, oh god, Captain–”

“Yeah,” Price grunts, his words all wetly muffled, his arms wrapped tight around your thighs to keep you in place as he feasts on you, sucking on your clit like it’s a sweet. “I know, baby, I know.”

He’s so accommodating, so nice to you. You tilt your hips up and grind your cunt into his mouth, sighing in satisfaction as his tongue drags along your clit before dipping to lick inside of you. He barely even shifts when you hump your pussy into his face; he only opens his mouth wider, licks at you more enthusiastically as though your desperation is contagious. 

Your belly goes hot and tight, and a high-pitched whimper is torn from your throat. It feels as though you’ve been strung high and taut for months now, and your breath catches at your imminent orgasm. You’ve just been so stressed, and having Price hunched over you on the couch like this with your legs thrown up around his shoulders as he licks and sucks at you so eagerly that it has your eyes rolling in your head feels like it’s curing you.

You think, somewhat madly, that an orgasm like this, with Price’s mouth sealed over your cunt, will solve every damn problem you have right now.

“Wanna come, wanna come, Jesus fucking Christ, please please–” Your chest heaves as you scramble, one of your hands reaching down to cup Price’s head to keep him in place, face buried in your cunt. “Oh god, please make me come–”

Maybe it’s not fair to be so demanding of him, but to his credit Price responds with restless enthusiasm. You double over in pleasure as he heeds your broken little pleas, your nails scraping into the couch as you cling on for dear life. His tongue swirls over your clit quickly and with fervour, tight circles to make your vision go blurry.

You’re lost in the sensation of his hot, wet mouth in your cunt, the way he licks into you like a starving man tasting his first meal. It feels like a sensation overload, as though you’re just completely lost to your own desire, but you just want more of what he is offering. 

You grab his hair again and pull him closer, greedy with need, and he hums in affirmation as he allows you to guide his mouth to exactly where you need it. Arching your hips up, you grind into his mouth, chasing your orgasm. You groan, eyelids fluttering as you wrap your other leg around Price’s shoulders, up around his neck, and his hand snakes around your thigh to anchor you there.

Price’s fingers are gripping at your hips, surely hard enough to leave bruises there. You smile, almost deliriously; you could live with some souvenirs from tonight.

Your feeble gasps start to spiral into whimpers as that hot coil begins to tighten in your belly, and your toes start to curl. When your climax finally hits, it does so with a sense of relief that almost knocks you flat. Your body winds tight then releases, and you convulse in a wave of shudders that has you sobbing out loud.

Your chest heaves as you sob, squirming as Price licks at your clit insistently. It feels like your breath has caught in your chest, your toes curling so hard that your feet cramp. You’re panting like a damn dog as your orgasm rocks through you, until the waves of it subside and you can finally get a full breath again.

From one second to the next your nerves turn red-hot and oversensitive, and you clamp your thighs shut around Price’s ears and whimper-whine pathetically. Mercifully, he gets your unspoken message easily, and finally pulls back, chuckling breathlessly to himself as he pushes your legs apart in order to retreat.

“Fuck,” He says, and his voice comes out as harsh and gravelly as you’ve ever heard it. “Jesus Christ. Knew you’d taste sweet, knew that you’d come so pretty.”

The praise practically slams into you, ripping through you like a forest fire. It feels like you’ve lost your breath all over again, and ridiculously you suddenly feel shy. 

“I–That–” You start to say, but you still feel a little fuzzy-headed from your orgasm and your thoughts fizz away like TV static. 

“Mhm, I know, sweet girl.” He murmurs hoarsely as though you had said something coherent. 

When Price finally sits up, you blink hazily. He had been all hunched over you, crammed into the corner of the couch in order to squeeze himself between your thighs like that, but now that he’s straightening back up again you’re reminded with a tired jolt just how big and broad and strong he is.

A small, self-conscious part of your brain screams at you to close your legs. Your thighs are still spread wide, your cunt on display; you’re still all sloppy and wet, spit-slick and dripping, all puffy from the attention Price had lavished on you with his mouth.

But instead of closing your legs, you let your thighs fall open a little wider and shift restlessly under his intense gaze. Your desire makes you stupid – how could you ever experience anything as mundane as self-consciousness when he’s staring at you like that? He’s looking at you like he wants to fall atop you all over again, and you feel yourself throb – you feel so empty, your body craving something to fill you.

And Price notices the way you keep yourself all spread for him, the way you don’t make any move to cover yourself. Beneath his beard, his face splits into a wide smile, the apples of his cheeks practically glowing with pride.

“Oh, my girl, you're so pretty. Just the loveliest girl in the world with your beautiful face and your hair all wild like that.” He leans in then, and presses a hungry  kiss to your mouth. He tastes salty-sweet, the iron tang of yourself lingering on his lips. His beard is wet too, practically soaked through.

You gasp when he pulls back, overwhelmed by the kiss and the praise and the electric aftershocks of your orgasm. “Your beard is wet.” You observe dumbly.

He chuckles, as though you’ve said something terribly endearing. “Of course it is, sweetheart. That’s all you.”

You mumble a little incoherently, mostly because you’ve just spotted the way his trousers are still unbuttoned and his hard, swollen cock is jutting out from the band of his boxers. It’s angry looking, the head of it so red it looks a little painful, and you feel a sudden urge to return the favour seize you.

But when you reach out, Price is quick to grab your wrist. He transfers his grip to your hand swiftly so you don’t feel as though you’re being held down, his wide palm and thick fingers winding around yours.

“Don’t have to do that, love.” He grunts, shifting. He’s looming over you, hips tilted towards you and his wide shoulders blocking out your view of the office. “D’you think you could take me?”

It takes you a moment for your slow, stupid brain to catch up and process what he’s asking you. Then you nod swiftly, eyes widening. You're wet and sticky and so so empty, and you have no doubt your body is so ready to take him inside. 

You’re still a little limp and drained from the satisfaction of your orgasm, but you keep your thighs spread and wait eagerly for him to touch you again. He doesn’t keep you waiting long; he coos softly at you as he adjusts himself, kissing your tummy then up your sternum and back to your throat. The soft, sweet kisses distract you as he presses his hips between your thighs.

You gasp softly, your clit sensitive enough that when his cock rubs against it, you jolt. Despite the overload of sensation, you find yourself grinding back against him, so desperate for something. As if he can sense what you need, he presses a kiss to your jaw and dips a hand between your thighs. Two thick, calloused fingers circle your clit for a moment and make you whimper, only to dip lower and press inside you.

His fingers are larger than yours, but they still slip into you so damn easily that it’s embarrassing. You barely even feel a stretch, your body so eager for him that your cunt practically sucks his fingers up.

The worst part is the way Price laughs, all soft and breathy as he rubs his callous-roughened fingers into the spongey walls of your cunt. 

“Oh, fuck,” He murmurs, his lips dragging over your overheated skin. “Yeah, you’ll take me just fine.”

You burn with embarrassment, but you still don’t close your legs. It’s silly, but there’s still an element of pride as his fingers rub against the soft inside of your pussy; you want him to see how much you want him, how well you’ll take him. It’s obvious how wet you are, and you hope he’s imagining how good you’ll feel on the inside.

“Need you to turn over for me, love.” He murmurs, gripping at your hips and easing you over so that you’re on your belly beneath him. “That’s it, arse up. My knees aren’t what they used to be. Make it easy for me.”

You usually would make a joke about that, some sort of jab about being old before his time, but you simply don’t have the mental capacity for it. You’re too busy dropping to rest your weight on your elbows as you stick your ass up towards him, arching your back and hoping you look pretty.

He doesn’t waste any more time, much to your relief. Your mouth drops open with a sigh as you feel the blunt head of his cock glide between your slick folds, tapping once against your clit just to watch the way your legs jerk, then finally lining up with your entrance and pressing lightly in. His cock notches, catches, then slides in so slowly that it makes you want to scream.

“Gotta let me in, petal.” He says, using his grip on your hips to pull you back onto his cock in increments. “Relax, relax.”

You had wanted this, you’re more eager than you think you’ve ever been for anyone in your life, and yet Price is a big man and the stretch makes your breath stall in your lungs. Your cunt is sucking his cock in further with a hunger that’s almost embarrassing, even as you wince a little at the feeling of being stretched out to your limits. Though you’re wet and eager and ready, two of Price’s fingers briefly testing inside weren’t quite enough to prepare you for how fat his cock is. 

Your head is spinning. You’ve never taken a cock this big with so little stretching, but neither you nor Price are patient enough to wait. But the stretch feels good, and you find yourself wheezing like a moron as he presses inside inch by inch.

“Fuck… you alright, love?” Price breathes, adjusting his knees on the couch behind you and wrapping his hands around your hips. The motion only succeeds in shifting him far enough away to make you aware of the feeling of him sliding into you again. You both groan, and you feel Price twitch, deep inside you.

“Fuck,” You moan, breath gasping out of you. “You’re fucking huge.”

It feels like you’re learning for the very first time what it really means to be full. For a few seconds, it feels like you can’t even breathe. It feels like his cock is lodged somewhere in your belly, forcing the breath from your lungs as he nestles his way deeper into the eager clutch of your body.

“Am I– s’it too much, honey?” He asks, his voice rough and low as his hands squeeze at the flesh at your hips. “Need me to take it out?”

“No!” You blurt, and your body clenches up hard as though you’re trying to lock him in and keep him from escaping. “Don’t you dare!”

His cock still feels so big, and when you tighten up as hard as you do it almost feels as though he’s fucking impaling you. Price groans as though he’s been shot, and his head lowers so that he’s burying his face into the space between your shoulderblades. His body lowers too until his chest is pressed to your back, joined at the hips as he rocks inside of you. 

“Okay,” He grunts, and you can feel his chest expand as he takes a breath. “Okay, love, but you need to relax. You’re going to squeeze my cock right off.”

“Sorry.” You try to do as he asks, taking a deep breath and allowing your body to go limp and pliant. He grunts in appreciation, and you feel his whiskery beard rasp against your throat as he presses a kiss to your neck as if to reward you.

Your spine is still taut from the pressure of being all stretched out around his cock, and you reach back clumsily to grasp at his belly, the soft fabric of his shirt rucking up between your fingers. Price reaches back and grabs at the neck of his own shirt, tearing it over his head then tossing it aside. Your eyes are all hazy and a little blurred from your overwhelmed tears, but you look back over your shoulder and blink frantically in an attempt to get a proper look at him. 

God, he’s so big and strong, his chest furred with a layer of brown hair curling in whorls over his nipples and down over his belly. You feel yourself pulse in response, your mouth dropping open in a thoughtless gasp of desire. He’s exactly the kind of man you think of when you think of masculinity, and your belly tightens in anticipation when he presses all up against you, heavy and hot.

When he begins to pull out and press back in, the noise you make is utterly pathetic. It feels like he cleaving you in two, carving out a space for his cock every time he fucks back into you. He’s cautious at first, conscious of hurting you, but when your thighs close around his hips he grunts and begins to pick his pace up.

“Christ, you’re tight,” Price says, his voice all rough and muffled against your shoulder. “And you're all mine, love, my own sweet girl, ain’t that right? And daddy's gonna love you so good, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” You gasp stupidly, pressing your face into the couch cushions.

Typically, you find that doggy style can be a position that’s a little detached – usually, you like seeing the face of the person you’re fucking. But right now, with Price plastering his whole hairy body against your back as he ruts into you and the sweet filthy words he’s murmuring to you, this position feels so far from detached that it has your head spinning. It feels like he’s blanketing you, the heat from his skin igniting what feels like an inferno between the two of you. Sweat beads at your forehead, and you moan softly as Price begins to fuck you properly.

You’re bouncing against the couch, clutching at the cushions as your body moves under the weight of Price’s powerful thrusts. The sound of it is sloppy and wet, your bodies smacking together quick and hard. And fuck, it feels good. His cock is hitting that perfect spot deep inside of you, and your entire body jolts with pleasure every time he pounds back in. 

It’s enough to make you squeal, your nails scrabbling desperately for purchase on the threadbare couch cushions in an attempt to stabilise yourself. Your nipples are sensitive from Price’s licking at sucking at them, and your toes curl as your tits are pressed into the rough-textured cushions, electrifying your nerves to the point of almost too-much. 

The noises you make are entirely undignified, and you struggle to muffle them into the couch. Little burbling ah ah ah’s are being torn from your throat every time Price fucks into you, the sensation of his furred balls slapping against you with every thrust has your eyes rolling.

Your body is all loose and pliant from your earlier orgasm, and you whimper as though you’re being fucked absolutely stupid. It’s not that he’s fucking you all that hard, but he’s filling you up so deliciously and knowing that it’s him, your Captain, the man that you’ve worked so damn hard to impress and to please, makes you feel like you’re going to explode. Even through the haze of desire and pleasure, a little part of you is still so aware of making him happy. You keep your back arched, practically waving your ass up in the air as he fucks into you.

“Tell me how you like it, sweetheart. Tell me how it feels.” Price says in a low, rough purr. His chest is still pressed to your back even as the two of you pant and sweat as you rock together. “Tell daddy how good he's making you feel.”

Jesus Christ, Price feels like a fucking furnace against you. It feels almost as though you’ve been glued together, your skin sweat slick as he ruts into you like an animal. Your lungs are burning, and your mind is completely scattered. Getting fucked like this feels feels primal, an exchange of power through pleasure; you’re aware that he’s asked you a question, but you can hardly string two thoughts together. All you can do is squirm and whimper in below him as his weight pins you in place.

“Good,” You groan, vaguely aware that tears are leaking from your eyes and soaking the couch beneath you. Your vision is blurred, and you can’t even see straight. “I just– it’s so much–”

“I know,” He rumbles. “But you can take it, can’t you? You’ve been so good, sweetheart.”

The praise does exactly what he’s hoping for; you practically melt into a puddle beneath him. Your thoughts are slow and sluggish, and your jaw hangs open as you fucking drool. Even still, you manage to nod your head clumsily. You can take him – it feels like a point of pride to prove it now, to show off how good you can be.

Price’s rhythm is practically machine-like, and you make a quiet sound of pure appreciation when his cock slams into that gummy spot inside of you that makes you lose your breath. It’s as though he takes note of it, because from that point on he stays absolutely jackhammering into that little spot, making you see stars and have to bite your lip to stifle your moans. His balls would slam against your clit in a repeated motion that made your underbelly tighten like a coil so close to snapping.

He groans every time he sinks into you, his growls rumbling into your back and ratcheting up the intensity another notch. You feel lost in a sea of sensation, moored only by the places of contact between you and Price. Your hips are humping back against Price’s cock unconsciously, unable to help yourself and unable to get enough of him.

“I wanna come again,” You say, and it comes out in a demanding sort of whine. It’s a little humbling to hear yourself and realise that you sound so honest to god bratty, but you can’t bring yourself to care when Price is apparently in such a giving mood today. 

“You’re gonna come, love.” He promises. His voice has that tone to it, the one you’ve always tried to ignore during work because it makes you so horny. The authoritative one, when it drops just a bit in pitch, when it sounds just a little like a threat.

But despite his promise, he doesn’t change his steady pace. You’re just this side of overwhelmed, but you still need more to push you over the edge into the second orgasm that’s simmering in your lower stomach. 

“Please, daddy,” You let the name pass your lips on a whimper, finally giving in and calling him by the title he’s so clearly craving. He’s fucked all the shame out of your body at this point, leaving you with nothing but white hot desperation. “Please, please make me come again–”

“Fuckin’ Christ–”

Price’s arm reaches around your front, and you’re startled when his big palm wraps around your throat. You think for a moment that you’re about to get choked, but no pressure follows. He just grips you there, gentle and secure, before using his hold on you to pull you back against him so that he’s rutting up into you at a speed that’s overwhelming in the best way. His other arm reaches around your belly so that he can rub at your clit as he rails you into the couch. His soft grip on your throat ensures that no matter how much you try to squirm your way back into meeting his thrusts, you’re forced into stillness. 

It’s exactly what you wanted, and it has you wheezing and hiccuping out moans on every stroke. It’s better than you ever could have hoped for, and you’re nearly sobbing from the sheer sensation of it all. You feel your abdomen drawing tight, heat beginning to build rapidly in the bottom of your belly as he strokes at your clit hard and fast at a pace that matches his fucking.

You know that you’re already starting to shake, trembling from head to toe. You can’t even keep your back arched anymore, though you don’t think Price gives a shit because he just nuzzles at the base of your shoulder as he fucks into you. Between his cock and his fingers, everything just feels too much but your body is strung taut as you proverbially climb higher and higher.

“Oh god, I’m– yes, yes, yes–” You chant, your voice high and reedy and so damn needy.

Then the world falls out from under you. With one last whimpering moan, your body convulses beneath the heavy weight of your captain’s big body. Your vision practically wipes out, and you squeeze down around Price’s dick and pulse. Your whole body rocks with the flood of pleasure, the warm fuzzy feeling that makes you feel as though you’re losing your mind. You know that your hips are twitching madly, simultaneously trying to get more and less as you get overwhelmed by the feeling of him fucking you through it all.

You’re still coming down from the sweet release of your orgasm when Price practically tears himself away from you, leaving you cruelly empty and clenching around nothing. You let out a sharp sound of loss, startled that he’s pulled away so suddenly, and you find yourself slumping bonelessly against the couch now that his hands are no longer supporting you.

The wet shlurping sounds from behind you prompt you to glance lazily over your shoulder from where your face is smushed against the cushions, and you’re blessed with the sight of Price tugging his cock furiously behind you. His cheeks are bright red as he stares at the mess he’s made of you, his jaw soft and his mouth open as he pants.

He sees you looking, and whatever expression is on your face seems to be his undoing. He takes in your tear-clumped eyelashes and your dazed expression, and you can practically see the moment he hurtles over the edge. He practically snarls, his nose scrunching in a way that’s unexpectedly adorable right as his cock gives one fat pump of thick white come, then several smaller sputterings that collect in a creamy puddle right at the base of your spine, just over the swell of your ass.

You sigh, your eyelids fluttering lazily shut as you relish the feeling of his hot come hitting your skin. You still can’t manage to pull yourself together, feeling loose and floaty like you’re on another fucking planet entirely. You’re only distantly aware of his big palm rubbing gentle circles on the small of his back; you think for a second that he’s just trying to soothe you, until your fucked out brain catches up and you realise that he’s rubbing his come into you like it’s goddamn lotion. Your cunt gives a tired throb at the realisation, fluttering as though it’s sad that he didn’t come inside.

“Fuck…” You hear him rumble from behind you, then a hot heavy weight settling over you yet again. This time, he pulls you back into his arms to hold you tight against his chest. 

You go perfectly limp, curling into him and nuzzling into his sweaty hairy chest. Despite yourself, you’re reminded of cuddling with a massive teddy bear. All you can do is hum, basking in the affection and hardly able to think at this point after he’s turned your brain into a slurry of feelings without thoughts.

“You okay, love?” Price asks. You can feel his nose nuzzling against your temple, though you can’t quite summon the energy to open your eyes again. “Did I go too hard on you?”

Your legs are still shaky, your hamstrings aching and your back throbbing a little from the pounding you’ve just taken. But Price is being so lovely and soft, so gentle with you right now. His hands coast over your hips, your back, your waist, squeezing a little bit just because he seems to like the way you feel in his hands.

“Shhh,” You drawl shakily. “Don’t make me think right now.”

A low chuckle, and you feel his broad chest rumble with it where your head is laying atop him. His fingers run up the length of your spine, the touch making you shiver. He touches you like you’re delicate, a stark contrast to the way he’d just fucked you into your sad little office couch. It makes something in your belly squirm.

“Alright. My girl just needed to switch off for a while, hm?” He murmurs, and you can hear the clear undertone of amusement in his voice. “How are you going to finish out work today if you’re all sleepy like this, huh?”

That wakes you up a little, and you finally blink your eyes open again in order to look up at him. An edge of panic is beginning to creep in as awareness comes back to you, and you take a deep breath as your hands curl against his chest.

“Oh my god.” You blurt, eyes growing wide. “I– we’re at work!”

“Sharp as ever, darling.”

Not even Price’s lazy wryness can distract you now. You try to wiggle off the couch, already craning your head around in search of your clothes, but Price’s thick arm locks tight around your middle and keeps you pressed to him.

“We have to– oh my god, we have to get dressed, what if someone walks in–”

“Shh, shhh, I locked the door when I came in,” Price grumbles. He doesn’t appear too impressed with the way you’re attempting to wiggle away, but it doesn’t matter so much; even with one arm he’s perfectly capable of keeping you pinned in place against his chest. “Lie back down, love.”

Slowly, you let yourself relax back into him. It’s hard to hold onto your panic when he’s so obviously unbothered, so you end up hesitantly snuggling back up against his chest as his arms come up to close around you. Despite his encouragement, you’re unsure whether or not you’re allowed to be touching him like this. But his hands don’t stray from you, not even once, and gradually you return to your previous state of being a puddle of limbs and pliant muscle.

“That’s it, relax.” He coaxes, clearly pleased now that you’re melting back into him. 

“I have so much work to catch up on.” You grumble, though you have no intention of actually going anywhere now that he’s given you the greenlight to stay like this.

His chest vibrates beneath your cheek, and you realise he’s chuckling again. It feels good, and you sigh softly as your fingers stroke lightly over the defined shape of his soft pecs.

“You think I wasn’t capable of keeping the ship afloat for the couple of days you were gone?” He asks, one hand stroking over your flank then dipping lower to flatten his palm over your left asscheek. “I finished out those little files you were stressin’ over. No picture of Ghost for his, but like I said, that’s standard.”

You had known that he had finished updating the files for you when you had seen Farah’s, but hearing it straight from his mouth is something else entirely. You purse your lips and lower your eyes, still embarrassed about your little freak out despite his apologies. 

“Thank you.” You mumble. 

You try to hide your face in his chest again, but a large hand on your jaw stops you by tilting your head back and forcing you to look at him. A thumb strokes over your cheek, and then he’s leaning in and pressing a sweet kiss to your mouth. You respond tiredly but eagerly, still hardly able to believe that your boss that you’ve been mooning after for months is being so affectionate and intimate with you.

Price pulls back slightly so that your lips are just barely touching, breathing each other’s air for a moment.

“Ask for help when you need it, sweetheart.” He murmurs, his lips dragging over yours. “That’s what I’m here for. We help each other with the workload, alright?”

“Yeah,” You breathe, leaning in eagerly in the hopes of getting another kiss. “Alright.”

Price smiles, his cheeks going all full and round as his eyes crinkle, and you feel your heart throb so violently it feels as though it jumps right up into your throat. He leans in and kisses you again, soft and sweet as his beard rasps against your chin.

You want to stay like this forever, wrapped up so warm and cosy and safe in his arms. He makes you feel so safe, like you’re valued and appreciated, and you can’t even feel bad about being lazy because he so clearly doesn’t want to move either.

“Let me come home with you tonight,” He says suddenly, and you feel his bicep contract as he squeezes you closer. “You have an apartment off base, don’t you? I’ll… why don’t I cook you dinner, hm? Want to show you how much I appreciate all the work you do.”

There’s a pause, then he adds cautiously, “If I’m not being presumptuous, that is.”

You can’t stop the shy smile from overtaking your face. He’s so sweet, and being on the receiving end of this kind of attention from him is more than you ever could have expected. Ridiculously, he seems a little nervous as well, and you come to the slow realisation that he had been vulnerable with you as well when it came to his interests when he had fucked you.

“I thought this was you appreciating the work I do.” You say coyly, glancing pointedly at all of your bare skin pressed up against his.

“Mm. You do a lot of work, and I’m very appreciative.” Price murmurs, squeezing teasingly at your ass.

You giggle despite yourself, relishing the light-hearted air between the two of you. At the sound of your laugh, Price’s expression brightens further; it’s strange, seeing your usually stern, stressed captain being so sweet with you. You’re so used to seeing him with that flinty determined look in his eyes, or barking orders, or with his eyes sagging with exhaustion after a long deployment only to return to a pile of mission reports. Seeing him like this, with those soft eyes and a fond smile, makes your heart feel as though it’s beating out of rhythm.

“I said I’d look after you, sweetheart.” He murmurs, and this time his voice is missing that teasing undertone from before. He sounds so earnest now, almost painfully so. “You just need to let me.”

Yeah, you think to yourself as you let yourself succumb to the drowsy haze that’s been tugging at you, allowing your eyes to slide shut as you nuzzle into Price’s bare chest. You think letting John Price look after you might just be the easiest thing you’ve ever done.

[beaft]

you have an isekai story? can i read it somewhere?

one day, i hope! i'm currently attempting to get it trad-published, but if i don't have any success i'll self-publish. i've only been avoiding the self-publishing route thus far because you have to do so much of your own marketing and i'm pants at that.

[whysamwhy123]

Ain't done this in a while but it's sorely needed because I have had A Week. So, if anyone has any spare serotonin lying around and would like to share, through the form of asks, it would be greatly appreciated.

[picory]

i really need to rewatch uwe before the upcoming season finale and properly gather my thoughts on it but i really really like the show! its goofy and cartoony style paired with a serious story about these warriors' souls stuck in an eternal war with the evil, the slight psychological horror of being used as hosts for said souls and almost completely discarded and disregarded (though it doesn't say too much about this, this is more my overthinking), the steampunk elements, the character designs, the voice acting... all of it. despite that i still have some irks with it, like the pacing. this show would've definitely benefited from having more episodes. for such a story heavy show 10 episodes doesn't feel enough. it worked with primal, genndy tartakovsky's previous show, because there was little to no dialogue there. it did an excellent job at making the viewer understand what was happening with mere facial expressions. but uwe characters have a lot to say, a lot to work out between each other. and it's clear tartakovsky wants to tell more. they need more episodes to do that. i hope the show gets renewed for a second season. i need everything that i'm extremely confused about to be addressed and cleared up

[chuluoyi]

𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄

- sylus x reader

you and your lover are hailed and feared, but who would have guessed that behind closed doors, both of you are just that — lovers?

genre/warnings: very suggestive, making out, fluff, comfort, period cramps, assassin!reader (not l&ds mc), loosely based on sylus' secret times: midnight warmth & exclusive care!

note: very self-indulgent bye pls don't look at me :') this fic is a companion to assassin!reader series (strictly (un)professional and jealousy incarnate)

“Who’s ther— lord! Missus! What happened to you!?”

On a rainy night, you staggered into the base, drenched and covered with dirt. Your steps were unsteady as you made your way through the front door, and the first person to see you, Luke, was so shocked by the sight that he rushed to your side.

“Kieran! Call Boss!” he shouted to his twin, who immediately sprinted off to find him, steadying you. “Are you injured?”

“No,” you hissed, wincing as you clutched your abdomen. “Let go, I’m fine—” But before you could finish, you missed a step and—

—fell into Luke's arms.

In that very instant, Luke genuinely feared for his life. He squeaked and stammered, incoherent sounds escaping him, because oh lord— if Boss sees me ever touching his woman—

“What are you doing?”

And there came his nightmare. Sylus’ deep voice cut through like a blade, marking the arrival of doomsday itself.

“B-Boss! It isn’t what it looks like!” Luke quivered, desperately trying to explain himself.

However, Sylus paid him no mind and exhaled sharply, immediately moving over to pull you out of Luke’s grasp. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine!” you insisted, pulling away from him while staggering. “I’m not wounded or anything. Just... I just need a bath, please.”

Sylus eyed you from top to bottom. You had just been out for a reconnaissance, and yet you looked as though you had been through a tornado and back. Disheveled, your dress was smeared with mud and dirt, and even grime clung to your hair.

“Did you fall into a sewer or something?” he questioned, and he knew he had hit a nerve when you shot him a glare.

But you spared him no answer, walking away with labored breaths and a hand pressed against your lower belly. It was clear you were in pain, and the sight tugged at him as he followed you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his concern growing. “What hurts?”

“You don’t have to fuss over me—” your breath hitched, feeling exhausted, and ashamed all at once. “Just my period, nothing much,” you murmured in a quieter voice so the twins wouldn’t hear.

As you reached the stairs to the second floor, you felt like collapsing. Did you really have to climb these stairs, too?

As if reading your mind, Sylus let out a sigh, but you nearly squealed when he lifted you into his arms.

“You’ll get dirty!” you rebuked, even as he took large strides up the stairs. “Sylus!”

“Just hold onto me.” He shot you a pointed look. “You can’t even walk without gasping for air, and you still want to climb the stairs? You’ll end up rolling and breaking your back.”

Despite your protests, your lover immediately brought you to his bathroom and sat you down on the sink. He turned the hot water on and then faced you.

“So? What did you get yourself into?” he asked, his red eyes narrowing in dissatisfaction. “You were fine, and you didn’t face anyone.”

You pressed your eyes shut, leaning against the wall, resigned to explain. “Fell into mud. Totally idiotic, I know, but my cramps started right before, so…”

“I don’t recall you experiencing this before. What brought this on?”

You met his gaze indignantly, retorting, “Well, a certain someone banged me so hard last night, and I got my period right after.”

It was quite unexpected, but still answered his concern. So, to that, Sylus snorted and tousled your hair, a playful twinkle in his eyes. “Ah, sorry, I guess?”

You pursed your lips, aware of how unapologetic he was. He smirked and added, “Now that I’m dirty too... I suppose we’ll have to take a bath together.”

“Are you mad? Do you want to get covered in my blood?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Why not—”

“No,” you retorted firmly, clearly irked. “You take the bath after me, and that’s final.”

. . .

“Put your arm around my neck,” Sylus commanded when you both emerged from the bath and already dressed in silk bathrobes. You complied, and he swiftly lifted you into a princess carry, bringing you to the bed.

Despite yourself, your heart fluttered at his action. He set you down gently, and the moment your back met the soft surface, you relished it and let out an involuntary moan. “Ahh...”

Your voice was soft and sultry, though tinged with a hint of pain. Sylus placed his hand gently on your face. “Your cheeks are warm,” he noted. “And you still look pale.”

"Mmm," you mumbled, suddenly the total fatigue catching up to you as you leaned into his touch. Seeing you so pliant like this seemed to flip a switch inside him, and he immediately settled next to you and placed his huge hand on your lower belly, pressing down on it.

“What are you doing?” you frowned.

“I’m giving you a massage,” he replied. “Stop squirming. I’m trying to pamper you here.”

“You don’t have to…”

“My woman is in enough pain that she doesn’t talk back to me. It’s feels off.”

“...actually, you suck. You’re too rough.”

Taking your whine into account, he adjusted his touch, softening his pressure. "How is it? Better?"

You didn’t immediately reply, indulging in the warm sensation, letting out a sigh as you squeezed your eyes shut. “Mm... Yeah, it feels good now. Don’t stop…”

There was something quietly erotic about watching you, usually so defiant, surrender to his touch like this. Sylus felt a deep, protective satisfaction as he continued his gentle ministrations—

But after a while...

Before he could stop himself, he leaned in, pulling you closer as he buried his face in your shoulder, inhaling deeply, savoring the scent of the bath foam you had just shared. “Mmm…”

You were caught off-guard and shivered at his breath tickling your skin, eyes fluttering open. “Sylus…” you murmured, a mix of protest and surprise in your voice.

But he didn’t pull away, his lips lingering against your skin, his gaze fixed on your bare neck, whispering, “Just relax. I’ve got you.”

Then, when he suddenly nibbled on your neck, you jolted awake. The gentle bite on your sensitive skin sent another shiver down your spine, stirring a mix of warmth that made your pulse race.

But he didn't stop there, as Sylus trailed your neck with a series of kisses and wet sucks, his breath hot against your skin. Soon, the only sounds filling the room were his quiet sighs and the soft noises of his lips as he continued to bite and pepper kisses on your skin, over and over.

“Ngh…” Each touch left you almost breathless, and the heat between you growing with every passing moment, making your toes curl and you moan softly by his ear.

“Hold me,” he gruffly whispered, and as if bewitched, you clung to his shoulders. He let out a husky chuckle. “Not too hard, or you won't be able to sleep later.”

“And whose fault would that be?” you quipped, entangling your legs with his, savoring the warmth of his body against yours.

“I’ve spoiled you rotten, haven’t I... sweetie?” he murmured amidst kisses, his tone laced with intrigue and his burgundy eyes flashing with a glint. “Just let me have my fill for a while.”

If you had a mirror, you’d see the hickeys forming on your neck, but instead of fighting him, you pulled him closer, letting out breathy moans freely and massaging his scalp as if urging him to go further.

“Naughty vixen—you are,” Sylus rasped deliciously in your ear, thick with desire and restraint as his grip on you tightened. “Tempting me, knowing full well I can’t do anything to you…”

A low giggle slipped from your lips. “Unfortunately… I learn from the best.”

Hard to get, snarky, taunting... You were the bane of his existence, and yet Sylus wouldn't have it another way. Your defiance and teasing only deepened his affection, making every challenge you presented feel like an irresistible part of what drew him to you.

He knew when his patience was on the verge of snapping, so to end it, he sucked hard on your shoulder one last time, making sure to leave another mark there. The squelching sound reverberated through both of you, before he pulled away and planted a firm kiss on your forehead, a gesture of both dominance and fondness for you.

“Now sleep,” he grounded out. “Your body has been through enough.”

“Mngh...” you whined, curling into him in contentment, your head nestled against his toned chest where you could feel his strong, steady heartbeat. “Really unfair...”

“You're going to feel better soon...” he sighed, one hand soothing your back and the other resting on your waist. “And as soon as you do...”

A wicked grin curved his lips.

“I'll pick up where I left off.”

[nanamiskentos]

(JUST MEET ME AT THE) APT! — gojo satoru minors dni. art by chitrartum on twt.

welcome to the christmas tour ! take a seat in section (a) and let the show begin !

prologue. → your ex, that sleazy and no-good scumbag won't stop posting tacky mirror selfies on instagram, arm around his fellow cheater-in-crime. so, christmas eve finds you morose in a dodgy dive bar. why not tumble back into bed with that random, gorgeous stranger you just met?

want to try sitting somewhere else ? take a look at the ticket chart again !

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

warnings+. never drive, no matter how little alcohol is in you folks!!! never!!! making out, creampiè, hooking up with a stranger, ovèrstimulation, mildly rough sèx, gojo won't tell you what his job is

word count. 9.4k! song inspiration. apt — rosé & bruno mars

a/n. reader lowkey a hater, i love vanilla vodka eggnog </3 i said i was gonna post on 02/12 and i kept my word, literally rushed to finished this before my clinical exams in the cardiac ward 😭😭😭😭😭😭 hope y'all stay healthy. your future surgeons are writing gojo smut on tumblr.com

mp3. don't you want me like i want you, baby? don't you need me like i need you now? sleep tomorrow, but tonight, go crazy. all you gotta do is meet me at the apartment (아파트) !

you think your friends would kill you if they knew this was how you were spending christmas eve. not at some glittering holiday party, nor tucked away in a snow-dusted cabin. but here, holed up in a dimly lit bar with an atmosphere so questionable it should come with a warning label alongside a health and safety audit.

the place had charm, if your definition of charm included scuffed floors, a jukebox stuck on 'last christmas' and a string of blinking lights that looked like they'd been thrown at the walls rather than hung. still, you'd swiped a couple of minty candy canes from a jar near the door, which felt like a win.

your phone sat resolutely off in your bag. self-preservation. no instagram, and no tacky mirror selfies from your scumbag ex with the same smirk he'd worn a month ago when you caught him cheating. with someone who had always been 'just a friend, babe!' you weren't keen to let that ruin the rest of the night, though if you were being honest, you had already let it ruin a good chunk of the month.

"another christmas vodka...sour, please," you squint at the messy chalkboard above the bar, where the christmas specials were scrawled in what would barely pass for handwriting.

the bartender gave a single, surly nod. he looked as though he'd rather be anywhere but here, preferably somewhere free of customers nursing post-breakup bitterness like a fine wine.

and so, you found yourself staring at the tall glass now sitting in front of you, studying the rosemary sprig that swayed lazily in the translucent red liquid. a few cranberries bobbed among the ice cubes like they were on some tiny festive raft.

"woah, that one's way too strong for me."

the voice interrupts your private session of wallowing. you turn your head, slowly, to take in the culprit. he-who-hath-disturbed-the-peace. a man sitting close enough to be annoying, but not close enough to invade your personal space.

it takes you a moment to process the stranger, mostly because of the brain freeze from your ill-timed gulp.

"i mean, it's not bad," you shrug, hoping to sound neutral enough that he leaves you be. but then because you just can't leave well enough alone, you gesture at the specials board, "better than...that, at least."

you jab a finger at the chalk-scrawled abomination: vanilla & peppermint vodka eggnog.

the man frowns, a sharp but somehow charming movement that's overshadowed by the dim lights, "hey, i ordered that one."

you blink like a startled bovine, before breaking into a laugh, "my bad. i'm sure it's really fuckin' delicious."

the stranger chuckles too, a soft and low sound that seems more genuine that it has any right to be, "i hope so. otherwise, this is gonna be a long night."

the man finally shifts, casting aside the dim shadows that lay over him, into the blinking string lights. broad shoulders framed by a dark, tailored jacket that hugs him like a second skin. his hair, startlingly white, was pushed back by — wait, was that a blindfold?

you stare longer than you should have, trying to piece the odd sight together. a cosplay? a k-pop idol wannabe, hoping to get recruited for the next bts tour? perhaps, he was blind, hard of sight? you start to open your mouth, wondering how to phrase the intrusive and awkward questions, but he beats you to it.

"i can see you just fine, y'know," he says, his tone laced with amusement.

your cheeks burn at the realisation that he's caught you gawking shamelessly. so you quickly turn back to your drink, suddenly very interested in the cranberries floating in the glass.

the bartender returns, sliding the stranger's drink onto the counter with an audible clink. it was the most obnoxious cocktail that you'd ever seen. a martini glass filled with frothy, pale liquid and crowned with a cinnamon stick that jutted out like the mast of some ridiculous holiday ship.

you watch, mildly horrified, as the man picks up the glass and downs half of it in one confident gulp. he sets it down a satisfied sigh, and a smack of his glossy lips, and you wrinkle your nose involuntarily at the sight.

"i swear it's good," he says with a laugh, catching your expression. his grin is wide, playful. and you find yourself smiling back despite your sour, gloomy mood.

he has a nice smile, you note. not forced nor smug, but genuine. framed by pale pink lips that curl up in an easy, natural way. it was strange though, to look at someone without seeing their eyes.

"i'm gojo, by the way," he offers, his voice smooth and lightly amused once more, as if he'd caught you studying him again.

your gaze drops to his hands, long and slender, tracing the rim of the martini glass. something about the way they move — elegant and deliberate, hold your attention a moment too long for propriety. you quickly snap your focus back to his face, "what brings you here, gojo?"

gojo shrugs, and you can almost imagine him rolling his eyes beneath the blindfold, though you doubt his ire is directed at you, "work, i guess. or maybe i just got bored of going to work."

"they're working you hard, yeah?" you ask, trying for sympathy. employers loved squeezing their workers dry during the holidays. your own boss was proof enough of that, running the office like a sweatshop for santa's unpaid elf labour.

"something like that," gojo says with a scoff, the corners of his mouth quirking up again, "what about you? what brings you here? it's christmas eve, isn't it?"

you sigh, the weight of gauche embarrassment suddenly pressing down as the words spill out before you can stop them, "my ex-boyfriend cheated on me."

gojo's lip curls, the kind of expression that balances perfectly between pity and disgust, "that sucks," he offers. profound and wise, you have to agree as he continues, "you jus' find out or something?"

the question makes you cheeks heat, and you fiddle with the edge of your drink, "no, i've known all month." you gesture vaguely towards your purse, where your phone sat like an unsealed pandora's box, "but he posted...on instagram. and stuff. i'm still, y'know, getting over it."

gojo makes a thoughtful clicking noise with his tongue, "ah, see, i don't do social media. but that sounds rough."

you let out a weak huff, "yeah, well...now i just feel like a loser. my friends told me to go out and have fun, and here i am..." you trail off, downing the rest of your cranberry vodka in a single, decisive gulp. the sting hits your throat, sharp and sour, and you grimace at the burn.

gojo frowns slightly, leaning in just enough that you can hear how his voice softens, "i don't think you're a loser." the sincerity in his tone catches you off guard, pulling your gaze back to him, "it's fair to wallow."

his words hang in the air, and you find yourself smiling, albeit thinly, "that's...really nice of you to say."

gojo hums thoughtfully, "i meant it, i promise. but i can't exactly say i've been there, never really dated anyone."

you blink, openly gaping at the man, "really? you're joking."

it was hard to wrap your head around that. even with the odd blindfold, everything about him screamed 'pounce-worthy'. the broad frame, the charming smile, the striking white hair that looked like it belonged in a kérastase commercial.

gojo laughs at your incredulous expression, "same old work and stuff," he explains with a casual shrug. then his grin fades, tone shifting just enough for you wonder why that feels as though the clouds have covered the light of the moon outside, "always got in the way."

"at least you never had to deal with a breakup," you offer, trying to find some weak, silver lining.

gojo frowns, his pale complexion now tinged with a faint red flush that even the dim bar lights couldn't disguise. was he really that much of a lightweight, or was the eggnog's amaretto content deceptively boozy?

he sighs dramatically, "a friend once left me outside a kfc in shinjuku. then he became a murderer and a cult leader. that felt like a breakup."

"huh," you murmur, staring at the man with a mixture of amusement and faint alarm, wondering if you'd seen any cult leaders on the evening news lately. no, nothing save for the occasional incorrect weather report, a friendly good-looking priest running some scam association, and news reports about an octopus that could predict the lottery, "that's - well, okay..."

you couldn't quite tell if he was joking or not, but gojo seems to shake himself free of the odd reverie. he's running his hand through his shock of white hair, and his grin has returned, slower and a touch softer, "still, your ex must've been crazy. letting go of a pretty girl like you?"

the words land with surprising weight, considering they come from a stranger in a sleazy bar, but it leaves you momentarily stunned. you can feel a blush rising to your cheeks, your heart doing an embarrassing little flip before you manage to get a grip on yourself.

"wow," you laugh, feigning composure as you sip the last remnants of your drink, "smooth."

gojo's smile is wider now, "hah, i call it like i see it," and his lips now curl upwards as he leans in, "and i'm serious. if i had someone like you..."

you laugh again, but this time it's far more unsteady. you wonder if the cranberry vodka is playing with your head, "big words for someone who's never dated. should i be impressed, gojo?"

gojo's chuckle is a deep sound that vibrates in his chest, "i know a good thing when i see it. you don' need to date to know what you want. and i think i want you."

your stomach does a little flip, and you feel all rationality being pounded out of you just from staring at his unfairly gorgeous hands rest on sturdy thighs, "you do flattery well, i'll give you that."

"oh, i don't know about that," gojo says, fiddling with the stem of his glass, "but what'dya say we get out of here? how about my place?"

you blink slowly, and you're aware that your heart (and...nether regions) have already composed an answer before your mind has, "what if you're a serial killer? you're not about to silent night, deadly night me, are you? you haven't killed someone have you?"

for a moment, the man stills but then gojo leans back, "smart girl. asking the right questions. but no, i can at least promise that i'm not a criminal."

you hesitate just for a beat, the words lingering on your tongue, before you let out a breath and shrug, "fine. where's your place?"

"azabu," gojo replies without missing a beat, his tone smooth, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

you gape once more, blinking as you try to process the information. azabu? as in tokyo's ritziest neighbourhood, where a one-bedroom apartment could cost you more than most people's yearly salary? the kind of place where the floors are made of marble, and everyone's shoes are more expensive than your entire wardrobe?

gojo, ridiculously handsome despite looking like a circus runaway, too charming for his own good, and not the type you'd expect to find in a cheap downtown dive bar. definitely not on a christmas eve, at least.

for a split second, you wonder how a man like him even ended up in a place like this. maybe it's some kind of self-imposed penance. or he likes to keep things low-key when he's pretending not to be rich? maybe he's looking to cosplay a succession character?

whatever it is, it's working. not only does gojo have a face carved from marble, now you've got a solid ticket into seeing what a neighbourhood for the top one percent really looks like beyond it's wealthy exterior. maybe, you'll bring back a souvenir.

you wonder whether there's a group of small emotions standing around inside your head, inside-out style. glaring at you as if you're incapable of making good and rational decisions.

well fuck that, you gather yourself and shrug off the small wave of nerves, and loop your purse strap around your finger, "alright," you say, "let's get out of here then."

you don't miss at how the adam apple of gojo's throat bobs for a second, before he downs the rest of his drink in one go, "let's get outta here then."

you follow him out into the cold, your breath fogging in front of you as you try to focus, but the man is tall, like ridiculously so. but when you reach the curb, he turns to face you again, a frown marring his face.

"so, i have a small confession."

i changed my mind and i find you repulsive.

i was paid by your ex to do this, and now i've done enough to get my money.

i'm a serial killer.

you don't know which possibility is worse, "huh, a confession? what is it now?"

gojo chuckles, lifting a hand to the back of his neck, as though he's about to spill a dark secret into the night air, "i don't have a car."

"you've got to me kidding me. how'd you even get down here?"

gojo shrugs, a casual and almost lazy movement. and you feel your gaze lingering on his shoulders. broad, impossibly wide, the dark jacket hugging him in all the right places, like it was tailor-made to showcase just how much he filled it out.

"someone dropped me off. ages ago," like it was the most normal and rational explanation in the world.

your own laugh is short, a little disbelieving, but you pull your silver keys from your purse, "well, i guess i'll have to drive then. but what would you have done if i hadn't been here to save the day?"

gojo steps to the side, opening your own car door for you with a small flourish and exaggerated bow that makes your heart jolt again, "probably teleport back home. maybe fly, since the skies look clear."

what a weird guy. hot, but weird. he seems like the type to dress up with a fake beard and show up as gandalf at the next lord of the rings fan convention.

in the driver's seat beside him, you catch yourself staring too long. your gaze slipping over a model's jawline, the white of his hair being held up by the blindfold. even his vaguely expensive scent is disorienting, pleasant like pine and blackcurrant. but it's also hard not to be amused when he's furrowing teeth into plush pink lips out of concentration, pressing an address into your cracked gps screen.

well, merry christmas to you.

gojo's place is well...how do you say this? gorgeous doesn't quite begin to cover it. he leads you into the building with the ease of someone who knows every inch of it, tossing a casual smile over his shoulder as he swipes a key card to unlock the private elevator, "i tend to move around a bit. or stay in different places. keeps life exciting, don't you think?"

you step into the elevator alongside him, the polished mirrors reflecting the soft glow of gold accents and sleek, modern lines. his hand hovers over the control panel before he presses the button for the top floor. of course, it's the penthouse.

"you move around a lot?" you ask, arching an eyebrow, "what, like a restless billionaire or something?"

gojo smiles, leaning casually against the steel as the elevator begins its smooth ascent, "now you're exaggerating."

the elevator finally dings, and gojo steps aside, offering an exaggerated bow as he gestures for you to exit, "after you, my fair maiden."

you almost scoff at the ridiculousness of it, but there's something so endearing and charming about how he pulls it off, especially when paired with the unfair symmetry of his face.

floor to ceiling windows dominate the far wall, revealing a jaw dropping panorama of tokyo's skyline. the city stretches out in a glittering sea of lights, with the tokyo tower glowing a golden exclamation point against the velvet night sky. the interior is just as impressive, with polished wood floors that gleam in the warm light and a glass dining table that sits beneath a sculptural chandelier. that same faint scent of blackberry and pine lingers in the air, heady almost.

behind you, gojo strolls with an easy and languid grace, tossing his jacket onto an artisan leather armchair. beneath it, his sky blue dress shirt clings just right and rolled up to reveal forearms faintly dusted with pale hair. you think you've momentarily forgotten how words work, and you avert your gaze quickly. though not before catching the faint smile on his lips.

"not bad, huh?" gojo says, heading to the open kitchen as though he's unaware of the effect he's having on a rational and sensible mind such as yourself, "it's no dive bar, but i'll do."

you shake your head, bewildered. trying to process how someone you met in a dingy bar could live somewhere that looks like it belongs in architectural digest. even down to the odd, ancient looking pieces that scatter the wide living room. weird looking artifacts of some sort. maybe he's also a collector? go figure.

"not bad?" you repeat, incredulous, "gojo, this place is incredible."

the man laughs, opening a sleek fridge to grab a bottle of water, "i have good taste," he says with mock modesty, his tone teasing as long fingers twist off the cap, "and a thing for gorgeous views. though, between you and me, i'm not great with heights. ironic, i suppose. paying a fortune for a view i'd rather not get too close to."

he waves a hand vaguely towards the windows, the blindfold still firmly in place.

"so, what's the deal? did you win the lottery, or inherit a fortune. or are you some kinda secret agent who moonlights as a barfly?"

gojo lifts the bottle in mock toast, "let's just say i'm very good at what i do."

you arch a brow, crossing your arms and ignoring the warm flush creeping up your neck, "and what exactly is that?"

"oh, you know. standard stuff. international intrigue, thwarting evil creatures. i even saved a kitten from a tree the other day."

"right, because nothing screams the next member of the avengers like eggnog in a seedy bar."

gojo leans casually against the counter, "even the avengers need a holiday drink now and then. don't knock it." but then he gestures towards the sleek couch, "wait, you can make yourself comfortable, y'know. i'd hate for my guest to think i'm a terrible host."

"terrible host? no, but a mystery man —"

before you can finish, your foot catches on something hard, and you stumble forward with an undignified yelp. gojo reacts instantly, how does he move that fast, and his arm is shooting out to steady you. but glorious gravity and magnificent momentum has other plans.

both of you crash onto the couch, and you find yourself sprawled unceremoniously across his lap. gojo's laugh rumbles low in his chest, and you can feel the warmth of it underneath your palms as you steady yourself, "well, that's one way to get comfortable," he murmurs, voice teasing as his large hand lingers lightly on the curve of your waist.

you prop yourself up slightly, cheeks burning, and glance back at the offending object. your brows knit together when you spot what looks suspiciously like a katana gleaming under the soft light.

"did i just trip on a — hey, what the hell is that?"

gojo interrupts, smoothly extending a long leg to nudge that suspicious object under the nearby coffee table before you can finish, "nothing important," he says breezily, the motion so quick you almost think you imagined it.

his focus shifts back to you, almost guilty, but his fingers are pressing divots into the fabric of your top, "now, where were we? hi."

you blink, caught off guard by how strange it is to feel the searing heat of someone's gaze underneath a blindfold, impossibly intent, "hi yourself," you manage.

for a moment, neither you nor the gorgeous man under you move, and the world feels strangely airless.

but your fingers twitch against the fine linen of his shirt. and before you can second-guess yourself, you reach your hand up to the edge of the silk fabric over his face and you ask, "can i take this off?"

gojo tilts his head, like it's a genuine consideration and you catch the faintest flicker of hesitation. it's fleeting, replaced by a crooked smile as he nods, "go ahead, sweetheart."

your hand rests lightly on the silk, hesitant for only a second before tracing its way to the back of his head. your fingers brush through impossibly soft strands of white hair, and his breath hitches when you find the knot tied neatly to the base of his skull.

you wonder what manner of man gojo is, letting himself be stitched undone by a stranger. but with care, you undo the knot, working deftly and clutching the fabric as you pull the blindfold away.

the blindfold slips free, and for a moment, you're certain you've forgotten how to breathe. bright, piercing blue eyes. framed by thick white lashes blink up at you. the intensity of such an unearthly gaze is softened by something more vulnerable, almost shy. nervous even.

"wow," you murmur without thinking, the word spilling out as gojo's expression shifts, an unguarded openness replacing the playful smirk that you've seen all evening.

your earlier assessment echoes in your mind: k-pop reject wannabe. the recent memory now feels like quite the injustice, a careless slight against a face that defies easy description. each detail of his face is striking, as if some divine hand had taken special care to sculpt him from the fabric of time and space itself.

gojo seems to sense your analysis, and you're sure that he's parted his lips to speak, but whatever he was about to say falters. that faint flush, pale-red like vermillion watercolour bleeding across a canvas, blooms across his cheeks. gojo's hazy gaze flickers for a second, and it sends a thrill through you. he's affected by this, by you.

it's hard to resist the slow smile that curves your lips, light and playful if only to mask the way your own heart is racing, "are you seriously shy now, gojo?"

gojo's expression shifts again almost immediately, as if that subtle invulnerability has been replaced by something sharper, almost indignant. he sits up a little straighter, the movement making you acutely aware of how the hard planes of his body feel beneath you.

"shy? no," gojo says, his voice steady but edged with some need to defend his honour, "i just...don't usually do this. that's all."

there's a sincerity in his words, an almost begrudging honesty that takes you by surprise. you tilt your head, as your murmur, "i don't either."

before you can second-guess yourself, you tilt your head down. pressing your lips to gojo's in a featherlight kiss. his taste is intoxicating, honey and sweet grapes mingling with a hint of that ridiculous vanilla drink from earlier. you pull back almost as quickly as you leaned in, testing the waters.

but your breath catches when you see that the blue of his eyes has deepened, darkened. and his lips, pink-blush and slightly parted, form a quiet and stunned oh!

"cool," gojo manages, his voice rougher than you expected, and you bite back a laugh as you watch him swallow hard.

"huh, cool?" you echo, your amusement bubbling over, "that's it? that's all you've got?"

gojo's grip on your waist tightens, and his hands are now splayed over your spine. anchoring you to him, as his mouth curves into something sly, though his flushed cheeks betray his composure, "compliments to the chef?"

you shift slightly, pressing more of your weight firmly into his lap. though not yet close enough to situate yourself over his groin, delighting in the way gojo's blush spreads down his neck, staining his skin a shade reminiscent of ripe berries swirling in cream.

you can feel gojo's attention as much as you can see it, how his own gaze lingers, deliberate and unhurried. taking you like a masterpiece that deserves more than a cursory glance. the hand that had been steady on your back shifts, his fingers threading through your hair. he watches as the strands slip and fall beneath his touch.

"thought you said you wanted me, gojo," you tease, though you're certain your voice is betraying the way your pulse is doing its best impression of the macarena in your jugular, "are y'gonna do something or not?"

gojo's gaze snaps back to you, a flicker of something far more intense passing through those impossibly blue eyes. full of hunger, need even. the hand in your hair slides away, only to settle at your jaw. it's warm and steady, his thumb brushing slightly over the plush of your bottom lip.

"i do want you," gojo says, his voice low and steady and maddeningly genuine, "want you to kiss me again. and again. as many times as you want until i forget my own name."

"gojo —"

"satoru," he interrupts, his voice cracking slightly, stripped of any previous swagger. it's unsteady and raw, affected in a way that excites you. sends a dark heat curling low between your thighs, "you can call me that."

"satoru," you repeat softly, letting the syllables fall from your lips, unfurling in the most hazy way.

something within the man shifts. his hand tightens on your waist, dragging you closer in a way that punches the air from your lungs. right over -

oh. the thick, curve of his erection straining against slacks that probably cost more than your monthly salary. it's deliberate, almost desparate at how the invisible thread snapped inside him. unravelled the careful composure he's been clinging to until now.

"go on," gojo murmurs, his voice dark with need, "kiss me again, please."

you lean closer, eyes flickering to his lips, and your pulse roaring in your ears, "who would i be to deny you any wish, satoru?" the words come out more reverent that you'd expected, as if your entire world has been tilted off its axis.

and then you kiss him, hard. desparate. as if his lips are your birthright, a homeland to claim. and gojo's kissing you back, carrying a sweetness that seems both foreign and familiar. in an instant, the weight of another man, a dreary haze in your past, vanishes. gojo is suddenly everything you didn't know you needed, vibrant and electrifying.

"let me know if it's too much," gojo breathes against your lips, his voice shaky as if he's trying to tether himself to the earth. but your kiss deepens, frantic and unrestrained. his mouth moves against yours with a hunger that sends sparks down your spine, and you suddenly realise you quite like the taste of vanilla when it's dripping from his open kisses.

you pull away, for every human needs air. but the sight before you has you clenching your thighs desperately around the bulge where you sit atop. gojo's gaze is heavy, full of that desparate longing that makes your chest ache. his lips are swollen, a soft cherry hue from your kisses. and strands of white hair fall over his blue eyes.

"look what you've done to me, fuck. miss you already," gojo murmurs, and before you can respond, he surges forward, hands pressing against your face with the intensity of a storm. one hand reaches to find the nape of your neck, letting you surrender to the heat of this touch.

you crave more, so much more from gojo, who's taking you in like you're his last breath, his final indulgance. it's as if he's found a new devotion in you, ready to worship you at the alter of your false godhood. but before you can part your mouth to tell him exactly what you and where, gojo's hands are already sneaking under your top, brushing against the trembling skin of your torso.

his teeth are biting down on your lip, leaving you dizzy. and gasping, and so damp in your panties as the fabric of your top is peeled away, and you're left shivering, fighting against the cold of the december air. you find yourself pressing harder into the warmth of his chest, letting the swell of your chest press flat against him.

"shoulda' turned the heat on before we came in," gojo murmurs, breathless as his lips hover a mere centimetre away from yours, "got nothin' to worry about, sweetheart. i'll keep you warm."

"didn't t-think i'd spend christmas eve like this," you gasp, your head lolling to the side as gojo presses open-mouthed kisses to the soft arc of your neck, sensitive even to the cool air.

"no?" gojo's reply is breathy, almost frantic as if he's fumbling in the heat of the moment and has little grasp over the words tumbling out of his mouth, "neither did i. but this? b-better than any fuckin' mission they could've sent me on."

you cock your head, feeling the heat of his clothed cock underneath your thighs, "m-mission, huh? what are you talking about - mmph!" but the rest of the question never escapes your lips for it's swallowed up by another one of gojo's candied kisses.

his rough hands work deftly, finding the clasp of your bra with ease. a pretty crimson thing, almost sheer as it caught the light. and in the centre, a tiny satin bow sat like the final touch on a perfectly wrapped gift. you had only worn it half-heartedly earlier in the morning, some forced christmas cheer for your dreary day ahead.

the look on gojo's face was anything but composed, staring at your cupped tits like you'd knocked the air out of him and his chest rose and fall as though he were remembering how to breathe. in a single fluid motion, your bra is unhooked. the faint metallic click barely audible over the pounding in your chest and he's tossing it aside with a casual flick, his focus entirely on you.

you find yourself mesmerised by his eyes, those swirling pools of blue that seem to have stolen fragments of the sky itself, clouds brushed into cerulean depths with strokes of syrupy smoothness. they're breathtaking, but the thought shatters as gojo's canines graze the flesh of your breasts, a sharp and teasing nip that pulls a gasp from your lips. leaves you rocking sharply against his erection, making him throw his head back, ragged.

the playful string blooms into a flush of heat, and gojo's at it again, his mouth working to leave faint red marks in its wake. you squeal, half in surprise and half in helpless laughter (and entirely in a lusty haze) but gojo only pulls back enough to murmur, "what? can't help myself."

but then he peers at you abruptly, his lips parted as he catches his breath, "wait. do you wanna —?" and gojo tilts his snowy hair towards the shadowy doorway that leads out of the living room, the implication clear even through his panting.

you nod, breathless, "yeah, jus' help me up."

without hesitation, a strong arm slides around your waist, and before you know it, you're being swept into a semi-bridal carry, and your head is resting against the fabric of his dress shirt. not a bad feeling, one you could get used to.

at the doorway, gojo lets out a low 'shit!', nudging the door open with his foot. the faint sound of clattering follows as he kicks something out of the way. you glance down from your entirely too comfortable vantage point, spotting a smattering of cheap tinsel, all glittering in metallic silver and gold, tangled with round baubles that glisten faintly under the dim light.

some have little smears of glue, and uneven glitter patches, as if crafted by unsteady hands, but with earnest effort.

"you big on christmas or something?" you tease, delighting in how the tips of his ears light up like nose of a famous reindeer.

gojo freezes for a moment, almost sheepish as he clears a path, clearly trying to look as macho as possible as he gingerly pushes aside a string of green lights, "made those for my students," he mutters, "thought they'd like them in the classroom tomorrow."

your laugh grows louder, and gojo's brows furrow, his tone growing defensive, "it's a nice surprise for the classroom!"

"i'm not making fun of you!" you insist, leaning up to press a gentle, soothing kiss to the hollow of his collarbone, "it's sweet. i think it's really nice, actually. wait, you're a teacher?"

gojo's mouth quirks up in a faint smile, "something like that," he says cryptically, finally clearing a decent and hazard-free path into a sleek, and clean bedroom. it's all modern space, all clean lines in shades of cream and white, and navy.

gojo sets you down gently, and the plush fabric cradles you as your back lands on fresh linen. and for a quiet, tender moment, you're both caught in the stillness. gojo kneels at the edge of the bed, his hands resting lightly on each of your thighs as if he's anchoring himself there.

his gaze is steady, content, maybe even adoring in a way that feels too intimate for someone who you barely know. there's a warmth in his expression, like he's savouring the sight of you, searching for something — and he's found exactly what he's hoped for.

almost without thinking, you lift a hand, cupping the sides of his face. his skin is warm beneath your palm, soft with the faintest hint of pale stubble that seems to fade into his skin. the moment your hands makes contact, gojo leans into your touch instinctively, his white lashes fluttering closed.

"hey, 'toru," you murmur softly, "y'still with me?"

gojo's eyes snap open at the sound of that, sharp and bright, as if the nickname itself has sparked a challenge in him. a low and almost frustrated sound escapes from the back of his throat, and he presses a feather-light kiss to the inside of your knee.

you don't miss at how his teeth sink into his bottom lip again, worrying and working the plush flesh like he's trying to steady himself. spreading your weeping thighs aside, as his gaze is fixed on something. intense, unwavering. the sheer focus of it making heat creep up your neck.

at how he must be staring hungrily at damp, sheer red fabric that clings to the outline of your cunt. at how it must shimmer almost translucently now, the sticky slick of your arousal enhancing the gloss, making your panties glisten under the light.

you're feeling an unfamiliar kind of shy under the weight of his attention, at how he must see how the fabric clings closely to your puffy, swollen folds — the delicate weave exposing the shape of your taut pussy, practically weeping for his touch.

you needn't have asked, for gojo was already diving into deliver.

he's gliding his index finger over your dripping pussy, letting the tangy syrup sink onto his fingers, leaning in to press a sweet, almost innocent kiss to your clothed cunt, "she seems desperate for me, don'tcha think, heh?"

the sound of the fabric ripping is sharp and wet, a squelching and almost fleshy tone, a sound that's both soft and sharp to the blood rushing between your ears. a strained tear of your beautiful panties, leaving cool air to gently leave a kiss of its own upon your cunt.

you gape at him, a bit too stunned to find coherent words, "hey, what the f-fuck! those were like super expensive!"

gojo rolls his eyes, the kind of look that has a bit too much attitude for someone who's practically begging on his knees for a taste of you, "don't get all huffy on me, sweetheart. 'm gonna buy you more, is tha' alright?"

"i'll r-remember that, satoru," you murmur, giving a sharp tug at his white strands, "you gon' have to give me your number now."

gojo shudders, the muscles in his back rippling underneath his tight shirt, "was already gonna," and he's back to pressing soft, kitten licks to your now exposed folds, small circles over your throbbing clit.

you buck your canting hips closer to the heat of his mouth, to where the pink tip of his teasing tongue peeks out of a pretty mouth, "satoru, c'mon. can't you just, fuck—"

you sharply cry out as he presses his mouth forward, a sudden surge of heat jolting through you. burying himself deep, his nose brushing against the sweet, syrup that coats your pussy, and the rhythmic, wet movements of his tongue send shivers through your entire being.

"mhm, jus' as sweet as you look, baby," gojo gasps, swirling and flicking his tongue, teasing you with every deliberate patter of the muscle near your winking entrance. so messy, slick and you're not sure where he ends and you begin as it all glides together carnally.

gojo seems languidly tipsy, just from munching through the gloss of your cunt, far more intoxicated from your taste than any cheap christmas liquor. he alternates between pushing his tongue past the ring of your tight walls, and then wrapping his lips around the searing pulse of your clit, leaving your hips shaking and dragging over his mouth, smearing yourself over his chin.

you're fisting delicate white locks with fierce urgency, and he hisses and then chuckles into your pussy, "tch! ease up there for me, yeah? jus' move your hips like you were doin' before," and you comply, angling yourself better so he can flatten his tongue against your folds, jaw grinding deeper into you "hah, yeah, just like that."

"taking good care of you though, aren't i? wait, say it. say that 'm making you feel good," and he's bullying a long finger into your gummy walls, clingy and sopping, "say 'm making you feel better than a-anyone ever has," and you just mewl as your arousal must surely be dripping down his forearms, staining the cuffed sleeve of his shirt as he takes your sweet juices down his throat.

there's stars beginning to twinkle at the edge of your vision, and you know you must be close, for your heart is practically dancing a heavy beat against your ribcage, and you suddenly push his mouth away, watching as a clear strand of spit or your slick forms a taut bridge between his mouth and your folds.

"w-wait, satoru, s-stop."

gojo's head lifts, eyes blinking as if coming out of a faze. but then, like a switch, something sharp flickers behind his gaze and concern floods in. his thin brows furrow slightly, glossy lips parting as he reaches out, as if to steady your hips, "you okay, sweetheart? what's wrong?"

your heart stutters, pounding so loudly you're sure he can hear it. you try to steady your breathing, but the tremour in your fingertips betray you as they gently slide through your hair, the silky strands tangling around your hand.

"nothin' wrong, 'toru. but i was gonna cum," and gojo's face, still flushed and soft with arousal, splits into a shy, amused grin.

"hah, i know. that's what i wanted," he's close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath hitting your aching cunt, but you shake your head again.

"feels unfair, wanna see you too. wan' you to cum in me,"

you watch, almost in awe, as a low and guttural sound escapes gojo satoru, raw and unfiltered. gojo runs his tongue over his lips, his eyes dark with something dangerously close to hunger.

"you sure?" and his voice is hoarse, unsure despite his roaming gaze. you nod, your hands digging into his shoulder, tugging at the crisp fabric of his dress shirt, desparate to feel the warmth of his skin underneath.

his shaky laugh of disbelief only makes you more aroused, whining for him to hurry up, and before you know it, he's standing up, towering over your boneless form on the sheets.

"how could i deny you anything?" he murmurs, echoing your earlier words. gojo's hands reach for the hem, the fabric shifting as he pulls it over his head, revealing a milky expanse of toned skin, smooth and taut over a set of abs that should easily land him on a gq list.

his waist is slender, defined in all the right places, and the soft taper of muscles make your breath catch. but the soft white trail of hair that reaches under his waistband makes your cunt clench.

"y'seem happy with the view, don'tcha?" gojo's voice is teasing, the cocky smirk tugging at his lips, but you can hear the impatience threading his tone now too. he's not as in control as he lets on, his hands now making quick work of his belt, leaving your mouth dry when he finally pushes his black boxers down.

you should have known that his cock would be as pretty and unfairly gorgeous as the rest of him. he's circling the strawberry-red tip, glowering and throbbing, right over your gathered slick, coating it and smacking the mushroom head in a thwack! over your poor clit, leaving you jolting as he laughs and leans down to kiss you sweetly once more.

"jus' look at me, yeah?" his drawl is slow, lazy and so ruined. at the first inch of his throbbing cock that slips through your walls, he looks utterly undone. a mess of sharp edges softened by something far more primal and raw.

gojo's head tips back, exposing the elegant line of his neck as the moonlight cascades over you, "hey, sweetheart, 's not too much, yeah?"

hazy blue eyes bore into you, and for a brief moment, in the time it takes for the lightning to strike the earth, you swear that his eyes glow. almost radiant and jewel-like, with cerulean fractals shimmering as if they're emitting life of their own. perhaps its simply the electrifying stretch of inches that's rendering you to hallucinate, whining as your nails find purchase in milky skin and rippling shoulders.

"i-it's big, 'toru," you pant, feeling him almost shudder at the clipped name again, as he grips the base of his cock to bully the final inch in, sighing in contentment as he finally bottoms out, with a wet pop!

gojo looks feral like this, heaving a breath through his mouth as though the air is being taken from him from every second he spends stretching you out on his fat shaft, "hah, 'm glad, i'm so glad i met you tonight, sweetheart. fuck, fuck, y'feel i-incredible."

he's pushing your thighs further back, running his hands over the plush skin, leaving bruising red prints that won't disappear tomorrow as you moan, wanton into his open mouth, letting gojo run his lips down your jaw and into the curve of your neck.

you're practically now folded in half under the bulk of his weight, feeling stars collide in absolutely astrophysical ways, impaled further on the long and thick length of his cock, "in so deep, s-satoru."

seems that gojo is a man of little mercy, for he seems only all the more invigorated by your squeals, drawing his torso back to watch the hypnotic smack of skin on skin, of your slick and creamy froth creating fresh rings over his pistoning cock.

he's entirely out of control, as you feel your body go limp from the pleasure shooting through every nerve and pore.

depraved.

you don't realise you might have let that slip out loud, so dizzy in your cockdrunk haze because gojo's suddenly ramming himself roughly in you, as though he was desperate to have his cock kiss your cervix, to feel for every divot and nook of your cunt's walls.

"d-depraved, hah. people call me, fuck, p-people call me a lotta things, sweetheart," and gojo's so good with it, letting your pussy have not even one moment to take reprieve, having you feel each vein and bulge of his cock, "but depraved is n-new."

the hand that was dancing over your thighs flies to your swollen, aching clit. practically glistening for his attention, and his attention you did receive, "right, t-there! 'toru, mmph!" you're trying to splay your legs wider, giving his quick hand more room to swirl tight circles where you needed him most.

your double-vision gaze lingers on the ripple of his muscles, the way his arms flex and shift as he seems intent on angling you just right for him to drill his cock over and over, at some freakish and feverish pace, "y'so good, gojo," you purr, and your nails curl against his arms, pressing just enough to leave tiny crescents in his skin, the faint dampness of his exertion clinging to him, "s-so strong!"

something shifts. the glow is back, electric blue flooding his eyes like crackling storm clouds. it's almost unnerving, this unearthly brightness, as if he's some ancient god wrapped up in human skin, and you've just stumbled into a divine revelation.

gojo stills for the briefest moment, the thick head of his cock snagging on your puffy folds as he draws himself almost entirely out. the absence of motion makes you whine, an airy and impatient sound escaping your throat. that hesitation feels like a tease, like a string that's been pulled so taut, before he finally dives forward, capturing your mouth in a messy, heated kiss. sloppy in its disregard.

"s-so strong, huh?" gojo's voice is rough, shaky, as though he's trying to centre himself but your tight pussy holds him in hypnotic sway, "y-you think so? think i'm the strongest?" his lips brush yours as he speaks, and there's something almost boyish and charming in the way that he seems to be fishing for a compliment, despite the low heat in his voice.

you pull back from his wet, spit-stringed lips. just enough to wrap your hands around his neck and push him closer, deeper into you as he gutturally groans, "if i s-say yes, are y'gonna keep showing off?"

gojo's laugh is short, breathless, "y-yeah, wanna see?"

he makes quick work of pushing himself back into you, pumping himself so far in that your slick must be painting and sopping the white hairs at the base of his cock almost translucent, "o-oh my god, 'toru, fuck, oh my god!" the stretch has your head spinning, as if the skies are parting above you, and you're melodramatically left to see the light of divinity as gojo bucks his hips harshly into you. as if he's too far gone, needs to prove himself to you with a good fuck.

"you h-have to say it," gojo stutters, his words tumbling out so quickly, like rough gravel, "say it, fuck, c'mon. say i'm — say i'm the s-strongest. you have to, hnghh, god. please, jus' agree, okay?" his voice is cracking, that cocky veneer entirely shattered under the weight of his rambling desperation as he practically rummages through your sopping insides, "y-you feel it right, i mean, you can feel me — i mean."

a high whine escapes your throat as his pace becomes almost olympian, and you wonder faintly how you haven't managed to sprain a muscle or break a bone yet, how he hasn't managed to shatter something with the sheer pace and force of how gojo satoru fucks, "hah, 'toru. i'm —"

"close? g-god, i hope so. 's what i want. nothing, like n-nothing feels better than this right?" his words are falling out of him in a messy, pussydrunk rush, his eyes flickering between your face and down to where your pussy lips are bulged around his shaft, "so good, right? the b-best thing you've ever —"

you truthfully don't even hear the rest of his words, blood absolutely roaring and rearing in your ears, your ribcage as you feel the tight coil snap, letting out short, slurred snaps of his name when you cum. as he doesn't quite let up on smacking his hips right against your ass, "s-satoru, 's getting s-sensitive, oh, fuck. fuck!"

he's suddenly whining, with pleading and erratic blue eyes chasing after you, sloppily pushing down so he can gasp and pant into your open mouth, before capturing you in a heart-stopping kiss as he finally gets milked dry by your pulsing and fluttering walls. in awe of how creamy white is practically leaking out of you, dripping a stringy trail over the flesh of your thighs.

you're agape at how utterly fucked he looks right now, though you're certain you do not look much better as fat tears prick at your eyes, streaming past your ears from the overstimulation, "s-still fillin' me up, 'toru. god, do ya always cum this much?"

at first, you don't even get a response from gojo who just sinks his teeth into the juncture of your neck, almost as if he's trying not to cry out, but then he's back to circling your clit with a rough hand, "makin' me sound like some kinda whore, s-sweetheart. 'n and i told you. don't do this m-much."

and now he's slowing down, pleasurably painful bucks of his hips keeping glossy, white seed in you. ensuring that it coats your entire entrance, "an' it's not my fault that she," and here, he gives your clit a small smack! grinning like a madman, "n-not my fault that she's so, hah, addictive."

each tight circle of his hand on your clit sends you hurtling into yet another orgasm, one that has you begging gojo for mercy, repreive, for more. an orgasm that has him whispering the sweetest nothings into your ear, "d-don't worry, gotcha like this. gonna let you rest n-now, jus' gotta relax for me."

by the time he's slipping his still somehow hard cock out of your creamed cunt, you can feel exhaustions heavy and caring hands caress you, rendering your body limp and boneless. your eyes heavy and hazy, but you can feel a soft ghost of gojo's kiss over the shell of your ear, "h-hope y'still here in the morning, sweetheart. don't leave, yeah?"

the morning sunlight filters through the blinds, and despite the ache in your limbs that cricks your bones, you drag yourself out of bed. christmas day, after all. you've thrown on gojo's dress shirt from last night, snug enough to flutter around your hips, but oversized enough around the shoulders to let you drown in it.

it's cozy though, and even the chilly air feels refreshing against the warmth clinging to you. gojo is still sound asleep, and you had smiled at how he took little puffs of air as he was passed flat out in bed. but you always like to be up early on christmas, and there's something about the holiday that makes you feel like you need to earn the right to nap later.

you wander around the bedroom for a bit, stretching your legs as your muscle protest in earnest. eventually, you decide to make your way to that kitchen. breakfast, right.

it seems like a good idea, especially considering the last thing in your stomach was a questionably sour vodka. so you pull open the fridge, expecting something befitting of this apartment. perhaps a slab of wagyu beef, a tin of caviar, a thick block of pistachio-cream dubai chocolate. you'd even settle for sushi.

instead, you're left staring back at a stack of candy canes, some strawberry yoghurt, a carton of milk and some fast food wrappers. despite your protesting stomach, a deep amusement washes over you. it doesn't surprise you that gojo would have a fridge stocked with food you'd find at a child's birthday party and a greasy diner.

still, breakfast is in order and because you can't help it, you pull out a candy cane and start unwrapping it. you're just about take a bite when you hear the unmistakable pad of footsteps. you turn, face to face with someone who would clearly not be out of place on a vogue covershoot.

gojo hasn't tossed on a shirt, and the sunlight filters over his chiselled physique before your sight is stolen by the loose sheet wrapped around his waist. delicious. you try to snap your gaze back to his face, but it's hard to not track your gaze down his torso, like a cat eyeing a particularly irresistible sunbeam.

"good morning to you too," gojo says, a grin curling his lips, "what are you doing?" his voice is still thick with interrupted sleep, laced with a morning rasp that forces you to ground yourself and stop falling prey to the god, eros and his machinations.

"breakfast, 'm starving."

"don't bother," gojo says, shaking his head, "we can go somewhere nice for breakfast. like real, actual food. don't think you want half-eaten yoghurt."

you nod enthusiastically, mind turning back to the peeling seal of the strawberry yoghurt with a spoon sticking out of it. but then, something else catches your mind's attention. a little curiosity piques, one that you cannot help but ask him.

"wait," you begin, snapping your teeth around the saccharine mint of the candy cane, "y'know what's crazy. like, i swear your eyes glowed last night. not even in a silly compliment way, but like electricity. i thought i was like, losing it.'

you expect gojo to brush it off with a wink, or maybe laugh it off like you're just teasing him. but instead, the man's face shifts, that cocky smile faltering for the briefest moment. it's gone so fast that you think you almost imagined it. but why does he look...almost guilty?

before you can process that, you realised you've leaned yourself over the counter, and in your absent-mindedness, your elbow presses a button on the answering machine. a small beep, and suddenly, a voice blares through the room,

"hey, gojo-sensei!" comes a high-pitched, distinctly teenage voice, an excited boy who sounds a little crackly over the speaker, "so, we found this grade one curse yesterday...and uh, we totally got rid of it. we were gon' call you, but you didn't pick up. but i almost got my arm torn off. wait, no! that sounds dramatic, i got shoko to look at it anyway. so what we're all wondering right is that we don't have to hand in any homework now right? as like reparations?"

the voice crackles off, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. you stand there, absolutely dumbstruck, staring at the answering machine like it's about to burst into flames or start singing christmas carols.

gojo, meanwhile, has the most awkward look on his face, clearly caught between embarrassment...and what? panic, amusement?

"satoru, what the fuck?"

he looks at you for a moment, but instead of speaking, he lets out a long and exasperated sigh before pulling out one of the counter chairs, "you're gonna want to sit down for this one, sweetheart."