#handle with aplomb

[gideonthefirst]

💌 :~)

hi ave!! this is very specific but i really respect how despite people occasionally being huge assholes about it i’ve never noticed you to change or mask your natural writing/speaking register; it’s genuinely both comforting and refreshing to follow someone who talks the way you do when expressing opinions and analysis without feeling the need to water it down or suchlike. i think it rules academic-tone-autism forever and ever

[firebirdsdaughter]

Something that occurred to me this time…

… Is that Eliot deliberately brings Hardison w/ him to confront Moreau the first time. He tells Nate that he and Hardison will do it (don't worry, I also Love Hardison taking the moment to be like 'hey, are you okay?' bc those two usually express themselves through bickering so much that it clearly telegraphs just how off Eliot is being that Hardison is dropping the usual banter to be serious).

Which for one thing, says something about Eliot's confidence in Hardison in general, but also, like… Yes, Parker's probably not the choice for that introduction, it's not her style, but Nate or Sophie could also have played the part. He could have tried to go alone. But he pulls Hardison.

Obviously he's not trying to put Hardison in danger, he makes it quite clear in all other scenarios that he does not tolerate Hardison in danger (visual cues in The Gone Fishin' Job my beloveds), the others are well aware of the fact that he's Done Some Shit and are equally unaware of his connection to Moreau. And to be honest, I can't pinpoint an exact reason why I think he might have done it, chosen Hardison to be the one who finds out first. Maybe he suspected Moreau would underestimate Hardison, making him safer (relatively, if course), then someone like Nate or Sophie. Maybe he thought it would be best to have Hardison's tech skills as back up. Maybe he thought Hardison would roll w/ the punches the best. Maybe he just wanted Hardison there for morale.

I don't know, but it's a moment that didn't really occur to me the first time, but I think is actually quite meaningful in a more emotional way.

[everybodyknows-everybodydies]

giddily counting the open tabs. it is OFFICIALLY that time of year... 3-5 different canvases open at any given moment

[themaidenofwords]

Cool Words:

Aplomb (n)-- self-confidence or assurance-- especially when in a demanding situation.

[dilatorywriting]

59 Leona, it'd take a lot for him to admit but he would say it eventually. (Also I know you'd recognize me but I'm shy, so anon it is)

Gender Neutral Reader x Leona Kingscholar Word Count: 1.5k

Prompt 59: "People like me aren’t supposed to have someone like you, I think fate was being harsh on you."

[EVENT MASTERLIST]

You are nice, and you are stupid. And those things aren’t mutually exclusive.

Sometimes you’re nice because you’re stupid, and sometimes you do stupid things because you’re too nice for your own stupid, stupid good. And it drives Leona half insane.

Which it shouldn’t, because nice, stupid people like you are just as annoying as his brother. Goody-two-shoes with buttoned vests and sparkly, star-shaped stickers on their term papers.

“Did you remember your homework?”

Leona flicked his tail in your face and you scrunched your nose over your notebook.

“Well?”

“Of course I remembered,” he scoffed, lazing back against the roots of one of his favorite trees. This spot used to be so much quieter, so much more peaceful, before you decided to trail after him like a duck quacking for its mother.

“Did you do the homework?” you clarified, and Leona rolled his eyes.

You sighed and starting ruffling around in your bookbag. “I brought a spare copy of the worksheet. You’re going to drive Ruggie insane, y’know. If he winds up stuck with you for another year because you failed for not turning in assignments.”

“Yeah. Sure. Another three-hundred-and-sixty-five days to rifle through my wallet. Worst news of his life.”

You huffed good naturedly and handed him the sheet of crisp, white copy paper and a pen. “Get to work, Kingscholar.”

“Oh?” he drawled, closing his eyes and settling back, loose limbed and all long, lean leisure, against the tree trunk. Clearly ready for an afternoon snooze. “Make me.”

You sighed again and reached over to flick your own well-used pen against his ear. It twitched under your fingers—soft, and tufted. The finest of the pale, tan fur brushing up against your fingertips. “Fine. Be that way. See if I bring you lunch tomorrow.”

“You will,” he scoffed.

“Yeah,” you sighed, sounding resigned and foolishly fond. “I probably will.”

See? Stupid. So easy to manipulate. So willing to let yourself be squashed under his clawed thumb. It was a wonder you’d managed to survive in this school at all. Nevertheless by clinging onto the coattails of someone like him. He’d never made anyone’s existence easier a day in his life, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now, just because you were too soft-hearted and slow to see a looming predator for what it was.

“Just give me that stupid fucking paper,” he snapped, sitting upright and swatting away your poking pen with a sneer. You laughed into your palms like a secret—bright, and merry, and dumb as a fucking rock.

“Whatever you say, Leona.”

.

.

You’d handled his Overblot with a strange sort of aplomb that at first Leona had attributed to perhaps a lingering, hidden confidence that he’d just never bothered to unearth. You were just some herbivore, and even the littlest rabbits could bite back when you put them in a corner. But then he’d come to the decision that that easy conviction was just another symptom of your rampant stupidity.

“I know you guys don’t want to hurt me, or any of us. Not really,” you shrugged around a wad of cotton—the blood dripping from your nose slowly drying up to a tacky, sticky dribble. Leona gaped at you outright.

That was your grand explanation. For why you’d been so eager to charge forward when he’d collapsed in a pool of inky nightmares and self-loathing. And the very same reason apparently thatyou’d felt so comfortable rushing forward to treat Azul Ashengrotto’s blubbering, hysterical, breakdown with the same urgency.

“That octo-prick would have ripped you in half,” he sneered, fingers twitching a nervous rhythm against his palms as he watched the nurse wrap another layer or bandages around your head.

You shrugged. “Not on purpose.”

You were going to give him an aneurism.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” he snarled, ignoring the horrible, twisty thing curling like bile through his chest. “And I’m not going to bother paying for some self-sacrificing idiot’s funeral.”

Another shrug.

“That’s alright,” you hummed, a soft sort of crooked smile on your mouth. “Would’ve been a waste of money anyways.”

Leona didn’t talk to you for a week after that. Surely because your stupidity had reached such a fever pitch that it was no doubt contagious, and he needed to protect his far superior and more valuable brain. Not because the image of you smiling and nodding along to his declarations that he wouldn’t put the effort into mourning your death had soured something so deep in his gut that he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to scrape it out.

.

.

When he received a letter from home asking him to return for some shitty coronation nonsense for his equally shitty brother, Leona had debated just skipping it outright. Who was going to stop him? You?

Well. Yes, apparently.

“It sounds important,” you hummed, peering over his shoulder at the neat, formal scrawl of the summons. “You should go.”

He snorted. “I don’t want to be there, they don’t want me to be there. What’s the point.”

You frowned, brow crinkling in the middle.

“Well, that’s not true,” you said, perplexed. “They wouldn’t write to you if that was the case.”

Leona snorted, eyes darting away to glare bitterly off into the corner. “Not like they have a choice.”

“Well then you don’t have a choice either,” you argued, firm. “I’ll go with you. See? It says you can have a plus one. You can camp out in your fancy, princey, bedroom. And I can siphon you snacks from the fancy, princey hors d'oeuvres tables. That way we both win. You get to be a reclusive asshole and rub the fact that that you still went in everyone’s faces, and I can get access to some tasty, royal food that I’ll probably never be able to afford again for the rest of my life.”

“Should’ve known you’d be like Ruggie—only using me for the free food,” he sighed, melodramatic and obviously put on.

“Well, also because I thought you could use the emotional support,” you added, a touch too soft and far too genuine. “But I didn’t think you wanted to hear that bit.”

“You’re right,” he scoffed, turning onto his side to hide the strange, miserable heat pricking at his skin. “Don’t ever say corny shit like that again.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” you grinned, flicking at his ear, and Leona added another mental tab to his never-ending list of reasons that you were really far too brainless to keep functioning at all.

.

.

You were nice, and you were stupid. And Seven, he wanted to be anywhere but here.

“My brother hasn’t ever brought someone to one of these events before,” Falena had said, to your face. Idiot to idiot communication.  

“I didn’t give him much of an option,” you’d chirped, perfectly pleasant. “I don’t think he wants me anywhere near here, to be fair. Or around him in general. But I’m like a cockroach. Can’t get rid of me.”

And Falena had laughed. Because he was terrible. And said, “I’m sure he must care about you very much, little cockroach.”

And then because you were more terrible, you laughed back and said very assuredly, “Oh, not at all.”

Which was—was—

“Do you really think that?” he snapped, once the two of you were alone. And you blinked back at him with wide, owlish eyes.

“Think what?”

Think at all,he wanted to sneer, but just glared silently and bitterly into the middle distance—fighting the nonsensical, irritated swishing of his tail.

But you just kept staring at him. Like he was the moron here. Which was unacceptable.

“Look,” he frowned, sharp and miserable. “I get it. People like me aren’t supposed to have someone like you. Whatever gods exist out there were playing a shitty fucking joke on you when they dropped you in my lap. But you’re stuck with me. So stop—” he bit out, fighting that awful, twisty thing in his gut that never seemed to fully go away. “Stop talking like I can’t stand you.”

“…oh,” you mumbled, whisper quiet—that wide, startled gaze flicking away in embarrassment. “Oh.”

“Oh,” he echoed, sharp, and you snorted a laugh that seemed to surprise even you.

“You’re stuck with me too then, y’know,” you said after a long moment. “Even when I make you grumpy.”

“You don’t make me grumpy. I am grumpy. You make me—” he cut off quick, eyes darting away petulantly and an absolutely unfair heat rising along his cheekbones.  

“Itchy,” you piped in, and he gaped at you in shock.

“What?”

“You know,” you shrugged, awkward, and reached up to wiggle your fingers. “Cockroach. Many legs. Squirming. Itchy.”

“Never say any of those words again.”

You laughed into your palm—inelegant and a touch too loud. Leona felt his lips quirk.

“Thank you,” you said after a moment, once your giggles were a bit more under control. And leaned forward quick as a whip to press a nervous peck against his cheek. “For being kind to me.”

Kind.

Leona reached up to press a hand against the too-warm skin with a terrible, unfamiliar sensation in his head not unlike the fuzzy, white drone of TV static. And a horrible thought managed to filter its way through the floating, buzzing sensation curling through the whole of him.

Oh, fuck. It is contagious.

.

.

[frownyalfred]

Tbh, the trinity? Diana's the king (master general, trained from birth to lead, level head, handles external affairs with grace and aplomb, inspires loyalty), Clark's the queen (handles internal affairs, reads people and situations well, friendly face of the trio, inspires loyalty, works well on his own, better when supporting others), while Bruce is the spy master/royal advisor (quiet, bad with people but good at reading them, tactical mastermind (Diana is too, but letting Bruce focus on tactics means she can focus on leading and managing her people), loyal beyond words, and works best from the background, where he arrange things and people to best suit his goals, and protect and serve those he's loyal to- his family, Clark, Diana, and then those he protects as a matter of principle.).

Exactly. Diana takes the lead because that's who she is as a person. Clark shares that lead because of a sense of duty to humanity. And Bruce stands behind them both in the shadows, because he will only step out of them if they need him. All three of them are vital parts to the whole they've formed.

[casquecest]

Snape is denied the Order of Merlin, and he is handling it with much grace and aplomb.

[siswritesyanderes]

i mightve asked this before, in which case go ahead and ignore this lmao. which characters would be the best vs worst when handling an autistic darling?

Oooh, this is a cool question! I would say it depends on the particular symptoms the person has, so I'll go over some symptoms and which yanderes would respond best vs. worst.

avoidance of eye-contact

Obviously, shy, autistic, or autistic-coded yanderes would work really well with this (and other) symptom(s). Your Donatello's, your Newt's, arguably your Peter Parker's. Also, yanderes who are able to sense when their darling's attention is on them supernaturally or just out of sheer social aplomb. Elves, for example, would be great with someone who doesn't like eye contact, because their body language conventions differ as a result of being able to communicate mentally.

Roxanne Wolf would be distinctly bad for this, based on her need for attention as demonstrated in Help Wanted 2. But she's also not beyond reason when it matters, as we've seen in Ruin DLC, so I'm sure communicating about it is on the table.

sensory reactivity

Okay, I think Dr. Strange would very specifically be bad for this, because his movies are all swirling kaleidoscopes of magic that would definitely be sensory overload in real life, and I have mentioned before that I don't see him as a considerate yandere. If anything, he might enjoy inducing sensory overload for the express purposes of making his darling require comfort, care, and isolation from others.

On the other hand, and maybe a weird pull for this, but Zafrina from Twilight would be great. Alec, too. Both have powers that would be super helpful when darling is overwhelmed.

Druig is able to just make everyone nearby shut up, which he would employ liberally.

food sensitivity/pickiness

Yanderes who enjoy cooking could go both ways on this. I could see some being offended by negative feedback and some taking it as being gifted with the challenge of meeting their darling's standards. Teruteru from Danganronpa and Esme from Twilight would both probably be good about receiving feedback and making changes. Super eager to please. Esme more so than Teruteru; he might get offended at first.

Rich and royal yanderes would delight in someone picky. They would love to be able to send food back with new, highly specific orders because darling doesn't like grapes with soft spots. Your Tony Stark's, your Byakuya Togami's, your Toph Beifong's, your Coriolanus Snow's.

Ralph from DBH would be a problem. He has a very weak grasp on what humans eat and a very high sensitivity to negative feedback. (Wait, he's just like me...)

resistance to changes in routine

This one would be a problem for yanderes who feel a need to go on adventures and trips with their darling. Which isn't necessarily the same as adventurous yanderes. Some adventurous yanderes might enjoy the idea of their darling staying behind at home keeping to a comfortable routine. But the ones who want their darling along on the adventure would be problematic. The Doctor, for example. Especially Eleven; he gets bored easily.

Whereas I think a lot of superheroes would like the idea of keeping their darling sequestered away, living predictably and comfortably. Clark Kent, Steve Rogers, Druig...The only catch is that some of them (Druig) would probably be a bit condescending about it.

I think Daycare Attendant would be great for routine. Coloring time, snack time, naptime, same time every day, sign them up! Also condescending, but they genuinely can't help it because it's how they're programmed.

Technically, Phineas and Ferb keep to a very specific routine, albeit a pretty tiring/potentially overwhelming one.

sorting things

This would be great for the disorganized genius character type. A Bruce Banner, if you will. An organized genius probably already has a system and might have trouble with someone sorting things differently than they have them. A distinctly slovenly character probably wouldn't mind either way.

hyperfixation

Yo, Queen from Deltarune would be the best for this. She would create an inescapable palace of the thing darling likes. Swatch and the Swatchlings would be involved.

stimming

There might be a problem if the yandere is easily distracted and needs to focus on something else. The main one I can think of who fits that description is Percy Jackson. That's not a distaste thing; just a pragmatic issue. Yanderes who experience sensory overload might also have an issue with it. My first thought was Queen Elsa.

On the other hand, Leo Valdez would love to make little stim toys for his darling. Donatello, too.

[tiktaalic]

Hi guys. I have opinions on the medium of fanfiction. Would you like to hear them? Okay ^_^ yay ^_^

I think the whole oh so you think people should be CENSORED? Kneejerk reaction is wuiteeeee silly when like. In my opinion it’s an exceedingly normal opinion to see a fan fiction tackle Sensitive Subjects with all the aplomb of a high school freshman. And go. Well I don’t think this is good. Things can be done well but often they’re not. Due to the nature of the beast + numbers game. And me personally if I want to read something nuanced on heavy topics I don’t go. I know. I should look at ao3 first. I go. Probably I will stick to published awarded authors. Ive read books that have handled abuse and assault etc etc badly and I also think they’re stupid. Just like I think overwrought fanfiction is stupid. But I would never say this ON someone’s fanfiction because I too was once 14 years old writing insensitively about painful topics. And I believe the best in everyone so I assume every bad fanfiction is written by a 14 year old and I would never dim their sparkle. There’s another prong to this which is that conversations about Everything are so heavily identity focused - I don’t like this book but it’s by a queer author who is clearly working through something, I don’t like this movie but the writer has talked extensively about how it was shaped by her experience of sexual assault, etc. n I do think the solution is to uncouple morality from taste. Possible to hold the simultaneous truths of “I think this thing is stupid and bad and weird” with “it clearly helped someone to write what is essentially a public diary entry, and it helped other people to read it” and “fanfiction as a whole does not move the meter on good/evil in the world even a little bit”.

[therealslimshakespeare]

i love this 🥹 i think there’s moments where she’ll find herself slipping into certain habits she had with him and benny just so gently helps her reframe all that. even something as simple as oh can/ should i wear this in like a nervous way. u know?

IM SO SOFT FOR BENNY HEALING THESE PARTS OF HER!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Tell me more 😞😞😞😞😞

Oh fuck I’ve got such thoughts but so few words that capture the vibe I want. But here’s the deal:

Benny is so utterly secure. In himself, in his place and in his attitude to others. Outside influences, war horrors, mood swings, these things he handles with aplomb that comes from how beautifully grounded this man is. Humble but confidant in the most lovely synchrony. And due to this his outlook on the world is measured, fair and while a bit stark sometimes due to, well, life being stark sometimes, it is favorable in ways that others are shifty and belittling.

And I swear, he has an aura he casts with this. Quiet but potent, with just enough wisecracking and sass to keep it sharp. So, Benny Demarco’s opinion of you can very quickly and effortlessly influence your opinion of yourself.

Ask Gale, ask Jack, ask Maureen.

Ask Lu, who not only feels most herself with him but finds herself articulated by him in ways she never expected -and often without a single word spoken

[too-antigonish]

Carol Thursday impresses the hell out of me.

Cousin Joan stands her up in a strange town at the last minute…

...but boy does this girl know how to land on her feet.

She handles monumentally awkward moments with aplomb...

Whether it's meeting Jim Strange the morning after with her perky "Hi!"

Or walking in to find a surprise Morse in front of her epically embarrassing dad.*

*Bonus points for doing it while wearing pink bows and a frilly nightgown.

Carol is also kind.

When her forced date with Morse just seems to be getting worse and worse, she doesn’t get angry. Instead she offers to let him off the hook without telling anyone.

It’s enough to lead him to rethink his own actions and take her to the Roxy for an evening she will probably remember all of her life.

Carol goes after what she wants.

She doesn’t hesitate to make eyes at movie star Jason Curwen. In only a matter of seconds, she’s distracted him from the beautiful Veronique.

By the time the evening has turned to murder, they’re obviously a couple.

And finally, when it comes time to say her farewells to Morse, Carol is really the only woman we've ever seen him with who chooses to leave him with kind words.

She thanks him sweetly for the "memorable" evening at the Roxy and as for their night together, she says, “It wasn't a mistake. Not everything has to be more than it is.”

@astridcontramundum in her fantastic piece a while ago on Jim Strange has a bit about shipping Carol with Strange. Yes! Yes! Yes!

Strange and Joan were doomed from the start—not because they were bad people—but because they would always bring out the worst in each other. Strange and Carol would have brought out the best.

[sky-kiss]

Let's imagine a situation in which Tav meets Mephistopheles (with Raphael alive). How will Raphael react if Tav likes his “ardently loved” father? One more thing. It would be funny if it was Mephistopheles who left a review of Tav’s frostbitten body in Haarlep’s letter. 3/5 isn't too bad.

A/N: Lemme try. Any ficlets completed this week are likely going to be short. It’s vacation week!

_____

It is not a familial competition or distaste that motivates the Lord of the Eighth. 

The wayward bastard is beneath his notice half the time, an irritant the other, but only rarely registers as his son. Mephistopheles rests his chin in his palm, gaze flicking over the cambion and to the mortal at his side. They require no introduction, though the chamberlain lists their venerable titles with aplomb. 

The Hero of Baldur’s Gate. What a delight. 

And Raphael preens, keeping this new trophy close, boasting of their achievements as if they were his own. He wears his stolen crown with neither shame nor self-awareness, head held high and deaf to the court’s snickering. 

Oh, they are too aware of this Great Hero. 

Haarlep had been all too eager to demonstrate every one of the form’s secrets, parading them nude through the streets of Mephistar. And while its heated air was a balm compared to Cania’s natural cold, while it was enough to soothe any devil, they shivered. By the time they’d reached the palace steps, their naked form was badly wind-burned. Frostbite kissed at their fingertips, their toes, blood trickling down their calves—a debased little beast. A hero brought low. It’d been a treat. 

The Archduke chuckled, eyes flicking over them again. There had been a certain pettiness to his decision to take the little creature. Raphael venerated them but had yet to taste them. Mephistopheles drank deeply. He’d sated himself in their little body, watching it shiver, convulse, break, trying to accept him. The incubus had staggered away after; lips curled back in a bloodied sneer, which had also satisfied him. 

But they are here now in truth, staring up at his son in naked adoration, and it strikes Mephistopheles as such delicious low-hanging fruit. Should he not have a taste? He, the Lord, second only to Asmodeus?

Mephistopheles stands from his throne, arms held wide as he goes to meet them. Raphael’s eyes narrow, but his toy remains unphased, holding their hand out to greet him. The archwizard takes it, bowing low and pressing his lips to their knuckles. 

“Such a charming creature. It seems a waste of your talents to dally with my spawn.” 

“Not in the least. Raphael has proven very worthwhile.”

“If you will excuse us, Cold Lord.”

“I will not. Where are your manners, boy? An introduction.” 

“You chamberlain handled as much.” 

Oh, foolish little pet. They take a step nearer. Mephistopheles offers his arm, and they take it. “Be civil, Raphael. Your father is trying.” 

A critical mistake, little dove. 

[ragnarokhound]

for the au ask game—dimension or time travel au? 👀

For the AU ask game!

Ohhh this kind of au is always so fun because there's literally infinite directions to take this OwO the question for me becomes what would be the most fun/interesting time or sideways universe to send them (and if only one goes back in time, or both of them 👀) or what alternate reality would it be the most galvanizing for them to see... 👀

Oh. I know. I'm still in my cups over saltwateroracle AKA @n1ightw1ng's Arkham Knight Jason dimension hopping au so...

Five fun facts from a dimension hopping au I'd write:

Your choice of comics verse Jason and Tim who don't get along, enemies to coworkers style. But ala The Long Way Home (excellent fic btw everyone who cares about Jason and Tim's relationship whether romantic or platonic please go read it) they get warped together to Arkhamverse and don't realize it. At first.

Separately, they meet their arkhamverse counterparts. Jason nearly get blown up by Arkham Knight Jason, Tim has no idea what to make of his double being married? To? Babs? They meet back up and go 'you thought YOUR double was weird'

'you thought your double was weird, wait til you get a load of fucking BRUCE.' 'Is the batmobile? A tank??' Jason gets very sus of the 'suppressive rounds' Arkham Bruce fires at the mercenaries. Tim gets very sus of the whole ass people he's got stashed away at the batcave lmao

Arkham Bruce is running on such severely fucked up fumes that it makes them actively miss their own Bruce back home. They help him with rounding up Riddler and Scarecrow and with handling the thorny Arkham Knight problem, but absolutely are going to get betrayed 'for their own good' (or because Bruce doesn't trust them) eventually. So they find themselves leaning more and more on each other as the only familiar and trustworthy face in this fucked up dark clown maze version of Gotham

Things end better because of their influence than in the game (something something cure for jokerism something something Arkham Knight Jason gets catharsis/reconciliation and a shock blanket and some soup) and they get themselves home ASAP and everything 100% goes back to normal and they definitely will not be talking about how Tim totally kissed Jason when they thought they were going to die at the end there, nuh uh, no way, Tim has very important debriefings to write byyyye--

(Bonus fun fact: Bruce is very confused but ultimately accepts the out-of-the-blue check ins/hugs he receives from Tim and Jason with aplomb. He reads Tim's report and goes 'Ah. Yes, dimension hopping will do that to a motherfucker'. He can't follow-up with either of them though, for some reason they've both gone dark for a week. Together. At the same safehouse. Hm. Better to leave that one alone, he thinks.)

[sunsetconcert]

In 1994, the Muppets made one of their most bizarre films to date.

An adaptation of Goncharov, a cult classic that languished in obscurity until the 2020s. While the film was referred to internally and in public reviews of the film as "The Muppets of Naples", the actual marketing of the movie instead titled it after its main lead: "Gonzorov". This was one of many enigmatic choices made by the production crew, and has never been elaborated on by the cast or crew. The film was a gigantic flop for multiple reasons, but most agree that the source of the troubles stems from the nature of Goncharov as a tragedy and a generally depressing movie to watch.

Reportedly, conflicts among the writing staff began almost immediately due to being unable to decide on which cut of Goncharov to base the film on. Eventually, however, director Brian Henson put his foot down and forced the writers to adapt the Ambrosini Cut. Generally agreed to be a less depressing movie than the Morelli Cut, it was expected that "Gonzorov" should have been a much more entertaining and narratively adept movie than it was. As the Muppets proved just two years later in "Muppet Treasure Island", they are very capable of handling otherwise dramatic material with aplomb. This leaves the question of why this movie was such a flop.

To quote Kermit the Frog during the interviews after the cinema debut, the movie was allegedly emotionally draining for the crew to adapt. "You know, we have a script. Mostly. But we do a lot of improv too. I'd wager it's about 60% script, 40% improv on a good day of filming. But, uh… We just weren't feeling it with this one, you know? We watched the original, and… Boy, it's really sad. Goncharov's just kind of a lonely guy trying to make himself a life. And it's not a good life, but it's his to own, and it ultimately kinda falls apart. Gonzo tried to make the role his own, but I think we all realised that we couldn't really make a joke out of the movie in the way that we wanted to."

The Muppets were skillful enough to change the genre to an absurdist tragicomedy, a film where the tragic and meaningless cycle of violence is paradoxically played for laughter. However, despite this, the film is well-known for its bizarrely melancholy air and almost hopeless atmosphere. Everybody seems thoroughly certain that their improv will have little to no impact on the film as a whole, creating a strange and compelling meta-narrative where not even the actors themselves can escape the almost gravitational pull of the ticking clock. Their characters will die, and any attempts to joke their way out of it comes off as desperate, almost deluded in a sense.

The original Goncharov held a deep fascination with inevitability. Clocks are the primary theme, though it appears in other forms. It is this same inevitability that strangles the Muppets, their impressive comedic skills held captive by their own belief that the narrative is inescapable.

Of particular note is the bridge scene, wherein Gonzorov and Katya (played by the dazzling Miss Piggy) discuss the slow collapse of the Italian mafia. The original Goncharov scene had Goncharov desperately trying to hold things together, even as they slipped through his fingers, but here… Gonzorov realises that it's pointless. He can't fix it, but at the same time he can't let it go. He begs Katya to shoot him. Cut to the chase. She's going to shoot him anyway, that's how the movie ends, right? Might as well go out on his own terms. But this horrifies Katya, and she throws her gun away, accidentally saving Gonzorov in the process.

This adds a new layer to the themes of inevitability that Goncharov is wrapped up in, and it's this: Inevitability goes both ways. You're going to die, but only when you're meant to. You don't get lucky. You don't have accidents. Inevitability is a ticking clock, but that countdown is a safety net. As long as you can still hear that clock ticking down, it means you've stitll got time to burn. When a bomb is counting down, just five minutes until it detonates, you do everything you can to buy yourself more time on the clock. Even if all your effort only gains you an extra second, that's what you have to do, right? A single second is worth the blood of innocent men.

But again, inevitability. That second you earned cost you minutes, cost hours days weeks months years. The clock WILL run out.

[read more]

[purgemarchlockdown]

In my field of dog training, you can use reward and punishment to train a dog not to bite when another dog passes by, or when a human touches it.

In fact, Cesar Millan does it with great aplomb on TV.

While he talks scientifically disproven nonsense about dominance, what he is really using is operant conditioning, the aspect of behaviourism which ABA therapists employ. By punishing “problem behaviours” Cesar makes the dogs stop growling or attacking.

It looks like magic to viewers. But to certified dog trainers like me, it looks like painting over rotten wood. Worse. It looks like burying a land mine. We all know that we can feel angry without expressing anger.

That we can smile when inside we are crying.

You can stop someone from expressing an emotion,

but that doesn’t make the emotion go away.

A dog who has been trained not to growl is considered by trainers to be a “time bomb dog.” When you read about a dog attack that came “out of nowhere” and “without warning,” it is because this sort of method was used to handle “problem behaviours.”

(Is ABA Really “Dog Training for Children”? A Professional Dog Trainer Weighs In.)

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

Chapter 14

banner by @/cafekitsune

Summary: Rory and Price come home and have to finally face the worst argument of their relationship (AKA the chapter in which they have angry sex)

Warnings/Tags: Minors DNI - smut, p in v sex, hand jobs, back shots, unprotected sex, swearing, emotional manipulation, toxic relationship dynamic, John Price needs his own warning

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC (3rd person POV)

Word count: 6.2 K

A/N: this smut is probably not the sexiest considering it hops back and forth between fighting and fucking but its necessary for character development or whatever...

[AO3]

November 5, 2019 - Fulham, London, UK

The car ride – just like the flight back home – had been quiet. Thick with tension, a blast door holding them back from tearing into one another. Sitting parked outside her townhouse, Rory held the wheel within her grip and rested her chin upon the top of it, staring out the windshield at nothing in particular with narrowed eyes. Her stomach groaned and the nervous pangs gnawed at her. There was an uneasy storm settling overhead, black clouds sinking down around her, the static electric flicker on her skin of lightning building. Pressing her forehead to the wheel, she hugged the column. Something sturdy. Locked in place. Clinging to it so she wasn’t torn away and flung about, forced to face the hurricane pounding on her skull. She already knew staying in the vehicle, sitting in place, it wasn’t feasible. She was going to have to face him at some point. Face the hard jaw, the piercing gaze – the barely hidden disappointment he had in her would be a bitter pill to swallow. Things had never been like this between them before and she was more terrified of the consequences now than when she had walked away to begin with.

The creak of brakes as his SUV parked behind her made her heart freeze. There was no getting away from him now. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door of her Range Rover and stepped out, grabbing her bag from the boot and swinging it over her shoulder, refusing to glance his way. Not quite ready to face the music. Carrying herself with all the confidence she mustered when facing down the enemy, head held high, an appealing aplomb that came to her naturally but in this instance felt more like she was some prancing show pony. Struck by the cigar smoke that invaded her senses with the force Price was known for on a mission, the hair raised on her arms and the back of her neck. The sharp sting of invisible shackles burned on her wrists. Even if she could escape him, he was always all around her, impossible to ignore. Clinging to her, rooted inside, tendrils spreading. Razor wire marking the borders of where the parts of her life and John’s were growing attached. She fumbled with the keys in the door, and the large, steadying hand she knew so well – the one that could stroke her back, push her out of the way of gunfire, or give her a smack on the arse when she was being cheeky – simply reached past her and took control as he was so often wont to do. Gripping her hand like an extension of himself, he turned the key in the lock without another word. Her nervous system sparking as he loomed behind her, his weight pressed up against her. Routine. She followed it to the letter to keep her steady. Coat and shoes off, keys in the bowl by the door, scoop the mail off the floor, bring her bag upstairs and dump it by the hamper for laundry duty. She would need a shower to wash off the grime, to clear her head and get the words right, a conversation like this was going to be one that she already knew would lead into an argument, especially if John had his way – ready to fly off the handle and bring her right along with him. They could both get a little too passionate, trapped in a wildfire, the back and forth of heated words until one had the upper hand and the licking flames could finally be extinguished with a romp in the sheets. 

Rory remained silent, too silent. Defiantly so. Granting Price the cold shoulder as her jaw clenched with bitter words that wanted to spit from her venomously, but swallowed them down like poison instead. A putrefaction inside a gut that had held on to so many unspoken, spiteful words for days as the shower beat down against her. The patter of water on tiles like the ticking hands of a clock waiting for her to finally explode and devour them both in a wave of fury that flooded her thoughts. Despite the harrying assault of insults she was ready to lob like grenades, she persisted. Maintaining her calm, her control. The patience of a sniper – of a goddamn saint, at this point – she ignored the creak of the wood floor outside the bathroom door, whining under the weight of the man who expected people to break, to give in or give up. 

Fog barely obscured Price’s shadowed frame as he stood outside the stall, awaiting her, believing his penance paid. He was the looming presence in her life that she had allowed to darken parts of her that she was unaware could be corrupted so readily. The lamb sacrificed to make way for the wolf he had been luring out for years, tearing itself free of its woolen, innocent exterior and allowed to bear itself in all its decadent ferocity having found its mated pair. 

“You gonna talk t’me again, love?” He asked in a low rumble, his own frustration setting in as he crossed his arms over his chest, shifting his weight between his feet. It wasn’t like her to bring her work home with her, but this instance had stuck. There was a shift in the paradigm. It twisted at her, digging into her whole belief system and choking the life from it like brambles. Her father’s words echoing in her head: a poor influence. He wasn’t wrong. She had forgone everything her mother and father had instilled in her – protecting others, helping them at their lowest. It was unforgivable. Her heart squeezed in her chest at the loss of what she was becoming. 

Scouring at her scalp with her fingers, she built up a frothy foam of bubbles in her hair – the lightest thing that existed on her shoulders at the moment. Working her jaw as she relented and finally spoke, “Eventually.”

The tension in her voice was palpable, the anger a very real force that lifted its ugly head as much as she tried to bury it. Her usual go-to of slapping on a smile and pretending as though she didn’t have a care in the world wasn’t holding, the exterior long since shattered as much as her will was as she came to terms with what she had been capable of. “This is ‘cause of the interrogation, isn’t it?” John’s voice remained firm, unapologetic in his requirements for the mission. She sighed, dipping her head back under the water, letting it cascade over her, washing her sins away and restoring her resolve as the soap circled the drain. Opening the glass door, steam poured out in a cloud around her, turning the air around them hot and oppressive as she stared him down with a glare that brooked no argument. “It’s not the interrogation – I've done a million of those. It’s the fact that I was made to cross a very real line I have set for myself. One – my darling,” the term of endearment having lost its sentimentality as she spat it out, “You are very well aware of. I don’t hurt children –”

“You didn’t,” Price interrupted, giving her a little shrug of his shoulders. “Didn’t harm him or the wife.”

“Christ, are you listening to yourself, John?” Rory snarled. “Didn’t harm him?” She snatched the towel from the bar beside the shower and wrapped it around herself quickly. “He’s going to be bloody traumatized having been kidnapped and forced to witness his life, and the ones of those he loves, being threatened.” Wiping her arm across the bathroom mirror, clearing it of the film of mist, glancing at him through it, their eyes met in a battle of wills through a plane of glass. “We may as well have signed him up to join AQ ourselves – certainly gave the poor little bastard enough of a reason to do so.” Rory sighed, shaking her head as she gripped the edge of the sink counter. “We are going to be the enemy to him for the rest of his life after what we did. A very real monster under the bed… and maybe he’s fucking right.” She glanced over her shoulder, her furrowed brow held tight along with the purse of her lips in an angry pout, staring at the man she loved, not quite sure what sort of answer she expected from him at that moment. 

Rubbing at the back of his neck, his steely gaze locked on hers, trapped in a tug of war between the two sides of himself. One, The Captain, who did whatever it took, whether savory in his actions or not. A mindset trained into him to put the mission first, no matter the cost. The other, John Price, the man who loved the woman stood before him, who tried to be a better man for her.

“You know that’s what it takes, Ror. This fight is never gonna be pretty, it’s never gonna be clean. Blood on our hands, it’s what we do – I know you know that. It’s nothing new to either of us.” The muscle in his jaw clenched, a reminder of the hidden savagery he wore buried beneath his rugged features. “You’re angrier with yourself than you are with me. Don’t try and deny it. Worried about pissin’ off your father, betrayin’ some vision he has o’you. – and maybe you are, but he can sod off.” Before she could argue, Price stepped forward, collecting her chin and holding her steady in his grasp, the calloused pad of his thumb drifting tenderly over her plump lower lip, freezing her like a deer in the headlights. “Might make us monsters,” he whispered in a husk, “But we do the bad things so that the rest of the world only deals in the good. And, speaking for myself at least,” his voice hoarse with the admiration he held for her, head tipping to the side as he offered her a sly smirk, “Feel a little less like one when I’ve got you with me.” Her eyes closed, sighing heavily, as he pressed his forehead to hers, tipping her chin upwards to meet him in a searing kiss, apologies in each press of his lips against hers without ever uttering the actual words – he was far too stubborn a man to ever concede openly.

Pulling back, the fire still burned in his blue eyes, the torrid desire turning a sensual kiss into something more primal. His hand gently stroked her jaw down to her throat as if she were made of porcelain – despite the danger he willingly let her be thrown into – with him, there alway seemed to be that fear he might break her, that he was forced to be gentle. 

“I might ask you to cross some lines, but you know I'd never make you do something that’d harm you, darlin’.” His voice kept low, an insidious purr, as his mouth traveled down the smooth column of her neck, his whiskers rasping against her flesh still slick from her shower. “You know I’ll always take care of you, my girl,” he murmured against her pulse. Rory’s hands curled around the counter of the sink, her knuckles shifting from red to white as she leaned her weight against it. The backs of her thighs pressed against the cool edge, her head rolling back granting him full access to her throat with a quiet moan. 

She hated this, the anger that still welled inside her, the way he denied her side of things. One of his worst flaws was his belief that he was always right, despite the evidence before him. She hated that he could make her feel so goddamn docile sometimes, so obedient. His good girl.

Price’s firm hand on her hip held her in place with an unyielding grip. Fingers kneading at soft, smooth flesh under the towel, dug in to leave a claiming bruise upon her. His body – heavy, dominating – was an iron embrace that never let go. 

“Christ, John,” she mewled, her arm coiling around the back of his neck, fingers splayed through short, cropped brown hair as his teeth scraped gently along her skin. A shiver coursed down her spine, the humid warmth of the bathroom doing little to prevent the goosebumps that scattered her body in the wake of his touch. 

A low chuckle rumbled from deep within him, vibrating against her. The surge of lust was undeniable, a force that pulled them together like two magnets. Gently grasping her wrist, he moved Rory’s hand away from his hair and guided it towards his stiff member, throbbing with want, strained against the material of his pants. "You and me, Rory," he murmured, his voice hoarse with desire as she cupped him over the material, her fingertips gently caressing the outline of his bulge. "Trust in me, that’s all you’ve ever had to do." “You know I trust you, that’s the bloody problem,” she snarked while unbuttoning his pants, zipping down the fly with a fervor that was a testament to the devotion she held for him, one that had never faded after two years together and the crucible of bullshit they had faced throughout their careers. The anger still simmering inside her, just below the surface fueling the lust in equal measure as she tore his pants down his thighs. 

Cock springing free, he was eager to have her. Taking a deep, ragged breath, he pulled back slightly. "Look at me," he commanded softly, insistently. His darkened gaze daring her to deny him anything. “You can be angry with me all you like. Won’t change a damn thing, and you know that. This is our job, Rory.”

Hazel depths burned like the embers at the end of one of her cigarettes, holding within them a mix of rage and ardor as she glared at him. Swallowing thickly, her back to a wall, knowing full well this was what the man she was in love with was capable of, and always had been. Dangerous – confidently so – wielding power and secrets without a hint of a question in his purpose and with no remorse.

"C’mere,” his command dripped with authority, laced liberally with carnal desire. Claiming her mouth once again, he took what belonged to him. His hand slid through her damp hair, carding his fingers. Grasping her chin, tender in his touch, he intensified the kiss. Their bodies pressed against each other, a declaration of their unbridled hunger.

Heart pounding in her chest, each rhythm matched the pulse between her fingers as they encircled the thick of him. The gentle friction of her soft palm against his hardness, the warmth of her hand enveloping him as he thrusted slowly, deliberately into her grip, bucking his hips with the same control over his body he showed on the battlefield. 

His breathing became rough as she tightened her hold, eliciting a low groan from deep within him. "That's it, love," he rasped, panting as his forehead pressed against her own, watching her hand pump against him in a fist. Gaze rolling up to fix on hers, whimpering with need, he searched for the reassurance he craved from her, to know that she was his entirely.

Eyes darkening with her own arousal, they reflected equal intensity in the black depths of her blown out pupils. Chest and cheeks left flushed in the same rosy shade as her pebbled nipples.

Thrusting harder, he reached up to cup her face. The calloused pads of his fingers brushed against her cheekbones and traced the curve of her jawline, his thumb stroking the edge of her lower lip, watching as her mouth opened slightly in response to his touch.

"Kiss me, Rory," he demanded gruffly, his voice husky with desire. 

Both needed the connection more than oxygen, breath hitching as their lips finally met and their spark so easily ignited. The kiss – deep, mirroring the carnal heat that radiated between them like white phosphorus, impossible to be extinguished. 

His hips continued to move, driving into her hand with a hunger that threatened to consume him, a hunger that was never truly sated when it came to her no matter how many times they laid together. Breaking the kiss moments later, his breath came in ragged gasps. "I need you," his voice a rough whisper. "Now."

Quick to grab the underside of her thighs, scooping her up into his arms, he lifted her onto the countertop, the cold sting of marble biting at her once more. Slotting himself between her thighs, his own muscular ones kept her spread wide open for him and with a quick move of his hand, her towel fell away and Rory was bared to him in all her glory. 

Large, meaty hands roamed over her supple skin scented with the subtle perfume of her vanilla body wash and he nuzzled in against her neck and wet locks of hair, luxuriating as he breathed her in, unable to get enough. "Mmm...you smell like heaven, my girl," he murmured, his words barely audible above the thrumming of their hearts. 

Price’s touch grazed over the sides of her waist, exploring the curves he had mapped out in his memory, moving to cup her pert breasts in his grip. He stood before her, savage jubilation in his eyes, making it staggeringly clear he'd do anything to keep her close – in bed, in battle, in life. 

The possessive gleam in his eyes would make a lesser individual wilt, but not her, Rory was made of the same stuff. That lupine smirk of hers pulled at her full lips, the predatory stare blatant in her eyes as they flared up at him, the amber in her depths flickering alight. Evidence of need coated her inner thighs, her slick folds awaiting him to delve within.

He moved then, swift and certain, the force of desire propelling him forward as he dragged her towards the edge of the counter, hands roaming with the expectant touch of a man who knew exactly what he wanted. The dance between them was as familiar as breathing.

Long legs wrapped around him, jerking him towards her with a press of her heels. Wrangling him. The rare occasion where she controlled the Captain with the tug of the leash he’d given her reign over, the shepherding dog submissive to his lamb. Pushing the ruddy head of his cock that bullied at her entrance into her, slowly, stretching herself open on him, her moan filling the space between them as her face contorted with pleasure.

Gripping her hips tightly, he thrust into her with the force of a man possessed. Each movement was proof of the passion that burned between them, an almost unbearable calefaction. His knees thumped against the vanity doors, the sound punctuating each plunge into the depths of her velvety walls. 

"Is this what you want?" His voice low and gravelly, the hint of danger in his words sending shivers down her spine.

Breath hot on her neck, his lips grazed her skin, each trailing mark from his mouth a promise of what was to come. Her hands clawed at his back in return, urging him on, leaving raw, red lines against the tanned canvas of his skin. “I want you to stop trying to turn me into you,” she breathed, a soft, shuddered whisper in his ear as he continued to fill her. His hips stuttered, freezing, halfway in and out of her. John’s piercing blue-eyed gaze locked onto her as his jaw clenched – a nerve had been struck. “I’m not,” he growled. 

Eyes locked, captive in one another’s stare, she didn’t back down. “Don’t ever make me cross that line again, John.” It wasn’t a plea or a request, it was an order, a demand. She rarely asked much of Price, but after giving an inch and him taking a mile, putting her foot down was the only resolution. “Listen to me.” Gripping the back of her head, cradling it in the palm of his hand, his fingers coiled into her hair. “I have only ever done things with your best interests at heart,” he rasped, eyes boring into hers, willing her to remember the promise he had made to her in the hotel years ago. “It's never my plan to hurt you, I only ever want to keep you safe.”

“John, you asked me to use a child as bait…” Rory's eyes were glassy as she stared up at him, teeth clenched in a snarl as her words fell from her trembling lips, the guilt festering inside her. “And I did it,” she whispered harshly, “For you.”

His eyes fell for just a moment, an ounce of vulnerability shown by the man who normally remained steadfast and firm in his resolve. Price gave a heavy sigh before meeting her gaze once more. “In havin’ to deal with the Butcher, to find Hadir, I was forced to make a decision, love. But a decision – a hard decision – had to be made. Something I'm far too familiar with, eh?” He tried to force a little smirk, but it failed to reach his eyes, his fingers digging into the tender flesh at her nape as he clung to her, afraid to let her go.

“I'd never intend to put you in a position like that, not if I didn’t already know you were capable of it,” he said with a quick shake of his head, his brow furrowing, deepening the lines of his forehead. “I don't want to break you, darlin’. I know your limits, every one of ‘em, and I’d never push you any further than what I know you’re able to. It’s my job to know that, Ror. You're my best asset. My everythin’.” He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, his stare pleading for a forgiveness he didn't often seek. “You know that, my girl.”

“Of all the people to ask me to do something like that, it never should have been you.” Her hand shook against the edge of the vanity before she brought it to the bridge of her nose and squeezed it, rubbing at her eyes. 

“But it was, wasn’t it?” His voice a low rasp, the quiet threat of the power imbalance between them. He was the one in charge, she was expected to follow. “You know if it had been someone else they’d have pushed you further than that, I might push the boundaries but never any farther than I know you can handle. And I’ll always be there to put you back together when it’s done, won’t I?” He gripped her hair a little tighter, combing his fingers through the strands. “You trust me to look after you, don’t you? To protect you? I’m the only one who can.” He spoke with utter conviction, entirely bound to his belief in himself. “I’m the only one. Just like you’re the only one I’ve let get close enough t’do the same with me.”

Wetting her lips, she closed her eyes and glanced away from him. “Don’t expect me to apologize for walking away, John, because I’m not going to.” She brushed her hand through her wet hair, hiding the tremor as best she could. 

“You know if that had been anyone else…” His mouth scrunched, his nostrils flaring, retreading the hit to his pride still fresh enough to sting.

“You’d have torn them a new arsehole. Yeah,” she said quietly.

He huffed out a laugh. “You’re goddamn right I would have.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Wouldn’t have done us any good,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “We had a mission to complete. Better t’let you walk away, cool off. I know you, love. Give you enough time to think things over and you always come t’realize that I was right.”

Rory sighed, scratching at her brow as she stabbed her tongue into her cheek. “You know we are still arguing, yeah?” Narrowing her eyes at him, annoyance flared at the fact that even when he knew he was wrong he’d rather continue to be defensive, in denial, punctuating it with a tsk of her tongue as she sucked her teeth. “Now might not be the time to be an arrogant prick.”

“You knew what you were signing up for.”

“God, you are such a fucking arsehole,” she muttered, looking up at the ceiling, her scoff turning into a laugh despite herself. 

“A fucking arsehole who’d take a bullet for you, and kill anyone who ever threatened ya,” he said earnestly.

“And that’s supposed to make it all better, eh?”

His brows lifted, expression haughty as the lines wore deeper into his forehead. “Has before.”

With a roll of her eyes, she cupped his jaw, fingertips pressing into his cheeks, the bristles of his facial hair pricking her as she pulled him in for a kiss, slow and deep. “Absolute prick,” she murmured against his mouth with swollen, pillowy lips.

Sliding off the counter, their kiss steadily grew more heated. The passion raging between them in each meeting of hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses. Groaning into each other's mouths as they groped at one another, clawing at their second chance like it was prey, not letting it slip from between their fingers.

Leading her to turn and bend over the counter, serving her up as an offering to himself, John’s eyes flickered over her body, meeting her stare in the reflection of the mirror before coming up behind her. His hand on her hip gripped her tightly while he began to grind up against the round curve of her ass. His weight pressed against her as he leaned over her, he rumbled in her ear, “Make it up to you, promise.”

Wrapping his hand around the thick of his cock, he tugged it before rubbing the head of it against her folds, coating himself in her slick. Lining up with the entrance to her heat once more, thrusting into her slowly, starting with just the tip, he relished in the sensation of sliding into the depths of her welcoming warmth. With a low, guttural groan, his body caged hers in and his rough hands roamed her flesh. His insistent pace stretched her open on the thick of his shaft, holding her down against the countertop of the vanity. She reached out and gripped his arm, hand trailing down, feeling the tendons rise like mountains from the planes of his skin. Fingers interlacing with those on her hip as he continued to rut into her in a relentless pounding, her hips bucking back to meet him. John's knowledge of her body, what she liked, was precise as he stroked that sweet spot inside her that made her moan and beg. “J-john…” She grabbed his thigh with her other hand, nails digging into the rigid muscle, marking him with crescent shapes in his skin. Lifting onto her tiptoes, her legs started to quiver, her calves quaking. 

“Wha’s that, darlin’,” he purred against her throat, nipping at the soft flesh. She couldn't help but whine, whimpering as he gifted her with the sweet torture of the ever-growing crescendo of a building climax. The blood pounding in her ears, stomach muscles tightened, the knot in her belly squeezing, coiling. A hoarse cry ripped from her throat as she pressed her cheek to the cool counter of the vanity, desperate for some sort of relief as heat pooled at the apex of her thighs.

“Christ, Ror, you’re so fuckin’ perfect f’me.” His beard brushed against her with each nuzzle, friction burning against her tender neck as his arm coiled around her waist, squeezing her lithe frame against him. His chest glued to her back, sweat on his brow as he pistoned into her, his hips grinding in place as he sunk in deeper, imprisoning her with his body.

“Such a good girl. So sweet f’me. Soft,” he praised. “Always ‘ave been, always will be. My girl. All mine,” he said, punctuating each claim with a thrust. “Made f’me, yeah?”

Head tossing back, Rory rested against the bulk of his broad shoulder, eyes squeezed shut as her whole body trembled under him, wracked and ravaged as she came on his cock. Crying out, she slumped forward, panting heavily. 

“Don’t ever fucking hurt me like this again. One and only warning.” Her voice rasped as ragged breaths rose from her throat. “You hear me?”

His jaw flexed against her raging pulse point, the steel twinge of tendon and muscle clenching at his teeth. She was serious, and he knew it. “Loud and clear, love.” “Good.” She gripped his jaw and their mouths met in another bruising kiss. “Because I’ll tear your fucking balls off next time,” Rory muttered, pulling away with a smirk.

“Don’t bloody doubt that for a minute, love,” he growled as his hand slipped between her thighs, his fingers rubbing against her clit in well-practiced movements as he fucked into her slow and deep. 

Her moan acted as a reminder that this was for her sake as he tried to make his apology known with the love he gave her. John aimed for success as he did in all things, to give her as much pleasure as he could, to make her come as many times as possible, leaving her shaking and moaning and weak for him, only to scoop her up into his arms and remind her why she picked him in the first place. A reminder of the night he held her, kept her safe, his body pressed to hers – the night he nearly lost her – and his promise to protect her, to never let her be harmed again. Knees shaking, legs barely able to hold her up anymore, she melted under the blanket of hard muscle, silvered scars, and hair slick with their combined exertions that pinned her in place – their bodies merging together. 

“I love you, Ror,” he growled in her ear, his breaths heavy, ragged. “I swear to God, I love you.”

It was the closest she’d ever get to a real apology from him and she knew it. The shroud of the stoic man refusing to slip away, instead allowing a thread of vulnerability to be pulled free, tying them in a knot. The unbreakable tether, stronger than steel. 

She was going nowhere and he would never make the same mistake again.

The abrasion of his hair against her slick flesh started to ache and burn, yet he showed no signs of stopping, maintaining the same drag of his cock inside her, his fingers working her clit expertly, her body was another weapon he’d mastered. Mewling, she melted into his touch, jostled back and forth until the knot inside her finally snapped. Her walls clenched around him, gripping him tight, never letting go as her cunt clutched him, milking his cock. He groaned, his hand on her hip digging in tighter. “That’s it, sweetheart. You can take all o’me, darlin’,” John cooed, sucking on the skin of her neck, sensitive and beaded with sweat. “Gonna take you to bed, love. I ain’t done with you yet.” Too euphoric to deny him, his arm squeezed around her, peeling her from the counter. Her body pressed tight to his, her feet barely able to keep up as they moved. Rory’s mind was a fog as she heard the bedroom door click shut behind them and she landed with a bounce on the mattress. 

It felt like days had passed by the time they both lay on the bed together, entirely spent and sated. Her mind lost in a haze as her body finally settled and she relaxed. Exhaustion spread through her muscles and right down into the marrow, every ache and pain she’d ignored hitting her like a freight train as she curled up against him, her curves of soft flesh a stark contrast to the wall of brute force and muscle she called home. 

Watching his breathing slowly settle, all the stress drained from him, evident by the low purr that emanated from him as the sweat glistened on his hairy barrel chest in its steady rise and fall. His hand brushed through her hair gently, pushing the sweat stained tresses away from her eyes and gazing down into them with a proud smirk. “All better now, eh?” he rumbled. 

Rory groaned. “Shut it, you’re ruining the moment.”

He chuffed, his mouth curling into a half grin as his free hand gripped at her rump, brushing his thumb over the red marks on her skin where bruises were sure to form, forgetting his own strength. “Too good for me,” he mused quietly.

She shifted in the bed, just enough to get comfortable, not enough to disturb the hold he had on her. She didn’t want to break that connection, it was more important to her than anything else. Her fingers trailed through the dampened dark hair that cascaded from his pecs and down his soft stomach. “Thought you said I was perfect for you?”

His stomach fluttered under her touch, sucking in with a sharp breath, pulling taut before his belly released. “You are. Too bloody perfect. Can’t imagine not having you beside me.” Gripping the back of her head a little tighter, his fingernails gently grazed against her scalp as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. 

A low growl from the back of his throat vibrated through her as he kept his lips on her crown and breathed in her scent. Their skin and the sheets of their bed perfumed with their passion, sweat and sex, and the sweet scent of her shower products. His half hard cock glistened with the mixture of their fluids, twitching as he pulled her closer to his body, enveloping her in his warmth. The protective cocoon he had always sought out to be with her, keeping her safe from danger and all the threats he knew she was more than capable of handling, earning her trust so that she would learn to rely on him. 

Huffing out a laugh she nuzzled up against him, stroking her fingertips against his flesh, grazing over scars that had built up over more than half his life. “Can’t imagine being anywhere else – even if you’re being an insufferable prick,” she murmured. “I am your girl after all.”

His girl. It had been something she had refused to be seen as for some time, something she still had to keep hidden. The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was to convince the world he didn't exist. And that was the state of limbo she lived in with John. Together, but not on paper. A secret, a lie – her work and personal life blending together in a way that most wouldn’t be able to stomach. It took a special type of person to do the things her and John did, to not let the guilt stop them or the remorse to impede their actions – it really was no surprise that somehow they would find one another, that they would end up like this. Perhaps she was more like him than she thought and he simply courted it out of her. How else would she still be able to do everything she was capable of after all this time? 

His girl had taken on a whole new meaning.

“My girl,” he crooned, “Someday the whole world’s gonna know that.”

She shook her head and laughed. “Don’t get my hopes up, we both know that’s not happening anytime soon. Perhaps once we both give up the military life, but quite frankly I don’t see either of us ever being willing to do that. What would we be without the chaos?”

“I’ll find a way to keep us together till then, love.” He chuckled to himself, squeezing her in his arms, lowering his voice to whisper in her ear, “I’m persistent, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Tilting her head to look up at him, he gazed down at her. “Meant everything I said, darlin’. Never meant to piss you off or push you away.” His piercing powder blues softened, the steely glint within them receding – the op was over, there were no more regulations or expectations, he could put the Captain persona away for a time. “You and me. Forever, yeah?” Rory’s brows flinched and knit together before nodding without another word spoken. Too tired to argue, worn out and ready to move on. She forgave him. But she wouldn’t forget. This was the dark side of John, the one she always had to be ready for. A man who knew enough of her secrets to break her, and she could only hope that his love for her willed out over his worse nature, the nature that demanded success and control. “That’s my girl,” he purred, nuzzling against her, his large hand roaming down her body, squeezing her hip and the curves of her, appreciating the soft skin below his touch. “We’ll move on from this, be stronger for it. You’ll see.” God, she hoped so.