#even the most ridiculous request

[corngobblerthe2817th]

i had a dream that in the smosh work building or wtv, there was half a plaque on the wall and the other half was long lost, its disappearance of mythical origin... eventually it was found and Anthony and Ian put the pieces together: Ian's had his name and birth year on it (idk his birth year) and Anthony's name was on the lost half, which cited his birth year as 1523 and i woke up laughing

[sotwk]

I never feel dumber than when I'm trying to write a kissing scene, it's a miracle even I've gotten anyone to read my romance fics.

[nexus-nebulae]

god sometimes i wish the whole "you wouldn't say/do that to a physically disabled person" lie that certain mentally ill people say was true bc i fucking WISH i could use "I'm in a wheelchair" as a gotcha for people being ableist against me. unfortunately,

[snowy-bowtied-panda]

ideas for can

hello every one, i wanted to ask if you had any ideas of what i should draw? i think it would be really cool to draw something about horace and thade/skintaker's dynamic { how horace serves him and adores him but skintaker is mean about him. something about horace's serevanthood, you know?} or any thing really im in lots of fandoms also.

[greenwire]

I don't think there's a cognitive dissonance between supporting reasonable accommodations and supporting a meritocracy. I think different people can be suited to different things and that accepting hard limitations is a good thing.

The popular example of a disability accommodation is glasses. Without glasses, people with bad eyesight would not be allowed to drive, some would not be able to read, and some would get bad headaches all the time that make life very difficult. We have corrective lenses, they can be easily worn in most cases, and they're not considered a big deal. Wearing glasses won't make someone literate, or do your reading for you, but they do help children learn how to read.

Other accommodations, like using a cane to walk, allowing headphones in certain settings, or extended time when sitting for an exam, are similarly unobtrusive and easy to navigate.

If accommodations can compensate for the job required, I am for implementing them, especially if it means the best person will be hired for a job. Within reason. I wouldn't expect disability accommodations for someone who needs a wheelchair to be an active firefighter, for example, but I don't see why a person in a wheelchair couldn't be the best person for a sitting-down office job, or work as a teacher, or be an excellent writer.

That's what meritocracy means, to me.

I’m going to be disabled my entire life. And it isn’t because I haven’t done enough or tried hard enough to get better.

This seems to make a lot of abled people uncomfortable because they say things like “oh don’t give in! Don’t let it hold you back!

Me accepting my disability as a reality is how I learn to cope with it and make the adjustments I need. My disabilities do hold me back and acknowledging that isn’t a bad thing.

[cherrygirlfriend]

passenger princess pairing: sunshine!reader x grumpy!rafe synopsis: no one touches your side of the car warnings: fluff! wc: 700 this was such a cute little idea, i loved it!!! this is for the baddies that refuse to get a license ⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚ thank you for requesting!

whenever you'd come up with some new, ridiculous way to 'tune up' what you had deemed your side of his car, rafe would act like it was such a bother; like he really didn't get why you felt the need to be doing all that.

rafe's side of the car was, well, normal. sure, he had a few documents he kept in the driver's seat sun visor, but everything else was sleek, normal, but your side was like a kindergartner's dream come true. it got so ridiculous that you had a fluffy blanket you'd stuffed into the glove compartment, conveniently ignoring the gun he kept there. sure, that came in use for car quickies, but most of the time it was just there for when you felt like... napping.

the dashboard had a bunch of stickers as well as some of those weird furry toys (calico crits or some shit) along with those weird little babies with fruits on their heads; you'd put blu-tack on their feet to make sure they stayed in their rightful places. even the cup holder was taken over by a little plushie, and he'd basically had to argue for you to not get a pink cover for the steering wheel; that ended up with you giving him the silent treatment for a week until he showed up behind your door with more ridiculous trinkets for your side of the car.

secretly, he liked the fact that there was your side of the car, that even when you weren't there, he could still see traces of you everywhere.

rafe let out a small sigh, tapping his long digits against the steering wheel, glancing down at his watch the longer it took barry to get there; finally, he saw the man getting out of his trailer, letting out a low "fucking finally..." while barry opened the door to rafe's car, his eyes immediately landing on the crap on your side of the car. "don't ask."

"wasn't gonna." barry huffed in amusement, getting into the decorated side of the car, and rafe wished he wasn't in such a hurry, the sight being so ridiculous. "you're whipped, huh?"

"what are you talking about?" rafe scoffed, the car lurching forward as he started it, barry adjusting the cute seat cover you'd recently bought, letting out a small tut. "i wouldn't do that." but before rafe could stop barry from further meddling with your settings, he'd already started adjusting the seat, making him groan internally.

"are you gonna get shit for it?"

"obviously." rafe scoffed, "and you will too. it took her, like, a month to adjust it to be comfortable. so stop touching her shit."

still, barry continued looking at the little trinkets you kept on your side of the car, taking one of those weird fruit babies and toying with it, letting out a small snort, but when they pulled up in front of an unfamiliar house instead of the house party rafe had told him they'd be going, barry looked at the blonde with furrowed brows, who simply scratched the back of his neck.

"don't tell-"

before he could finish his sentence, barry was startled by the sound of a knock on the passenger seat window, and when he turned around, you were standing there, mouthing something.

"she's saying you're in her seat." rafe muttered under his breath, barry laughing at this; it was getting more and more ridiculous by the minute.

"whipped. w-h-i-p-p-e-d." barry slapped rafe's shoulder, making the blonde roll his eyes as barry got out of the passenger's seat.

"hi." you said with an excited smile as you climbed onto your side of the car, pressing a soft kiss on rafe's stubbled cheek, all the while barry climbed into the backseat, feeling like he was a damn kid getting a ride to school from his parents.

however, as you tried to settle onto your usual seat, you looked between the two men with narrowed eyes, your glossed lips pursing into a pout, rafe feeling like he might burn under your gaze.

"did he mess with my seat?"

"i told him not to!"

"barry!" you exclaimed, your keen eyes landing on the dashboard, noticing that something was missing; you turned around to face him, a sheepish grin on barry's face.

"barry, give me the angel back!"

[sukunasteeth]

Sukuna has never said no to you.

It didn’t matter what the request was, simple or complicated, easy to fix or a days-long job, Sukuna was always at your side, completing the task as fast as he needed to to keep you satisfied. He would love to deny it, you’re sure, but evidence proves time and time again that he puts your needs and wants at the top of his priority list. 

And you were curious how far you could go with it.

The two of you are sitting in your underwear at the breakfast nook, warming yourselves in the bay window while the morning sun starts on the leftover night time chill. It wasn't quite time for breakfast, still too early for the both of you. In the meantime, you sip on your morning brews, preserving the comfortable silence. Sukuna is flipping through the day's newspaper, his eyes are groggy with sleep and he hasn't said more than a handful of words to you yet. He wasn't a morning person.

You were starting to change that.

"Kuna," You call to him, nudging him with your foot from your corner of the window bench.

"Hmm?" He doesn't look up from the paper, but his hand reaches down and grabs your foot, pulling it into his lap. His thumbs start to subconsciously knead at your muscles.

"I want these." You hold up your phone, which you had previously been scrolling through in an attempt to find something ridiculous for this exact moment. You were sure you had found it, something even Sukuna would find unnecessary. 

And yet, he merely glances at your screen, takes in the sight for all of two seconds, and then returns his attention to whatever news article he was in the middle of.

"My wallet's on the counter." He clears the sleep from his throat not sparing a second look. 

You blink at him in surprise.

"D-Did you even see what it is?" You flip your phone around to make sure you were displaying the correct thing. 

Sukuna is frowning before he looks up again, curious at your persistence. He gently cups your hand, bringing it only a minuscule amount closer to examine your screen a second time. 

You were on one of the most luxurious brand’s websites, showing him an incredibly regular pair of panties, no straps, no details, all black- with one of the most outrageous price tags you had ever seen for something so ordinary. 

Sukuna cocks a brow at you over your phone, "Can't imagine you need more panties when you're constantly stealing my boxers. But whatever, hand it over. I know my card number-"

"Kuna," You interrupt him with a surprised laugh, holding fast to your phone when he tries to pluck it out of your hands, "they're a thousand dollars."

He glances back, his eyes focusing lower on the screen where you know the price tag to be. The newspaper in his hands drops down, momentarily forgotten by what he sees. For a moment, you think you've found his limit.

"Wait, are those red one's assless?" He points just below the price, where the recommended products are depicted. "Get those too."

You drop the phone down so that he meets your eyes, which are wide with shock.

Sukuna always took care of you. Always insisted on being the provider of any single thing that you may need; a warm meal, a soft bed, anything your eyes twinkled at that was available for purchase- even if you would never think of buying or owning it. Granted, you never wanted much in terms of material possessions, so you didn't realize the true extent of Sukuna's leniency until now.

It was slightly intimidating, and part of it felt wrong. Sukuna had money, plenty of it, but that didn’t mean he should feel the need to spend copious amounts of it on you just because you could ask him to. He was giving you too much power, it felt like.

You huff through your nose, frowning at him, which only has him tilting his head further to the side in question.

You ignore it, setting your phone onto the window seat and crawling your way closer to him, until you can gather up his face in your hands and lock his gaze into yours.

He glares at you past smushed cheeks, but doesn't make a move to break free of your hold, humoring you. "The hell are you doing-"

"You know you don't always have to say yes to me?"

Now that has him taken aback. His mouth automatically opens for a witty response, but your question seems to have effectively taken the words from his mouth. You can see the cogs in his head turning, and what you wouldn't give to peer inside his mind and hear his thoughts.

It takes him a moment, but eventually that familiar confident smile stretches across his sleepy face. His hands seem to instinctively slide their way up your bare legs until his fingers grip your hip bones, pressing into you. 

He hums, "When have you ever said no to me?"

You scoff, ready to give him a prime example, but end up coming up short. The two of you loved to tease each other with disobedience, but in the end you were eager to give Sukuna anything his heart desired. You loved to please him, it was one of your favorite things to do, in fact.

"You never ask anything ridiculous of me." You remind him, smiling as one of his warm hands slides back down your waist and dips into the pair of his boxers you were sporting that day. 

"You know what's ridiculous?” His voice wraps around your throat, and suddenly has you swallowing past the delicious grip. You're folding into him before you even realize it, at the mercy of his calloused hands. "The implication that I wouldn't do just about anything for you."

You can't help but sigh hopelessly, although it comes out as a desperate noise that pleads him for more. You really were all his, just like he loved to tell you.

"Now hand me your phone." It's a whisper, coaxing you. "I wanna see you in red."

You can’t say no. 

At least it was mutual.

[nebulouswaters]

The fucking audacity

[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.

[tender-rosiey]

Hey I want to request a husband!gojo getting his wisdom teeth pulled out and he is high af from the anesthesia. I just imagine him forgetting everything and starts acting dumb. This would be huge blackmail material for nobara and megumi lol

peacock — gojo satoru x f!reader

as soon as you step into the recovery room, the sight of him almost makes you burst out laughing. satoru is slouched in the chair, limbs draped over the sides, his usual composed demeanor replaced with utter disarray.

his eyes, free of his blindfold, are dazed and unfocused, those brilliant blue irises practically swimming in confusion.

his cheeks are puffed out comically with gauze, and he’s staring up at the ceiling like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

when his eyes eventually find you, they widen dramatically, his entire face lighting up like he’s just seen a miracle.

"oh. my. god," he gasps, his voice muffled by the cotton stuffed in his mouth, but his tone is thick with awe and disbelief. “you’re... you're an angel. a real one.”

you bite your lip, barely managing to stifle the laughter bubbling up. “satoru, it’s me,” you say, moving closer to him.

he squints at you, leaning forward so far that he nearly tips over, his eyes narrowing as he’s trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. “wait... we know each other?”

you fight back a smile. “I’m your wife.”

there’s a beat of silence before his eyes widen again, and he jerks back so dramatically that the chair creaks beneath him.

“wife? no way!�� he grips the armrests with exaggerated strength, staring at you like it’s the first time he’s ever seen you. “are you serious? we’re married? to each other?”

you giggle as you nod, “for a while now.”

he slumps back, his head rolling to the side with a long, exaggerated groan. his entire body sinks into the chair.

“wow. I did it. I really did it,” he says, staring up at the ceiling again, his eyes unfocused and dazed. “I married the hottest person in the universe. I win at life.”

your lips twitch into a grin, watching him bask in his drugged-out epiphany. “you sure did,” you say, unable to stop yourself from laughing softly.

you move to help him up, sliding your arm around his waist as he wobbles to his feet, legs unsteady like a baby giraffe taking its first steps.

but as you start guiding him toward the door, he plants his feet firmly on the ground, stopping you with a wild-eyed, serious expression. “wait, wait, wait,” he says, his hand reaching out to grab yours with surprising urgency.

his fingers are warm, clumsy in their grip, but there’s an intensity in his gaze that, even through the haze of anesthesia, is so satoru.

his face is scrunched up in deep thought, brows furrowed as though he’s wrestling with the most critical question of his life. “I need to know something... something important.”

you raise an eyebrow, watching him try to focus, his blue eyes narrowing. “okay, what is it?”

“do we... do we kiss?”

you can’t help it—this time, you let out a snort of laughter. “yes, satoru, we kiss. all the time.”

he blinks slowly, his mouth hanging open in awe, eyes sparkling with newfound wonder.

“no way! I knew it. I’m so good at kissing, aren’t I?” he beams, his prideful grin exaggerated by the swollen cheeks, making him look utterly ridiculous. “I knew I was a natural.”

you chuckle, shaking your head as you tighten your hold on him, guiding him toward the exit. “you’re definitely something,” you mutter under your breath.

but, of course, satoru has no intention of walking in a straight line, let alone staying quiet. he stops again, turning his head to you with a deeply perplexed look, like he’s trying to unravel the mysteries of the universe.

“wait… wait… there’s these kids,” he says, gesturing wildly, nearly knocking the clipboard off the counter.

“they’re always hanging around. the loud pink-haired one, the grumpy one, and the one who keeps yelling. who are they? why are they always following me?”

you sigh through a laugh, shaking your head as you guide him forward. “those are your students, satoru. yuuji, megumi, and nobara.”

his face lights up with recognition—or something close to it. “yuuji! yeah, yeah, the kid who talks to everything. I like him. he’s my pokemon.”

you snicker, struggling to keep him upright as he sways like he’s on a boat in the middle of a storm. “he is your student, not a pokemon,” you remind him gently.

he waves his hand dismissively. “nah, nah, he’s my pokemon.”

you shake your head, unable to stop smiling. “sure, satoru. whatever you say.”

“and megumi!” satoru perks up again, his eyes sparkling. “my little emo sunshine. I keep trying to make him smile, but it’s, like, so hard. do you think he’s broken?”

his voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, leaning closer to you. “should we fix him?”

you let out a small laugh, trying to keep him from stumbling as you approach the door. “I think megumi’s just fine, satoru.”

satoru gasps, clutching at your arm. “don’t tell me... he’s also your best friend? is he my rival?”

before you can respond, the door to the recovery room swings open, and standing in the hallway are yuuji, nobara, and megumi.

nobara is the first to spot satoru, her eyes widening before she bursts into uncontrollable laughter, clutching her stomach as she doubles over.

“oh my god, this is amazing!” nobara cackles, already pulling out her phone and aiming the camera at satoru. “I’ve been waiting for this day my entire life.”

yuuji grins widely, waving enthusiastically. “sensei! you okay?”

satoru beams at the sight of yuuji, grinning so wide that his swollen cheeks puff out even more.

“yuuji! my pokemon!” he tries to wave but nearly tips over, forcing you to steady him with both hands. “I missed you, man! when did you get here?”

yuuji looks bewildered for a moment. “pokemon?”

nobara is still laughing uncontrollably, already typing on her phone with one hand while recording with the other. “fushiguro, please tell me you’re getting this. this is gold!”

megumi, for his part, just stands there with his arms crossed, a sigh escaping his lips. but you can see the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, a rare sign of amusement.

meanwhile, satoru is now waving his arms around excitedly, turning back to yuuji. “we should totally start a band! you play drums, and I’ll sing. we’ll call it...gojo and the gojos!”

yuuji blinks in surprise, his jaw dropping slightly. “uh, what?”

nobara howls with laughter, her camera still rolling. “oh my god, this is going in the group chat. no, actually, this is going everywhere.”

megumi shakes his head, his expression caught between amusement and exasperation. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he mutters.

you sigh, shaking your head fondly at the absolute circus unfolding around you. “alright, superstar,” you say, gently pulling satoru toward the exit, “let’s get you home before you say anything else you’ll regret.”

satoru grins, his eyes half-lidded but still full of wonder, like he’s just discovered something miraculous. “home? with my wife? yes, please. best. day. ever.”

as you manage to pull satoru a few steps closer to the door, his weight leaning heavily against you, he suddenly halts.

you glance at him, bracing yourself for another round of his ridiculous, anesthesia-fueled revelations, but nothing—nothing—could prepare you for what comes next.

“wait,” he says, his voice low and serious, as if he's about to share the most critical, world-altering secret.

his glassy eyes look at you intensely, filled with wild determination. “I need to do something important before we leave.”

you blink at him, confused. “satoru, what could you possibly—”

before you can finish your sentence, he dramatically pulls away from you, somehow managing to stand on his own. with the grace of a baby giraffe on ice, he wobbles toward the center of the room, ignoring your protests.

“satoru—”

he shushes you loudly, a single finger pressed to his lips as he glances over his shoulder, his expression way too serious for someone who can’t walk straight.

“shhh. this is between me and the universe.”

you exchange a bewildered look with yuuji, who’s still watching in awe, nobara recording every second, and megumi now sighing deeply, clearly bracing himself for whatever absurdity satoru is about to unleash.

then, with absolutely no warning, satoru starts unbuttoning his shirt.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" you yelp, rushing forward to stop him, but you’re too late.

he rips his shirt open dramatically, buttons flying everywhere, revealing his bandaged, puffy cheeks, along with his very confused, bare chest.

“satoru—oh my god—”

but he’s not done. no, of course he’s not. he thrusts his arms out to the side, chest puffed out proudly, and yells at the top of his lungs:

“I AM A PEACOCK, WATCH ME SOAR!”

the room falls into stunned silence for a moment. nobara freezes mid-recording, mouth hanging open in disbelief, while yuuji’s jaw drops, eyes wide with sheer awe.

megumi, however, just buries his face in his hands.

“I cannot believe I know this man,” megumi mutters under his breath, his tone one of deep regret.

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[princessbellecerise]

Unlikely Places

Summary ✩ The unusual place your hotd lover likes to fuck you

Warnings ✩ Smut, straight up blasphemy (Aegon), semi-public sex

Jacaerys Velaryon

As the King, it’s not exactly wrong for the two of you to do it, but it does feel taboo every time you ride him on the Iron Throne

Every time you climbed on his lap, mindful of all the sharp points and swords, you couldn’t help but think that you’re breaking some kind of rule that doesn’t exist. After all, Jacaerys is the King and technically it is his seat. As the most powerful man in the realm, there’s no one for you to answer to after doing such an act but it certainly feels like you should

The first time that he asked you to do it, you thought that he was crazy. It was so unlike Jacaerys to do something so…risky, that you genuinely thought it was a prank at first

Only when realized you that your husband was completely serious did you really start to consider it

And you had to admit, the rush of power that you got as you bounced on your husband’s cock, riding the most powerful man in the most powerful seat in the realm was nothing like you’d ever experienced before

It quickly became your guilty pleasure to do so, never minding when Jacaerys summoned you to the throne room at such late hours

For you knew what awaited you when you climbed those steps, and each time you were filled with delicious anticipation to do it all over again

Aemond Targaryen

Ever since he was a child, Aemond had been absolutely fascinated by dragons

His obsession with those beasts was almost unnatural as his mother used to say, and you were quite inclined to agree as one day, Aemond tried to convince you to let him fuck you on top of Vhagar

Of course, the request had been so ridiculous that you genuinely thought your husband to be ill at first, maybe having contracted some disease during his many travels

Only when you saw Aemond’s confident smirk did you realize that it was indeed not a jest, and your husband really did want you to ride him on top of a fucking dragon

So there you were, thousands of feet in the air and praying that you didn’t fall as you straddled Aemond’s lap

You held onto him tight as your cunt sank down, your hips moving with his in the large saddle

Every kiss, every touch was concealed within the clouds, Vhagar flying steady while you rode your husband. The sound of her wings masked the pathetic way you cried for Aemond, filthy praises and words of encouragement being whispered in your ears as you soared across the skies

Aegon Targaryen

Aegon figures that if he’s going to hell anyways, he may as well have a little fun in his mortal life

What’s life without a little risk anyways, he figures. This is why he has no problem fucking you in the Sept of Seven, having you on your knees, naked in front of the statue of the Mother

Instead of praying to her though, you worship him. You praise his cock and the way it makes you feel so good—better than praying, really

The absolute trill of someone coming in and getting caught is like no other. Sometimes, Aegon even hopes that you’ll be discovered—preferably by his mother or that cunt of Septa that’s always preaching about sin and virtue

He imagines their faces as he fucks you from behind, taunting you and making you look directly at the statue when you cum around him

Aegon’s never really believed in the Gods much, but the way your cunt feels wrapped around him is heavenly

And to him, there’s truly no greater tasting sin

Daemon Targaryen

Otto Hightower had once called Daemon brazen, irresponsible, violent, arrogant, reckless and a second Maegor

He supposed that it was true, but still, Otto Hightower was a cunt in Daemon’s mind, and the Prince would do anything to get back at him

…Including fucking in his bed

In Daemon’s very weak defense, he hasn’t meant to, really

When he pulled you in a for a kiss, intending to take you quickly before he had to attend a meeting later in the day, he hadn’t been paying attention to where he pulled you

He just wanted to feel you, to touch you before he had to leave for the day

And what do you know—the place that he ends up brining you to fufill your hurried tryst was the fucking Tower of the Hand

Neither of you realize it at first, too caught up in each other to notice the amount of green, grey and white around you

It isn’t until you stumble onto the actual bed, Daemon fumbling to get your clothing off do you finally look up and you’re greeted by a portrait of Otto fucking Hightower on the walls

Alarmed, you immediately tell Daemon and it takes only a second to realize where you’ve accidentally stumbled

Of course, Daemon thinks it’s hilarious and even if you want to leave, a little creeped out at the thought of being fucked on the same sheets the Hand of the King sleeps on, Daemon is entirely too thrilled to leave

Once the idea is in his brain, it won’t be going any time soon

A mischievous grin grows on your lover’s face, and somehow, Dameon convinces you to let him take on Otto’s clean, perfectly folded sheets, loving the way you mess them up with your messy fucking

Of course, he’ll just blame the servants for all the mess, but now every time he faces Otto there’s always a knowing smirk on Daemon’s face, smug that the Hand will never know the dirty things said and done on the very mattress he sleeps on

Cregan Stark

Cregan was the Lord of Winterfell, and because of that he was allowed to eat where he pleased, train where he pleased…and fuck where he pleased

It was this that he reminded you of as he took you in one of the hot springs the castle had to offer, water splashing as your husband’s hips thrust into yours

He had you on his lap, your tits pressed against his warm wet chest as you bounced on his cock

The both of you were well aware that this was a public place and that anyone could stumble upon you, but that only spurred you on more

Honestly, seeing your honorable and kind husband act so reckless was a turn on in itself, loving the way Cregan grunted and didn’t care who heard him

He was lost in the feel of your cunt and the warm water which only added to the sensations

Add that to the trill of getting caught, and neither of you really lasted long when you fucked in the springs

Still panting and filled with your husband’s seed, you grinned as you ran a hand through his tangled hair

“Another day without being caught,” You said, slightly disappointed

Cregan shrugged. “Well, maybe we’ll succeed next time.”

Benjicot Blackwood

“Ben, not here! Someone could see us!”

“Then let them see. Let those Bracken cunts see how a real man pleases his Lady wife,” Benji whispered, and you couldn’t even deny that fucking right on the Blackwood-Bracken boundary line didn’t bring a kind of fire to your veins that you craved

Your lover had always been more shy and sweet than anything else, but you knew just how deep his hatred for the Brackens ran when he threw all of that away and fucked you so close to their territory

Deep, satisfactory moans left his lips as he rutted into you, the thrill of getting caught edging you both on like no other

You pressed against Benji, panting as his cock drove in out of you and hit your sweet spots over and over

All you could think about, all you craved was cumming around your husband’s cock while his enemies watched; and you did

Benji was beyond proud of himself as you moaned and let the entirety of House Bracken know what was happening. Let them know how good he was making you feel

He felt bad for the wives of those smug cunts as surely they’d never know such pleasure, but at least Benji knew that you couldn’t relate

The Brackens could say whatever they wanted about his family, but at least the Blackwoods knew how to fuck

And who knows, if they were watching, then maybe they’d even learn a thing or two from Benji

tags 🏷️

@alyssa-dayne

[badbtssmut]

Magic Stick

Jungkook is kinda sad because he has never been with a girl who could take him balls deep because of his size, reader doesn't believe him and she wants to see, but he tells her that he can't atm bc he's not hard. She is wearing this kinda halter top style with no bra so she looses the top and shows her tits to him and let's him touch them. After he's hard he shows her his dick and she says she's willing to try to take it all and she rides him into the sunset

Admin note: idea by anon

Contains: Big dick JK, handjob, some boobplay, missionary, riding, reader expresses that she is uncertain if it will fit, it takes some time getting it fully in ;), reader whimpers a bit, JK’s ex cheated on him, jk cums a lot

—

“What’s wrong with you?” You glanced over to your best friend, he has been in a horrible mood for a week and no one knew why. Not even your mutual friends knew what was up with Jungkook.

”It’s nothing.” He mumbled in response.

“Come on, I can tell something is bothering you.” You pushed.

"Fine. My girlfriend broke up with me.” He finally cracked.

"Wait, what?” You stood from the dining table, and inched closer to Jungkook who was sitting on the sofa. “Why’d she do that?" You question, shocked by the sudden news. "You two seemed so happy. What happened?"

"She… she was cheating on me.” He confessed.

"Are you fucking kidding me? What a bitch." You really couldn’t believe what you were hearing.

“Don’t blame her, I guess.” Jungkook said and shrugged his shoulders.

"Don't be silly. You’re too forgiving." You sighed.

"It's not that. The sex, my size— it just never worked out in bed. It was never a good fit." Jungkook confessed, a tinge of sadness in his voice.

"So, you're saying, she dumped you ‘cause of your dick size? The fuck? That's just shallow. Why would she do that?" You sat next to him.

"Yeah, it didn’t fit, literally. I’d hurt her, it wasn’t going to work out from the start. We tried a few times, but the whole experience was just awful. I guess she couldn't stand it anymore." He said, defeated.

“That doesn't make any sense, surely you aren’t that big? Are you sure she’s not just making excuses?” You couldn’t believe his ex would end things with him over his size.

"No, I am that big." Jungkook replied.

"Really?" You were skeptical.

"I've always had a big dick." He added.

"Show me."

"What?"

"Show me." You repeated. “I just want to know if you’re bullshitting or not.”

"No." He declined, looking at you as if you said the most ridiculous thing ever, clearly embarrassed by your request.

"Oh, come oooon, we are best friends. It’s not like I’ve never seen a dick before in my life." You rolled your eyes. "I'm not going to judge you, I promise. Just let me see."

"Fine." Jungkook sighed. "But… I’m not hard now.” He muttered.

“Will my boobs make you hard?“

“Hell yeah. You got great tits." He said, a bit too enthusiastic, as if he had been dreaming of the day you’d offer your tits in return to see his cock. You stood right in front of him, loosening the straps of your halter top. His mouth was slightly open, as he looked at you, completely mesmerized. You removed the straps from your shoulders and let the shirt fall to your tummy, revealing your breasts.

"Like what you see?" You teased.

"Yeah. Very much." He was nearly drooling at the sight.

"Want to touch them?"

"Fuck, yeah." He nodded, eager. You stepped closer and his hands were instantly on you. Squeezing your breasts, rubbing his thumbs on your nipples, taking it all in. When he was done caressing your tits with his hands, he started to suck and lick on them, at which you moaned softly, and the sound of it made him rock hard. He was definitely huge, you could see the tent forming on his pants.

"Are you sure you want to see it? It's… quite big." He was almost apologetic, as if his huge dick was some sort of inconvenience for others.

“I do, show me already.” You chuckled, not sure what he was being shy for.

"Okay." He nodded, unbuckling his belt, and lowering his jeans, together with his boxers.

Holy shit.

How was a dick that big even possible? You didn't even think that dicks like that actually existed. And it wasn't just long, but also thick. No wonder his ex broke up with him. You were pretty sure that dick wouldn't fit anywhere.

"Wow." You couldn't believe your eyes.

"Told you. It's big. You wouldn’t believe me." He shrugged.

"Can I touch it?" You asked, still unable to avert your eyes.

"If you want." He agreed, a little surprised but not put off by the idea.

You grabbed his dick and slowly moved your hand up and down his length, marveling at how big and heavy it was, how thick. His cock was truly impressive, and it seemed to get even bigger as you stroked him. You wondered what it would be like to take him.

“Wow. This is amazing. How can you fit this inside a girl?" You were truly impressed, and couldn't help but keep stroking his cock.

"I can't." He admitted, his breathing starting to quicken. “No girl can take it, they always start out confident but when it’s actually in… they can't take it. Not even halfway through. I have never met a girl that can take me all the way, even the ones that brag about having experience are not able to." He sounded dejected.

"I bet I can." You challenged him.

"No. You can't. There's no way." He scoffed. All of the girls said the exact same thing, and it never worked out, ever.

“Want to bet? If I can’t take it, I’ll give you 200 bucks.” You said, not convinced by his pessimism.

"200 dollars? That's a lot of money." He said, surprised by your proposal, but he shrugged. “But alright, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

—

"Are you sure about this?" He asked, for what seemed to be the hundredth time.

“If you ask me one more time… I will leave." You said, annoyed.

"Sorry. Just don’t want to hurt you." He apologized with a defeated sigh. It made you feel bad for getting annoyed, but Jungkook really had nothing to worry about.

You got this.

Jungkook held onto his cock as he pushed the head of it against your slick pussy lips. Your body tensed a bit, but he took his time, working on you slowly. You breathed deeply and relaxed, spreading your legs further as his shaft dragged against your sensitive skin. His cock was so hard and thick that it rubbed against every single inch of your folds.

Jungkook continued to move his hips back and forth, his errection dragging against your clit with each thrust. The sensation was amazing, and your body was trembling in pleasure, and he wasn’t even in yet.

The tip poked against your lower belly as he continued to rub the shaft against your pussy, his hips moving slow and steady.

“Want it.” You whined.

“Yeah?” He whispered.

"Yeah."

He lined himself up with your entrance, pressing the head against it. You tilted your head back, fuck, that was only the head, how could you feel this full already?

Jungkook began to slide his cock into your wet, aching pussy. His cock was stretching you out so wide, it felt incredible. He stopped when the head was all the way in, giving you a moment to adjust. Jungkook slowly pushed his cock deeper inside you, inch by inch. You could feel his cock filling up every inch of you, the stretch and pressure so intense, it was almost too much.

"Shit, you’re stretching me so good…” You moaned, as his cock kept going deeper.

"How are you taking it so well? I can't believe you can take it this far, pussy takes big cock so good, baby." He pushed in more, eager to fill you with every inch.

You couldn't speak, the sensations were overwhelming. It felt like your pussy was being stretched to its limits, and there was a pressure deep inside you that made your mind go blank.

Jungkook's cock was buried all the way inside you now. You were filled up completely, and it was the most amazing feeling you'd ever experienced.

"Don’t move,” It felt as if he would rip you in two if he pulled out even a little bit. "Not yet. Give me a minute." You whimpered, as you adjusted to his length and girth.

Jungkook nodded, kissing your neck, his hands cupping your breasts.

“This is how pussy feels, huh? Fuck, this is amazing. So tight, warm, perfect." He whispered against your ear, as he kept his dick deep inside. “It’s like my cock is being choked and squeezed, so good.”

“Told you… I could take it.” You said in a shaky breath, sitting up only to peek at where your bodies were joined, impressed to see how your body managed to take that monster cock in.

“You can move now." You gave him permission.

Jungkook started to move his hips back and forth.

The pressure from his dick was too intense, it felt like you were being split open, and you thought you were going to pass out from how good it felt. You held in your breath, unable to moan as you tilted your head back and closed your eyes, enjoying the feeling of his cock stretching you wide.

Whereas you were silent, Jungkook was grunting, groaning, panting, moaning, he couldn’t contain his pleasure. Jungkook was overwhelmed by the feeling of being buried deep inside you. His thrusts were slow and deep, his cock pushing against your inner walls, massaging them.

You opened your eyes and glanced at his face, he looked like he was in ecstasy, his mouth was open and he was moaning with every thrust.

His cock felt incredible, so big, so deep.

You had never felt anything like it before.

"I can't believe I'm fucking a pussy that can take my whole cock. Shit, it feels amazing. Pussy is so tight and wet. So fucking good. Never felt anything like it. Fuck!” Jungkook licked his bottom lip, picking up the pace.

Jungkook was pounding you now, his cock thrusting in and out of your dripping pussy, hitting all the right spots. Fuck, you were seeing stars, your whole body was on fire.

You couldn't stop yourself from screaming in pleasure. You spread your legs as far as you possible could, allowing him to thrust even deeper into you. Jungkook continued his relentless rhythm, his thrusts were hard and fast, the sounds of his cock slamming into your pussy filled the room.

The feeling of his dick filling you up was indescribable, it was pure bliss.

“Want to ride you, want to sit on that cock." You needed to feel in control, and you wanted him to watch you as you sat on his massive dick.

Jungkook pulled out and laid down on the bed, his dick standing straight up, and you couldn’t wait to take it all again.

You straddled his hips, hovering above his erection and you slowly lowered yourself down onto his cock, gasping as it slid into you, the pressure and friction sending waves of pleasure through your body.

Jungkook's hands were on your ass, helping you move up and down on his cock. He was thrusting his hips upward, matching your rhythm, driving his dick even deeper into you.

"God, you look so hot riding my cock. Never would’ve thought to see this.” He bit his lip, his eyes roaming over your body.

"So big…” All you could think of was how his cock felt inside of you, how shallow it might sound… you couldn’t even think of the person attached to it.

Jungkook was now holding onto your hips, pulling you down harder onto his dick. His thrusts were strong, and fast, and it felt so fucking good.

"Fuck, I can't last any longer. Gonna cum soon." His thrusts became erratic and he was moaning loudly, his whole body shaking. You rested your hands on his chest, grinding against him, trying to match his rhythm.

"Y/N… like that, love it just like that." He moaned, his breathing unsteady, his fingers now gripping into your thighs.

“Yes, yes…” You whispered, riding his cock, feeling your own orgasm build up inside of you.

“Ah!” Jungkook beat you to it, his body stiffened as his cum spurted inside of you, filling you up. He was gasping for air, his face was flushed, and his grip on your hips loosened, he ran his fingers through his hair as he squirted his cum deep inside of you. It was as if he had a never ending supply of cum, shooting spurt after spurt, his cock throbbing as it emptied its load inside you.

“Keep going, y/n, you didn’t come yet, I’ll stay hard, take what you need, keep going." He encouraged, his breathing still shaky, his dick was still hard, and it was pulsating inside you.

"Yeah." You whispered, continuing to bounce on his dick, the feeling of his cum inside of you and the sight of him beneath you, sweaty, breathing hard, his hair sticking to his forehead, was so incredibly sexy. The sound of your drenched in cum pussy sucking him back in was loud, his cock coated in your juices and the cum that was spilling out of you was bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

You leaned back, resting your hands on his thighs as you moved up and down, faster, deeper, until you were finally climaxing, your orgasm taking over your body. Your body shook and your eyes fluttered open and shut as the warmth spread through your whole body, you had never felt anything like it before. You could feel the hot cum leaking out of you, and it just kept coming.

Your hips slowed as you rode out your orgasm, and when it was over, you collapsed onto the bed, panting.

“Jungkook?”

“Yeah?”

“You owe me 200 bucks.”

[maikaartwork]

Artists, let’s talk about Instagram commission scammers

There’s been a huge rise in commission scammers recently, mostly on Instagram. A lot of new artists don’t know what to look out for, so I figured this might help people.

How they begin

Usually the scammer will write to you asking about a commission. Something deceptively cute - mostly I encounter asks about pet portraits, with one or two photos sent. They’ll probably try to sell you a sweet little story, like “It’s for my son’s birthday”. They will insist that they love your artwork and style, even though they don’t follow you or never liked a single piece of your art.

What to look out for:

Their profiles will either be private, empty, or filled with very generic stuff, dating at most a few years back.

Their language will be very simple, rushed or downright bad. They might use weird emojis that nobody ever uses. They will probably send impatient “??” when you don’t answer immediately. They’re in a crunch - lots of people to scam, you know. 

They’ll give you absolutely no guidelines. No hints on style, contents aside from (usually) the pet and often a name written on the artwork, no theme. Anything you draw will be perfect. Full artistic freedom. In reality they don’t really care for this part.

They’ll offer you a ridiculous amount of money. Usually 100 or 300 USD (EDIT: I know it might not be a lot for some work. What I mean here - way higher than your asking price, 100 and 300 are standard rates they give). They’ll often put in a phrase like “I am willing to compensate you financially” and “I want the best you can draw”, peppered with vague praise. It will most likely sound way too good to be true. That’s because it is.

Where the scam actually happens

If you agree, they will ask you for a payment method. They’ll try to get to this part as soon as possible. 

Usually, they’ll insist on PayPal. And not just any PayPal. They’ll always insist on sending you a transfer immediately. None of that PayPal Invoice stuff (although some do have methods for that, too). They’ll really, REALLY want to get your PayPal email address and name for the transfer - that’s what they’re after. If you insist on any other method, they’ll just circle back to the transfer “for easiest method”. If you do provide them with the info, most likely you’ll soon get a scam email. It most likely be a message with a link that will ultimately lead to bleeding you dry. Never, and I mean NEVER click on any emails or links you get from them. It’s like with any other scam emails you can ever get.

A few things can happen here:

They overpay you and ask for the difference to be wired back. Usually it will go to a different account and you’ll never see that money again. 

They’ll overpay you “for shipping costs” and ask you to forward the difference to their shipping company. Just like before, you’ll never see that money again.

The actual owner of the account (yes, they most likely use stolen accounts to wire from) will realize there’s been something sketchy going on and request a refund via official channels. Your account will be charged with fees and/or you get in trouble for fraudulent transactions. 

You will transfer the money from your PayPal credit to your bank account and they will make a shitstorm when they want their money back, making your life a living hell. They will call you a scammer, a thief, make wild claims, wearing you down and forcing you into wiring money “back” - aka to their final destination account. 

Never, EVER wire money to anyone. This is not how it’s supposed to go. Use PayPal Invoice for secure exchanges where the client needs to provide you with their email, not the other way around.

You can find more info on that method HERE.

What to do when you encounter a scammer:

Ask the right questions: inquire about the style, which artwork of yours they like, as much details as you can. They won’t supply you with any good answers.

Don’t let the rush of the exchange, their praise and the promise of insanely good money to get to you. That’s how they operate, that’s how they make you lose vigilance. 

Don’t engage them. As soon as you realize it might be a scam, block them. The sense of urgency they create with their rushed exchange, and pressure they put on you will sooner or later get to you and you might do something that you’ll regret later.

Never wire money to anyone. Never give out your personal data. Never provide your email, name, address or credit card info. 

Don’t be deceived by receiving a payment, if you somehow agree to go along with it. Just because it’s there now doesn’t mean it can’t be withdrawn. 

Here is a very standard example of such an exchange. I realized it’s a scam pretty fast and went along with it, because I wanted good screenshots for you guys, so I tried going very “by the book” with it. 

Please share this post, make it reach as many artists as possible. Let young or inexperienced artists know that this is going on. So many people have no idea that this is a thing. Let’s help each other out. If you think I missed any relevant info, do add it as an rb!

Also, if you know other scam methods that you think should be shared, consider rb-ing this post with them below. Having a master post of scam protection would AWESOME to have in the art community.

[dinogoofymutated]

For the Logan thirst: it’s laundry day. You’ve got nothing to wear but a pair of panties (or maybe that ugly thong you bought just bc it was on sale) and one of Logan’s flannels or shirts. You still end up with nothing to wear because you got side tracked. 👀 Logan totally didn’t go feral seeing you in one of his shirts. He was soo normal about it. 👀💚

NSFW! Wolverine/AFAB!FEM!reader.

This is the most depraved thing I've ever written I stg. I basically combined some tropes from a few different requests I received, so I hope this will satisfy everyone's thirst 😏

TWs: MDNI!!!! scent kink (my god). Nicknames "pretty girl" and "beautiful". Logan being feral. Manhandling. Eating-out. Little bit of edging. Fucking against the wall, PNV sex, biting, creampie.

    You hated doing the laundry. You hated gathering it, folding it, putting it away- it just was so slow. It left you with too much time to think- and you avoided doing it because of that- but this was getting ridiculous. You couldn't find a single clean shirt- you were lucky that you had managed to find underwear, Honestly. All of your pants were dirty too, which left you standing around in the bedroom halfway naked, finally deciding that you had no choice but to do the laundry.

    But you needed a shirt. It didn't matter if it was your own home- you just felt too vulnerable walking around the house basically naked like you were. You debate grabbing the bedcovers to sling over you, but that was going to be annoying to deal with while you're lifting and throwing shit in the laundry machines. A flash of red catches your eye on the top of your dresser. It's Logan's flannel. The one lounged around in yesterday while enjoying his day off.

    Well, it wasn't dirty, because he hadn't gone out in it. At most it just smelled like him. So… why not?

    His flannel is a bit oversized on you, reaching down towards your thighs. The sleeves were a bit awkward to work around, but you made it work. It was almost nice. Domestic even, to be wearing his clothes like this. You're in the laundry room when Logan gets home, still folding and sorting your laundry with both the washer and dryer running.

    “Fuck.” Logan's low grunt from the doorway startles you at first, almost dropping the clothes in your hands. It wears off pretty quickly though, and you give him a sweet smile.

    “Hey Logan! Didn't realize you made it home.” You say. Logan seems to be standing there stunned for a moment, swallowing. He catches you off-guard by rushing you, pulling you in by the hips and smashing his lips against your own. You can only let out a surprised noise, wide-eyed at him. It doesn't take long for you to kiss back, heart pounding from the welcomed surprise. Logan bites your lip, taking his opportunity to lick into your mouth when you gasp. His sharp canines were one of your favorite parts about him, and he sure as hell always made sure to take advantage of that.

    Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt as his hands move down, squeezing and fondling your ass and thighs. You let out a yelp as the fondling turns to lifting, and he grabs you by the thighs to plop you onto the washing machine rather roughly.

    “Laundry day?” Logan finally asks, looking at you with lidded eyes before his haze of lust returns. His gaze drifts towards the cleavage exposed from the neckline of his flannel, reaching much lower on you than it does for him. He's buried his face into your cleavage immediately, brushing the ends of his sharp canines on the skin as he nips and sucks a mark onto the top of one of your breasts.

    “Uh- uh-huh.” You stutter out, desperately trying to keep your composure. You bite your lip as Logan works his way back up to your neck, continuing to lick and suck on your most sensitive spots. He nips you a little harder than normal, and you accidentally let out a rather erotic moan. Logan's breath hitches at the sound, before he’s growling into you.

    He pulls away from you rather abruptly as he grabs onto your thighs again, causing your lower back to hit the top of the washing machine as Logan lifts your panty-clad core to his face, throwing your legs over his shoulders. He leans in, dragging his teeth bluntly across the fabric, putting pressure on your clothed clit. He kisses over it afterward, right before he presses his face flush against you and takes a deep breath in through his nose- taking in the scent of your arousal, drowning his senses in it as he makes you writhe.

    “Logan!” You scold, completely embarrassed- and yet still aroused. Wetness pools as Logan lets out a deep chuckle in response, his eyes flickering up to meet yours right before he locks one long stripe up your underwear. You're struggling to keep it together, covering your face in your hands as you let out another moan.

    “The things you do to me, pretty girl.” Logan rumbles, finally pulling off the now-soaked panties. “Fuckin’ love breathing in that scent.” You swear if you could pass away right now, you might. 

    “I-It's- the flannel, right? I -ah- didn’t realize that you'd get so feral over it.” You say, peeking through your fingers as Logan closes in on you again, licking another long stripe up your pussy. It's so much more sensitive now that fabric wasn't in the way, and you can't help but writhe a little more in the uncomfortable position as he stops at your clit, giving you a hard and short suck before he stops, chuckling again.

    “Believe me, beautiful, you haven't seen feral yet.” Logan's words give you goosebumps, and he latches onto your clit again immediately. Fuck, did it feel so, so good. Logan's groans and hums against your clit sound so obscene mixed with the wet noises from your cunt. His rough tongue draws circles around your sensitive clit, every once in a while sliding a bit downward to slide past your lips and enter your plush walls. You have one hand covering your mouth as the other clenches the side of the running washing machine- scrambling for purchase. 

    Logan's rough hands trail up and down the inside of your thighs, letting you whine and whimper for him- begging him to give you just a little more. He teases you, brushing his knuckles just barely above your slit as he continues to eagerly suck and abuse the little nub in his mouth. 

    When he finally slides a single, thick finger inside of you, you can't help but let out a loud whine. He meets no resistance against your soaked walls, slowly stroking it in and out of you. Your walls flutter and cling to the digit, your hips bucking as he curls it inside of you. The action makes Logan laugh, his other arm wrapping around your thigh so he can press down on your hips, keeping them still. 

    He adds a second finger when he feels like it, now easing off your clit every once in a while as he feels you begin to get closer to your peak. He edges you like that only for a minute, letting his fingers scissor and stretch out your plush walls. 

    “P-please. Please please please.” You beg. The knot inside of you is waning, desperately trying to snap- and you're so, so close. Logan continues to suck on your clit, finally bringing you to the precipice of pleasure. 

    Stars dot your eyes as you cum, Logan's fingers and tongue not letting up as he works you through your pleasure. Logan eagerly licks up your cum as you do so, humming and groaning at the taste.

    You're panting when your hips finally stop shaking. Logan is too. His face is covered in your slick, and he curses when he looks up at you. The sight of you disheveled and breathless in his shirt is really getting to him. Logan pulls you down off of the washing machine carefully, kissing your temples as he keeps you steady, just until your legs stop shaking. 

    “ You okay?” Logan asks.

    “Better than okay.”

    “Perfect.” The words are hardly out of his mouth before Logan has you pushed against the wall of the laundry room, tits pressed against the wall as his hand spreads your folds from the back, clearing the way for him as he pulls his cock out of his pants. Like before, it surprises you, but as soon as your brain has caught up with your body you find yourself pushing your ass against him. Logan chuckles at your desperate action, sliding his cock against your soaked folds before he slowly begins to enter you.

    You let out a loud moan at the feeling of his thick cock stretching you out. Logan is trying to keep himself still to give you a moment to adjust, cursing again and again as he presses his face into your neck, laying kisses across the skin. He feels so right, pressed against and inside you like this. You're making it so much harder for him by desperately clenching down on him, your hips grinding back and forth as you coax him to move. Logan snarls at the action, one hand gripping your hip and the other wrapping around your waist as he thrusts sharply into you. The movement bumps you into the wall, and he begins to thrust eagerly into you.

    “Fuck, hold on, pretty.” Logan's pace is forceful, but not rough, smoothly gliding in and out of your plush walls as he growls and snarls into your ear. His pace is steady and not overwhelming, hitting that sweet spot inside of you just right every time.

    You're a moaning mess right now, mind fully taken over by the hot man snarling behind you, the fabric of the shirt bunching between his fingers as he holds you by the waist so tightly. Logan's flannel has been rumpled during the action, sliding down to expose your shoulder. His voice in your ear rumbles encouragements, praise, pet names. His hips slap against your ass with every thrust, sharp in comparison to the gentle kisses he places on your shoulder. 

    You can tell Logan is starting to get close when the pace of his hips begins to waver and change, speeding up as he works to reach his pleasure. His hand around your waist slides down to rub your clit, and he pushes himself flat against your back as he presses the two of you flush against the wall. Logan lets out a series of low grunts as he slams into you, his teeth biting into your shoulder sharply as he cums. You yelp at the sensation, hitting your pleasure just a moment after he does. 

    Logan grinds against you a few more times as he catches his breath, kissing the mark he's left on your shoulder when the metallic scent of blood hits his nose.

    “Sorry, sweetheart.” He says remorsefully, hands soothing the bruises on your hips. “I didn't mean to get carried away like that” You turn your head as far as you can, cupping his cheeks in one hand as you pull him forward to kiss you.

    “ s’ okay. It was hot.” You mumble. You turn around when he slips out of you, leaning forward into his chest. Logan smiles at you tiredly, his thumb tracing the mark on your shoulder.

    “Although, if you want me to fully forgive you, you could always finish the laundry!”

[aquaticmercy]

Almost Kisses

Summary : Bucky's kisses have become a daily part of your life together, but it wasn’t always that way.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Reader (she/her) 

Warnings : very slight mention of food and mild cursing

Requested by : @buckys-wintersoldier

Word count : 1.8k

Note : This one was very fun! I was listening to Work Song By Hozier while writing this, so it's safe to say the song served as a bit of inspiration, too. I did say it would be >1k word blurb but I have once again got over the limit.

Requests are open!

Kissing you had become second nature to Bucky. Every morning when he woke up, every night before bed. It was part of his routine, it felt as natural as breathing. He kissed you when he passed you in the kitchen, when you laughed at something ridiculous, when you weren’t paying attention. He kissed you just because he could.

It was hard for him to remember a time before that, but once, kissing you had seemed impossible.

The first time the thought even crossed his mind, you were standing outside his apartment door, trying to get his attention. Sam had called you, worried about him after days of radio silence, days of ignoring texts and phone calls from both him and his therapist. 

Sam could get through to Bucky on most days, but on the really hard ones, when the weight of his past pulled him under the covers and refused to let him go, there was only one person who could reach him. You. 

Somehow, Bucky had imprinted on you in a way he never had with anyone else. Sam wasn’t stupid— he knew that Bucky was down hard for you. Hell, everyone who ever saw the two of you interact knew that Bucky was in love with you. Everyone except you.

Because love had to keep you blind like that, at least for a while.

"Bucky?" Your voice was soft that day, muffled by the door separating you from him. You knocked again, gentler this time. "I brought you pizza. Just cheese, no toppings—your favorite." You paused, like you were waiting for signs of life, anything, but the silence was deafening. You lowered your voice, a whisper now. "I cut off the burnt bits, the way you like it."

The door creaked open, just a sliver of light pouring in from the apartment. Bucky's figure stood in the shadow, his frame filling the doorway, but his voice was small and frail. "Extra cheese?"

"Of course, Buck." Your lips curved up knowing you’ve essentially made it in. You slipped inside the moment he stepped back. 

That night, you didn’t leave his side. You pulled him out of the dark waters he had drowned himself in. He told you about his nightmares, the memories that wouldn’t let him breathe. You listened, laughed when he cracked the odd dark joke, and cried while exchanging stories. Minutes blurred into hours, and eventually, you fell asleep beside him on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder. 

That was the night he realized what you did to him. You didn’t just pull him out of his pit of despair— you made him feel alive. Electric.

The next morning, you took a shower, borrowing one of his shirts since yours were dirty. Seeing you in his oversized clothes twisted something inside him, drove him insane with wild thoughts— he almost said something, but bit his tongue to stop the flow of words that would have been unstoppable. When you hugged him goodbye, he held on just a second too long, his arms tightened around you, hesitating to let go and wishing he could stay in the safety of your embrace forever. And for just a heartbeat, he stared at your lips. He almost gave in, almost kissed you right then and there, but he shoved the thought away at the last second. Why would you ever want to kiss someone like him?

The second time he almost kissed you was at the ice rink in Central Park. It was the holiday season, and this year Bucky realised that he didn’t need to spend it alone anymore. He invited you out, convincing himself it wasn’t a date— just two friends hanging out, doing friend things.  

You were hesitant, admitting you couldn’t skate and that the ice never seemed to agree with you, but he insisted.

"You can hold onto me," he teased, though he left out  telling you how much he wanted you to. Just to feel you close. Just for you to embrace him again.

"Buck!" you squealed when he picked up speed, your hands clutching his jacket tight around your fist in a death grip. "You’re going way too fast!"

He laughed, slowing to a stop in the middle of the rink. The moonlight between trees shrouded the two of you. You stumbled into his chest, your fingers curling into his coat. For a second, you didn’t move. You stayed there, taking in his scent. "What would I do without you?" you murmured into his chest, voice barely above a whisper.

In that moment, he realised that you weren’t just his friend out of pity— You made him feel wanted. Needed.

His hands found your cheeks, his thumb brushing lightly across your skin. He could almost taste how your lips would feel— soft, warm, perfect. His breath hitched, his body taking control. But then, just as quickly, he put his logical mind back in the pilot seat. He pulled away. Why would you want to kiss someone who’d been broken as many times as him?

The third time he thought about kissing you, he could’ve sworn you wanted it, too. You were on one of your usual runs and morning coffee— your ritual together. It happened once or twice a week when he wasn’t whisked away to some strange land for a mission. 

Bucky always slowed his pace to match yours. He didn’t mind since he could spend those extra moments near you. 

After the runs, you’d get coffee together. He talked about everything—his life in the 40s, his family, Steve, his friends from school. 

You gave him pieces of his humanity back with every conversation. With you, he felt more than a soldier— you made him feel more organic. Human.

He felt that, for once, he was more interesting than the winter soldier.

He then talked about wanting a small pet, maybe a dog, or a white cat. 

"What, am I not companion enough?" you had teased.

His ears burned, and the super soldier found himself stammering. "That’s not what I meant."

You laughed as you brushed coffee foam off his facial hair. The briefest touch and his heart started racing out of control.

He could've sworn you leaned in just slightly, almost instinctively. He wanted to kiss you. He needed to. But again, he pushed it down, convincing himself that the two of you were just friends. 

The day after, he found himself lying on the couch, thoughts spiraling. He couldn’t stop thinking about you— your lips, your laugh, your touch. He didn’t know what to make of it. The feelings ate away at his sanity, and they wouldn’t go away. For the first time, he asked himself the question he was too afraid to ask: was this how it felt to be truly, deeply, and desperately in love?

Then came the knock.

He opened the door, and there you were, looking as tired as he felt. Your hair was a mess, your clothes crumpled, and you looked like you haven’t slept since he saw you yesterday, but you were still so goddamn beautiful. You had this infectious wild energy, like you were on the edge of discovering the secret to world peace.

"I’ve been thinking all night," you said, stepping inside the gap he had open. That was how welcome you felt in his space, how comfortable he was with you. "If I’m wrong, this is going to be so embarrassing, but— three times. You almost kissed me three times."

Bucky blinked, caught off-guard.

"That night with the pizza, when I said goodbye," you continued, pacing around the room in deep thought. "The ice rink. And yesterday at the coffee shop." You held up three fingers at his face, your hands trembling slightly. "Three times is too much to be a coincidence. Three times is too much to just accidentally lean in. Please, tell me you’ve thought about it. Tell me you’ve wanted to kiss me because—" You stopped, looking into his beautiful eyes. "Because I’ve thought about it too."

Your voice was shaky. Bucky had never seen you so vulnerable, so uncertain. So hopeful.

"This is so embarrassing," you muttered, your voice now barely a whisper. But before you could say anything else, Bucky closed the distance between you. He grabbed you by the waist and kissed you, his lips capturing yours in a desperate rush. All the hesitations melted away from the tension in his muscles, and it was better than he’d imagined a thousand times. He didn’t know how it was possible, but you tasted even sweeter than he had dreamed. His hands tangled in your hair as you stood on tiptoes, clutching him as if he might slip away.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, you whispered in disbelief, "So I was right."

Bucky smiled, finger running along your skin, in a sensory attempt to remind him the was all real and not just one of his fantasies. "Only took you half a year to notice."

You laughed softly, melting into his touch. "I could say the same for you."

He chuckled, leaning down to kiss you again. "Shush," he whispered between kisses. He was addicted now. He needed his fix. He needed your touch, your warmth, your lips on his. Again, and again, and again.

And that was more than a year ago. Now, Bucky still couldn’t stop kissing you. If anything, it had only gotten worse, not that you were complaining.

He kissed you every chance he got. When you rolled over in bed, still half asleep, he kissed your forehead. When you stretched in the kitchen, reaching for a mug for your afternoon tea, he kissed the back of your neck. When you came home late from work, tired but smiling, he pulled you into his arms and kissed you breathless, as if you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

"Buck," you laughed, stopping his train of thought, playfully trying to squirm away as he pulled you onto his lap. "We’re supposed to be watching a movie."

His lips found the sensitive spot behind your ear. "But I’d rather kiss you."

You were powerless against him, as you always are. Laughing softly, you said, "You know, you kiss me every day. Aren’t you tired of me yet?"

He pulled back just enough to look at you, reminding himself of how lucky he was that he had you here. That if it wasn’t for you storming into his apartment in a frenzy with a theory, you wouldn’t be here in his arms. "Never." His voice was so soft, making your breath hitch.

You were about to say something smart, but Bucky stopped you with another kiss, his lips gentle and loving, yet there was such a fiery passion beneath. You curled into him, his warmth wrapping around you like a blanket. When you finally pulled away, you were both breathless, the movie long forgotten.

He stared at you, thumb brushing the side of your face, as if memorizing every detail. "I’m never gonna stop kissing you," he whispered, pressing his forehead against yours. His voice was a little rough, his throat dry from the taste of you. "I don’t think I could, even if I tried."

And you believed him.

-end

[sehnsuchts-trunken]

(Don't You) Steal My Thunder

my tyler owens playlist 🤝 inspiring fic titles

Tyler Owens x fem!reader  7k words

summary: Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. But he's set on getting you on his good side. And the more you get to know him, the less you can resist.

a/n: i had to research sm car stuff for this it's not funny. i now know exactly how to describe a truck bed though, so. that's fun.

again, my inbox is wide open <33 i don't guarantee anything, but you can always come talk to me or request smth

masterlist | twisters masterlist

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met.

He prints his face on t-shirts, writes his autograph on mugs, comes up with ridiculous sayings ("Not My First Tornadeo" and "If you feel it, chase it" are really just the tip of the ice berg) and most importantly, he costs you the best shots of tornadoes every goddamn time.

Tyler Owens is a problem.

And Tyler Owens seems to have actively decided to make himself a problem too.

Which would be fine, if he flipped you the bird or told you to fuck off or threw his paper towels at you. Unluckily, those are rather examples of what you have done to him. Because it's not fine, not at all - no, Tyler Owens has decided that it's not enough to be in your way all the time, he has to seek you out and rub your nose in it.

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. He's cocky and he's arrogant and he's entirely too full of himself. He brags too much and calls you "weather girl" too often. He gets under your skin more than you would ever admit.

And, as if all of that isn't enough - Tyler Owens is the very epitome of handsomeness.

It's like god didn't just have a good day when he created Tyler Owens, no, god must have still been in the post-haze of the best head he'd gotten in his whole immortal life when he'd created Tyler Owens.

Because Tyler Owens has the body of a greek god and the face of a Hollywood actor. He's not a pornstar, he's who pornstars worship. He's the Prince Charming little girls dream of and the Christian Grey grown women lust for.

Tyler Owens looks like everything you've ever wanted.

But he's just such a fucking asshole.

You wish you could say you didn't care. You'd love to be the kind of woman who didn't even acknowledge him. But you're not. You're not. You watch his videos when you can't sleep, you chuckle when you happen to overhear his jokes, you ogle his back when he's turned away from you. Sometimes, you get so lost in staring at him that you realise too late when he turns back around, and then you have to act unbothered when he grins his fucking grin at you. That's mostly when you flip him off, desperately fighting to ignore the heat in your cheeks.

Not like it stops him. You honestly feel like it only spurs him on.

Something has to seriously be wrong with him. It's not his face. But something is seriously wrong with him, you're sure of that.

Something has to be wrong with him. No sane person would ever go tornado wrangling. No hate to the rest of his crew - they're nice, you've managed to hold a few pretty normal conversations with them here and there - but none of them are sane either.

Storm chasing is different. You keep your distance. All you need are a few well-placed photographs - and those you can get from a rather safe number of miles away. The weather channel doesn't care about close-ups (not really, anyway). They want something to show the people on their comfortable couches, up in New Hampshire or Maine, so that all of them can say to each other "What poor folks, wouldn't wanna live there" and nod in pity as they switch the channel to watch another blockbuster.

You're just doing your job.

The only problem is that it's hard to do your job properly when there's always that fucking red truck in the way, driving down empty roads right into the heart of the tornado. And because no one on the news wants people to see that and go "Well, can't be too bad if there's still cars on the streets!", in the last few months - ever since you'd volunteered to move back to Oklahoma 'So that we've got someone right in Tornado Alley and don't have to fly people out there every time' - the weather channel has only shown the first few minutes of tornadoes forming. The rest of your pictures and videos lie abandoned in the trash file on your laptop. Except for a few - a very, very few, very, very good pictures of Tyler Owens and his Tornado Wranglers. But those won't ever see the light of day either.

You'd be damned if you let anyone know that while Tyler Owens is busy disturbing your actual work, you're busy taking pictures of him shooting fireworks into tornadoes. Pictures that would make for some damn good headers (if you hadn't buried them far, far down your gallery).

This time is no different. You get a few amazing shots of the tornado forming – surely an EF2, maybe even an EF3 - before you settle in the driver's seat again, your window rolled down and your camera hung around your neck as you push down on the gas. Then, a few miles further, you get even better shots of the full tornado, of the first few minutes of destruction, right there, in the middle of an empty field.

And as always, of course, just as the tornado takes on full form, you spot that familiar red truck through the lens of your camera. It speeds down the pavement right in front of where you’ve swerved onto the side of the road and you snap a few pictures, just because you’ve got the trigger right underneath your finger. Honestly, something about that dirty red paint against the grey skies just looks too good not to capture. But then the truck comes closer and closer and starts to slow down and you let your camera sink.

Tyler has his window rolled down already when he stops the car. There’s that annoyingly handsome grin on his lips, the one that makes you want to slap him across the face.

“You’re too far away, weather girl”, he calls out above the rumble of distant wind and thunder. “The good pictures are down that way.”

“The good pictures are right here.” You lift your camera at him. “Maybe you just need to update your equipment.”

Tyler’s grin widens, but before he can throw another of those obnoxious retorts your way, Lilly’s voice rings out through the car.

“Hey, T, looks like it’s changing course. You should hurry.”

His eyes are still glued to yours, still glued so firmly to yours that it makes your skin crawl. You can’t look away, couldn’t possibly look away. Tyler Owens might just be a cocky asshole, but you’re only human. And the weight of his gaze on yours is enough to keep you stuck in place, clutching at your camera.

“We’re on our way, Lilly”, he drawls without looking away from you. “See you around, weather girl.”

The rest of the pictures you take land in your trash file with all the other pictures of the last few weeks. You’re laying in bed, your laptop propped up against a pillow, the empty plate from dinner on the mattress next to you as you sort through today’s work. That’s the good thing about the time difference – you’ve got until seven to send the channel the day's results.

By nine, you’ve showered, put on a dress you feel confident in and settled on one of the chairs at the local bar. You’ve been telling yourself you need to get out a little bit more – you’ve been living here three months now and you haven’t really made any friends so far. To be fair, your job has kept you out and about most of the time. You’ve spent more hours at gas stations to fill up your tank than you have in your own home. But now you’ve decided to put an end to that. You're a young woman in a new town, you can meet more people than just the cashier at the local supermarket.

So for the past twenty minutes, you’ve been nursing a mojito at the counter and talking to the bartender. She’s nice, she’s your age, she’s extroverted enough to keep sidling up to you after every time she has to excuse herself to do her job. That, and she tells you she’s grown up here, so she knows most of the people around. She’s just serving another customer – a long-haired, brown-eyed, hat-wearing country guy who’s already shared a smile or two with you – when someone rests their arm on the countertop next to you.

“Didn’t expect to see you here”, he drawls, all low, deep Southern accent and you recognise his voice before you’ve even tilted your head up and looked at him. His grin drips down onto his words and wraps itself around your mind.

Tyler Owens isn’t just annoying – he’s unbelievable. He's unbelievable and he’s here.

“So you’re stalking me now”, you say, as drily as you can possibly manage. You've been doing that a lot around him. Dead-panning everything. Schooling your expression into fake neutrality.

"I'm here all the time, weather girl", he grins. "If anything, you're stalking me."

You snort, but it's rather unfunny when you think of all the videos you've watched, hours after they'd been livestreamed, cuddled up in your bed until midnight just to stare at his face. He's not that far from the truth.

"In your dreams, Owens", you say anyway, dragging your eyes back towards your almost empty cocktail glass. You wrap your lips around your straw and drain your drink entirely. What you say and what you do, none of that matters in the end. All of this is just show. Every conversation you've had with Tyler Owens in the last three months has been nothing but a performance. Other than your name, you don't think a single sentence out of your mouth has been honest. Not when it comes to him.

"Let me buy you a beer" is the only answer you get.

His grin widens when you look back up again - so cocky, so unbelievably cocky.

"I don't drink."

You push your glass an inch further down the bar top. Tyler raises his eyebrows. Fuck, someone really needs to kick him in the face. You can't keep having all these little heart attacks whenever he's close enough that you could touch him if you wanted.

Not that you want to.

"You're drinking right now", he says. You rest your palms against the bar top and blink at him.

"I don't drink with you."

He lets out a chuckle, one of those deep ones that settle right in your chest and make it hard to swallow.

"Just this once?", he asks and in all honesty, for just a second there, you actually consider giving in. He's too handsome for his own good. You really need to get it together. He's an ass (what an ass, goddamn). And he's insane. He's an insane ass. Sometimes you have to remind yourself of that - those times like now, when his piercing eyes and his kissable lips and his rugged stubble and his broad, broad shoulders and his drawled voice overshadow everything else.

"Don't you have some livestreaming to do?", you ask, hoping it still comes across just as sarcastic when you're the slightest bit distracted by how gloriously tight the sleeves of his flannel are. "Go chasing tornadoes, not me."

His grin widens inexplicably further. You're sure that if you were in a comic, there'd be a lightbulb flashing above his head right about now.

"Well", he drawls, "if you feel it..."

"Don't you do that shit to me, Owens."

He's raising his eyebrows again, raising his eyebrows as you clasp your hand around your empty glass so hard your knuckles turn white. But you're serious. Just as you'd lost yourself in the view of him, that angelic, sinful view of him, he'd gone and reminded you why you were so adamant to keep your distance. If you feel it, chase it. Ridiculous. Obnoxious. He's an arrogant, know-it-all, suicidal job-wrecker. He's the guy with cameras pointed at him everywhere he goes. He signs mugs and selfies and hats and shirts and bras. He's the reason you haven't gotten a single un-edited shot of a fully formed tornado in the last three months.

"You're not a fan of my catchphrase, weather girl?"

He can't even pretend to look wounded (even though he tries) with how big the grin on his lips still is. You stare right at him, dead-eyed and unflinching.

"I'm not a fan of you."

Lies slip off your tongue so easily by now that you wonder when you'd become morally compromised enough to not even care anymore. It must've happened somewhere along the way, sometime between the first conversation you'd had with him and the one you're having with him right now.

"You wound me", he grins, his palm pressed to his chest.

For the first time tonight, you allow yourself to grin back at him.

"I try."

With that, you slip off your chair and wave the bartender goodbye. You're already two steps away when Tyler calls after you.

"I'd still buy you a beer."

"I'm still not drinking with you", you call back. You don't turn around again. You just make your way back to your car and mark the evening as a half-successful night of socialising on your to-do list.

...

You see him again first thing the next day. Of course. Because there's no tornadoes without the Tornado Wranglers on their tail. By now, you're used to it. You wave at Dani as they come back out of the store at the gas station you're waiting at. They've got both arms full of coffees and for a second, you consider offering your help, but then you hear Tyler shout something out of his car and you suddenly don't feel any desire whatsoever to get up. You've sat yourself down in your truck bed, your camera slung around your neck and the radar on your lap. If all goes right, you're hoping for a tornado to form a little to the east from here. And as much as you dislike Tyler Owens, the fact that he's here soothes your nerves. Where he goes, there's sure to be tornadoes close by.

The few times you hadn't seen him had never ended well for you. You'd missed an EF3 your second week here just because you'd followed the wrong hunch. Meanwhile Tyler, of course, had been in the middle of it.

This might just be the one singular situation that you welcome seeing his red truck around. As long as you can manage to overtake him on the road after.

It's not that you need to be faster. You don't need to reach the tornado first. You don't even take the same way as him most of the time. He wants in there, you just want a sensible picture. Still, you can't help but feel a pang of disappointment every time you hit the brakes and jump out of your car, miles away from the actual cell as Tyler speeds down towards it. You've been telling yourself that it's because he ruins your pictures. It kind of is.

"Hey, weather girl!"

You let out a resigned breath as you tilt your head up and squint against the sun. He's still in his truck, his window rolled down, his elbow propped up against the car door.

"What do you want, Owens?"

Your fingers itch to reach for your camera. It's a visual, him in that fucking car, leaning out of his window with the sun peaking out behind him. But you can't, you can't take a picture of him this openly. Even if you were to argue that it's just the light you'd wanted to capture.

"To give you some advice", he calls out, his lips pulling into a grin. You raise your eyebrows at him. "East isn't gonna work out. Wind's changing. Go south."

He throws you a mock salute and hits the gas before you can say anything else.

Not that you'd been about to.

Instead you just curse to yourself, jump off the truck bed and throw your treacherous technology into the passenger seat with a little too much vigor. Fuck this. You sit at the steering wheel and stare out at the sky for exactly two seconds before you make your decision. Then you start your car and drive south.

You may not be a fan of Tyler Owens, but you've long since admitted to yourself that this man has got a gift. He has an unbeatable instinct when it comes to storms. And sure, you have your fair share of knowledge, but in the end, you're a photographer, not a meteorologist. You won't miss a day's work just because you're too proud to listen to Tyler.

You're a little further behind, but you can spot his truck and guess that he's driving straight on into the cell today, so you take a right and decide to try your luck with the side of the tornado. Not being right in its path doesn't sound too bad anyway.

You actually manage to snap a few well-placed pictures. You don't know what Tyler's doing, but it seems like he's not shooting random shit up the cell today. You'll watch the stream later - you're just the slightest bit curious now what's happening with them. Maybe they're doing some old-school chasing? Or maybe they're doing a challenge. Maybe Tyler is driving blindfolded. At this point, who knows.

It's good for you though. It's a considerable tornado today, an EF2 at least, and you only spot Tyler's red truck again when the cell moves further down the fields, away from him. It doesn't look like it's gonna disappear anytime soon. Maybe today's your lucky day.

Half an hour later, you're sure you've got at least a dozen pictures of the fully formed tornado, long touched down and without the red truck in the way.

You're just packing up your things, already sifting through the photos on your camera, squinting against the sunlight, trying to both tug the zipper of your bag closed and hit the right buttons at the same time when Tyler pulls up next to you.

"You look busy, weather girl", he says, already grinning that damn grin again.

"I am", you say - truthfully, for once. You let go of your bag and lower your camera. You're hesitant, but... "Thanks for the tip."

"Anytime", he grins. "Just do me one favour."

You already know this can't be good. Not with that cheeky look on his face. But he'd just saved you from chasing hot air (quite literally), so he deserves a little treat. And you don't want unsettled scores with Tyler Owens.

"I want to know what favour that's supposed to be before I agree", you say anyway, because with him, you can never be too careful. And in the end, you're only willing to do so much. (Though for him, you'd already do a lot more than you'd admit. A lot more than you hope he's aware of.)

"Let me buy you a beer", he says, and for once, he sounds serious.

The memory of yesterday night flashes before your eyes, of those same words at the bar. With him so close, way too close - with that grin and that stubble and that voice and those shoulders. You cross your arms and stare at him.

"If you're livestreaming this, I'm gonna sue your ass so hard."

He just lets out a chuckle and raises his hands in surrender.

"Cameras are off, I swear."

You stare at him for another silent ten or so seconds. At him in that fucking truck that looks just a little too good in your pictures. At him and his fucking face. That fucking face that you certainly wouldn't mind sitting on, if just to shut him up.

God, he's asking you to drink something with him. He's asking to buy you something to drink with him. You're stupid.

You're so, so stupid.

"Alright, cowboy", you say, uncrossing your arms and reaching for the handle of your car door. "I'll humour you."

...

You're in the bar again by nine that night, the same way you had been the day before. You're wearing a different dress and there's a different bartender, but you've ordered the same mojito and chosen the same place to sit.

Only this time, you're actively watching the door. And when Tyler strolls in, you've got to shift around in your seat and cross your legs. You don't even pretend you're not staring. You just ogle him openly. Not for the first time ever - you'd checked him out very obviously when he'd strutted towards you to introduce himself three months ago - but definitely for the first time in a while. And god yeah, he's a hunk of a man, alright. If you had your camera here right now...

But you don't. So instead, you drop your eyes to his feet (brown leather boots), drag them up his legs (blue jeans), over his chest (red checkered flannel), over his face (god, what you wouldn't give-) and finally rest them on the cowboy hat on top of his head.

When he's close enough to hear you, already grinning, of course, probably at how you're actually sitting there in the same spot as yesterday and hadn't just lied to his face about coming here, you raise your eyebrows at him.

"A cowboy hat?", you ask, your voice as unbothered as you can possibly manage (even though you're very, very, very much bothered right now). His grin only widens.

"Ladies love country boys", he drawls with a shrug.

"Now that's straight out of a song", you say. "You're getting lazy, Owens."

"A song?", he asks. "No, that's an Owens Original."

You pull your eyebrows even further up.

"Ladies love country boys? Trace Adkins?"

"Nope. Not familiar."

But his grin tells you that he's lying. He's a liar. He knows very well where he got that line from. And he knows just how easily he got under your skin with his simple trick. As if his face isn't enough already.

You just shake your head and turn away from him.

"Put your money where your mouth is, Owens. Buy me a beer."

...

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. But he's also a great conversationalist.

The hours fly by as you're talking. One beer turns into two, then into an uncountable number of soft drinks. You both agree that you need to drive home, neither of you is willing to risk a run-in with the police. You need your drivers license for your jobs.

Tyler talks to you about the pictures you've taken today, then about the pictures from last week. He laughs when you blame him for ruining half of them and almost spits out his coke when you slap his arm for laughing at you. He tells you about his crew, about the people they've helped with the money from their dumb t-shirt sales. You think you hate him less by the minute. You're not sure if you're okay with that. But he gets you talking about your childhood and your parents, about school and college and about how you've wound back up here in Oklahoma. That effectively distracts you.

That, and how his cocky grin morphs into a genuine smile the more you open up.

Not that you didn't love the cocky grin. You did, just a bit. As obnoxious as it was. But the way he smiles at you all sweet has you melting right in your spot.

It's not the first time you realise that beneath all that rough exterior, there beats a heart of gold. You've known what those t-shirt sales are for, that he offers food and water after a tornado hits a town, that he carries the injured out of the ruins of their houses and helps find lost dogs. The more you've been around him in the past weeks, the more you've seen of his soft side. Of the way he cares and supports. But in the end, it always is easier to go back to the status quo - to fall back onto mindless snark and fleeting first impressions.

You'd clung so desperately to the image of him as this arrogant, smug, holier-than-thou influencer god for the sole purpose of keeping your own sanity. Because you'd known that without despising him, you would fall head over heels for Tyler Owens, and you just couldn't have that.

But now, with his arm brushing against yours and his hat discarded on the bar top and his smile, that beautiful, beautiful smile on his lips...

"Five bucks", he drawls, already reaching for his wallet.

"What?"

"Five bucks says there won't be a tornado tomorrow."

You raise your eyebrows at him, your glass hovering in mid-air between the two of you. You'd meant to take a sip, but now you're setting it right back down on the bar top.

"You're shitting me."

Tyler just shakes his head. He's grinning again, but it's much softer this time around.

"The winds are looking great. The forecast says it's gonna be the best conditions for tornadoes we've seen in the last six weeks. I've heard Dexter talk about how we're probably gonna see an EF4 tomorrow", you tell him, even though you're sure he's well aware of all of it. This is Tyler Owens, for god's sake. He knows about the winds and the forecasts. He knows that his crew is making preparations already.

His grin only grows. And it's smug now. It's cocky now. It's everything you thought you'd left behind during this conversation. He looks like the Tornado Wrangler again, like the guy who fucks up your pictures and makes your job harder than it already is.

It takes you a second too long to realise why.

"Dexter said that on our live", he grins, as if he can't quite believe what he's hearing. You physically recoil from him. "Do you watch our streams, weather girl?"

"No", you breathe, rigid and frozen, shocked to your very core. No, no, no, no, this cannot be happening. This cannot be happening. You'd... You hadn't made that mistake. He hadn't got you to make that mistake.

"Dexter talked about tomorrow on our live", Tyler says again, straightening his back and grinning down at you like he's just uncovered the lost grave of Cleopatra. "Only on the live. You watched our stream."

"No", you mutter, your eyes wide and your mouth dry, so dry. You need to drink. You need to drink so badly. "No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did. You watched our stream, honey."

The petname runs down your spine and clogs your senses. Honey. Oh, he's an ass, he's an asshole! But you're on the spot, you're on the spot and he's calling you honey, honey, honey. You can't do anything but watch as he leans closer to you, grinning down at you like it's his one true purpose on this earth, like he wants to eat you alive.

"I'd say you watch our streams pretty regularly, weather girl."

You swallow hard and clasp your hand around your glass.

"Yeah?", you breathe, hoping against all hope that your voice sounds somewhat innocent. You're sure it doesn't. You know it doesn't. You probably sound as guilty as you are, but... Hope dies last. Hope always dies last. "Why would you say that?"

"Just a hunch." He shows off those pearly fucking whites for you. "Call it an instinct. I'm usually right."

He is.

He's right now. He's right usually.

Him and his fucking instinct. His goddamn gut feeling about tornadoes, always right all the fucking time. He's like an Oklahoma Jesus. The first coming of Tornado Christ.

Fuck him.

Fuck him.

"I'll take your bet." You drain your glass at once. "Give me your five bucks, Owens."

You don't think it'll work. You don't think he'll let you distract him. You don't think it'll be this easy to stop his vile teasing. He's not the type of guy to let something go. He's not the type of guy to let anything go ever. But he looks at you and he grins at you and he trails his eyes over your face and then he opens up his wallet and pulls out five dollars without another word.

He puts the bill flat on the bar top.

But when you go to reach for it, he pushes his fingers down.

"The price just went up", he says.

You raise your eyebrows and let your hand sink again. Tyler is absolutely unpredictable. You should've known.

"The price just went up?", you repeat. He nods. "What more do you want to bet?"

He's closer now, closer all of a sudden. He's too close, close enough to make your breath hitch. He's looking down at you with that cocky, cheeky grin, with his weirdly green eyes, with his three day stubble and his generally much too symmetrical face. You can't do anything but look back up at him.

"A kiss", he says. Simple as that.

A kiss.

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. He is. Truly. He's annoying and way too full of himself and much too presumptuous. Tyler Owens is the only man who would ever do something like this. The only man who'd bet a kiss on whether or not there will be tornadoes tomorrow.

Especially with that forecast.

The one that says a tornado is basically inevitable.

"Alright", you say. He may be Tyler Owens, the guy with an infallible instinct - but he is also Tyler Owens, the guy who's been doing his hardest to get under your skin. This time might not be any different. For all you know, he's bluffing to rile you up. "I'm in."

...

At eleven the next day, you're standing next to Dexter in resigned silence.

"I really thought today was gonna pan out", you mutter.

"It should have", Dexter frowns, tapping against the screen in his hands. "It should have worked out. The conditions should have been perfect. Everything's been building the last few days."

"But it collapsed this morning."

You turn your head and watch as Tyler comes to a stand next to you, arms crossed, eyes locked on the clear sky up above. He tilts his head to you and grins. Fuck, he's wearing his goddamn hat again. It's like he doesn't even try to be normal.

"Hey, weather girl", he greets. "Ready to cash out your bet?"

You shake your head at him. No, you're not giving up this easily. You never give up this easily.

"The day's not over yet, Owens. You haven't won 'til midnight."

...

You spend most of the next hours sitting in your truck bed, reading a book you'd thrown into your backseat weeks ago and had so far neglected. Lilly hands you lunch around two, Dani offers you a coffee around five and Boone pipes up here and there to joke about the wasted day. Around six, Dexter comes by to let you know they're calling it.

You still have another hour to go. By seven, it'll be too late to send your pictures anyway. But you want the hour. You need the hour.

You still haven't decided what to do about Tyler. About Tyler and his fucking bet.

He's been loitering the whole day, walking by, joking around with his crew, livestreaming a spontaneous q&a just because.

And the more minutes tick by, the harder it is to keep ignoring that you've most definitely lost the bet. Even though you do your best. You read, you check your phone. You stare at your radar. You stare at the weather forecast. You talk to Dexter and Dani and Lilly and Boone. You take a few pictures of the sky. Then you take a few pictures of Tyler, standing some feet away from his truck and looking out at the clouds.

It's only when two of three Tornado Wranglers cars are disappearing down the road, when Tyler Owens suddenly stands in front of your truck bed, that you put down your book and face reality.

"No tornadoes in sight", he says, instead of 'Hello' or 'How are you' like any other person would.

"There's still six hours left", you reason. Even if only one of those is relevant for your job today.

"You really want to wait out six hours to prove I'm right?"

"You're not right", you argue. It's fruitless, it's stupid, it's unreasonable. But... "Not yet, anyway."

Tyler raises his eyebrows at you, lets out an amused chuckle and leans against the side of your truck bed.

"Alright, so we wait."

You eye him from the side. He's fucking leaning against your truck, staring out at the sky, talking about six hours. Goddamn. He can't be serious, can he? His crew is already gone. They've disappeared into the descending sun and he's talking about waiting another six hours. Leaned against your car.

"Fuck's sake, Owens", you sigh, scooching over to the right. "At least sit down then."

You don't talk much at first. You just open your book back up again and try your hardest to ignore that he's even here at all, barely two feet away from you on the other side of your truck bed. If you stretched your leg, you'd hit him right in the hip.

It makes reading close to impossible.

Even though he's not doing anything at all. He's just sitting there, one arm propped up on the side board, that goddamn cowboy hat on his head and his feet hanging off the opened tailgate. It's almost worse that he's not doing anything.

That he's just sitting there and watching the sky change.

You give up on reading entirely when you realise that you've finished exactly five pages in half an hour. Instead, you put your book back in the car, pull out your bluetooth speaker and two water bottles and offer Tyler one of them.

You don't even ask him what music he wants to listen to. You just put on your country playlist and roll with it. By the twitch of his lips, you know he certainly doesn't mind.

Another half hour later, it's starting to get chilly and you're beginning to grow bored of the music. Tyler sitting next to you makes you fidgety, somehow, and you can't really enjoy the songs you usually love so much. So you switch to a podcast. You don't ask Tyler if he minds. He's free to go anytime.

Around eight, the sun starts to set, and the chill turns into an unpleasant cool. You hadn't really expected to be sitting out here so long. You're not prepared for the temperature to drop. You're wearing shorts, for god's sake, shorts and a top. It's summer in Oklahoma - you don't know how Tyler even manages to survive in his long jeans. You certainly wouldn't.

But now you're a little jealous, to be honest. He doesn't look cold in the slightest while you're fighting off shivers. You can feel your hands trembling already.

You really should've brought a jacket. But who brings jackets in 30 degree summer weather?

So instead, you just resign yourself to your fate and rub your hands along your arms. Anything to get some warmth into your body.

For the first time since you've sat back down, Tyler turns his head and looks at you.

"You're cold", he says, eyes raking over your arms and the goosebumps you'd gotten.

"Great observational skills, Sherlock Holmes", you deadpan, even though he doesn't really deserve that. He had so far left you pretty much alone. "A+ on that assignment."

Well, it's hard to break bad habits.

Tyler just chuckles, shakes his head and pushes off of the truck bed. You watch, eyes narrowed, as he walks back to his own car, opens up the trunk and- pulls out a blanket?

Your hands have sunken down to your lap all by themselves by the time he's standing in front of you again, holding out the blanket.

"For you, Watson", he grins as you slowly, carefully take the blanket from him. You mutter something along the lines of a soft 'Thank you' before you wrap the blanket around your arms.

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. But he's also the very definition of "Tough on the outside, soft on the inside". Sometimes, you think the word 'angelic' works for more than just his divine looks.

Your eyes are glued to him as he sits back down next to you and looks out at the darkening sky with that signature grin on his lips, like he knows that you're watching him and enjoys it more than he should. That doesn't deter you though. For the very first time. You don't even stop staring when he turns his head back to you. You don't even stop staring then.

You just look at him until his grin crumbles. Until he's smiling that smile from yesterday night, the one that has your heart squeezing together and then exploding in your chest. You think you could stare at that smile for the rest of eternity and never feel sated.

"What?", he asks, his voice so soft it makes you swallow. Your lips part, but there's no words on your tongue, none in your throat. They're stuck in your chest somewhere, wrapped around your heart so tightly that you can't let them go even now. So you just press your lips together, wrap your blanket tighter around yourself and say:

"So I'm Watson, yeah?"

Your podcast is long forgotten by the time the sky turns dark. So dark that you make Tyler climb into your car and turn on the lights. You're comfortable in your blanket, you don't feel the need to move.

It's around ten when the blanket isn't enough anymore.

You tuck your hands underneath your top, but that only helps for so long. A few minutes later, you're trembling again, trembling even though you're pulling the blanket as tightly around you as you possibly can. Tyler raises his eyebrows when a particularly heavy shiver runs down your spine, one of those that come and go within three seconds.

"Come here", he says, shuffling in his spot and motioning for you to move over to him. You don't really think about it. It's more of a reflex as you fumble the blanket off of your body, scooch over to him, settle yourself against his side and sneak your feet under his thigh. He tugs the blanket back up to your chin, tucks it in behind your back and wraps his arms around you.

Tyler Owens wraps his arms around you.

And he's so fucking warm you literally almost moan. God, you hadn't actually realised just how cold you'd been.

"Damn, you're freezing", he notes as well, just as you nestle further into him and hum in agreement. He's like a living heater right now. You'd like to just crawl inside of him and suck up all his warmth. "You should've told me sooner."

"I didn't tell you at all", you mutter, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. He smells good. He smells so good. Earthy, musky somehow. You're tempted to turn your head and bury your nose in his shoulder.

Instead, you just satisfy yourself with what you can get. Fuck, he smells so good. He smells just like you'd thought he would, like country and rodeo and thunderstorms. He smells like falling into bed at the end of a successful chase. He smells like more. You want more.

You want more of Tyler Owens.

"Are you sniffing me?", he asks suddenly, but he sounds so amused you can't even bring yourself to feel embarrassed. You just open your eyes and grin at him, tilting your head so you can look up at him.

"What if I am?", you ask, if only to hear that breathless chuckle fall from his lips. Oh, those lips. You're in trouble. "Are you gonna call the cops on me?"

"I could never."

"Yeah, you better not, cowboy", you mutter, eyes dropping to his lips when he grins. He's so close. He's way too close. "There's like thirty things I could call the cops about on your channel."

His grin grows until he's showing off his teeth, glinting against the low light of the leds in your car. He's closer now.

"So you do watch our streams, weather girl."

His voice is so low and he's so close, so close. Your lips part all on their own. You haven't looked back up at his eyes in too long. Far too long. But he's so close, and he's so warm, and he smells so good.

"Alright", you whisper. His mouth is barely an inch from yours. You can feel every breath he takes. "I watch your streams."

And then your lips are on his.

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. He's cocky and he's smug. He makes your job harder than it has to be. He does everything and anything to get under your skin. But Tyler Ownes is the best goddamn kisser this side of the globe.

He trails his hands, his big, big hands, down your sides, pushes the blanket out of the way and grabs at your waist with just enough firmness. He pulls you onto his lap and rests his thumbs over the hem of your top. He breathes into your mouth and takes it slow. He doesn't care that you almost knock his hat out of the way when you try to wrap your arms around his neck. He just holds you tightly to him and lets you tug on his lip.

You honestly don't know how much time has passed when he pulls back, grinning an entirely new grin at you, hazy and euphoric.

"It's not midnight yet", he mutters, the slightest bit out of breath.

"I don't care", you mumble, drawing him right back in for another kiss. You think you might be addicted. You simply can't get enough of him. You can't get enough of Tyler Owens.

But then a thought strikes you, and you pull away with a grin that makes him raise his eyebrows.

You chuckle against his lips.

"If you feel it, chase it, right?"