#handles are brass if it makes a difference

[californiaquail]

[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.

[velvetures]

Honorifics

A/N: Yeah... I don't know about this. I'll probably take it down since I'm unsure if it's got enough of a consistent vibe. Let me know if it's actually something you enjoy since I don't write angst or hurt/comfort often. I ALWAYS WRITE HAPPY ENDINGS THO. That's a damn promise. Summary: You've given Ghost a title he hates, and takes it out on you. The situation goes too far, and you're both left trying to figure it out. Reader is nicknamed "Brass" since she's a long-distance shooter/sniper. T/W: angst, cursing, Ghost being an emotionally unstable human, yelling, the reader having a breakdown, smidge of not eating, smidge of not drinking anything, comfort, feelings, female reader, not proofread.

When you joined the task force, things didn’t exactly go as smoothly as you had hoped it would. Training sessions usually ended up with you either getting your ass beat or nearly surviving a full-on embarrassment by the skin of your teeth just to be told that you still weren’t in good enough shape to keep up with them in the field. Surely being a woman didn’t excuse you from being in shape for the kind of work Laswell and Price had brought you in for, but damn if it wasn’t difficult to try and have a one-on-one fight with someone like Soap or Ghost without the benefit you would typically have in a real-world battle situation. The reality that all of the men in the squad were literally the best of the best aside, there could be just barely enough room for you to compete on the same level when it came to sheer physical strength. While that wasn’t your specialty anyway, the Captain made it clear you needed to prove you could handle your own against serious physical fights without assistance. After nearly five weeks of having one of your squad mates slam you on your ass one too many times in the training hall, you finally were able to prove to Price that you could go out in the field and he didn’t have to extend any extra worries for your ability to survive.

Logistically as a sniper, it meant you frequently held a much more distant role in missions. By watching from a scope you could ensure that infiltrations, covert ops, and other hush-hush kinds of operations that typically the 141 wouldn’t have the luxury of. Being the skilled marksman you were, it made sense to take advantage of your talents and also extend you a job that progressed past what you’d experienced in your “standard” military career and multiple tours overseas. However, that meant communications were essentially the backbone of your usefulness aside from your rifle. Next to nothing else, your daily and mission-based work almost exclusively went through Lieutenant Ghost. Which… often proved to be the largest obstacle that you faced aside from making sure that your scope didn’t get bumped off sight the -often- rough flights and drives to insertion points.

The Lieutenant was particularly mean… he certainly didn’t give a single thought to if anyone thought that he was a little too harsh of a personality to swallow. That went for everything you came to learn about Ghost. From his lack of willingness to speak unless required of him, to his unique ability of appearing and disappearing from anywhere without the slightest sound or hint of where he’d come from or gone to. Trained as a distance marksman, even you were impressed that such a massive man could move around like smoke on water. That and his physical appearance; good god above. Surely a man like Ghost had never graced the face of the Earth before, else he’d have been just as mythical in his legendary life and would’ve been known by thousands of people. He stood towering over just about everyone, in whatever room he was in, and compared to your own height it was downright laughable the difference between the two of you as operators.

The one thing that made the biggest impression on you after meeting the Lieutenant was his voice and how he spoke. That thick accent always sounded rough and a little gritty. His deep timbre gave such a commanding authority that if given the choice between getting yelled at by Captain Price or Ghost… there was no choice you’d sit for hours listening to Price threaten you over Ghost. He just sounded so scary and attractive all at the same time. Unsurprisingly, it developed into a subconscious dynamic where you saw Ghost as such a superior officer -and human- that no matter how much you liked to daydream about Ghost in less-than-professional situations… You gave him the utmost respect at all times. Easiest of all to recognize was that from day one, you had never addressed Ghost to his face as anything other than ‘sir’. Not even his rank gave enough nuance to his character and presence, so for you, Ghost was inextricably attached to the name.

Ghost however… didn’t like it.

Such a simple address actually made Ghost grit his teeth beneath the shield of his mask. When he heard you call him that, he automatically related it to how he had called General Shepherd ‘sir’ as a subtle sign of mockery and defiance. Thinking about that made him more than necessarily angry and confused, but he couldn’t really accuse you of having ever been given much of a reason to detest him. Therefore, he had to come to the conclusion that you were doing it out of some kind of respect that a drill sergeant or boot camp instructor had bashed into your brain so hard that it stuck permanently. Not surprising since you were much different from the rest of the task force. Yet he had to revise that after the first six months of you being with them permanently. You had gotten settled in. Enough so that you called the Captain, ‘Cap’… Soap, ‘Johnny’… and Garrick, ‘Gaz’ like everyone else did. Exceptionalities only appeared when it came time for you to be around him or have any sort of interaction that wasn’t the occasional silent nod of acknowledgment when walking past each other in the hallways.

He honestly tried to ignore it and you altogether for that matter in an attempt to keep his bitter anger at a minimum. Seeing such a small and fucking happy woman always lingering around somewhere in the corners of his sight couldn’t be anything but a distraction waiting to happen. A bad habit that he didn’t have the mental capacity or emotional willingness to take on. Fuck… he already had to worry about the 141 as a whole, to begin with. Now you on top of that? It was more responsibility than he’d signed up for initially. Hearing you call him ‘sir’ day in and day out began to take its toll on his self-control. Ghost needed to either find out why you were hellbent on calling him that, or at least be enough of a bastard to you to be reassured that you did it because you wanted a polite way to tell him to shove it up his ass sideways.

The Lieutenant had been being nothing short of a prick in the last few months.

He was making paperwork back at HQ a nightmare that couldn’t be solved alternatively through someone like Gaz or Soap who often didn’t mind playing the part of the unbiased third party. Refusing to sign things when you stopped by his office, outright ignoring your necessary questions, and stonewalling you at every single stop along the way just to yield at the last moment and do everything you’d been asking for so the both of you wouldn’t face heat from any higher-ups. That alone was enough for you to consider talking to Soap privately since he knew Ghost the best… but you’d kept putting it off hoping that it was just a passing phase of shitty attitude.

Your patience and emotional strength fell through the floor after attempting for the third time in a week after something so fucking simple as trying to get his approval and official signature on a post-mission report Price had delegated to you after being called to Washington D.C. for a meeting. It wasn’t a major task, but knowing that the Captain had given you the responsibility first over anyone else made you want to impress him and take care of business without incident. God forbid you do something as simple as ask Ghost to pick up a pen and scribble his name at the bottom of a page so that you could send it on through the higher-up channels. It resulted in the Lieutenant straight-up yelling at you in the middle of the hallway outside his office when he’d found you standing there patiently waiting for him to show up. He wasn’t threatening physically, but it cut much deeper into your pride and feelings than it should have.

With every word that dripped venomously out of his masked mouth, you lost a little extra peace of mind on having such an untouchable and unshakably good opinion of Ghost for so long. This moment of undeserved verbal punishment was enough to make the corners of your eyes burn with inner disgrace, self-doubt, and plain old sadness which motivated you to get the hell out of there before the Lieutenant saw you cry. When you turned your back and walked away right in the middle of his berating for you being “too fucking annoying to tolerate”, your only destination was your personal quarters on the other end of the building where a lock on the door could shut out the entire base for as long as you saw fit. Upon the first estimation, it would be after Captain Price returned so that you could have at least one single chance at not getting a second punishment or dismissal from the squad. The sound of your door slamming shut and your back sliding down against it on your way down to the floor silenced the entire room around you, leaving just enough room for the papers clenched to your chest to flutter onto the ground and your weak cries to sounds amplified.

It was hours before you could drag yourself off the floor and into bed, too tired and wanting to fall back on the trained and instinctual desire to hide away somewhere isolated and not move for hours on end. Being a long-distance marksman gave you the talent of patience insurmountable to the average person, allowing days to pass by without you needing to do more than go to the bathroom before coming right back to a motionless position. That’s what you wanted tonight. You needed to focus all of your energy into your brain alone and use it to sort through the hurt burning through your eyes and throat, and the questioning that gave such a sickening feeling a chance root in your stomach. Questions of if it had been foolish to trust Ghost as much as you did the others, knowing how you’d been warned that he would be difficult to work with. Hoping you hadn’t been truly so ignorant of judging behavior to think that the Lieutenant was something much greater than his behavior had been not only today but for the past months.

The next two days were spent laying near motionless… not hungry or thirsty.

Just thinking, sleeping, and staring at the wall across from your bed.

A solid knock on your door was the first human sound that hadn’t been made by you in over forty-eight hours. You’d not looked at your phone or any communications since locking yourself inside, and there was a good chance someone from the squad had come searching for you after such a long period without seeing or hearing from you. When you refused to answer right away, another harder knock banged on the door twice and rattled the steel in its doorframe. Impatient. Testy. Quite familiar with everything you’ve been through lately. Recognizing the Lieutenant was the one outside made your gut churn all over again. Questioning whether to get up or not wasn’t hard. Laying perfectly still in bed, you waited. If you were being honest though, it’d been a long time since you’d spent so long restricting yourself from basic needs for the purpose of acting like a living phantom. Close to three years since any sniper position had left you utterly abandoned without resources. Only this time it was self-induced and nothing short of a trauma response you wanted to hide away from. Truthfully you couldn’t tell if walking to the door was an easy feat or not. After not drinking anything, using the bathroom wasn’t necessary and the last time you’d stood up didn’t cross your memory clearly.

Ghost slammed his fist against the door again one last time. But he didn’t wait long enough for you to answer before rattling the handle to the door with a heavy sigh that was audible through the cracks separating you. Metal on metal gritted softly and moved the door handle a bit further. Recognizing that as nothing short of Ghost picking the lock to your quarters without the slightest care of how he’d be breaking multiple stipulations laid out for them living in HQ. Either your physical or mental state kept you from giving a damn when the handle gave way fully, leaving a bright fluorescence light flooding in from the hallway into your pitch-black room. It made your eyes water and the urge to turn your head away was strong enough to budge your head into the blankets and pillow surrounding. Heavy boots made the paperwork scattered on the floor crunch softly and the sound of his deep breaths gave away his current state of frustration. Clearly not appreciating being locked out of a room that he had no fucking business being in. A long pause led to shuffling around, and the sound of your desk chair creaking under his weight.

“Gonna say somethin’?” He sounded no less irritated than the last time you’d spoken.

It made your throat burn to even think you’d allowed his to get in your head so deeply just to utterly rip every last bit of security and respect away from you for no damn reason. Your silence made quite the statement, even if the actual task of speaking hadn’t been a totally voluntary one. You’d not moved your jaw in days at this point.

“You’ve missed five drill sessions, two mandatory meetings, and one phone from General Shepherd.”

Listing off your offenses hardly bothered you. The consequences of this had been fully accepted days ago, and Ghost would have to do a lot more to get you up from this bed. You’d trained for hell, and no matter how badly Ghost had ruined your almost loving and patient view of him there weren’t enough men on the planet to make you get up voluntarily. Drastic… yes. Satisfying to your own pride… undoubtedly. When you didn’t even let out a single breath loud enough for Ghost to hear instead of that instant apology or willingness to appease him… please him even, with that little quip of ‘sir’ ready on your tongue, the Lieutenant was up out of that chair so quickly you heard it roll into the wall behind him hard enough to thud against the drywall.

“Goddamn it Brass, I demand a fuckin’ answer!” His loud bark caught your attention, but the feeling of your blankets being ripped off your body was a far more startling sensation.

Baring you to the cold air of the room, all your body managed was to raise chills on your skin in a feeble attempt to keep you warm or alert you to seek out that heat again. Tension exploded into shocked silence when Ghost didn’t utter more than a sharp inhale after getting one, shadowed glimpse of your body totally frozen on your stomach. You knew it couldn’t look great. Snipers could come back looking like skeletons sometimes after a long mission if they were given the orders to stay put. You’d not been laying nearly long enough for that to be the case, but dehydration was certainly a symptom you were ignoring quite easily, as well as the possibility of some minor pressure ulcers that would linger for a few weeks if you didn’t move soon. Ghost wasn’t as familiar with the sight of how you felt internally. Snipers weren’t commonly used or in collaboration with Task Force 141. You’d been their first real look at how the inner workings moved or didn’t, and much of your personal way of doing things had dispelled or blown away any misguided assumptions they’d made about your skills early on. Viewing a sniper after days of doing literally nothing, of her own free will…? That wasn’t healthy or accepted in general military companies. Lucky Ghost got the front-row seat though.

When you heard his movement next to you, weight pressed down the mattress at your side in the shape of his hands, and a low sigh registered.

“Brass…” Failing to even say something, you wondered if your own assessment of yourself wasn’t accurate. “It’s been five days.” His faltered tone was truthful, and it destroyed your semblance of time that had been misled by the absence of sunlight coming in through your room.

You thought about trying to say something, resolve falling flat when swallowing felt difficult. A gloved hand rested against your thigh and Ghost almost growled again, sounding a lot more like he was resisting the urge to squeeze you hard. Only his fingers traced along your hip and over the curve in your waist with a tense and heavy swallow. He was being gentle beyond your concept of his depth of emotion and understanding. Nearly loving as he paused over your ribcage with another pinched sort of sound. Staying like that for what felt like hours, you struggled to keep yourself awake. It had been a struggle to move your tongue in your mouth, testing what mobility you’d lost in the short term. Only Ghost wasn’t leaving like you expected, and suddenly his voice returned it its normal stature.

“This’s Ghost. Get a bay ready now, I’m bringin’ someone in.” The reverb of his voice crackled in a radio you knew hooked to his vest. A backup short-range alternative in the case that SAT couldn’t be established or wasn’t clear enough to rely on in the field. Apparently, he used it to keep in contact with someone on base. Or multiple people for all you knew.

“Copy Ghost.” A static voice could be heard and quickly the room was pitched back into a silence you wanted to remain in, but Ghost was adamant to keep infracting alone with a whole list of other rules that, for whatever reason, just didn’t fucking matter or apply to him.

His other hand searched around the dark until he found your face resting amongst the fabric of your bed, curling his hand around your head and meticulously lifting you so very slowly away from the bed with his other arm steadying your legs that had also been taken up off the mattress. You’d never touched Ghost once in all the time you’d known him. Understanding that with his sour attitude, there couldn’t be a single chance in Hell that touching him was an acceptable action. Whereas with Soap, Gaz, and even on occasion Price: hugs, handshakes, shoves, and other physical touches were common, Ghost totally ignored all human contact. Maybe Hell had frozen over outside of your quarters for your weak and still motionless body to be lifted up against the Lieutenant’s chest and carried preciously outside of your room into the burning light of HQ. His chest heaved deep and quickly against you. Both hands curled around you and flexed tighter each time you were able to hear another set of shoes approaching closer to you. Possessive like a soldier. Silent like a Ghost. Determined.

He takes you straight to the medical hall where three nurses and two of the on-shift doctors are fast to respond to your condition. Only Ghost refuses to let them take you away from him for any reason. Stoically stonewalling them just like he habitually did to you as they begged him to lay you down on a transport bed so they could take you back to a room for assessment. The Lieutenant took you there himself, with the group of nurses and doctors hot on his heels and surrounding your bed once Ghost had you settled down inside a private room.

The whole place smells sterile and like alcohol. It’s not the first time you’ve been here, but these are far different circumstances. You’re still too sensitive to open your eyes, but hands are all over your body, gloves fingers touching around the sore places on weight-bearing points on your body, pricks in your fingertips, and a needle poke to the back of your hand. It’s overstimulating, to say the least, and you’re worried they’re going to think you’ve tried to starve yourself to death or decided that living altogether wasn’t worth it and simply wasting away into your bed was the solution. Right away, one of the voices of the medical professionals breaks that worry in your mind by calling for some of the tests to be staggered, needing time between them for nothing other than your own benefit.

“Treat this no differently than prolonged active reconnaissance,” The female voice states softly. “Being on-the-gun for this long is detrimental to all senses, and she’s going to need a while to wake up in a meaningful way.” She added, voice coming clearer the closer she got to your head.

“You’ve been working very hard, I suspect. Maybe not in the field… but you’re one tough lady.” She commented to you quite personally, her hand falling to your shoulders. “We’re going to get you plenty of fluids and start you on a vitamin drip to get everything running as it should again. You’ve also got some slight bedsores, but as long as we take care of them now, you’ll be right as rain soon, sniper.”

Tests were run, treatments began, and nurse after nurse was brought in with both doctors running rotations in and out of your room for the rest of the night. All of them were under the hard watch of Ghost who’d not moved from his position sitting in the corner of your room where he could see not only you but anyone approaching the door. He’d been very quiet throughout the process, watching and waiting for someone to give him some news about your condition with actual certainty. Stewing over the guilt he felt knowing damn well he was the reason you’d shut down so far and were still unable -or unwilling- to come out of it yet. You’d been nothing but the perfect little woman, doing her job with skill and grace, making everyone around you happier just with one glance in your direction. But fuck, he couldn’t stand seeing someone do the callous profession of killing people with one single squeeze of her finger and still have so much innocent and emotional humanity inside such a small body. Ghost couldn’t wrap his mind around it. So instead of trying to do the right thing and figure it out, he did what a man so out of touch with empathy did: Try to snuff it out.

You threatened him whether you or he realized it in the beginning.

But now he could see it with that crystal fucking clear hindsight. How monstrous he was for punishing you with no foundation other than his own selfish fear of seeing a dynamic he didn’t know was possibly wrapped up inside of you. Sweet and little you, never saying anything to him other than a ‘yes sir’ or ‘no sir’. Goddamnit Ghost knew he’d nearly killed you in a way. Seeing days of neglect in your sallow expression, darkened under eyes, and weakened body was more than even his cold heart could take all at one time. Wasting away for someone as useless as himself, all because he’d never given you enough credit for finding something worth liking in him where no one else had. Screaming at you. Cursing your existence. Right in your face, while he’d been too big of a pussy to even take off his own mask he hid behind every day as he utterly destroyed your meaningful position and life working alongside of his and his squad. Owing you his life wouldn’t nearly cover his offenses. Laughably, Ghost admitted his own life or death couldn’t measure up to yours. So instead of saying any kind of bullshit apology, he sat in the corner of your room and denied himself sleep, food, and water because there wasn’t anything else he could do until you’d been considered healthy and strong again.

Almost one week to the day you had been signed off for return to duty with zero restrictions. Your physical and mental evaluations came back clean, and with both Price and Ghost signing off on the doctor’s orders, you returned to your quarters where you expected to see your room exactly as you’d left it before Ghost brought you into the medical wing. Only nothing was as you’d left it. All the paperwork left on the floor was gone, as well as the other documents that had been left on your desk that still needed finishing. All of it was gone. Your bed and all of the bedclothes you’d been taken from were also missing. Replaced with totally brand new bedding in dark hues of dark green and navy blue with a decidedly feminine pattern on the quilt. Items you didn’t own. Or have any idea where they came from. Even the smell of stale air was traded for a woody, and familiar smell that wasn’t of a candle, or room spray; It was from a person. The person who sat in the corner of your room in your desk chair with his massive arms crossed over his chest and dark eyes staring at you through the painted visage of a skull gracing a black compression mask.

“Sir,” You greet hoarsely, still working through some of the non-significant parts of your recovery that lingered. Ghost stood from his seat and met you halfway across your room with a silent nod, his hand reaching out and motioning for you to step closer to him. Warily but complicit, you make the few steps forward and watch his hand turn to slide against your jaw and stay there firmly. “I expected you to be at drill.” You say with a tinge of surprise at the touch of his bare hand resting against your cheek.

“Should be,” He replied flatly. “But I’m not.” You nod a little, biting your tongue when his fingertip rubs over the curve of your ear. His eyes were soft and his unarmored physique was highlighted by the shadows made by the lamp on your side table. He’s inspecting you, you know as much. Clear by his thumb pressing over your pulse point and the minute exactly that he waits before speaking again.

“Do you like the color green?” His question knocks you off guard and his eyes slide over the quilt laying neatly over your bed. You were quick to answer honestly out of mere habit.

“Yes, sir.”

His hand stiffens against your cheek, and Ghost takes another step closer. His boots graze the tips of yours and his chin is nearly tucked against his chest to look down at you properly. You’re breathing a little harder, anticipating another break of his patience and an onslaught of screaming all directed at your apparent mistakes made right in front of his face. Judgments you’d still be unable to solve no matter how much you thought about it or what you did to try and find a solution of healthy -or not- motives. Ghost doesn’t yell though. He actually lowers his face down to yours, eyes locked right on you and an intensity burning there.

“Why do you call me that?” His low growl made you shiver, especially when his hand dropped lower to your throat. Now squeezing, but holding your gaze steady on him, reminding you of his strength. The power over you he’d always held, and given you the instant to call him ‘sir’ in the first place. Everything about Ghost was overwhelming, and you’d always been one wave away from drowning under him.

“You deserve the honor…” You answer, certain. Even if he’d broken your spirit and came back in the aftermath with questions you still believed to be much too complex for a single-sentence answer. Hopefully, he understood a little bit better but the way you leaned against his hand, letting him actually feel the pressure of your throat pressing into his palm. Literally offering your trust in him over again, testing the Lieutenant and watching as his eyes widened. His other hand came up to your face, counteracting the pressure you’d applied to keep your breath and blood flow uninterrupted. His face is still only inches away from yours but unflinching at the close contact.

“Brass,” He murmured, masked face teasing closer with his own lack of control. “I’m not what you think I am.” Your chest tightens with his words, soaked in desperation that heats your lips and cheeks.

“What’s that, sir?” You question, earning another flinch of his fingers against your skin.

“Safe… Trustworthy… Honorable.” He replies, getting even closer. The smooth material ghosted over your lips, and his breathing fanning over you wetly through the damp material. You sigh, feeling lightheaded. Weak in his hands, confused yet happy to have your life held in the palms of his hands. Confused about where his mistrust comes from, but gaining perspective every time he flinches when you address him in the way you always believed he’d feel the most revered and… loved.

“You’re wrong,” You challenge, hands moving from your sides to run up the thin shirt covering his chest. “You’re a man of fear. One that death shakes at the mention of. Even looking at you through my scope a mile away is enough to remind me you’re capable of inhuman things…” Your voice lowers, hearing thoughts straight from your soul escaping without filter from your brain. “Yet you’re human. So much more than anyone sees. Because it’s not evil that keeps you going. It’s the fear and hatred of losing anything that means something to you.” Your hand rests over his chest, hearing his heart thundering against his ribs.

“You’re not a monster, you are terrified of losing everything. That is why I call you ‘sir’, is because you’re a man unlike any other, Ghost.”

Hearing your own voice say his name like that feels so foreign. Coming off your tongue with the letters not fitting together in a way that you’d experienced. But Ghost… he reacts differently. His hands tightened around you and he hugged you against his chest tightly. His chest heaves up and down and the thunder of his heartbeat impossibly quickens until your left ear can’t hear anything but the repetitive thrum of blood coursing through his body. Heavy arms snake around you, one around your head to secure it to him and the other clinging to your waist with his hand fisting into your shirt until it’s skin-tight on your stomach. The Lieutenant practically shakes against you, using your much smaller frame to steady himself.

Yet he’s dropping to one knee on the ground, bringing you down with him until he’s nearly cradling you and softly rocking your weight back and forth. Soothing himself in much the same way a child would after scraping their knee on the sidewalk and the tears have begun to dry up. God, it made the massive man feel so weak; much like you did after he’d yelled at you a week ago. Both of you kneeled on the floor now with all of your wounds opened up to each other and had silently found a calm within the eye of a destructive storm that had been raging against the pair of you while everyone on the outside had been simply looking on with bated breath to see how the ending would play out.

“Brass - I…” Ghost’s voice choked up again, his arms tightening around you. “God, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t ignore you anymore… I’m losing my mind.”

You lean into his chest harder, arms struggling to reach all the way around his wide back in an attempt to support him a little bit. You understood through the way he was grabbing at anything on you he could desperately. So you did all you could and rubbed your hand up and down his back quietly allowing him the time to work through his thoughts. Both of you had been hurt by this, and while the Lieutenant’s form of apology came in the way he’d ushered you for help when you needed it most and unquestionably been the reason behind the way your quarters looked. Now it was you, cradling a man who’d never shown a single crack in his armor, feeling the weight of so many emotional wounds that he was practically bleeding out with pain and palpable regret.

“You don’t have to…” You whisper, resting your forehead against his.

Ghost just nods his head, panting heavily and giving a low sort of whine. “I’m so sorry…”

You smile sadly. “I’m sorry too.”

His eyes soften more, blinking away at wetness brimming at his waterline. “Say it again… please. I need to hear it. God, please.”

“It’s okay…” Your hands cradle his cheeks, feeling the sharp lines and hard muscles. “I’m right here, Ghost. We’re going to do this over again… Together, Ghost.”

Nodding weakly, he meets your gaze as you say his name again. Reveling in it. “Together… together, with you.”

[badgerbl00d]

one piece boys getting jealous pt.2

☆ characters: law, shanks, kidd

☆ up next: making one piece boys considering fatherhood

☆ summary: what happens when you pair pirates, a pretty lady, and another man finding her attractive? jealousy! , suggestive content

☆ a/n: law fever is rotting my brain.. suggest characters for part three!

☆ part 1 here!

law

1.26k words

“Hopefully we can come up with something good,” Law explained, “Or this whole plan is going to fall apart pretty quickly.”

You gently pat his back as you walked with him, “You will, Captain.”

He smiled, appreciative of the gesture. 

You both stopped in front of an intricate hand-carved wooden door with a gorgeous brass handle. 

You both lightly laughed at the breathtaking beauty of the door.

The Straw Hats’ shipwright didn’t cut corners. 

“Nicest library entrance you’ve ever seen in your life or what?” you joked, opening the door. 

He laughed and you felt a strong hand on your back guiding you into the library on the Thousand Sunny. 

Sanji was in the library reading and stood up as soon as you walked in.

“Y/n!” 

You waved, walking over towards him.

Law begrudgingly followed. 

He didn’t dislike any of the straw hats, but he also didn’t have a fondness for the flirty cook who couldn’t keep his eyes or hands off you. 

“I was just about to start dinner,” he whispered, “Care for a drink?”

Law rolled his eyes. Was the whispering necessary when he was standing less than five feet away?

“Oh! I’d love to!”

Law sighed, “I’m gonna head to the meeting room, Y/n.”

“Okay,” you replied, “I’ll see you later then?”

He nodded, giving you a soft smile before turning to Sanji and excusing himself. 

The cook didn’t miss how his fists clenched at his sides on his way out.

“Ready for a drink?” Sanji asked you.

“Ready!”

He responded with some french expression and led you towards the kitchen with him. 

Once there you offered to help Sanji with cooking dinner and stationed yourself in front of the window. 

He took a few things out of the oven and you watched as he rubbed a lime wedge around the rim of a shot glass. 

What the hell is she doing?

Law watched you through the kitchen window, washing vegetables, holding a pretty drink, 

taking sips as you laughed at whatever unfunny thing the straw hat cook what saying.

He had brought you on board with him because he knew you liked their company but this wasn’t supposed to be some play date.  

It was a strategy meeting.

For him, at least. 

He lost track of what Luffy and Robin were saying as he watched the two of you through the window. 

Sanji placed an apron over you, gently tying the strings to fit you. Clearly looking down at your breasts. 

He looked up, making eye contact with Law, catching onto the glare the surgeon was giving him.

Law watched a subtle smile spread across the cook’s face.

Pervert.

He heard Luffy mention something or other, no doubt a useless strategy he would refute if he were thinking straight, but all he could imagine was if he were standing in Sanji’s place. 

He’d be making something different that’s for sure. 

Law knew you hated carrots, but he also knew you’d never complain about anything and felt his fists clench as he watched you politely wash the vegetables. 

He also knew you hated alcohol but watched you sip your drink anyway. 

You were too nice for your own good, and Law felt like he had the responsibility of making sure you weren’t taken advantage of. 

You washed the last of the vegetables and placed them in a bowl.

“Let me help with more,” you insisted, “I’m no chef but I could cut these.”

“Of course! As long as you don’t get hurt.”

You giggled, “Trust me, I’ve dealt with worse,” you jokingly gestured over toward the room Law was in. 

You started chopping away at some carrots, stopping when you realized yours were a lot less even than Sanji’s.

“Want some tips?” 

You nodded, slightly embarrassed. 

Sanji stood behind you.

You felt his chest against your back and he softly placed his hands on top of yours, showing you the correct motions to use when chopping.   

You stood still, letting Sanji’s arms wrap around you, his hands resting on top of yours, continuing your previous conversation.

Law looked up again and saw red. 

He knew the cook wasn’t stupid, and that you were probably appreciative of the attention he was giving you.

He broke the pencil in his hand and tensed his jaw.

He looked ready to explode and Luffy and Robin turned around to look at what had pissed him off. 

“Mugiwara-ya,” he started, his stomach twisting, “Tell your pervert of a cook to get his hands off my sniper.” 

Law was seething.

Luffy turned to look into the kitchen and laughed, “Don’t worry, Traffy! Sanji is always nice to women.”

Robin who had also turned to look and stood up, a sly smile spreading across her face as excused herself, making her way towards you and Sanji. 

Law’s nerves worsened, Shit, shit, shit. 

He knew Robin had most likely caught onto what his anger was about.

He didn’t need anyone else to know how he felt about you. 

It was difficult enough for him, and he’d rather cut off his hands than let you find out. 

He felt trapped.

Luffy was yapping nonstop, none of which he was registering. 

He could hear his heart pounding in his chest and felt sweat forming on his forehead.

This was going to ruin everything. He was awkward and non-sociable. He didn’t make you fancy drinks and wasn’t naturally romantic, and most importantly he was about one hundred percent certain you didn’t feel the same way. 

He felt nauseous as he watched Robin open the kitchen door and approach the two of you. 

He watched you and Sanji look up at him. 

His stomach dropped. 

You turned towards Robin, a concerned expression taking over your face, starting to put away what you were doing.

You approached the door, but Sanji stopped you.

He untied the apron he had placed on you and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, whispering something to you. 

That was it. 

Law stood up and slammed the door open, marching straight toward the kitchen.

Luffy followed in hot pursuit, confused. 

The kitchen door swung open and Law almost ran into you. 

“Blackleg,” Law started, “What exactly do you think you’re doing with her?”

“Cooking,” Sanji responded, playing innocent. 

“I’m sorry, Captain,” you started, a very shameful appearance on your face, “Robin told me.”

Law let out a short exhale, still glaring at Sanji.

Robin… what?

Law’s heart dropped and he looked at you, eyes slightly widened. 

“She told me that I should’ve been helping you strategize,” you explained, “I completely forgot that I had the blueprints and your notebook with me.”

Law exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose, flooding with relief, “Right- the, uh, the blueprints. Could you bring them?”

You nodded, turning towards Sanji, “Thanks for the drink! I appreciate you making it non-alcoholic for me!”

Law felt like his head might explode. 

Of course, he had made you a non-alcoholic drink. 

“Anytime, mon Coeur,” Sanji grabbed your hand and placed a kiss on the back of it. 

“Room.”

You found yourself next to Law walking back towards the room he’d been in. 

“Don’t get distracted next time,” he scolded you.

You nodded, not saying anything. 

You felt Law take your hand in his, brushing off where you’d been kissed, before holding it. 

Your cheeks turned a violent shade of red. 

“Sanji, you ought to be more careful,” Robin said, making sure Law was still within earshot, “I never would've taken him as the jealous type!”

shanks

1.2k words

Shanks never got jealous. 

And if he was anything, he was confident. It was no secret that he had a woman waiting for him on every island and that he could have anyone he wanted. 

Except you. 

The newest addition to the crew and the most beautiful. 

He’d traveled the world, all four seas, and never once come across anything as gorgeous as you. 

Not a single thing compared to any part of you. 

Unfortunately, Beckman seemed to agree. 

He watched as the two of you sat and talked, sharing a bottle of wine, no less. 

Any progress he seemed to make with you, or any time you seemed to be reciprocating his affections, he’d find you and Benn together the next day. 

“I’m kind of hoping being at sea all the time will eventually get less nauseating,” you said. 

Benn laughed, “It will! The first time I set sail I was seasick for three weeks. Thought I’d never accommodate and was just about getting ready to hang up any hopes of being a pirate.”

“What changed?”

“Shanks helped, actually. Told me to try sucking on mints. Worked wonders.”

“Mints?”

“Yeah,” he explained, “Apparently they have a numbing effect which ends up canceling out nausea. He has them on hand all the time.” 

You took a sip of your wine, “Maybe I should ask him for some.”

“Just be careful with him,” Benn teased, “He can be a handful. Mind giving me a light?”

You leaned over towards him, holding your lighter to the cigarette between his lips. 

“Do you know where he is?” you said, standing up, downing the rest of the wine in your glass.

“Try his bedroom, he might still be sleeping. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind being woken up by you though,” Benn said, a sly look spreading over his face. 

You’d have asked what he meant if nausea hadn’t already started to set back in. 

You knocked on his bedroom door lightly, trying to steady your breathing as you weren’t sure if you felt like fainting or throwing up.

“Um... Captain?” you called out, “I know it’s early but, uh, I was wondering if you had any mints?”

This was awkward. You should probably feel more comfortable talking to the man who invited you to be a part of his crew.

You waited by the door for a few minutes with no answer. 

You groaned and decided that you’d have a peek inside only to see if he was sleeping and if he was you’d.. well, you didn’t know.

It would probably be weird to go in and wake him. 

You took a deep breath in and slowly turned the handle, opening the door as little as possible to see if he was inside. 

“Whatcha lookin’ for, baby?”

A strong voice called out to you from the end of the hall.

You nearly passed out.

“Captain!! I was- I was just- Oh my God, I’m so sorry I know how this looks I was just looking for you because Beckman said that you might still be sleeping and I needed-”

Shanks held up a dismissive hand to cut you off. 

“Cute,” he said, looking at how your cheeks deepened in color, “But if you wanted some time in my bedroom with me you could always just ask.”

A flirty smile settled onto his face, and he wasn’t shy about holding eye contact. 

You averted your eyes to the floor and tried to explain again, “I need a mint. Benn said I could ask you for one since you carry them all the time.”

His smile faltered for a split second, “And what would you and Benn need a mint for?”

Your cheeks darkened even more and you felt embarrassment creeping up your neck and onto your face.

“Oh, n-no it’s nothing like that! I just-,” you paused not exactly wanting to admit to your captain that you got seasick very easily, an arguably bad trait for a pirate to have.

“Hm,” Shanks tossed you two mints with a wink, “Give him a high five for me.”

“It’s not like that!”

Your protests fell on deaf ears, as he was already on his way out. 

The rest of your day was calm. The sea seemed to have taken pity on you and the waves evened out after your first mint. 

You’d found a spot on the upper deck of the ship earlier in the week. A corner tucked behind the captain’s office, where the railing was wide enough to sit quite comfortably on and you got a nice view of the sunset. 

It was nice to have a serene little spot to yourself where you could enjoy the peace and quiet. You turned the corner, ready to relax, when you saw Shanks sat on your ledge.

“Came to find me sweetheart?”

“Sorry to intrude,” you started, “Didn’t know this was your spot.”

Shanks laughed, “It is directly behind my room you know.”

“Right, yeah.”

You awkwardly shuffled your feet.

“I get really seasick,” you said before you could think it through.

Shanks looked at you with amusement, though you could tell he didn’t really understand.

“That’s why I needed a mint. I got nauseous and felt faint and I asked Benn for help and he told me to ask you. Said you’d helped him with the same thing.”

An irritatingly sly smile spread across his face.

You bit your lip, not wanting to say anything, but clearly irritated at his enjoyment of the fact. 

“What the hell is that face supposed to mean?”

“Sweetheart, you just made my day,” he said. 

“Is that so?” You understood what was going on pretty clearly now.

He nodded, standing up and extending a hand toward you.

You hesitantly took it. 

He pulled you in towards him and placed a hand on your lower back, leaning you slightly backward and bringing his face to hover over yours. 

“How could I not be hurt that such a beautiful woman was showing no interest in me?”

“I assume that means me,” you teased.

“It does.”

“And what makes you think I’m interested now?”

“Well, aside from the fact that you have no protest to my current hand placement, you were very clearly interested in the prospect of joining me in the bedroom earlier-” 

A harsh slap to his arm cut the rest of that sentence off. 

He let out a loud, hearty laugh.

“You are very handsome, Captain,” you started.

“Please go on.”

“But I can’t say I’m terribly interested,” you said. 

“And why is that?”

“You know every man in this world has heard of your terrifying power. How strong and feared you are.”

His face was gleaming with pride. 

You laughed to yourself. He really thought he had you wrapped around his finger.

“But every woman? Every woman has heard of-”

“My muscles?”

“No.”

“Then surely, my devastatingly good looks?”

 “Also no.”

“Then enlighten me.”

“How quickly you leave the morning after.”

He stood still, completely silenced.

You leaned towards him, hovering your lips millimeters away from his.

“But I have to admit that I liked seeing you jealous.”

You gently pulled his hands from your waist, placing a kiss on his cheek.

“Goodnight, Captain.”

kidd

1.1k words

Generally speaking, dealing with men was a daily occurrence you could do without. 

You were getting better at turning them down, and in your years of experience learned that the best course of action was to bat your eyes and appeal to them, maybe even adopt an apologetic tone, and softly say to them,

“I’m so sorry! I’m just not looking for anything right now.”

Telling them you had a boyfriend only encouraged them to try harder, being rude invited violence and the use of the word ‘bitch’, and ignoring them often led to all of the above. 

Of course, if you decided to tell them who your boyfriend was they’d probably leave you alone but it was probable that you’d be accused of lying and you hated having to use his name to be shown some respect or decency. 

Ideally, your boyfriend would never know. 

The only thing he didn’t seem to be able to control was his temper, and if there was one thing you didn’t want to deal with it was how unbearably possessive he got when he was upset. 

And since the majority of the time it was innocent flirting, you just brushed it off. 

You woke up and stretched yourself out on the bed, pulling the covers off of you and Kidd.

“There’s a farmer’s market in town today! Wanna come? I really want peaches and we don’t grow any here.” 

He groaned and rolled over on his side, facing away from you. 

You grabbed his bicep and placed kisses up and along his neck, your movement and eagerness urging him to wake up. 

“Please! You never go out with me,” you said, the tone of your voice pulling at a few of his heartstrings. 

“I can’t today.”

“You never can.”

You sat up and moved toward the edge of the bed. 

The pirate stayed in bed, silently. 

“I have… stuff to do, princess,” he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you into him. 

You couldn’t help but smile at his embrace, you knew this was the closest you’d get to an apology. 

“Alright,” you said, “Well I’m gonna go now before it gets too hot out.” 

He begrudgingly let go of you, watching as you disappeared into your closet. 

He was in a worse mood than usual throughout the entirety of the day and spent his time huffing and puffing around. 

He felt guilty that he hadn’t given you the attention he knew you deserved and when he checked the clock and saw it was half past four in the afternoon and you still weren’t back he had to stop himself from breaking everything in the room. 

He contained the oncoming rampage as best he could and made his way toward the village. He walked through crowds of people and his irritation was nearing its peak when he saw you.

You had a basket full of different fruits and vegetables and jarred things and a few different wine bottles. It looked heavy and you were clearly struggling to carry it. 

He had half a mind to take some of the weight off with a string or two, but decided against it, his irritation getting the best of him. 

You made your way to another stall, selling flowers and before you could place your basket on the floor, a young man offered to carry it for you. 

He was smiling from ear to ear, and much to the captain’s disgust looked extremely eager to help you. 

You smiled back and accepted his offer, handing him the basket, which he happily held for you. 

At least she doesn’t have to carry it, he thought, his cheeks turning red with anger. 

But he stayed standing where he was and decided to watch the scene before him play out.

You grabbed a few different flower bouquets and turned to the boy to ask for his opinion, it seemed you liked the dark red carnations. 

He nodded and you reached into your pockets to grab a few coins. 

You laughed when your hand came out empty and began placing the flowers back.

Before you could the boy interjected and offer the vendor a few berries.  

Kidd’s body temperature reached a peak and he saw red. 

He violently pushed people out of his way, walking towards you, causing a scene as he yelled, “Oi! If you need money, I have some!!!”

Fuck.

You recognized his voice and turned around as though you’d just been caught in the middle of a murder.

“Kidd! I thought you were busy today-”

“Don’t,” he said, turning towards the boy, his metallic hand making its way toward his throat, “I suggest you hand me the basket and fuck off.”

Your cheeks were red with embarrassment and you offered an apologetic look to the boy, who looked ready to cry. 

You placed the flowers in your basket- the vendor readily waved any charge - and with Kidd’s hand firmly set on your waist, made your way back to the ship. 

“You know he was just being nice, right? And it’s your fault I needed help carrying the basket since you were busy doing ‘stuff’.” 

The air quotes you placed around stuff pissed him off. 

He stayed silent and you knew that he felt bad. 

But you didn’t really care, and you were pissed off. Not only had he caused a scene, but he had pretty much ensured that any other shopping you had planned for the day would have to be left unfinished. 

“And if you really want something to be upset about, you should probably know that I didn’t even pay for half of those things because when men see a pretty woman all on her own, they figure she needs some help and are always more than ready to offer it.”

The veins on Kidd’s forehead were popping out and he clamped his mouth shut. 

“But I get it! Playing poker and building legos with Killer all day is more important, so don’t get upset at me or the man actually offering to help me.”

You stormed off once you got to the ship and ignored him for the rest of the night. 

Heat and Wire laughed their asses off at their moping captain, and Killer went to have some tea with you later that night. 

When you went shoe shopping the following day, Kidd made sure he was by your side the entire time, and despite your best efforts, you couldn’t get him to let go of your hand. 

[the-griffons-saddlebag]

⚔️ 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗺! Companion Sickles
Weapon (sickle), rare (requires attunement) ___ These sickles come in pairs. In place of a traditional handle, each sickle has a brass hand that holds onto you while you wield it. You gain a +2 bonus to attack and damage rolls made with each magic sickle. While holding both sickles, you can use a bonus action to put them together: each sickle’s hand grasps the other to make a short scepter, with the two blades crossing over one another to form a heartlike shape. While holding the scepter, you have advantage on Wisdom saving throws. You can use a bonus action while holding the scepter to split it back into a pair of sickles. Alternatively, you can use a bonus action while holding one of the sickles to magically teleport the other sickle to an open hand or to the ground at your feet (your choice), provided it’s on the same plane of existence as you. 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙢 𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣. While holding the scepter, you can use an action to cast the “charm person” spell from it (save DC 15). This spell can be cast twice from the scepter, and it regains any expended uses of it daily at dawn. 𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙏𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙨. If you and another friendly creature are holding a different one of these sickles, you each gain the benefits of the sickles’ bonuses to attack and damage rolls, even if only one of you is attuned. You also each have advantage on your attack rolls with them if the other creature is within 5 feet of a target you’re attacking. ___ ✨ Patrons get huge perks! Access this and hundreds of other item cards, art files, and compendium entries when you support The Griffon's Saddlebag on Patreon for less than $10 a month!

[dadsbongos]

mommy? sorry. mommy? sorry. mommy?

kink adventures tag 1.2 K words / warnings - mommy kink, stuckage, stepcest roleplay, p in v sex (unprotected), degradation? i think?

summary - tomura’s mental health and psychology is a nightmare which i thought should be highlighted here haha

~~~

"Honey!"

Wheels roll dully against the plastic mat beneath your boyfriend’s desk, then soft padding across carpet, then a twisted laugh, before finally the laundry room door creaks open. Brass handle thudding into the wall.

“What?”

Tomura’s tone is unusually callous, even downright bored, and you’d be offended if not for the sundress hanging around your spread thighs. Your precariously cramped waist between his dryer and the wall, and the budding anticipation swelling in your chest.

“Can you help me? I’m a little stuck…”

“Ugh,” with your head hanging, you can just barely peer at his socked feet behind you, he then falls to his knees. Sweatpants loose, a bulb growing more apparent at his groin. Uselessly his arms hang at his sides until they disappear up, two seconds later is the warmth of his palms on your hips, “Fine.”

You rock back towards him but make no other effort to slip from the gap, not that Tomura is actually pulling. He leans as if he is, and quiet, husky grunts leave his mouth as if he is, but the only difference in his hold is how he squeezes your love handles.

“How’d this even happen?” Tomura grumbles, one hand moving to the back of your neck and wrapping it with his hand to pull again, “You’re such a ditz, dunno how my dad married you.”

“Be nice!”

“Only thing you’re good for is…” he yanks you back, jerking your rear into his erection and grinding against you. His thumb brushes tenderly along the column of your throat, “I bet he doesn’t even give it to you right. Old, limp bastard,” he squeezes around the back of your neck, “You walk around here practically begging for it,” he sighs, “You’re meant to be a slut, not a housewife.”

“What’re you doing, Tomura?” you drawl your voice a little more shrill, kicking flaccidly at his thighs as he uses both hands to work down his pants. Knuckles scratching your skin, “Get me out!”

“I will,” he reaches beneath the soft, thin skirt of your dress to pull down your panties, “Gotta get you wet, add some friction, it’s pretty basic. Though, I guess someone like you wouldn’t understand that.”

Tomura is disturbingly good at the bratty step-son character.

Weirdly, it makes you push further into him.

Papping the flushed head of his cock against your slit, Tomura spreads you open with his tip, pouring into the way his girth is swallowed by your slick. Your back arches, chest burdening the floor, a soft whine escapes you, making Tomura reattach his hand on your neck. Palming your throat to use as leverage as he bucks inside you.

“Tomura,” you whine.

“Tenko.”

“Huh?”

As a distraction, you assume, Tomura thrusts until his thighs are clapping yours. He huffs and groans, “Call me Tenko.”

“Tenko,” you moan, his hand squeezing the sides of your neck, and the other wringing you back into him by your waist.

“Yeah, mommy?” surprise wavers your arousal again, “Something you need to say? Or do you just like squealing?”

“Tenko…?”

His chapped lips find your pulse, sucking and biting along your neck, tongue affectionately cooling his teeth marks. You feel as if you two should talk about this.

You also feel as if Tomura’s not in the talking mood.

You decide to temper your confusion for now, instead meeting him at every thrust.

“Mommy,” he whimpers, raking blunt nails along your hips, “So wet for me,” just to rub in the point, his hand on your neck flies under your dress and between your legs. Fingers dance along where his cock splits you open, glossing his fingers just to dangle in your face obnoxiously, “You like me that much?”

Tomura flips up the flowy skirt of your dress entirely, fake AC goodness melting away under frizzling, spastic energy. Slowly, he glides out of your cunt just to feel the slow suck and squeeze of your inside. Hot and gooey.

“What if he came home right now, huh?”

Yeah, what if?

You’d be exposed -- soaking and full of dick, chirping out little “ah, ah, ah!”s at Tomura’s demanding plunges. The taboo nature only makes you tighten around him, flinging a hand back to snag his loose shirt and wrangle him nigh on top of you. Vague buzzing flows from behind you, the raspy and teasing foundation of Tomura’s voice -- not that you’re listening. You’re smothering his sound with moans and whines of your own. Content to wail against the back wall of Tomura’s laundry room until he plucks you out from the gap by your neck.

“You listenin’?” he cackles, rolling you onto the cold laundry floor before lugging your thighs into his hands and gleefully listening to wheeze as he presses them to your chest. Dipping back into your plush cunt, Tomura hands his head and babbles lamely, “Tell me you need it, mommy. You want my cum, right? Tell me I can cum in you.”

“Want it so bad, baby,” you gasp and twitch under his newfound vigor, “Cum in me, cum for mommy.”

Heat flares in your face as you call yourself such a perverted title.

But you just can’t stop.

“Mommy loves your cock, honey.”

“Uh-huh?” Tomura’s cheeks are stained red, voice now dripping pathetic.

“Fucking mommy so well.”

“Uh-huh?” he inhales sharply, eyes clenched shut.

He stretches over you, muffling your next sentence by obsessively kissing your lips.

“Such a good boy.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh?” he mutters against your lips.

“Cum inside mommy, Tenko,” you coo, back arching off the floor.

“Ohmygod, fuck!” Tomura stills inside your cunt, eyes flying open as he heaves for breath -- cum spilling inside you, “Fuck me!”

He collapses onto you, releasing your legs to curl around him. You scratch through his shaggy hair silently, letting your eyes flutter closed. You allow yourself to bask in the moment before ‘spontaneously’ Remembering™.

. . .

“So…” you drawl, post euphoria glow fading way to curiosity, both natural and morbid, “Tenko?”

“I changed my name. A long time ago. I don’t go by Tenko anymore.”

“Obviously,” you sit up, elbows pitched against the hardwood floor. He can sense your upset, he must be able to because he’s pointedly ignoring your stare, “Tomura.”

“What?”

“Is there anything I should know about?” in his silence, you flood the room with more words, “I get it, if there’s something you’re not ready to share. I just don’t want you to think you have to keep anything from me. Or that, I dunno. I don’t like the idea of finding something out like this, but years down the line. Or from one of your friends. I don’t want to not know you.”

Tomura’s only response is a quiet, “You want to be together years down the line?”

“Yeah,” you’d feel ridiculous for the admission, if Tomura didn’t look more flustered than you felt, “But you should probably be more open with me, you know?”

“It’s nothing,” he sighs, shakes his head, and quickly continues before you can pout, “I just hated my given name, so I started going by Tomura in grade school. Had it legally changed a few years ago.”

“That’s all?”

“I don’t talk to my Dad. And not usually my mom. Sometimes my sister.”

“Okay,” you can faintly string those details altogether, laying back down, “Thanks for sharing.”

Tomura yawns with a small nod, tightening his arms around you, “Now you have to tell me something when I’m in my right mind.”

“Okay :3 ”

[voltronisanobsession]

Omg guys what about a child of Hephaestus reader who specializes specifically in sculptures??

As much as they enjoy creating new machines, gadgets, and weapons, they can’t help the urges to create and sculpt the world around them. From small animals to human figures, reader loves capturing beauty in this still life form of art.

Now hear me out. What if they make sculptures of their significant other? Reader is just so in love with their other that they are always making them out of anything that they can manipulate in shape. Iron, brass, hell even wires, readers siblings always manage to find their lovers face one way or another near their section of the cabin.

Each sculpture is handled with such care and admiration that anyone who see one of their art works, they can see how much love reader put into it. They’re usually busy for hours and hours on end perfecting every small detail to resemble the one they love the most.

For years to come, readers lover will be immortalized through these sculptures and no one complains with how many statues there are because of how beautiful they are.

Honestly I can see this reader working out with any character.

For an example, Percy in particular would find this emotional. He would stumble upon a small statue made of brass at your work station while hanging out in your cabin and trace over the small yet intricate details of its features, the soft slope of its nose and daring eyes familiar to him. It’s then he realizes it’s him you’ve made.

This causes a flood of emotions because is this how you really see him? Is he as beautiful as this statue in his hands, forged and molded in the idea of him?

Percy finds this love language extremely flattering and endearing and has even agreed to multiple real time sculptings, not minding how it takes during these sessions.

He’s your muse and you’re not afraid to let him know that. Honestly if they could, I think reader would spend the rest of their life creating and spreading their lovers beauty.

Each piece is unique and always manages to convey a different and delicate emotion. Everyone at camp admires the way you show your love, many using you as a standard when looking for a partner lol.

[madelynraemunson]

CALL ME WHAT YOU WANT 𓆩♡𓆪

(Book #1 of the Hellfire Gentlemen's Club series)

strip club owner!eddie x fem!exotic dancer!hargrove!reader

𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐔 18+ MDNI

Chapter 014: The Tap Out

So you finally managed to tear down the walls of Eddie’s cynical heart and steal it… Of course it only makes sense that he returns the favor, by ravaging your walls as well. *wink wink*

author’s note ✍🏼 : this initially was supposed to be merged with chapter 15, but they’re two completely different vibes so it felt wrong putting them together. so enjoy this short chapter :)

this chapter can be read as a stand alone (but we’d love to have you aboard)

* = somewhat smut

** = smut

↳ chapters: 001, 002*, 003** , 004**, 005 , 006 , 007* , 008**, 009, 010, 011, 012* , 013**, 014**, 015, 016**, 017, 018, 019, 020*

word count: 1.0k words

NSFW — unprotected p in v sex (wrap before you tap pls), around the house fucking, multiple positions, against the wall and floor stuff if you squint, eddie has a mirror on his ceiling HELLO, voyeurism, praise kink, size kink, eddie is a veiny man 🫠, squirting, shy girl taps out, eddie finishing on shy girl

“Gonna put your legs behind your head when I make you wet the bed.”

♡

Touch-starved kisses.

Heavy panting and petting. Urgent, cat-like scratches etched around the door by a finicky brass key...

You'd think that the Harrington-Munson estate had been ransacked, judging by how carelessly you and Eddie flung yourselves — and your clothes — around the place. The 10 minute drive from Hellfire to here was far too long for you both to handle.

"Mmm.”

You let out a soft, pleading whimper as your man pins you against the wall, his large hands just inches away from your pulsing neck.

“Missed you,” Eddie breathes. “Miss being inside you so bad.”

“We literally just fucked at Hellfire half an hour ago.”

“Your point?”

You two are now approaching round three with no intention of stopping. Like an adrenaline rush, a shot of espresso, a sugar high from alcohol, you’re itching to run headfirst into the high that has been taunting you, despite having already been fucked to exhaustion. But eventually, it builds.

It builds when you’re getting split open in the kitchen, bent over with your tits pressed against the cool marble island. You’re selfishly perusing your edge so frantically, Eddie eventually resorts to standing in place, his hands rubbing your asscheeks in admiration while you use his stiff cock to get yourself off. “That’s right, Princess. Keep fucking yourself into me. Use me all you want, baby. Mmm, just like that.”

It builds when you’re getting it on the couch, chanting Eddie’s name aimlessly into the air as you ride him, his eyes burning with lust as he watches your perky tits bounce in his face. “Doing so good, sweetheart. There we go. Bet this is your favorite pole to ride on, isn’t it?”. It especially builds when you switch from a straddle to reverse cowgirl, chasing your aching bud’s pleasure against the singular protruding vein that rested along Eddie’s lengthy shaft.

"Mmm… oh my god," you whimper, when your core retrieves the sensation. “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie…”

“Shit, honey,” Eddie grunts. “Gonna make me cum when you cry out my name like that..”

And when you two sink to the floor, it builds there too.

It’s a struggle to keep your eyes open, the way they’ve resorted to rolling back as you attempt to handle Eddie balls deep, his girth and length making you claw at his thighs, the pathetic bargaining and squealing spilling out of your mouth becoming synchronous with every aggressive thrust.

You’re wrapped around his cock so tight it makes him tremble and twitch.

“Feel so tight around me, baby…”

“Taking me so good.”

“My sexy girl. God, you’re so wet. Gonna cum on me again, huh?”

“Oh, my beautiful girl liked that one didn’t she?”

My girl, my girl, my girl.

Eddie had been chanting those words all night…as if he himself didn’t believe it. As if he was trying to convince himself it was true and not just a dream.

And now you can hardly contain it anymore, ascending to another dimension when Eddie bends you like a pretzel in his bed, pummeling into you in missionary like he still hates you.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Eddie shouts as he continues to thrust deeper. “My darling girl, you feel so good… you’re killing me here.”

You bite into his pecks to keep your screaming at a minimum. And when your eyes travel up to the ceiling, the glistening reflection catches you by surprise.

“Oh wow,” you pant as you observe.

Eddie takes a break from his bliss to glance over at where you’re looking. Satisfied with himself, and his kinks that he enjoys putting on display, Eddie smirks down at you.

“Getting a good look at that mirror, Princess?” he quips, leaving gentle kisses around your chin.

“Mhm,” you grin as you bat your lashes.

“Wanna tell me what you see then, darling?”

Slam. He pummels into you again. This time, the pace is unforgiving. Eddie rests both forearms at each side of your face, harboring you in place, keeping you still so he can achieve his own release.

Because he knows. He knows that yours is near.

“I see me,” you whimper pathetically.

“Mhm,” Eddie nods in approval. “And what’s happening to you, darling?”

“ ‘m getting pounded by Eddie,” you pout.

“Yes you are,” Eddie moans. “That’s you taking all of my cock, sweetie, you see that? You like watching yourself get fucked huh?”

“Y-yes,” you squeal. “I’m taking you so good.”

“Yes you are,” Eddie repeats. “I’m so proud of you, baby.”

"Oh my god.."

You’re really at the end now. You slap Eddie’s thighs frantically, pleading with your quivering lips for him to pull out before you flood his sheets. Initially, he doesn’t listen.

"Agh!" you shout.

"Shit!"

"FUCK!”

“Oh my god..”

“Please, Eddie, Please,” you cry out. “I can’t take it, I can’t take it, Eddie. Fuck… pull out!”

Eddie immediately retreats upon hearing those words, clearing his path as you soak his sheets and his thighs. He resorts to kissing your chin again as he finishes himself on your stomach, chuckling as your legs involuntarily shake underneath him.

“Are you okay, sweetie?”

“Mhm,” you nod alas when you come to.

“Thank you for saying something,” he grins sweetly. “That was a lot huh?”

You nod again. “Mhm.”

He kisses you again, smacking his lips in rhythm with yours whenever you permit. And as you pull away, he grabs your hand, kissing the back of it ever so delicately as well.

“We should get some sleep anyways,” he smiles. “We’ve been up all fucking night.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “I know. Busy day ahead too.”

And with that, Eddie pulls you close and tosses a few blankets over you two. You sink back into his chest as he spoons you, arms resting around your waist and rubbing your stomach tenderly as he finds himself drifting into his other dream world. You wish to lay here forever.

Your eyes scan Eddie’s room one last time before they close. A part of you almost giggles when you see a pair of handcuffs hung up on one of his four walls.

"Nice cuffs," you comment sleepily.

Eddie laughs against your shoulder. He rubs your ass again.

"Just wait until we start roleplaying."

🏷️ tag list: @chrrymunson , @the-fairy-anon , @ali-r3n , @corrodedcoffincumslut , @bebe07011 , @mmunson86 , @eddiesguitarskills , @chelebelletx , @imonhereforareasonsadly , @eddies-trailer-babe @hideoutside , @motherfckerr , @jxpsi , @lindseyj23, @sidthedollface2 , @manda-panda-monium , @elvendria , @micheledawn1975 , @hereforshmut , @siriuslysmoking , @nymphetkoo , @m-chmcl-rmnc , @justinelittlewoodsworld , @ahoyyharrington , @keepittoyourselftellnobodyelse @kellyxo1 @emsgoodthinkin @winchester-angel @chloe-6123 , @redbarn1995 @angietherose @kiyastrf94 , @purplewitchcauldron @kellsck @joyfulfxckery @munsons-mayhem28 @dragonfire @emma77645 @drivelikenina @livosssblog @thinkingth0ts @hugdealer @ellielunamckay

[ineffable-endearments]

From "And furthermore, I don't think it's our place to start suggesting that there should be a suggestion box!"

I'm not even entertaining the idea that anyone else could possibly have ideas more worthwhile than whatever Heaven's upper brass is telling me God wants. The System is perfect.

to "You can't judge the Almighty, Crawley."

OK, so not everything God does makes moral sense, but that's just because it's too ineffable for us to understand.

to "I don't think that's what God wants. And I don't think you want it, either."

I don't always believe Heaven is right. Something in me is incompatible with the System. I'm hoping there's a greater good than the bureaucracy I work for.

to "I'm not consulted on policy decisions, Crawley."

I'm tacitly admitting that I don't like what Heaven is doing here, but I'm powerless within the System.

to "If I were thwarting you, Heaven couldn't object!"

You've helped me believe Armageddon isn't part of the Ineffable Plan after all. Now I believe I CAN do something to stop it.

to "I have no intention of fighting in any war!"

I'm making my own personal decision here, without consideration for what the System wants.

to "I can make a difference!"

I'm certain that I personally have ideas more worthwhile than the rest of Heaven. I can change the System.

The growth is happening. I know it's slow (well, if you're a human, anyway), but it's happening.

I am wondering if this character development is going to work like a huge outward (inward?) spiral. Take steps to add a new perspective, then use that to start working on the next Big Problem, then circle back to the old problems and start dealing with them with the new perspective. Things are kind of circular, but on a different level every time, hence the spiral.

The first three are like: Refuse questioning Heaven's judgment on moral grounds -> Accept that some questioning is natural but God/Heaven are always right -> Accept that maybe my personal judgment is not always compatible with Heaven's. OK, now I've tentatively accepted that I have my own morality outside of Heaven's, but that is SO uncomfortable.

The second three are like: I have my own moral judgments, but I have no way to enforce them because of what is expected of me -> Maybe there is room for my own judgment in Heaven after all -> Actually, my judgment is important enough to refuse to do what is expected of me regardless of anyone else's Plans. OK, now Aziraphale can use his own judgment within the System.

And I don't know for sure, but maybe - hopefully? - the last three will be like: I trust my own judgment -> My judgment never succeeds when I try to force it on others -> Everyone needs to be free from coercion and I'm going to help that happen by doing things to undermine the System.

That last bit is written with an assumption that the Ball and Gabriel and Beelzebub's ultimate decision are a little bit of foreshadowing: Aziraphale seizing control in a way that is sort of scary, having a bunch of Experiences(TM) with other people including Crowley, then realizing that the only reasonable way to handle people "outside the system" is to let them do what they want. If that's NOT foreshadowing, or if it's different foreshadowing than what I think it's going to be, obviously this is completely off.

Also, I feel like if I'm right, this could illuminate the horrible things Aziraphale says in the Final Fifteen a little bit. I believe he has moved up slightly from thinking Good and Evil are absolutely inherent and immutable, and now believes they are literally Sides that can be chosen. Of course you wouldn't choose to work for the side that has explicitly characterized itself as Bad, even though we both know you didn't have a choice to start with! I'm giving you a choice now! He hasn't "gone backwards." It's just that he's embraced the "doing good is a choice" lesson without internalizing the "you can't divide people into Sides and enforce it using a system" lesson.

[2d-reality]

Little Things (The Prideful Eldest)

characters: Lucifer, GN!MC navigation: Lucifer | Mammon | Levi | Satan | Asmo | Beel | Belphie content/warnings: little things you do for the brothers, out of love. fluff. established relationship (implied you are dating all seven brothers equally with the exception of mammon whom i love more) word count: 503 notes: Each brother has their own part, linked above. I am still my own editor and I loathe editing, so please forgive any mistakes!

The Morningstar is not a morning demon. Every morning (or what could be equated to morning, when the moon hangs high and full regardless of the day or hour), he wakes before the rest of the House, with the occasional exception of Leviathan, who likely hadn’t been asleep in the first place, and Beel, whose stomach leads him to the pantry regardless of his level of cognizance. He is led by hundreds of years of ingrained habit to the kitchen, where he begins his morning ritual of making coffee. He feels as though he can already smell the warm bitterness as he drifts through the kitchen in a haze. 

Only, this morning, as he reaches for the handle of the coffee pot, it has heft. He comes to reality fully as he lifts it from the machine, realizing the warm smell wasn’t just his imagination-- the pot is full of fresh, dark brew. Stuck to the clock face of the coffee machine is a pale blue sticky note. 

Lucifer- Up early. Made fresh for you. Don’t work too hard. Love you! xo

It’s your handwriting. There is a heart scribbled after the note, and a simple smiley face. For a moment, Lucifer stands, dumbfounded by your sweet selflessness, and then his heart skips. Heat rises to his face, one that has nothing to do with the hot, fragrant steam rising to his nose. You had spent the night with Satan, which meant you had to have made some excuse to leave him behind when you came out to make this for him-- the fourth brother was the lightest sleeper of all of them, and he wouldn’t have let you go if he knew you were doing something for his eldest sibling. Lying to Wrath’s face wasn’t something anyone with a shred of common sense (or self-preservation) would do, but you had always been different. More often than not your brass confidence made him anxious, but he could let this go without a lecture. 

Trying to calm the rising affection for you in his chest proves more challenging when he sets the pot back to fetch a mug, only to realize that you had set one out for him. Not only that, but it was the one you bought for him on your last trip to the human world-- a silly ceramic one, shaped like a black ram with curling horns and a sigil painted on its forehead. Its comically large, sparkling eyes were ruby-red, like his. You had a matching one, a pink ram with a navy blue bow, a golden bell, and eyes like yours. 

Lucifer heaves a trembling sigh, struck by tingling love for you, and fills his mug. Lifting it to his lips, with one hand and a hip braced against the counter, he has to repress a harsh shiver as the sheer bitterness of it makes his nose crinkle. Despite the almost unpalatable taste, he revels in it. The hell coffee he makes for himself isn’t nearly as bitter. 

[crystalrainfall]

In brotherhood the Nina conflict is handled varsely differently than it was in the 2003 anime.

First thing to establish is that Edward's age is different, as in the 2003 continuity he's 11-12 years old and he's been living with Tuckers during that time due to his state alchemist exam.

The Elrics knew the Tuckers longer in the 2003 anime.

Whereas in brotherhood I believe the brothers were 14 and 15 respectively and obviously they didn't stay as long with the Tuckers either.

The aftermath of the confrontation between Al, Ed and Tucker is also different.

In brotherhood scar kills both tucker and Nina before the military can properly deal with them.

In 2003 Nina escapes the night the military arrives, what's also important to note is that the Elrics haven't left at that point either.

So while Tucker is captured, the latter, Nina is later killed in an alleyway by Scar.

This is a major divergence from the Manga because this means that the Elrics actually see Nina's corpse splattered onto the wall, because remember they haven't left the scene.

Scar doesn't fight them afterwards like In brotherhood, Edward, in 2003, has an unpleasant conversation with Mustang instead.

In both versions they were very distraught when they found out about what happened to Nina.

Edward in brotherhood after finding out about Nina's death has a reflection of his own limitations as a human and mustang passes by and ultimately doesn't say much if anything, showing no reaction.

In 2003 it's very different as I've already established, Edward sees Nina's corpse, he's more conflicted, he's lived with her for months, he's Twelve... He's absolutely in denial.

Whats worth mentioning is that earlier he wanted to try to at least separate Nina and alaxander and even during his scene of denial he pressed his hands against the wall not expecting anything but just wishing he could fix it.

That's when Mustang confronts Edward in 2003 , yanking him forward, Edward flinches, Alphonse looks concerned in the background, Mustang tells him the harsh reality that he can't breakdown every time something bad happens, he's in the military and he should get his act together.

Harsh reality being, some things can't be fixed.

Edward runs away, the rain still pouring down, concealing his tears and vulnerability from the rest of the world as he mourns the death of the girl he viewed as his own sister.

Something like this scene was foreshadowed earlier in the 2003 anime, this need for Edward to be able to confront the harsh truth but him not being able to because he's a child in an adults world.

This is shown by the scene in which he couldn't stand the sight of one of Barry the choppers victims, the scene reminding him too much of his failed human transmutation, the woman resembling his mother too much. So he passed out.

Edward in brotherhood fights Scar , he doesn't even get the time to mourn Nina's death, this is shown by his utter confusion as scar approaches him, he's saved later by Mustangs team and Hawkeye places her jacket on Edward's shoulder to shield him from the cold and it additionally acts as a silent gesture of comfort. The Nina arc ends with the brothers moving forward with the help of their comrades.

Edward in 2003 despite not fighting Scar directly after the Nina arc, doesn't get a break either.

After Nina's death, he's ordered to take over Tuckers research as the brass believes tuckers work to still hold some value.

This means salvaging anything useful for the military and potentially warrant that a similar inhumane thing like the case of Nina and Alexander can be repeated.

Edward doesn't want this, he doesn't want to be a state alchemist if it means to assist to such heinous things.

Instead he wants to do something right and find Nina's killer.

He isn't rewarded for throwing a tantrum though. He isn't rewarded at all for trying to be noble and do something right.

Instead Winry is kidnapped by Barry the chopper, they both almost die, Ed almost makes the hard decision of almost killing Barry to survive, and he breaks down again.

Faced with his own weakness, he cries alone, no comfort given.

Ed is rarely rewarded for anything in 2003, any hope he gets is crumbled down immediately, these episodes occurred back to back, one bad thing after another and it just goes on like this. The narrative chews him up and makes it so that no matter what Edward wants to do it will never go his way because it's a cruel and random world.

Equivalent exchange doesn't exist and the heroes aren't guaranteed to be rewarded for all their efforts no matter how selfless they are. Because the world's not so ideal like in Brotherhood.

[inbabylontheywept]

Someone had to go first

The first ship that arrived was pretty matter of fact about its fate. The pilot introduced himself as Eric, then told us he was part of the first sublight resupply attempt in modern history. He then gave me and the ground control team his bad news.

“So,” he said. “Without real time telemetry, we weren’t even sure which half of your orbit you’d be in. That’s half a solar system’s worth of wiggle room. Decelerating enough to survive contact with your low orbit would take me two weeks, which, you know, it looks like we don’t have. That means that in order to get the second ship in before you lose orbital control to the Kresh, I’m gonna have to make a sacrificial flyby. Ten to the negative four torr is good enough for a lot of things, but at point-seven c it’s gonna be like sandblasting a soup cracker. Good news is that all the expensive toys are in the next ship, so this really ain’t costing you more than a ship and a pilot.”

“You knew,” I said. If they put the expensive toys in the second ship, they knew that the first was likely a sacrifice. No one smart enough to handle orbital physics would miss that.

“I did,” he replied. “But someone had to go first.”

That was, of course, a lie. No one had to go first. No else had had, at least. When our connection to the FTL network was lost, we’d understood that as the end of our reinforcements. Doing resupplies via sublight was just too risky. It was a testament to Earth that it had accepted the risk and continued anyway.

“Is there anything we can do for you?” I asked. This man had come here to die for us. I wasn’t sure how much I could give, but what I had was his.

“I do have a few requests,” he said. “First up, I need as much high-orbital data as you got. The whole lot.”

I began directing tightbeam resources to him immediately. It was an easy resource to exchange - it wasn’t like there was anyone else out to talk to anymore. When we lost FTL, we found ourselves very, very alone.

“Second,” he said. “Right, I know I’m gonna sound like a princess right now, but I have been stuck in this stupid tin-can for almost two-years now, and I seriously overestimated how much I like synth music. If you have anything that’s analog - I don’t care what kind of string or drum or brass you play, but I’d kill to hear something without a beep in it.”

I jumped my own queue in the tightbeam, and added a short playlist that I ripped from the local web. Human Music, it was labeled. 3 Terabytes. I prayed there was something on it that he’d like.

“And third,” he said. “Third. The uh, next pilot is pretty mad at me. Turns out this will just be one of those things left unfinished. That’s all death really is, I guess - a lot of unfinished things. Let him know that he was right: He is a better pilot than me. But tell him that wouldn’t have made a difference here. Bad luck beats skill, and this luck was shit.”

I promised, and he went silent after that. We could see what data he was analyzing, and the short answer was all of it - everything from atmospheric density to troop positions and his own ship’s blueprints. He knew he had one shot at this, and that if the price wasn’t paid here, it would be paid by whoever came next.

--- --- --- --- ---

Ground control didn’t get a verbal warning that he’d entered atmosphere. Just a ping. A little here-I-am, whispered in the dark.

After that, we could keep track with visuals alone.

He hit the outskirts of the exoatmosphere in his first pass, burning bright enough to be seen with the naked eye. He caught the sparse particles like a kite, trying to shed enough speed to hit actual low orbit. Automatic telemetry updates gave us the grim news for the ship: Thermals were holding up decently, but the ablative was wearing out fast.

The entire descent brought us more than two hour’s reprieve. The Kresh hadn’t expected to see a resupply, but they knew what one meant: Get it now, get it fast, or deal with a stream of new troops. They could buy themselves ten days' time by shooting this one ship down now.

That was an eternity during a siege.

The first loop lowered the speed by about a twentieth of light. The pilot responded by pulling the ship in tighter, trying to preserve more ablative plating by trading off with thermal. Seven fighters were close enough to fire off heat seekers. I don’t think the Kresh had ever anticipated shooting down a craft coming in that hot - the missile's decoy avoidance countermeasure actually made it steer around the thing, chasing down loose pieces of shrapnel. Cooled fragments, still hotter than an engine should be at full blast. The simple mistakes bought it enough time to enter pre-orbit, and the fighters had to stop their pursuit. They weren’t willing to die to stop the ship.

Our man, on the other hand, was already committed to that course.

A third loop followed a fourth. Ablative coating went from 65% integrity, to 30%, to 5%. Telemetry scans were exceptionally detailed - the pilot was making the flyby count. The last message we got from him was simple:

Are you EMP shielded? he asked, not even bothering to encrypt the text stream. He didn’t have time to process more than that.

Yes, we replied. We knew what he was thinking, but it was still a shock to see it. The fusion torch that was driving his ship flared hot, burning through the nozzle and feeding directly into the craft’s deuterium supply. The reaction went super critical, and the resulting neutron pulse set off everything in the ship with a z-count higher than iron. Three continuous seconds of EM interference screamed through the comms as the hulk burned brighter than the sun.

The explosion itself wasn’t powerful enough to reach the Kresh ships still in high orbit, but it made enough broadband radiation to blind both sides LADAR. The man must have been a hell of a pilot - half the shrapnel went down and burned up as it entered the standard atmosphere, sacrificed to move the other half past lagrange. Standard evasion would’ve made the pieces easy to dodge, but with LADAR down, all the Kresh could do was sit still and cower as the wrath of a dead man riddled them full of holes. Our best ace had managed to shoot down seven ships before this before getting shot down himself. The wreckage of the freighter took down six.

--- --- --- --- ---

The second ship came in stealth. One second, we were holding attrition in high orbit, the next, something the size of a small station came ripping through the atmosphere.

It did the same trick as the former - swapping between ablative and thermal loads, coming down at a speed that the Kresh fighters didn’t even try to match. Armies could be built in years, but skills like this took decades.

Telemetry connection was established almost as an afterthought. The way the ship casually ate through ablative armoring made my eyes water, but the pilot himself seemed pretty non-plussed.

“You’re down to fifteen percent coverage. You need-

“What I need,” he said, “is to see the previous ship’s telemetry as soon as I land. And I don't need your help landing it.”

He cut off my chance to reply by flicking the channel off. We watched, and we wrang our hands, but sure enough he came in six minutes later with 4% of the ablative left.

I met him on the landing pad. Under normal circumstances, we’d have needed twenty-four hours for the craft to cool enough to even approach, but we’d had cryo ready just in case. Three tankers of nitrogen, and the loading area, at least, was cool enough to touch. Safety would have to take a backseat to speed here - we needed the supplies fast.

But those both would take a backseat to a promised conversation with the second pilot. He was out of the craft as soon as the air was cool enough to avoid scalding his lungs, picking through the workers to try and find who had the telemetry data.

I found him first. The drive went into his hands, but I needed to keep my promise with Eric before letting go.

“You’re better than the first pilot,” I said, and I wasn’t lying. If the previous flier had been a saint, this one was a god. “But you wouldn’t have been able to manage the landing either. There just wasn’t time.”

“Let me see,” he said, tugging on the drive. “Just let me see. I have to know I couldn’t do it either. I have to know that someone had to die.”

I let go of the drive and he stalked back into his ship. I didn’t follow. I figured I’d pushed things far enough.

--- --- --- --- ---

The second pilot left the ship six hours later. He looked bleary in a way that put me at ease. I’d been up the last six hours directing supplies from the ship. Everything from ground-to-orbit rails to AGI targeting systems was inside - to call it gamechanging would be an understatement. It was good work, but I was tired, and I didn’t want to have to pretend otherwise. Seeing the other man with bags under his eyes meant we could just be frank with each other.

“I couldn’t have managed it,” he said, half-ashamed, half-relieved.

“It just wasn’t possible,” I agreed.

We sat there a moment longer. I didn’t mind the break. This was time well spent.

“Did it hurt?” he asked finally.

“Ablative failed before heating,” I said, which was the technical way of saying no. “He overloaded the reactor before the ship actually broke up and did some kind of slingshot maneuver - hit the main body of the Kresh fleet with half a space station’s worth of shrapnel.”

“Good,” he said.

I knew the signs. The tremor in his cheek, the way his jaw clenched - it wasn’t professional, but I hugged him anyway. Let him have the dignity of choosing to weep instead of having it wrenched out of him.

It was a gift we’d all been given at some point in this war. At least now, there was the hope it could be over soon.

[danwhobrowses]

So a thing happened on Critical Role this week (campaign 3 ep 91), we're gonna talk about it - a long talk - so if you haven't been caught up and don't wanna be spoiled don't keep reading okay?

One of the disadvantages of being in a different time zone is that after fretting all morning, going to work, thinking 'it's 7am maybe it's done now' I had to sit in my office for a stressful final half hour murmuring don't do this don't fucking do this don't you dare fucking do this!

I already was worried for everyone given the cliffhanger last episode, and the 5 hour length made me further worried as players kept being knocked down by Otohan Thull - already frightening in base form but now with an even higher AC and empowered. Then Sam Riegel had to do what he does best, a devastating sacrifice where FCG blows himself up to take down Otohan - Ludinus' No. 2, harrowed for being proficient in slaughter, defeated by no assassin or warrior but a cleric saving their friends. We've been well past 'get off the moon' hours with this one, but now there is an impact on every one of the Hells to think about, which is what this will be about.

FCG Though he is dead there is still stuff to talk about with FCG's death. A common debate right now is the potential of the Reincarnate spell; while the wording of the death implies that FCG's current body is irreparable there is a chance that a 5th Level Druid Spell can fashion him a new body, one of flesh, bone and tongue. The body itself needs to be dead for less than 10 days so there is wiggle room to gain the necessary components too if the top brass of Exandria turn it into a fetch quest. There is argument on both sides though; if FCG comes back does it undermine his sacrifice? Perhaps, but there's no incentive for the Hells to not try. Reincarnation hasn't quite happened in Critical Role yet - Since Molly/Lucien/Kingsley was kinda different, he kinda had the opposite, different mind same body - so it'd be a refreshing new option and also a way to redesign FCG without having to create a whole new cleric (because they definitely need a cleric) with a whole new skillset that the Hells will need to warm towards before the final battle. But at the same time, the soul has to be willing. FCG was content with his sacrifice, and in the arms of the Changebringer would he go back? I'd like to hope so if it's an option, it'd also entertain a whole new character arc for him as a 'real boy' - plus Matt and Sam don't have to fully abide to the D100 rule of what race he turns into. Of course, I like this angle more than needing a new character, because I like happy endings and it makes narrative sense that the Hells would claw and bite to pull him from that sweet goodnight. It would also validate a reason for the Hells to align with the gods, because if divine favour comes into play and the Gods decide against helping Bell's Hells' greatest advocate for saving them then they are foolishly and callously forsaking key players to their survival, FCG reincarnating with the help of the Gods would play a big part in the Hells standing with them rather than losing faith in them, and even with friction between the Titans & Temults and the Gods from the past they would have a common enemy. Still living or dying can have varying effects on the other characters.

Ashton From the moment Ashton met FCG they wanted to make sure this little bot would be okay, that they'd learn to value their life and be able to thrive. While part of that did happen, Ashton is likely going to feel like nothing's changed since Bassuras; knocked out by Otohan and when awakened a friend is dead, another person they couldn't protect.

Before the shard, I think Ashton would very easily fly off the handle, in their anger they'd blame everything including themselves and maybe even consider leaving themselves, it probably have made them more self-destructive too. Now though I'm not so sure, nobody would hold it against them to waver a little on their promise to take care of themselves in a burst of grief, this was after all their best friend someone they looked after like a little brother, and while I can see Ashton quietly and angrily grieving I can also see Ashton double down on trying to keep their promise, making sure that FCG didn't go out like a martyr and that it won't be in vain. FCG reincarnating would assist in Ashton's character drive too, since I feel like they would detest any replacement cleric because it's not FCG, they may also be less abrasive towards the gods if they came through for them and proved that they care - at least to the Changebringer, think they'd still throw copper at the Dawnfather given the whole Angel incident.

Imogen As the nominated leader of Bell's Hells, many will probably look to Imogen Temult for action, the problem is she has her own mother issues to deal with too - and I'm not entirely sold that Liliana has fully made a turn just yet, only that she won't hand over the Hells to Ludinus. FCG's death is gonna produce a lot of guilt from Imogen though, she was detesting the fact that she had to play dead at 1HP while Otohan cut down her friends again, she will likely blame her inaction which in turn may push her to be more aggressive in combat.

At the same time, I can see her being one of the more gung ho characters to push towards the Reincarnate option, perhaps even going as far as to accost or lambast anyone regardless of alliances or rank who she feels isn't as committed. Imogen has been in the position of loss before, and knowing that FCG had a connection with FRIDA she would likely compel herself to fix it rather than have to deliver the bad news. Regardless of whether he reincarnates though I feel like Imogen may look towards some more defensive spells, and maybe through Liliana try to tap into the powers of an Exalted to try and match the power she saw from Otohan, a risky endeavour for sure but FCG took an even greater risk for them.

Orym Orym is probably the toughest of the Hells to read when it comes to FCG's death. There will of course be a deep sadness at the loss of a friend, but I would also sense a...not bitterness but discontent that this is how it went down. Otohan killed his family, he kept fighting her until he could no longer stand because that's what they would've done, and now she's dead but it doesn't make it better, he wasn't the one to do it, he didn't even see it, and the one who did is gone with her. When Bor'dor was killed, Orym coldly reminded himself that 'we're at war', but I don't think he can justify that way with FCG, the loss was greater than the catharsis.

The death also has to turn attention to his deal with Nanna Mori. Many have pointed out that there is a lot of technicalities that may prolong, void or complete the deal; it was never specified how many times the Hells could return from the moon to continue the deal, but at the same time they did technically return from the moon to Exandria safe and sound via the Secret Backdoor. Still, Mori is his best friend's grandmother, there could be leeway on that matter too and even if he does have to commit to the deal (which I call 'Fatekeeper Orym') it's never been explicitly said that Orym needs to constantly attend to Mori in the Feywild, only that he has to be her caretaker and answer her beck and call. However, FCG's death will likely provide a sobering thought that his deal with Mori was perhaps voided, unless there is one more thread he can have her pull. When it comes to seeking options to bring a friend back, I would keep a close eye on Orym - it's not the first time Liam's resolved himself to be damned before.

Fearne Fearne will likely be a linchpin if the Hells seek out Reincarnate. The spell is exclusive to Druids and if Keyleth isn't on hand to do it the task and pressure will fall to her. It'll be interesting how she reacts, I don't wanna say she'll be the most positive of it because she'll certainly be upset, but I can see her being optimistic even if it's to also convince herself, the one who is most encouraging to find a way. As a shipper I of course want her to be the one who comforts and gets through to Ashton while they grieve but if she also is key to his reincarnation that also adds to their slow-burn. Outside of that, FCG's death may also lead into learning about Mori's deal with Orym, which will probably anger her that Orym kept it from her, there is also the fact that having FCG's life in her hands may bring back bad memories of Bassuras and Whitestone. One must also especially worry about her Asmodeus calling card, the Prince of Lies does nothing for free and I still feel like Klask was planted in her path by Asmodeus' (and maybe even Athion's) titan-seeking design.

If FCG does reincarnate though, I could see her friendship with FCG being even greater than it was, since they'll both feel a greater zeal for life - it may also make her feel further distant from her Evil vision, since she will have saved half her friends rather than risked killing them. If not though, Fearne may have to play mediator for the new cleric and may also be pushed towards freeing up more slots for healing to provide more support for the Hells in future battles.

Chetney It's gonna be an interesting one for Chetney too, from one perspective you could see him thinking that FCG traded their life for his; he died, he made peace with that, but then the one who revived him died. Chetney's more personal mindset has often been cloaked in secrecy, perhaps as one of the least open of the Hells despite many claiming him as the Heart of the group, so I wonder if Chetney may harbour some Survivor's Guilt for what happened.

I can see Chetney being the one to keep his emotions close to his chest, even if FCG were to reincarnate he would perhaps try to shrug off that he always knew it'd happen anyway. That being said someone who remains stoic and unwavering may prove a positive or a negative to the group, depending on the person or their interpretation of it. If a new cleric comes along though I could see him being additionally protective of them, having been the new guy before.

Laudna We should all be worried for Laudna right now. The recent 4SD already revealed that Laudna's 'close to the brink' and I'm pretty sure this is the brink. The aftermath of the Otohan fight will likely push each of the Hells to get stronger, since had they hit harder or been able to take stronger blows it wouldn't have come to this, but that will mean bad things when it comes to Laudna, as she may seek to gain power the only way she thinks she can - through Delilah. After all her last two levels went to Sorcery and did little in the fight, whereas her Warlock class Eldritch Blasts hurt Otohan fairly decently, such a thing can linger in the mind for Delilah to manipulate.

It'll be telling if they do try to Reincarnate him whether the damage will have been done already to Laudna, and that the joy of bringing him back turns to tragedy of Laudna losing herself further, as it often does it will fall to how she leans on Imogen, and how open about it she'll be to her. If FCG is lost however, we may have to keep a very close eye on Laudna being next.

Bell's Hells As I mentioned with Laudna, FCG's death will have made something apparent and clear; despite everything Bell's Hells need to get stronger. Even at Lv13, even with Exalted powers, Fey bargains and Titan shards they still just barely escaped a TPK, and granted they were weakened and worn out but no fight is guaranteed to ever be fought at 100%. Otohan may've been the toughest General of the Vanguard but the other Generals - the Weavemind, Zathuda and the Dominon of Cruft Commander - are still not ones to take lightly, Ludinus is still not one to take lightly, and if Liliana is going to be used by him to become a vessel for Predathos, that cannot be taken lightly. Bell's Hells may need to look towards enhancing their stats as well as their equipment, the harness is still a factor too which can boost them all with enough enchanted items at their disposal. An interesting one would be if Otohan's backpack ends up in one of the Hells' hands; many beforehand have talked about Orym being an Echo Knight but I would personally like to see Ashton take it, since it is powered by the Potion of Possibility like their own Dunamancy powers, it's possible (eheh) that they may align in some manner and could you imagine Ashton + 3 Echoes all raging to get All 4 Dunamancies? Otohan's swords may also provide unique properties for Chetney and/or Orym to use. Reincarnation or not I feel like that may be the Hells' next plan once it's discussed whether to attempt Reincarnation and they're off of Ruidus, gathering allies will likely also be something to prepare for for the final battle given how Otohan stated that they have 'enough Ruidusborns' for their plan. As a group it is difficult to tell if this will strengthen or weaken them, it could strengthen them in a 'never again' way like the Nein, but they were also very enthusiastic about bringing Molly back - it drove them through several arcs - FCG however often was the Hells' beacon of hope and the self-imposed attempted therapist, without that the Hells will either have to put it upon themselves to go the extra lengths or they'll close further in on themselves. If FCG does reincarnate I feel like it would definitely strengthen them mentally but if not I am not so sure.

It shouldn't come to a surprise that I will hold onto the Reincarnate potential so that the Hells can get back their friend, but rest assured I'm worried for all of them right now, there are crossroads ahead.

[the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf]

You're waiting for a train...(6)

Conscience Makes Cowards of us All

Robert Fischer x reader

description - Arthur is an unwelcome presence in y/n's subconscious.

warnings - SA, implied explicit content, killing/death (in the case of waking up from a dream), Arthur being a dick because his ego is bruised, explicit language.

word count - 1.9k

a/n - More of y/n's past is revealed! Also Arthur is such a dick in this, i'm sorry if you like him but I needed him to be this for the plot!

Previous Part Series Master list Master list

If you want to be added to the taglist - here

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

*Arthurs pov*

My eyes shot open. I paced around taking in the expanse of the beautiful hotel lobby. It was decorated to be art deco and the murky dimly lit atmosphere with red and gold accents encapsulated her essence. The silence unnerved me. A mind like hers should be bustling like that of any young adult. Instead, it appeared she’d harnessed her subconscious and molded it to her liking.

My gaze was dragged towards an elevator which loomed at the very end of the seemingly never-ending hallway. I doubted my moves. I was walking into her home. No, it was more personal than that. I was invading her soul. She would hate me after this, and I wouldn’t blame her. The years of trust we’d built up would shatter in the face of my curiousity. But the seconds passing showed my body betraying me.

I entered the gold dusted box and the harsh metal rail dragged in front of me. My hand drifted to the marble buttons that climbed up the panel in front of me. “1, 2, 3.” Standard. My breath caught seeing the numbers decrease even further. What has she buried?

1,2,3. 1,2,3. If this was the girl I knew, she’s been logical and organised by memories; early to present. I pressed 3 without a second thought. It rumbled to life and a creaking industrial might rose me up into her mind.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The cage erupted out to reveal me to the third floor of this apparent hotel. The décor was neat and tidy, and the sage green accents gave it a fresh feel. I exited as I felt drawn into the hall.

Each side was home to bright white doors which held different hotel room numbers. How fitting, a hotel full of rooms and a room for each memory. Each room had an imperceptible buzx radiating behind it. As if the pure thoughts were fizzing in their own creation. But there was one.

‘301’ Burned like fire. I could sense the burst of life behind the door, that I found myself drawing closer. Numbing voices chatted behind the wood. And the shadows of two danced through the cracks of light. I placed my hand near the handle and felt the burning sweetness I associate with y/n’s dream state. She was here. I hesitated. She can’t see me here. Any semblance of relationship with her would be gone. But then I heard something else. A new voice. Mingling with her velvety tones. I grasped the brass handle and ripped it open. There I was greeted with my y/n lying in a bed with our mark.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

*your pov*

I jumped away from the projection as the room door was yanked open. I scrambled away amongst the sheets, dragging them up to cover ourselves. Arthur stood stock still in the doorway and the look in his eyes could have brought me to tears right there. His eyes raked over our bedraggled forms, taking in the thin sheets we put a lot of trust in. I sat up on the bed whilst Robert kneeled behind, holding me in his arms. I stroked my fingers over his arms. I felt him tense up. This was my dream, and he was my protector.

Arthur let out a humourless laugh, dripping in spite.

“Why did I expect anything less.” He spat at me, crudely gesturing between the two of us. As the tears welled up in my eyes Robert flicked to the defensive and stalked towards Arthur. In a blind panic, I threw on my red dress, foregoing any shoes.

Arthur moved forward, readying his fists.

“NO!” I shouted, halting the two men.

“Stay out of this!” Arthur snapped. His anger being directed towards me unleashed something in Robert’s projection and he lunged forward.

I slipped in the middle and separated the two brawling men. I shoved Arthur past the door threshold. I then took Roberts face in my hands and stroked my fingers through the hairs at his neck. I cooed at him, calming him down. His fingers curled around my waist, caressing my sides. Arthur looked on at us, betrayed.

When I felt he had been soothed enough and his eyes fell close. I pushed him away and sprinted out the door. When I slammed it shut I felt his body crash into it. Banging repeatedly, begging for me to let him out. I composed myself. My hand still clasped around the handle, my breath the only noise.

Eventually I released and let my body fall back onto the door behind me. I sank into the carpet and my gaze tracked to the ceiling. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Arthur. Couldn’t bear to wallow in his disappointed gaze.

“You have to do that every time?” Arthur finally spoke.

My eyes remained firmly on the door, as if daring it to break. “He can get antsy when I leave.”

“You mean the projection.”

“Of course.” I mumbled sadly.

“I actually can’t believe you!” Arthur laughed out. “You are smarter than this.” I let a few tears drop at his admonishment. “Well, I thought you were.” He said dismissively.

“Woah.” I rose up from the floor. “you wanna say that again, whilst standing here in my own dream, that you are not welcome in.”

“Your lipstick’s smudged.” He brushed my messy lips before I swatted away his teasing hand. He smirked. I slapped him.

“It’s just – he – I don’t know he just – “ I began to lose control of my body and my breaths wouldn’t stop leaving.

“What? WHAT?” Arthur stalked towards me to tower over my face. I could feel the spit leaving his shouts. I burst from my cowering.

“IT WAS SOMETHING NEW.” We remained staring at one another. “I looked at him and it was like everything in here made sense.” I tapped my fingers against my head.

“What made sense? What have you locked in here?” He looked at me so seriously that it was oppressive. I giggled and second guessed my decision as I made it. But I still grabbed his hand and led him back to the elevator. We both entered and I pressed the button.

Gravity fell from beneath us to drag us down into the depths. If Arthur wanted to know then he would.

It clanged as it reached the bottom. I could feel the weight of the air down here. I was suffocating on my own dream. The metal gate opened with a hesitation, willing us not to go further. I stepped out into the murky hallway. My bare feet froze on each step on the concrete floor. Arthur followed hesitantly, unnerved by my own confidence in such an unwelcome place. I hurried my pace until I met the end room. My red dress became the beacon of light for Arthur to follow. My silhouette engulfed by the cracking black paint.

I finally felt Arthur’s presence behind me and so I took out my ring of keys. It held many keys but only one stood out. It was as ornate as it was old, and it’s heaviness weighed down the whole set. I placed it in the door to unlock it for our eyes. The door trudged open with an audible creak. A hotel room was revealed, as was me and another man.

*the memory dream*

“I know who you are,” The man spoke. “And I know why you’re here.”

“I think you must be mistaken.” I tried to sneak past his form but he caught me in his arms.

“No no no. You’re not getting away that easily you little thief.” His dirty hands groped my sides and hiked up my dress. His calloused fingers crunched the skin of my thighs.

As I watched, I felt the movements repeated on my own skin, and all I could do was match the look of terror on my past face.

He got closer to my core and his other hand had found its place tightly holding my boobs. My form panicked and tried to wriggle out of his grip. It was too much; I could feel it too clearly. This was a dream but my pain had never felt so real. I elbowed his stomach and crawled away from him. Before he could consider a new move, I grabbed the gun from my holster and put a bullet through my head.

*back to Arthur and y/n*

Arthur jumped at the sound of the gun whilst I forced my eyes open.

“Killing just wakes you up, but pain is all in the mind.” I stated. “It may have just been a dream but I can still feel it, everyday.” Arthur placed his hand on my shoulder, questioning the move itself.

“That was not your fault.” He announced proudly. I turned in his arms to meet his sympathetic gaze. I giggled.

“That’s not why that memory is here. I shot myself, so I didn’t have to stay and finish the job.” I stalked towards him willing him to hear my words. “I buried my own cowardice.”

Arthur slowly backed away. He’d never seen this look in my eyes before and he couldn’t look at it again.

“Dad needs to know I can do this, more importantly, that I want to do this. My weakness helps neither of us.”

“Y/n, if Cobb had seen that, he would have made you wake up regardless.”

“And never let me come on a mission again, and I would have been alone. Again.” I walked back to the elevator and let my back rest on the cold metal. Arthur still hadn’t moved, his gaze on the dreaded door.

“Everything here is for my own good, and the good of the people I love.” He followed me and closed the gate behind us. “But it’s also mine. So get out.”

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The time on the dream ticked out, rousing us from our sleep. I ripped out the IV and threw together my stuff, ready to scram. I was halted by Arthur’s arms around me. He dragged me around to face him.

“Y/n listen to me. You’re compromised. You now have too much invested in this job and your judgement will be askew.” He stared me down as he spoke.

“You have no right to question my ability.” I argued.

“After what I just saw, you’re lucky I don’t rip you off this team right now.” He jerked his hands away from me, harshly rubbing my skin as he moved.

I pivoted away and let my feet march me away from him.

“Oh yeah,” He shouted, “What are you gonna do after? Go after Fischer and try and get yourself a cushy number.” I stopped in my tracks.

“No, actually.” I slowly turned back towards his smug face. “I thought I’d go home for the first time in 5 years.”

“Just don’t go meddling about in his mind with your own ideas.”

“Fuck you.” I forced out amongst the tears threatening to leave.

We were broken out when Eames, Saito, Ariadne, Yusuf and my dad entered the warehouse.

“Guys, Maurice Fischer just died 1 hour ago. They’re transporting the body from Sydney to LA tomorrow morning.” My dad announced, but he frowned when he sensed the tension.

“Well, I guess it’s time.” Arthur said, walking over to the others, ignoring my teary face.

I collected myself enough to leave with my dad so we could pack. We were packing to go home.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

taglist: @jonsncws @h-l-vlovesvintage @theethy @fashionki11a @felicity1994 @bearchermer @idkyoutellmesmh @mimimarvelingmarvel @butterfly-lies-chase-them-away

[acapelladitty]

Whole Day Off: The Continuation (Part 10)

Summary: Having agreed to return to the basement, you find that Crane has prepared a wicked medical examination which pushes both your limits and also the delicate line which seperates reward and punishment.

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Reader (6.7k words)

Full series also available on AO3

Pulling into your preferred parking space outside of the warehouse, your fingers are quick to turn the dial down on the music which is blaring across your ears. The level of noise, delicately chosen to cover the slight rattling of something metallic within the bonnet of the car, wouldn’t be appreciated by anyone in the nearby vicinity but it would hide the worst of it until you could get the bastard booked in with a mechanic.

A simple shift dress covers most of your skin, the opaque, dark material hiding the cute black lace underwear set which lay below. It was a small indulgence, the underwear coming in at a little more expensive than you would typically enjoy but the way the thin fabric hugged and held your skin in all the right places made the price tag that bit easier to swallow.

Instinctively, you reach to the seat on the passenger side to pick up your black bag, its contents crammed full of the various toys and tools which you typically found yourself subject to during a session, but your fingers stuttered in place as you recall that Crane already had the bag, having taken it with him as he left your apartment.

The air is as cold as ever and you grit your teeth against the chill as you walk on steady legs towards the metal door of the warehouse. Slipping within, your feet tread a familiar path to the second doorway which acts as the final barrier between you and common sense. Hesitating at the door, you pause to take a deep breath. Nerves tingle across your frame as your fingers dance along the handle but you steel your spine and continue. Pushing the door open with your shoulder, you descend the stairs as the metal creaks shut behind you.

Your eyes seek him out immediately, his back still turned to you as he finishes writing something on a thin notepad at his workstation. However, his attention is quick to shift as he stands to his full height and turns his face in your direction just as your feet hit the final step of the stairs.

“Hey.” You smile brightly to cover the anxiety which is tugging at your chest.

“Good evening.” There is a hint of unfamiliar giddiness to his deep tone. “I’m,” his pause is tactful and you can see him choose the words carefully, “glad you made it.”

“I did agree to come back and I’m a woman of my word.” Pushing through the hesitation, you slip slightly closer to him. “Besides, you have my bag and how’s a girl supposed to get anything done when all her favourite toys are missing.”

His brow quirks at your brazenness as a smirk settles across his thin lips. His hands delve into the pockets of the off-white lab coat which hangs over his thin frame.

“Bold as brass tonight, witty girl. Very interesting. We’ll see how long that lasts.”

And, just like that, the nerves were back but now they were wrapped in a seedy arousal which dried your mouth out in an instant.

“Follow me.” Crane demands, thin hands wrapping around your elbow to guide you forwards. “I have something to show you.”

Doing as commanded, you follow him around the corner to a familiar area; one which you had previously spent a good amount of time within as you stood with your arms restrained overhead, the rope tying your wrists connecting to a thick hook in the supporting beam above. However, as you approach, a very clear difference quickly makes itself known.

A thick cuboid of wood hangs from the familiar hook in the ceiling and your eyes follow the small length of rope which attaches to the top to see something resembling a pulley system. However, your gaze is quick to snap back to the wood and, more specifically, the four sets of thick padded cuffs which dangle freely from it, each one connected by a thick length of chain which is embedded solidly in the main frame.

If restrained by it, you would be held off the ground and completely at his mercy as both your wrists and ankles would be supporting the rest of your hanging frame. Leaving you unable to do much more than wriggle your head and claw your digits against the padded cuffs.

Crane turns the handle, newly crafted and embedded on the nearby wall, and the restraints slowly lowered a few inches down towards the floor.

“A piece commissioned by a friend.” Crane explains, his piercing gaze following your features like a hawk. “He constructed the main pulley system and established a solid capability to restrain a subject via their wrists or ankles for however long would prove necessary. I, obviously, added in the more personal touches such as the softer cuffs. I’m not foolish enough to believe that you possess the physicality to endure this type of restraint without some creature comforts.”

“A friend made this? Like, this whole thing?” Impressed and a little amused at the thought of him having to explain such a thing to another living soul, you run your fingers along the cuffs.

“I’m sure he naturally believed that its use was intended for more nefarious purposes. No doubt some cruel experimentation and prolonged torture of those who are unfortunate enough to find themselves trapped down here.”

“Is that not what we’re doing?” You ask, unable to help yourself as the cheeky question rolls from your tongue.

“If you would rather,” Crane offered in a dry tone, “I can have the padded cuffs removed and replaced with the steel handcuffs which were attached originally. Fully restrained, I imagine the bleeding and nerve damages will be very impressive by the time I am finished.”

“The padded cuffs are fine.”

Crane simply huffed his acknowledgement as he comes to move behind you, his presence enveloping you like a shadow as you shudder in place.

“Do you agree to it? You suggested a thorough examination, and this seemed like the perfect solution to allow me to accomplish such a feat.”

The echoes of your previous offer, so easily given as he was making your head spin atop your bed, whispered through your mind.

Maybe such a test should be scheduled for my next visit to the basement? I would hate for my wicked doctor to feel that he was neglecting his patient.

“Yeah.” You say, the words breathy as heat pools in your stomach. “I agree.”

“Excellent.” His hands are delicate as they ghost along the fabric of your shift dress and he takes a step away from your back, one hand spinning you in place to face him fully. “Now, strip.”

Flushing at the command, your hands scrunch up the hem of your dress as you pull it overhead in one swift movement. Already you can feel the growing arousal within your groin, excitement and mild anxiety battling it out to control your racing heartbeat.

A short noise of appreciation from Crane as he observes your underwear set, the black lace panties so thin that they hid nothing while the bra made a fantastic time of pushing your tits together in a very inviting manner.

“I like this.” Crane mutters, his thumb reaching out to brush down the thin strap on your right shoulder. “I thought the red was impressive but this-” He pauses, allowing the comment to fizzle out before running a hand through his russet hair and fixing his glasses.

“Regardless, before our examination begins, I have a simple task for you.”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to take my belt off and hand it to me.” He explains with a hardened expression, the words brokering no argument. “I warned you before that the Scarecrow does not take kindly to being neglected and that I would warm that lovely skin for it. So, before we start you will take my belt and hand it me, knowing what I’ll be using it for.”

Dropping gently to your knees for a little bit of added drama, your mouth is wickedly dry at the surprisingly erotic act. It felt submissive in a different way, making you an active and willing party in your own ruin as your trembling fingers deftly unlatch his belt. You are in the perfect position to see the straining bulge of his groin, his cock already visibly hard and pressing against his dark slacks, as you slip his belt free of the loops.

Standing once again, you hand him the faux-leather belt with a shuddering breath, your face blushing as you take in the deep arousal which reflects in his expression.

“Good girl.” Is all he says and his wire-framed glasses glint as he tilts his head to observe you further. “Now ready yourself to be locked in.”

You shuffle forward to stand beside the hanging restraints, quickly raising your hands up to allow him to slip the thick cuffs around your wrist. They’re tight but comfortable, the thick band wrapping around and swallowing the first few inches of your wrist. Your heart beating harshly, you take a steadying breath as you allow him to grip your left ankle.

“Raise it. High as you can.”

And you do, even as the position leaves you balancing on one unsteady foot.

“I’m going to raise the restraints, be prepared.” He warns and his thin fingers wrap around the short handle on the nearby wall as he cranks it slowly.

It’s an odd sensation as your hands and foot are raised higher and higher until you are no longer able to support your weight. You gasp as you are lifted from the ground, hands and foot held high as your body hangs freely, dangling above the floor as he quickly secures your other foot in its waiting restraint.

Now weightless, the feeling is so strange that an absurd bubble of laughter rises in your chest. You hang in a messy ‘v’ shape with your lower spine and ass being the closest point to the floor; your legs and arms spread as your head hangs freely, gravity forcing it tight against the back of your neck as Crane continues to raise the restraints until your hanging body is roughly on line with his hips.

“Excellent.” Crane begins, his voice deliciously tinted with the arousal that he wasn’t bothering to hide. “It has been too long since you underwent a thorough medical examination, and I will be correcting that oversight today. Every inch of you will be subject to some form of testing as I cannot allow such a wanton little mouse to continue our games without a clean bill of health.”

“I wasn’t aware that you offered gynaecological services, Doctor Crane.” You say, finding the urge to comment difficult to resist.

“Ah, yes. That mouth.” Crane growls, slipping around your body to wrap a thin hand around your jaw. His grip is firm, threatening, and it causes your breath to hitch as he pulls a thin object free from the depths of his lab coat. “Let’s deal with that before we continue.”

Presenting the object before your eyes, you don’t recognise it immediately, but its intent becomes very clear as he swipes his scarred thumb along your lower lip.

“Open.”

You follow his demand, allowing him to slip the metal gag between your lips as it instantly springs open to force your jaw to widen as far as it would reasonably allow without tearing the skin. It’s uncomfortable and cold against the warmth of your mouth and holds a metallic taste which makes your nose scrunch; the edges of it pressing harshly against the corners of your mouth as it exposes your mouth and tongue freely to his heated gaze as he locks the dental gag into place.

“This will prevent you from both biting and also holding back those delightful little noises that I enjoy.” He pauses. “Plus, the added benefits which will become clear when we begin oral testing.”

There it was and a soft little mewl is the first noise to break free of your spread lips as your tongue traces along the edges of the gag, mapping them out in such a way that you can feel his gaze following your exploration with keen interest.

“Your examination begins now.”

His hands move to your own first, clasping over your fingers as he tugs as the restraints which hold you in place to test their strength. Satisfied, he does the same with your ankles and his fingers brushing the soles of your feet spark a panicked giggle which causes him to arch a brow before moving on.

As always, his attentions quickly divert to your chest. Your tits remain hugged within the lace bra which you had so carefully chosen and his hands are like claws as they immediately begin to grope at the material, sending a delightful discomfort rocking through your chest as he does so.

“There are several types of stimuli I considered for these,” Crane mutters, “but I believe that some kind of punishment is due and so-”

His fingers dip within his pockets once more as he pulls free the familiar clover clamps and the thin metal chain which connects them.

A mild dread poisons your thoughts at the appearance of those particular clamps, muscle memory making you wince in anticipation.

His fingers are deft as they pull your tits free of the bra, allowing the material to sit below the breasts as his thumb and forefinger pluck at your right nipple. Once satisfied with the peak of the nub, he snaps the clamp over it in such a way that you cannot hold back a short cry as a bolt of pain radiates from the harsh clamp.

Without giving you a moment to breathe, he repeats the feat with your left nipple and another shrill squeak of discomfort greets the accompanying pain. It’s a familiar ache, the wicked squeeze causing a fresh flood of arousal to brush against the thin lace panties which felt wet against your cunt as you clench around nothing.

His pinkie curls around the short chain which connects the clamps and gives it an experimental tug, forcing the clamps to squeeze even tighter for a moment, and your body curves in place; chest following the chain to alleviate the pain as your wrists pull against the restraints to raise you an inch higher for a moment. After a moment, he takes pity and frees the chain from his finger and your body falls slack to dangle like a piece of meat once more.

The examination continues and a solid flush of colour overtakes your frame as he methodically moves around your prone frame; pinching and stroking whatever bits of skin that took his fancy while his palms ghosted over the ultra-sensitive skin of your inner thighs and neck. He’s cruel with it, deliberately avoiding your soaked cunt and abused nipples as he instead teases the areas which he knows will only serve to stoke the fire within you while providing no relief.

Eventually, he seems content with his examination, and he moves to stand behind you, your head tilting even further back as you stare up at him with glassy eyes.

“I think it’s time I took advantage of that beautiful gag.” He mused, his hands curling around your head to hold you in place as he explains his intent. “Besides, a thorough test of that marvellous throat might remind you of what I expect from my witty girl.”

He releases your head as you shudder, swallowing down the sudden flood of saliva which accumulates in your stretched mouth.

You hear his zip and his hands return to your head, tilting your face roughly to the side as he presents his cock before you. Held in place and mouth unable to do anything but accept him, he pushes his cock within your mouth, holding himself there with great patience as he allows you to make the next move.

Without too much thought, you wrap your tongue around the head of his cock as the familiar taste of him floods your mouth. He’s already leaking pre-cum and you swallow down the salty taste as readily as you do your own saliva. The dental gag prevents you from wrapping your lips around him but you know that’s not what he’s looking for and so you try to regulate your breathing, knowing that he’s soon going to be buried deep within your throat.

As if he could sense your thoughts, his cock slides deeper and he gives a few shallow thrusts to build up pace before he jerks himself forward in a sudden movement, forcing his cock past your fluttering tongue and down the sensitive juncture of your throat.

Panic sets in in an instant as your fingers scramble against the restraints and you struggle to relax your breathing. Through the roar of blood in your ears, you can hear the satisfied grunt which escapes him at how tight and warm your throat must be and a sick sense of pride cuts through the anxiety which makes your eyes water with every passing moment.

His hips jerk in a steady rhythm, every thrust forcing his cock down your unprotected throat before pulling free enough to allow sharp, panicked breaths before delving in once more. It’s uncomfortable and you fight the urge to retch, your throat instead constricting around him in what you can imagine is a lovely tightness.

Before too long, his cock swells within your mouth and his fingers curl painfully against your scalp as he pulls your face flush against his groin, his pubic hair pressed roughly against your nose as he grunts out his pleasure. He comes, his cock twitching and convulsing as he releases deep within your throat while you thrash against your restraints; teeth painfully held in place by the dental gag as he rides out his orgasm before pulling away in one fluid movement.

Coughing and spluttering as a wayward tear breaks free of your left eye and tracks down your reddened cheek, the ache in your chest seems more pronounced due to your squirming and you blink away the remaining tears to fix him with your bleary gaze.

His glasses are slightly crooked and the flush which sits high on his cheeks speaks of the lovely affect your forced oral has had. At his groin, his saliva-slicked cock remains half-hard and he tucks it away with a clinical hand before returning his attention back to your suffering frame.

Dipping his head low, he captures your mouth in his own. It’s not a kiss, your fully restrained mouth making such a thing impossible, but his tongue trails across your gagged lips before delving within your mouth to taste both you and himself as a low hum vibrates past his mouth.

“You suffer so beautifully, witty girl. It makes it hard for me to be reasonable when you hang there with such vulnerability.”

Unable to answer that, a low keen of desire rips free of your mouth as his hand presses roughly against your panties, grinding the lace fabric into your cunt.

“Shall we move on?” He asks, seeking no answer.

Seemingly from nowhere, a small pair of silver scissors appears within his hands as you pull your head up to stare between your spread legs. He is quick and efficient in the way that he cuts your panties free of your ass – the cool metal of the scissors making your shiver as they roll up your outer thigh to snip away at the straps there.

You whimper as the fabric is pulled away, exposing your obvious arousal to his piercing gaze. Your body still on par with his groin, he lowers his hand to stroke one finger experimentally along your aching slit. After such neglect, the feeling is electric, and you clench around nothing as his finger comes away glistening with your juices.

“Even suspended in the air, the safety of solid ground ripped away to leave you victim to the whims of a madman, you are still as wet as a whore. Arousal and fear,” he quotes the familiar words, “you wear them both like old friends, the line between them indistinguishable.”

“Are you frightened of me, witty girl?”

You nod quickly, the truth of the nod fleeting as you would agree to anything just to have him return his finger to your aching sex.

“Liar. You are not nearly as afraid as you should be. I wonder what it would take to have that fear fully enter your eyes again, to flood your features as it does all my other little experiments.”

His toxin never too far from your thoughts, a genuine anxiety settles in your chest as you recall the effects that even the reduced dose wreaked on your body. How awful a full dose would be, particularly if administer while you were hung helplessly like this.

A shudder rolls through your spine as his fingers traces the outline of your ass, teasing the hole there as his other hand maintains a death grip of your thigh.

“Perhaps we will make that the focus of our next meeting. Besides, the Scarecrow has plans to use every inch of you, witty girl. We’ll start training this,” his thumb brushes across your asshole firmly, “soon enough and then we’ll see how anxious you can be with the correct motivations.”

The noise which escapes your throat is somewhere between surprise and agreement, the idea making you feel filthy in the most delicious way. It would be something new and the thought of the many ways he could utilise anal in your games is thrilling. A fantasy rises in your thoughts; your ass filled by him as his wicked fingers curl within your cunt, stroking those areas which drive you wild as he fills you from behind.

Shaking away the thought, you focus on his current ministrations as he prepares something unseen, his back tactfully turned to prevent you from seeing what is held within his hands. Whatever it is disappears into his pocket as he turns to face you once more before dropping to one knee.

A wretched noise screams free of your throat as his tongue stripes a cruel line across your throbbing cunt, flicking across your neglected clit to send a lance of pained arousal across your groin. His enthusiasm is terrible in its immediacy, his lips and tongue flooding you with sensation as he delves into your cunt with even more determination than when he had you splayed out on your apartment couch.

Your orgasm builds quickly, the ache of your abused nipples as they jostled around only adding to the pleasure of your cunt as he rolls his tongue around your clit, providing just enough sensation to have your breath coming in sharp pants as your toes curl against thin air.

However, just as quickly as it started, he finished; pulling away as your body chased him without thought, the restraints only allowing a few inches of movement. His hand falls into his other lab coat pocket to pull free his next toy.

From this position, you can barely make it out, but it almost looks like a thick plastic syringe with the tip neatly removed, leaving only the barrel.

His eyes flash from behind his wire-rimmed glasses as he brings the object closer to the dim light.

“A suction pump. Designed to isolate an area of skin and create a vacuum. Can be used for insect bites to extract toxins, but it has many other uses. Such as-”

Your tongue presses against the roof of your mouth as his fingers return to your cunt. However, their intent is decidedly more clinical as they spread your lips wide to allow him to find the target for his latest toy. A sharp gasp forces your chest to inhale deeply as you feel the smooth edges of the tube coat themselves in your arousal before trailing up to lock around the circumference of your clit.

An explosion of sensation rockets through your straining frame as he pulls the syringe tight, capturing your clit and pumping it roughly within the barrel. The intensity of the sudden pull, every nerve in your clit straining against the forced inflation, catches your breath in your throat and you splutter and whine through the feeling – pleasure and discomfort rolled into one as you jerk your hips against nothing.

The pain in your nipples forgotten, every slight movement within your body causes fresh waves of pained ecstasy to shudder through you. Your mouth fights against the dental gag as you gasp and whimper, unsure if you want him to remove the pump or pull it even tighter.

“You took that very well.” Crane praises, ignoring the obvious distress as his thumb casually wipes away a fat tear that you were unaware was rolling past your cheek. “I will let you decide if you consider it a punishment or a reward. Regardless, there is still another punishment to attend to.”

He disappears from sight, moving quickly past your head as he dips to the floor to retrieve something before standing upright once more.

Within his hands, lies the belt. The one you had so willingly handed him earlier as your game began.

“Seven days.” He muses, wrapping the buckle of the belt within his fist to prevent the metal from damaging your skin. “Your neglect of the Scarecrow lasted a whole seven days, little mouse.” Tutting with mock disapproval, he circles you like a hawk, clearly enjoying the fresh anxiety which has entered your features. “I think that warrants seven stripes of that beautiful skin. Do you agree?”

“Yes.” You try to answer, the word coming out slurred and messy due to the gag.

“Excellent. As always, you are responsible for counting along and if you lose count then we return to zero.”

A wash of euphoria skates across your skin, anticipating the pain of the belt even as your tits ache and your clit throbs in its isolation, and you loosen your frame as you await the first blow.

CRACK.

A howl snaps free of your throat as the belt wraps around your exposed ass, catching both cheeks as heat blossoms from the spot in an instant. The pain is sharp, different to the rest of the torments that afflict your body and your spine curves in place to avoid the next hit.

“One.” You cry out.

CRACK.

“Two!” It’s a pathetic yowl as his second hit connects across the exact same skin as the first- causing the heated skin there to explode into an inferno of discomfort while fresh tears spring into your eyes.

CRACK.

“Three.”

Pulling your head up for a moment, you catch his eye and the sadistic delight which reflects in his expression frightens you as much as it makes your cunt clench and drip with undeniable arousal.

CRACK. CRACK.

Blows four and five come in quick session across your spread inner thighs and you squeal out their numbers as these new areas burst to pained life. The skin there had remained mostly untouched until now and the sudden assault catches you off-guard while your ankles pull hard against their tight restraints.

CRACK.

An open scream followed by a sob drags free of your stretched lips as his fifth belt catches you across the tits, sparking white-hot pinpoints of pain where the leather catches your clamped nipples.

“Six.” You continued to sob, the pain slowly overtaking the rolling pleasures which had been making it bearable. “T-that’s six.”

“Well done. Despite your fear of the belt you’ve managed to keep up.” Crane growls. “And for our final strike.”

His fingers trailing down your slit for a moment before ripping the pump free of your clit in one rough movement. In an instant, your breath is stolen from you as the pain of your sensitive clit is immediately overshadowed by his final swing, which stripes along your cunt. Stars explode behind your clenched eyes as the pain flashes so intensely that you choke, the scream caught within your chest making you dry-heave instead as his hand ghosts along your wet cunt.

“Seven.” The number comes out with a pathetic squeak as you hear his belt fall to the floor once more.

His palm is cool against your heated flesh, but you sob in place as the calloused skin grazes your plump clit, sending an unbearable flash of sensation across your groin.

Lightheaded as your head hangs limply, the tightness of your bruised throat mixed with the gag makes breathing feel tricky and your chest rises and falls rapidly as you try to gain some composure. Pain, tinged with that same euphoria from earlier, dances along your skin to alleviate the worst of your aches as you hang there. You briefly consider telling him to stop, of using that one guarantee that he promised, but something holds you back.

You flinch in place as his hands come to rest on your scalp, the surprise of his touch pulling you from your thoughts and a mild relief sweeps through your chest as you realise that he is removing the dental gag. As the metal pulls free of your mouth, you test your aching jaw, the muscles there feeling strained and uncomfortable while you wetten your dry lips with your tongue.

Still hanging loosely, you issue another low scream as he unlatches the clover clamps from your abused nipples and the blood returns to them like a strike of lightning. It’s a horrible pain, enough to overshadow the other aches for a moment, as Crane sadistically assists the process by rolling the nubs between his fingers and thumbs.

“Our examination is almost complete, little mouse.” Crane announces, his tone oddly breathless as he slips to stand between your hanging legs and his fingers fiddle with his zip once more. “Just one final test and then we’ll see if you have earned a reprieve.”

His hands comes to wrap around your hips, the thin digits digging into the skin there roughly. You offer a broken moan as you feel the head of his cock bump messily against your slickened hole and you spread your knees as wide as possible to invite him in further. He pushes in harshly, not allowing a single moment of respite as his left hand leaves your hips and instead moves to brush against your clit as he sinks himself fully, claiming his long-awaited prize.

So over-stimulated and close to your limits, his cock burying itself deep within you, hard enough to brush uncomfortably off your cervix, is enough to push you over the edge and you come almost instantly.

His thumb pressing against your pumped clit adds an unbearable pleasure to your release as you squeeze around him so tightly that you hear him grunt with the pressure.

Your entire body tenses as the waves of pleasure crash through you, bolstered by the pains across your abused flesh, and your moans are pathetic in their earnestness as ecstasy drives you to utter madness.

It’s overwhelming in its intensity, your mind immediately floating off into pure sensation as your lips move of their own accord to garble out a mixture of pleas and groans.

Crane, uncaring of your torments, does not let up on his brutal assault on your over-stimulated cunt and his utter disregard only causes your orgasm to prolong itself- every fresh thrust and rough rub of your inflamed skin making you mewl and pull him deeper as you clench around him desperately.

Lost in the sensations, you barely feel it when he comes; his release shockingly warm as it coats your walls, dripping free as he rides his orgasm out before pulling away. Through watery eyes, you watch him as he casually wipes off his cock with a handkerchief before tucking himself away once more. A few strands of his russet hair have fallen across his forehead, plastered to the skin by sweat, as a satisfied slackness courts his features.

You jolt in place as that same handkerchief wipes along your electrified cunt, cleaning up the mess from your combined release as you whimper and attempt to pull away from the fabric; the cotton feeling as terrible as sandpaper against your sensitive skin.

“Well done, witty girl.” Crane praises once more, his words as clinical as ever yet slightly slurred by his sated arousal. “You performed admirably, and I don’t think any of the recent trouble has impacted your ability to impress.”

His hand wraps around your feet, fingers making short work of the restraints there as he pins your right foot beneath his underarm until he has securely released the other. Both feet now freed, he lowers them slowly to the ground to allow you to gain a solid footing.

Standing on very shaky legs, you allow him to repeat the feet with your wrists – releasing them from the thick cuffs as his thumbs rub almost absent-mindedly at the reddened skin there.

Now fully righted, a wicked wave of nausea sweeps across your frame, and you slowly drop yourself to the floor, laying on your back to allow the linoleum to cool your skin and give you something to focus on as you fight the urge to vomit. Your chest throbs and your cunt aches with every slight jostle, the flooring providing a wonderful coolness against the heat of your belted skin.

Vision swimming, a dark shape above you alerts you to Crane’s position as he stands over you. Something like a sigh escapes his shape and you flinch as thin hands dip to wrap around your shoulders and the backs of your knees. With a solid grunt, he picks you up from the floor and you are immediately reminded that he is much stronger that his wiry frame would suggest as he pulls you flush to his chest as he carries you back to the main area of the basement and towards the familiar couch which typically housed your frame.

Wracked by a full-bodied shiver as you relax into the couch, your trembling fingers pull the thin fabric of your bra up once again, wincing as the lace traces over your reddened nipples. The worst of the nausea seems to have passed but previous experiences tells you that you’re still not in any fit state to be walking around and so you pull your legs onto the couch and lean heavily on the arm.

Having lost track of him after he deposited you, the reappearance of Crane as he thrusts a chilled bottle of water under your chin startles you for a moment but you take the water gratefully. Your fingers struggle with the cap for a few seconds before his thin digits take control, opening the bottle and pressing it towards your mouth to allow you a few deep sips.

Satisfied with your intake, he drops to the couch by your side and his hands pick up your feet enough to allow him to adjust them over his lap due to the lack of available space.

“Did you find your examination thorough enough?” Crane asks, his voice suspiciously disinterested as his gaze trails across your striped thighs.

“It was a lot.” You sigh. “My body is aching enough now that I know I’ll be in some state tomorrow. I liked the new restraints though; they make it easy to agree to whatever you want since I’m trapped mid-air.” A slight hint of teasing peeks through the tiredness in your tone and you can feel the amusement roll off him despite his expression remaining stoic.

“You are as responsive as ever. The fear of being fully restrained and vulnerable appears to heighten your sensations in a way that the gurney does not.” His fingers trail along your leg, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. “I am pleased that you offered to return here, with me. I doubt I would have been so kind if the tables were turned.”

“You don’t strike me as the vengeful type, Doctor Crane.”

That gets a genuine laugh from him, the sound little more than a low rumble from his lips but its honest and it alights a satisfaction within you that you were able to get that from him.”

“You could afford to be more vengeful, witty girl. I suspect one day you will come to some brilliant moment of clarity and attempt to cave my skull in for my various crimes against your lovely skin. I also have no doubts that you could murder Roman Sionis in his sleep if you were provided the appropriate means.”

You wince at the mention of that bastard and the flinch does not go unnoticed as a slight furrow appears in Crane’s brow.

“I enjoyed your apartment.” He diverts the conversation smoothly, his hands pulling at your shoulders to guide you into adjusting your body the opposite way. A task which you follow, true surprise clutching at your thoughts as he encourages you to lay your head down on his lap. “If my offer of dinner were still to be taken up, then I don’t see why it wouldn’t suffice for a more relaxed atmosphere.”

You find yourself willing to ignore the fact that his offer of dinner had somehow bastardised itself into a self-invite for you to prepare something for him as his knees adjust to make a more comfortable pillow for your head as you gaze up at his still frame.

His expression refuses to change, stoic features only slightly softened by his obvious fatigue after your little session, and his gaze is as piercing as ever as it flits across your features, taking in your own exhausted state.

“Sleep, dear one.” Crane encourages, tilting your head away from his to face the expanse of the basement. “You’re clearly exhausted and will be unable to function without some rest.”

Unable to refute the fact, your eyes drift shut as something delightfully warm touches at your senses and it’s not until sleep quickly comes to claim you that you realise what it is.

Dear one.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Her breathing steady as he watches the rise and fall of her abused chest, Crane knew that his witty girl was asleep. She looked peaceful like this, a fact which inspired as much disappointment as it did amusement. Her features were so expressive, wearing arousal, fear, rage, and delight with such ease that he needed no prowess to detect her true feelings and it amused him no end.

He had called her ‘dear one’ and its use was not accidental. She had demonstrated a bravery, arguably a foolishness, by agreeing to continue their little arrangement and he felt that bravery deserved a reward. A recognition of something that perhaps he himself was not willing to face.

Brushing the hair which had fallen across her forehead away, he tucked it behind her ear in a surprisingly tender move. Something about her, the way she lay nakedly splayed across his lap, fully asleep and vulnerable to his presence sparked a terrible sensation in his chest; something that lived in the delicate space between protection and cruelty.

She trusted him, regardless of everything, and he could use that trust to do what he wished. To lull her into a false security which would be stripped away in an instant as those lovely features twisted in true rage before dissolving into fear as she realised the true monster which lurked within.

And yet, his hand stayed.

The appeal of such a betrayal was fleeting in its temptations as it would only provide one session of delights and he doubted that the discomfort which plagued him over his previous perceived betrayal would forgive him so easily.

Yes.

His little mouse inspired a terrible thing within him.

She regularly courted the temptation of a monster, one more than ready to tear apart the delicate prey between its teeth. However, her fire saved her. That fire which amused him so much and singed away those darker temptations as they would require him to snuff it out completely, something which he found himself loathe to do.

Dropping his hand gently to her chest, he spread his palm over the area which covered her heart and waited for the steady rhythm to thump its beat against his skin. He would not sleep, not like this, but he allowed the soft thrum of her heartbeat to lull him into something approaching peace, if only for the moment.

[zhalfirin-binds]

Toolmaking workshop in Greece with Dimitris Koutsipetsidis

What better than combine vacation and hobby/work one enjoys?

I had the pleasure to attend a toolmaking workshop held by Dimitiris at his bindery in Athens and what a joy. Within 1 day we learned the basics of cutting and shaping brass tools with files and/or power tools (it can be done solely with files, but let's be honest here, power tools make some of the steps waaaaaay easier and faster) as well as preparing the handles and setting the brass securely in the handles.

I did not expect to go home with 5 brass tools to call my very own to be honest. He picked wonderful shapes to start with that will be very versatile to use in different designs. In addition, and after having tried our hands on all the basic shapes (straight lines, convex and concave curves which really make up pretty much every shape), we had the chance to go for a shape of our own choosing.

It was a wonderful experience so many thanks at Dimitris' for putting this workshop together I learned a lot and had a lot of fun.