your superior finding out about the secret praise kink you didn't know had a name because you'd always been called an over achiever, a goody two shoes. never gave anyone any trouble, nose burrowed in a book since you had knobby knees and a library card.
you'd thought it normal that the apples of your cheeks burned when praised after giving your teacher the drawing you'd made for them the night before. that heat spread from the center of your chest up when your first boyfriend/girlfriend whistled at the sight of you outside of uniform. that warmth settles in your belly when you get a pat on the back from your platoon leader firm enough to force the air out of your lungs because you'd disassembled and cleaned a glock with the ease of a professional.
apparently it wasn't.
after weeks of training with the fabled task force, weeks of sharing elbow room with the team, weeks of soaking up the dizzying praise from the captain ("did real good out there, eh? can always count on you." you didn't question the throb betwixt your thighs, taking care of it with a cute little bullet like you've always done since joining the military)
you're confronted by the worst of the lot. ghost catches you in a break room, your back to him, hands clutching a cup of coffee that's more sludge than liquid, its warmth barely seeping through the styrofoam.
his figure fills the doorway, shoulders nearly brushing the frame. your first thought is that his brows aren't twisted together and he lacks that cold, blank look in his eyes so your death isn't in the nearest of futures. the second is that when he's not fully covering his face, the outline of his jaw is quite visible, looking sharp enough to cut.
then he crosses his sculpted arms over his chest, seams straining against the expanse of his muscles, head tipped to the side.
he moves with the keen curiosity of a predator sniffing around a newborn fawn, gaze intense yet inquisitive, assessing your every detail with a menacing interest.
"you ever gonna tell me you've a praise kink, bird?" the question sends a chill through your veins before turning into a fiery rush as it races at twice the normal speed.
praise kink? no. surely not. doesn't everyone like to receive compliments?
"sure. i don't mind gettin' told i've an impressive cock but that's bed talk. you look ready to bend over 'nd show us how slick tha' pretty cunt can get over a rufflin' of hair and a couple of empty words."
that has you positively reeling, fingertips cracking the cup in your hands, pulse on your neck fluttering. you feel a cornered, skittish animal, ready to flee lest your life come to an end in his maws.
but as usual, the cruel man more creature than person, twists the knife he's dug into you with a certain ruthlessness only he can muster.
"so be good for me, eh? love your praise? earn it."
you've always been an over achiever, proven once again by the way you take him to the root in one long, broad stroke with any complaints at the sheer size of him resting firmly behind your clenched teeth.
"tight little thing, spread open over me like you were meant for it. for me." he runs a gloved thumb over your swollen bottom lip. "there's tha' look. drivin' me bloody insane when you gave kyle tha' molten gaze. none o' tha' now, yeah?"
he creeps his ungloved hand down to circle your pearl with the spit-slick pads of his fingers, drawing in a sharp breath when your walls flutter and constrict around his cock at the feel of something other than your toy giving you the relief you need after a hard day's work.
"bloody fuckin' 'ell."
ghost claims a fistful of hair, pulling you closer to him, his breath warming the stinging, throbbing mark he bit onto the delicate skin of your neck. the shuffling of feet right outside the door snap you out of your daze, fingernails sinking into the bulging muscle of his chest but he has none of it.
he uses your hair to direct your focus back onto him and even though he'd only given you a leading tug you felt some strands of your hair come off with a pop.
"easy. can't see your pretty face when i'm fuckin' ya if your lookin' away."
your expression twists into what you hope is bliss when he bucks his hips, your whimper drowning out his groan when he hits on something new.
something you want him to keep hitting.
"exactly like i'd thought."
everything else blurs together after that, and only when you're back in your room using a warm cloth to clean yourself up do you remember the other things he'd rumbled.
(inside o' ya, make you mine-)
(-get 'bout bein' with anyone else-)
(-ll to myself-)
you touch your tender pussy with gentle fingers at what he'd said in the end.
(leave tha' f'me, he swipes your hand away, i'll get ya there, pet.)
if price's compliments take a nose dive off a cliff you don't notice because you're getting your daily fill of them and ghost after dinner every night. kyle keeps them to one word and soap likes to tempt fate as always.
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the thing is there's like, a point of oversaturation for everything, and it's why so many things get dropped after a few minutes. and we act like millennials or gen z kids "have short attention spans" but... that's not quite it. it's more like - we did like it. you just ruined it.
capitalism sees product A having moderate success, and then everything has to come out with their "own version" of product A (which is often exactly the same). and they dump extreme amounts of money and environmental waste into each horrible simulacrum they trot out each season.
now it's not just tiktokkers making videos; it's that instagram and even fucking tumblr both think you want live feeds and video-first programming. and it helps them, because videos are easier to sneak native ads into. the books coming out all have to have 78 buzzwords in them for SEO, or otherwise they don't get published. they are making a live-action remake of moana. i haven't googled it, but there's probably another marvel or starwars something coming out, no matter when you're reading this post.
and we are like "hi, this clone of project A completely misses the point of the original. it is soulless and colorless and miserable." and the company nods and says "yes totally. here is a different clone, but special." and we look at clone 2 and we say "nope, this one is still flat and bad, y'all" and they're like "no, totally, we hear you," and then they make another clone but this time it's, like, a joyless prequel. and by the time they've successfully rolled out "clone 89", the market is incredibly oversaturated, and the consumer is blamed because the company isn't turning a profit.
and like - take even something digital like the tumblr "live streaming" function i just mentioned. that has to take up server space and some amount of carbon footprint; just so this brokenass blue hellsite can roll out a feature that literally none of its userbase actually wants. the thing that's the kicker here: even something that doesn't have a physical production plant still impacts the environment.
and it all just feels like it's rolling out of control because like, you watch companies pour hundreds of thousands of dollars into a remake of a remake of something nobody wants anymore and you're like, not able to afford eggs anymore. and you tell the company that really what you want is a good story about survival and they say "okay so you mean a YA white protagonist has some kind of 'spicy' love triangle" and you're like - hey man i think you're misunderstanding the point of storytelling but they've already printed 76 versions of "city of blood and magic" and "queen of diamond rule" and spent literally millions of dollars on the movie "Candy Crush Killer: Coming to Eat You".
it's like being stuck in a room with a clown that keeps telling the same joke over and over but it's worse every time. and that would be fine but he keeps fucking charging you 6.99. and you keep being like "no, i know it made me laugh the first time, but that's because it was different and new" and the clown is just aggressively sitting there saying "well! plenty of people like my jokes! the reason you're bored of this is because maybe there's something wrong with you!"
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Pretty much every country: Stopped tracking Covid infections, hospitalizations and deaths.
99% of doctors: Claim Long Covid doesn’t exist. Tell patients they’re lazy, not disabled. Refuse to admit illnesses and deaths are due to damage done by Covid.
The 99% of the population who have their heads up their asses about Covid: If Covid is so dangerous why are hospitalizations down? Why aren’t people dying of it any more?
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Eddie posts a Tiktok of an old home video taken almost right after he bought a camcorder. The band has just come off the stage and they’re walking down a hallway, amped up and loud. Just boys being boys.
Gareth is filming and Eddie is talking to the camera like, “Everybody always ask me. They say, ‘Eddie, what’s it like having your boyfriend at one of your shows.’ Or they would ask me that if they won’t skin me alive for having a boyfriend.”
Gareth, who is always worried Eddie’s going to accidentally out himself: Dude
Eddie: Relax. Skin all here. We’re good. I would respond to this question that no one would ask me because no one knows I have a boyfriend by looking them deep in the eyes.
Eddie: And I’d say, ‘It’s amazing having my boyfriend here because-
Eddie: *slams the door open to their small cramped dressing room so hard it nearly dents the wall*
The walls: *literally shaking from the band current on the stage*
Steve: *Asleep, dead to the world*
Eddie: -he’s the only motherfucker who can sleep through the show.’
Eddie, crouching down next to Steve so they’re both in shot, says because they’re making this tape for his uncle, “Wayne, what are we going to do with our boy?”
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