#minor in peril

[bobauthorman]

Snowblind By Silver

While rewatching the RWBY episode "A Minor Hiccup", I had a revelation. Weiss' practicing fake smiles before calling the SDC made me think about Ruby's breakdown in V9;

"Smiles all around!"

It made me realize that these two have a lot in common;

Both feel the pressure of living up to their famous warrior ancestor (Summer Rose / Nicholas Schnee)

Both are compelled to always be perfect by their influences (Weiss growing up in "Fine just isn't enough" Atlas, Ruby getting the "Always doing your best" talk from Ozpin)

Both come from families broken by a vile manipulator (Ozpin / Jacques Schnee)

Both have unique abilities (Weiss' glyphs / Ruby's silver eyes)

Of course it would be Weiss to realize what Ruby is going through first.

If I've missed something, please, don't hesitate to inform.

[your-carnal-flower]

They're too big...

I can't close the dress all the way u_u

[unopenablebox]

today i succeeded at a quest called Enable Your Girlfriend To Eat Dinner Before 3AM and i feel reasonably good about it

[nohkalikai]

every day i say i won't talk abt how i've made sense of my identity with upper caste hindus and every day i do it anyway

[agentark]

in the hair care aisle, quadruple checking that I have one shampoo and one conditioner in my hands: okie dokie, let's go check out!

in my car, five minutes later, staring at my two (2) new bottles of conditioner: by talos

[sophieebridgerton]

watching the last of us even though i’m the biggest scaredy cat in all the land

[starstruckpurpledragon]

So around... 1? last night the zapper in the hallway went off with one of those prolonged recurring zaps that I associate with a particularly large cricket wasp getting stuck in the zapper.

But I haven't seen even tiny cricket wasps in a long while. Roaches however... :/ they've been more plentiful than usual this spring/summer. So despite my initial 'it's a wasp' assumption, I decided it was probably a roach and went out to gently rattle the zapper to knock whatever was stuck on the zappy parts free so it would stop loudly zapping. Success! I went back to sleep with Estelle who was pleased the bad noise was gone.

Anyway, dumped out the zapper this morning because I hadn't done it in a long, long while. Since... sometime late last year. Made all the more evident by the sheer volume of dead wasp that fell out of it into the trashcan before I finally identified that, yes, there was a relatively fresh fried roach in there.

so the bright side is it wasn't a wasp resurgence. The down side is I'm probably gonna have to get some kind of house treatment for the number of roaches I've been having lately. :/

... I should probably remember to dump out the other zappers. They're likely full of wasps and wispy bugs (crane flies) too.

[thisisnotjuli]

Goncharov score masterpost

I want to make a post to keep track of all the Goncharov score that’s been uploaded to tumblr, so I will link to all the one’s I’ve found so far and update with any new ones that come up (if you know any I’m missing please share the link!)

Main Theme uploaded by @caramiaaddio

Main Theme (End Titles) uploaded by @if-only-angels-could-prevail

Main Theme (Reprise) uploaded by @raccoonfink

Main Theme uploaded by @eternenty

General Soundtrack uploaded by @mortal-ghost

Shortened Main Title as used in the original theatrical release, uploaded by @somanyofthekids

Main Theme (Opening Credits) uploaded by @fireball-me

The Bridge Breaks uploaded by @nicewizard

The Clocktower uploaded by @dungeonmastersconsortium

Farewell Scene uploaded by @levuna (pointed out to me by @graduatedpillowmonster, thank you!)

Farewell Scene - Extended Version uploaded by @levuna

Tempus Fugit - “Clock Theme” uploaded by @trupowieszcz  (pointed out to me by @graduatedpillowmonster, thank you!)

Goncharov Theme in Minor uploaded by @mapplejuice  (pointed out to me by @graduatedpillowmonster, thank you!)

Katya’s Leitmotif (Vinyl Rip) uploaded by @unscharf-an-den-raendern  (pointed out to me by @graduatedpillowmonster, thank you!)

Andrey’s Theme uploaded by @the-frosty-mac (pointed out to me by @muzic4sewerratz , thank you!)

It Is True (Extract) uploaded by @hex-of-els (pointed out to me by @graduatedpillowmonster, thank you!)

Memories Of Water - Goncharov Soundtrack uploaded by @rismrus (pointed out to me by themself-- please do feel free to toot your own horn!)

Katya’s Sonata uploaded by @arcanistvysoren

“For My Love” Andrey’s Serenade uploaded by @diagnosed-anxiety-disorder

Stolen Time uploaded by @avatar-of-the-vast

Sharing A Dance uploaded by @the-frosty-mac (pointed out to me by themself)

In The Boathouse uploaded by @madame-karenina

What Was And Will Be uploaded by @piano-flute

Overture on the Clocktower uploaded by @dead-minecraft-fandoms (pointed out to me by @mccoppinscrapyard, thank you!)

Privyet Goncharov uploaded by @rismrus (pointed out to me by themself)

Goncharov’s Gun uploaded by @netcup

Sofia’s Serenade to Katya, from the deleted scene in the boat where she sings “Come Raggio di Sol,” uploaded by @melongumi

Sofia’s Theme uploaded by @andrey-transgenderism

Icepick Joe’s Leitmotif uploaded by @whimperandabang

Waltz of the Pearls uploaded by @raynaonyourparade

Katya’s Theme uploaded by @fancydunamancy

Katya’s Theme (a different version) uploaded by @katyathemegoncharov

Katya’s Death Song (ночь, улица, фонарь) uploaded by @traumagician

Lovers Forlon - “Katya and Sofia Final Goodbye” from the deleted scene, uploaded by @colours-of-the-galaxies

Andrey On The Bridge uploaded by @reinbel

Palace Dance Scene uploaded by @lostlovepunk

Dirge of the Living uploaded by @paradoxicalpockets

Smoke and Mirrors uploaded by @andrey-shot-first

Goncharov, Alone uploaded by @khufiya-khaufnak-antariksh

If You Loved Me, You Wouldn’t Miss uploaded by @thetasteoffire who also provided a transcript in a reblog of this post (link)

Clocktower Confrontation uploaded by @rismrus

Goncharov’s Dream uploaded by @verochkasnightmarecorner

Love Theme uploaded by @literary-potat0

Time Motif (All Things Twist) uploaded by @oldbay-on-apples

Predatel'stvo (Katya's Lament) uploaded by @lierdumoa

Shootout on the Old Bridge uploaded by @raynaonyourparade

This Is It uploaded by @angrycatlovesfandoms

Gonchorov’s Theme and Sofia’s Theme uploaded by @koalas-cave

Last Train uploaded by @minotaurlovesyou

Now Departing uploaded by @theshadowbastard

The Courtroom uploaded by @traegorn

Goncharov’s Death uploaded by @loruleyuga

Katya in Peril (Vinyl Rip) uploaded by @unscharf-an-den-raendern

Te Deum (Cathedral Scene) uploaded by @3liza

Katya and Sofia uploaded by @elluminis

Love Theme uploaded by @tweltchy

Katya’s Theme uploaded by @maebird-melody

The Betrayal uploaded by @kip-can-fiddle

Chase Scene uploaded by @fireball-me

Prayer Scene uploaded by @fireball-me

Delusions by the Clocktower uploaded by @sleeveace22

A Clockmaster’s Lament uploaded by @rismrus

If only time would stop for us uploaded by @fireflydragon2005

Apples at the Market uploaded by @raynaonyourparade

Four Seconds (The Clockmaker Reprise) uploaded by @lostinthewinterwood

Demise uploaded by @hyrixmusic

In The Church At Midnight uploaded by @composerinprogress

Departing Naples uploaded by MINDSSACRE

Dockside #2, one of the unreleased tracks, uploaded by @reptilemodernism

Unnamed Fragment from Goncharov’s death scene, uploaded by @quizshow1994

Bonus:

Cover of the song Goncharov (2010) by @idiopathicsmile  (pointed out to me by @graduatedpillowmonster, thank you!)

At Goncharov’s Gate (PC Version), song written for the PC game with a Super NES port released in 1994 for PC-DOS, uploaded by @badgraph1csghost (pointed out to me by @graduatedpillowmonster, thank you!)

Intro to Goncharov (Super Nintendo version) uploaded by @badgraph1csghost

You Think You Have Time, a remix of the original theme that wound up in Hotline Miami DLC, uploaded by @coolwitchaunt

Bonus Disc Menu uploaded by @turtrose

Goncharov 8-Bit Theme from the Goncharov NES game, uploaded by @moonset-music

Trailer for Goncharov (2022) directed by @madphantom

Live action FULL MOVIE: Goncharov (2022) directed by @madphantom

Blooper Reel for Goncharov (2022) directed by @madphantom

One of the official trailers was recently recovered by @talkshowhost1996

A soundtrack compilation is now available on soundcloud

Analysis of the music in the Ballroom Scene by @clarionglass

Analysis on the overall sountrack by @odense

[sgtbradfords]

something wild and unruly

Pairing: Tyler Owens x reader

Summary: You and the Tornado Wranglers seek shelter from the tornado inside a theater that was most certainly not up to modern building codes.

Warnings: life or death situation, minor character injury, hurt/comfort, dirty talk, flirting

A/N: It’s been a hot minute since I’ve written an x reader, but after watching the theater scene in Twisters, I just couldn't get this idea out of my head. Enjoy! :)

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

‘This is it.’ you think, pushing yourself further up underneath a row of theater chairs as the sound of a freight train grew louder. 

In the two years that you had been working with The Tornado Wrangler, you had witnessed Tyler and Boone have numerous, exhilarating, and successful intercepts with one of nature’s most destructive forces, but always from the safety of your vehicle several miles away. Your job of keeping up with the ever-evolving data was rather tedious and very important, but it didn’t always require you to be in close proximity with the rotating column, which was something you preferred. Especially when staying back allows you to capture the beauty of the storm from behind a lens. 

For a moment, you allow yourself to go there, to imagine what this tornado would look like from the safety of an open field. In your mind, the massive wedge wasn’t wrapped by sheets of rain, making it one of the most photogenic you had ever captured, even though it was obliterating everything in its path. Through the screen of your camera, you would be able to see whole trees, sheets of metal, planks of wood, as they circulated through the air. 

Dexter yells something from the other end of the row, his words unintelligible as it pulls you out of your reverie, reminding you that you didn't have to imagine the destruction because you were living through it.

You adjust your sweaty palms along the base of the chair in front of you, muttering underneath your breath that everything was going to be okay. It was only going to last a few more seconds, right?

“Shit!” cries out a familiar voice as the screen at the front of the auditorium is pulled away, revealing the beast which rages outside.

Turning your head slightly to the right, you glance towards the floor of the row behind you. 

Tyler is frowning prominently, you might add, but that wasn't what unnerved you. No, what chilled you to the bone was the unmistakable fear in his glaucous colored eyes. Because if the Tyler Owens was scared, then the world as you know it was ending. 

The vibration in your palms intensifies as a decades worth of old dust and stale popcorn is sucked out of the building. There’s a small part of you that hopes that that’s the worst of it, that this little podunk would remain otherwise unscathed. But like a fool, the tornado proves you wrong by pulling the row of chairs in front of you away, leaving you suddenly exposed. 

“[Y/N]!” You hear Tyler yell, but by then it was too late.

You scream, a loud, guttural sound of peril that is lost to the wind as one of your hands loses its grip on the chair. Frantically, you look around for something, anything, that would be worth holding onto in a last-ditch effort in saving your life, choosing to grasp the leather of the armrest that was just within reach. 

The thought that you were quite literally about to die, crosses your mind as your body is lifted off the sticky floor and into the air. 

“Tyler!” you scream, knowing that you wouldn’t be able to hold on for forever. 

You watch as furiously he twists and turns, firmly wrapping the toe of his boot around the base of the chairs behind him, before reaching out towards you.

With both hands, you hold onto his wrist for dear life, your weightless body swaying in the air as more debris flies past you. It feels as though the moment lasts a lifetime, time slowing to a standstill as Tyler attempts to pull you back down, sending an intense throbbing sensation up your arm. 

You don’t know how long you hold on, but just as quickly as it began, did your buoyancy end, sending your body crashing to the floor. 

“Holy shit [Y/N],” Tyler says, kneeling in front of you. “Are you okay?”

“What's your definition of okay?”

It was a miracle that you hadn’t flown out the gaping hole at the front of the theater. So, were you okay? Not by a long shot, but was it better than someone finding your mangled body in a tree somewhere? Absolutely. 

You watch as his concern deepens, his brow pulling further inward as you give him a shaky smile. “I’m fine Cowboy, at least I will be.”

The look understandably fails in easing his worries. He glances towards your thigh. “You’re bleeding.”

“Am I?” You tell him, looking downward to find your jeans now tainted a crimson color thanks to a small jagged wound that ran across your thigh. You should probably be concerned about that, right? “I am. I’m bleeding. And I'm missing a shoe.”

“I need a first aid kit!” Tyler yells a little too loudly, causing you to wince.

“It's not that bad.” To prove a point, you move to your feet, only for your legs to wobble underneath your weight. 

Tyler rolls his eyes, “You resemble a newborn giraffe.”

“A cute newborn giraffe.” You giggle, easing yourself down into a theater chair. “I think I'm in shock.”

Raising a brow, Tyler kneels on the ground before you, first aid kit now in hand. “You think?”

So what if you were in shock or that you had what looked to be an insignificant wound that needed to be treated? There were people out there, in far worse condition than yourself, that needed help. 

“Better think of your happy place sweetheart, cause this is going to burn like hell.”

Tyler murmurs low apologies under his breath when you release a hiss as the alcohol pad sanitizes the cut, but the pain was short-lived as tenderly, he continues to provide treatment. 

You watch him closely, noting his features; the way his nose was furled, the way his lips thinned, or how his brow furrowed as he focused intently on putting a couple butterfly bandages over the open wound. It’s the same look he gets when trying to decipher where the hell the team was going to chase for the day. You shake your head at the imagery.

“All done,” He says, giving you a panty melting smile. Damn him. You can feel your cheeks warm, heart beating wildly inside your chest as you move to your feet. “Does the patient want a sticker or a sucker?”

“What the patient would like is to get out of here.” While you long for the opportunity to take a hot shower, you know that it'll be hours until you find yourself in the bathroom of a motel room. Instead, you brush off the dust off your clothes. “But for future reference,” your lips twitch into a smirk as you lean in close, whispering. “I prefer to do my sucking on my knees.”

It takes everything in you to walk away calmly, to not look back, not even once, but that doesn’t mean the intensity of his stare has no effect on you. More than once, does your knees threaten to buckle, but by some miracle you manage to keep your head held high. 

It was going to be a long couple of hours. 

[blacktipreefsharkwizarding]

Some people have to understand that “land back” isn’t just “uhhh the colonizers stop being mean to the people being slaughtered by them”. Land back means land BACK. As in the land goes back to the people who lived there before it was taken from them by force. Land back is NOT “the fighting stops but the colonizers get to keep all the land”, it’s “the native people get their land back”. If you don’t support the native people of an area getting their land back, if you expect them to be happy living as a minority in their own land, or living under apartheid and peril in their own land, or not being allowed to live in their own land, then you don’t believe in land back.

Like, it’s right there in the name! The colonizers just give the land back to the people they took it from. That’s land back! So don’t say you support land back while also saying that the colonizers deserve the stolen land.

[anadiasmount]

lockeroom loving - jude bellingham x reader.

quick sum: after the recent win, jude can't help but take you against the place where he desired most since moving to his club. one place that will forever be now tainted of you and him.

wc: 2k | masterlist | jude's masterlist

psa🗣️: i wrote this so fast so excuse any grammar and punctuation! i also used this since someone requested! he just looked so good with that leather jacket, and my thoughts were thinking 🤭🤭. this blurb does contain smut so minors dni!! warnings and themes include: (blowjob, and unprotected sex, public/ private setting) 🔞 like always enjoy!! this one is very much 🫦🫦

“what’s up with you today hmm?” jude smirks, kissing your cheek, feeling you arms wrap around his middle as you continued to nibble and peck his neck. “can’t i admire my handsome boyfriend? who has 30 g/a after todays game?” you say cheekily.

jude laughs and carries you to the locker room. “no no no jude! not here it probably smells! please jude!” you say between laughs as he sits you where his locker is. your eyes roam over the letters that spell out his last name, squirming when he kisses your neck down to your collarbone. “that’s cute,” you point at the picture of you and him during christmas, also of his family and other friends.

“gonna keep talking or let me do what you’ve been begging me for since the morning,” jude said, your thighs clenching together as his hands sneakily ran along your waist to unbutton your jeans, teasing you by slowly unzipping your zipper. “in here? it’s to risky, jude,” you breathe heavily, jude wanting to remark as you threw your head back.

jude sat on the bench, you still standing, hands resting on his leather jacket. he spread his legs, seeing his prominent bulge poke through the black sweatpants he was wearing, you coming between. “y/n, y/n, y/n…” jude taunted, his large palms rubbing your clothed ass, making lose balance. “what am i going to do with you…” he drove your teasing further.

jude took his fingers and slowly pushed your jeans down, tongue poking through his lips when he saw you wearing the white lace underwear. “i don’t think we should do this h-here jude…” you tried to reason but we’re cut off by him slapping your ass, gasping out a moan as jude rubbed the area with his hand to soothe the pain.

“i have a feeling if we wait till we get home, the whole car ride you’re going to pull one of your stunts. no one is coming in believe me…” jude brought you closer to him, kissing the skin on your tummy. your nails scratched the back of his head, bringing yourself to your knees where jude loses focus, untucking your bottom lip and tracing your lips with his thumb. you felt bold, sucking the tip of his thumb where jude chuckled cockily.

“what does my good girl want?” he tsked, watching as you removed your jacket. “what does my boyfriend want? i reckon he wants to feel my lips here?” your smaller hand traced the bulge, all the way up to his abs, now hand on his jaw, watching as jude almost twitched. his cock felt hard, he needed to relieve the tension and pressure before he came in his pants.

you leaned up, kissing his lips messily hearing as he breathed louder and groaned, tongues dancing, lips smacking. your teeth biting his bottom lip watching it pull back and go back to place, jude staring at you intensely now with plump lips, sighing heavily. you crouched down again, looking up with innocent eyes catching the side smile jude gave you.

you untied the strings of his sweatpants, looking at the doors to ensure no one was coming. as much as you enjoyed the thrill and excitement of being fucked by jude in the locker rooms, it was so risky, so perilous. jude bucked his hips up, helping you as you drew down his pants and boxers.

jude's cock twitched in your hold, looking up one more time as your tongue licked his wet tip dangerously slow. jude grunted and threw his head back, closing his eyes as his chest repeatedly moved up and down. you kissed the aching tip so gently and feathery, down the base of his cock, where your tongue traced the vein upwards he had that popped out.

"s-s-shit," jude stuttered, looking down when you finally took him between your lips, your cheeks sucked in as you worked from the tip down his shaft. your throat slowly relaxed as you took him deeper, now breathing through your nose as spurts of spit made the whole length messy. easily accessible for your hands to work the place you couldn't fully reach.

"doing so good for me, just like that angel, taking me so well against these pretty painted lips..." his words made you whimper, clenching around nothing as you looked up once again. "you can do it angel, just a little more, you can fit it all in your mouth," he breathed out, as you pulled back and nodded, stroking your hand messily on his cock. so messy and wet, lips and jaw hurting from how big he was. but you didn't want to stop, you felt the need to make him cum.

jude groaned again, itching to push you down even further when your lips made contact at the base, his thighs shaking and almost squeezing you. jude almost cumming on the spot when your tongue licked the underside of him, as he looked down at you. so focused, so pretty, so pure. he would never admit it, but having and taking you here in the locker room was one of his dreams...

"breathe... there you go... just breathe, you got this, i know my pretty girl got it..." jude said when you gagged and choked on his dick, moaning in pleasure when you retracted again, squeezing his balls to further quicken his high as you control your breathing. "you're so good at this baby, so close to cumming for you angel," jude said making you smirk as you kissed his tip again.

he could feel his orgasm through the back of his head, his head cloudy and images of you down on your knees for him, hissing when you sucked around his cock again. with one final push, jude trembled, moaning and groaning as he came into your mouth, hearing as you hummed pleasurably.

you swallowed every last bit, the whole scene playing out pornographic which flew your mind into a frenzy. you loved having him wrapped around your finger at your mercy, especially like this. his rapid breathing, playful smile, closed and hooded eyes. you wiped your hands on the clean towel nearby.

he kissed you again, bringing you to his lap where his hands stroked your thighs smoothly, down to your ass again, giving it a squeeze in appreciation. you laughed, as jude placed a wet trail of kisses down your jaw and neck. "luckiest man alive... can't believe you are real and all mine..." he whispered, making your body heat up at his words.

"all yours jude."

"get on your hands and knees for me... look into the pretty mirror behind me," jude demanded, voice deep and groggy, patting your ass gently, holding back the laugh at how quickly you listened. his hands roamed your back, still wearing his "bellingham #5" jersey. "gonna fuck you with my shirt on," he placed two kisses on each ass cheek, moving your lacy underwear to the side, your wet folds seeking through.

jude rubbed two fingers along your walls, putting them into his mouth and humming in delight, "so sweet like candy." he gently hit his cock on your skin, watching how you pulsed around nothing. tapping his tip on your clit, then dragging it all the way up to your soaking entrance.

you wanted to roll your hips back, but knowing jude, he would make you wait and tease you till you couldn't take it anymore, crying out as you begged. jude guided and edged himself into you, his girth stretching your walls as he snugs his cock deeper and deeper, inch by inch.

you held back a moan, head hanging low when he retracted and trusted back into you. jude cursed loudly, grabbing both your hips as he slowly found a comfortable pace thrusting into you. a hand reached forward, bringing your head to look at him through the mirror. "i want you to be loud, wanna hear how good i'm making you feel..." jude requested.

jude grunted, your desperate moans echoing in the room as he took you from behind. balls slapping against your clit, which increased your high more. your hands gripping the walls of his locker as you looked behind you, jude still wearing that damn black leather jacket.

since you had seen the pictures, it was all you could think of. he looked straight out of a movie, so prevailing and squared. "fuck, fuck," you hissed as his tip kissed the perfect spot inside you, hands and legs wobbly, as jude squeezed your boob. "jude please, i'm so close, so c-c-close," you warned, eyes squeezing shut at the familiar burn and coil formed in your tummy. he was so deep, that you felt every ridge of him everywhere inside you.

"i know baby, i know, can feel you wrapping so perfectly tight around me. just, fuck, just wait a little longer, a little longer for me, i'm right there with you," jude struggled to say, feeling as you clenched around him as a warning. "so proud of you, this is what you wanted right?" jude taunted seeing as you nodded rapidly, your legs practically shaking with pleasure.

"tried to test me in the morning, and before i left, what if i left you here hanging left and dry?" he pulled back, hearing as you screamed out a no. "no please, jude please," you cried pushing your hips back to feel him. "turn for me, and lay on the bench," you obliged immediately.

“your eyes are so pretty…. love watching them roll back… when i hit this spot…” jude sunk and buried his cock back into you, making your back arch and moan out at the feeling. “i love you so much… you have no idea how fucking good you feel wrapped around my cock darling… so tight…” jude praised. "i l-love you too," you say out of breath, clenching your jaw as your teeth itched with your orgasm seconds away.

jude could feel you from the back of his hands, saying your name like a devoted prayer, his lips connecting with yours as he dragged his hips and pushed his final thrust into you, making the both of you cum, as the wave inside you burst. you each trembled in pleasure, legs wrapping around him to keep him in place as he cummed into you, the familiar warm and full sensation as he came returning again.

you guys laughed, your hands going under his leather jacket and shirt to scratch and roam his back, as he kissed your chin sweetly. he kissed all the way down the valley of your breaths, watching the sticky strings pull back as he did, his white seed falling down from your entrance. you lay there completely warn out, trying to catch your breath, as you continued to process what happened.

"still with me?" jude asked, wanting to be as gentle as possible since you got sensitive after sex. he knew it might not be the correct place, but still wanted you to have and treat you with the most aftercare he could offer you. "yeah, i'm here," you reassured, feeling how he grabbed a clean towel and cleaned you up, laying a kiss on your knee.

"promise you once we get home, i'll give you a bath, the hottest one just how you like. but first I'm gonna treat you to some food, want to make sure my pretty girlfriend eats something... how does that sound?" jude showered you with love, helping you put your clothes on, and cleaning the area where it all went down.

"sounds perfect."

[sinful-mind-joyful-thoughts]

𝑩𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒈𝒆

⤷ Credits: Pinterest

Marcus Acacius x Wife!reader | WC : 2.7k | Proof read : NO | Navigation | Notifications | asks : OPEN

Summary: After a tough battle, you tend to your husband's wounds in a bathhouse, which leads to more.

Warnings: SMUT, grinding, unprotected pinv (wrap it before you tap it), Implied age gap, Scars, Voyeurism, Spitting, both give switch vibes, a gladiator battle is described

A/n: this man in white did things to me but this man in red...UUIUBBYUDGYUTTSVHBBGFRDERFGHNJMKGF

Swords clashed, each metallic strike reverberating through the arena like the tolling of a death knell. You held your breath, chest tight with a mixture of fear and anticipation, every fiber of your being fixated on the brutal dance unfolding before you. Marcus, your husband, moved with the precision and grace of a predator, his muscles rippling under the unforgiving sun. Sweat glistened on his bronzed skin, and you could see the intense focus in his eyes, a gaze that seemed to pierce through the very soul of his opponent.

The gladiator facing him was a hulking brute, a mountain of a man with a scarred visage that spoke of countless battles and victories. His movements were powerful, each swing of his massive sword meant to crush and maim. But Marcus was quicker, darting in and out like a shadow, his blade a blur of deadly efficiency. You could see the frustration growing on the gladiator’s face as his strikes met only empty air or the unforgiving steel of Marcus’s sword.

Every clash sent shivers down your spine, and you found yourself gripping the edge of your seat, knuckles white with tension. The crowd around you roared, a cacophony of cheers and jeers, but their voices were distant echoes compared to the pounding of your heart. Marcus was holding his own, but the fight was far from over, and the outcome was anything but certain.

A sudden lunge from the gladiator brought the tip of his sword perilously close to Marcus’s chest. Your breath hitched, a gasp escaping your lips, but Marcus twisted at the last moment, the blade grazing his side instead of piercing his heart. A thin line of blood blossomed on his skin, a vivid contrast against the tan. The sight of it filled you with a surge of fear and anger, a primal urge to leap into the fray and shield him from harm.

But you were powerless, confined to the stands, a mere spectator to the deadly contest. All you could do was watch, your heart aching with every cut and bruise that marred Marcus’s flesh. He fought on, undeterred by the minor wounds, his resolve as unyielding as the steel in his hand. The gladiator, sensing weakness, pressed his advantage, his strikes growing more frantic and desperate.

Marcus parried a vicious overhead swing, the force of the blow reverberating up his arm. He sidestepped, his movements fluid and controlled, and countered with a swift slash across the gladiator’s arm. Blood sprayed from the wound, and the brute let out a bellow of pain, staggering back. The crowd’s roar reached a fever pitch, the tension in the air almost palpable.

Your eyes never left Marcus, every detail of the battle etched into your memory. You saw the sweat dripping from his brow, the determined set of his jaw, the slight tremor in his hand as he gripped his sword tighter. Despite the danger, there was a certain beauty in his movements, a deadly elegance that took your breath away.

The fight reached its climax in a blur of motion. Marcus feinted to the left, drawing the gladiator’s attention, then pivoted and delivered a powerful upward thrust. His sword pierced the gladiator’s chest, driving deep into flesh and bone. The brute’s eyes widened in shock, a gurgling sound escaping his lips as he crumpled to the ground.

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Marcus stood over his fallen opponent, chest heaving, blood and sweat mingling on his skin. The crowd erupted in a deafening cheer, the sound washing over you like a wave. Relief flooded your body, your legs feeling weak as the tension finally broke. Marcus had won, with only minor cuts and bruises to show for it.

He turned towards you, his eyes finding yours in the throng of spectators. There was a faint smile on his lips, a silent reassurance that he was okay. Tears welled in your eyes, a mix of joy and relief, and you found yourself smiling back, a bond of unspoken understanding passing between you.

From the dais, the Emperors Geta and Caracalla watched with keen interest. Geta, his eyes gleaming with approval, leaned towards his brother. "A fierce husband indeed," he remarked, his voice carrying a note of admiration. "Such skill and bravery are rare. He has proven his worth today."

Caracalla nodded, his gaze fixed on Marcus. "Strength tempered with wisdom. He fights not just with his body, but with his mind. A formidable warrior."

You smiled at their comments, bowing your head slightly in acknowledgment. But your attention was already shifting, drawn inexorably to the entrance of the arena where Marcus was now standing. He was clutching his side, his face pale and contorted with pain. The sight sent a jolt of fear through your heart, and all thoughts of the emperors' praise vanished.

Without hesitation, you made your way down from the stands, pushing through the throng of spectators. Your only concern was reaching Marcus, your mind a whirlwind of worry and determination. As you neared him, you could see the blood seeping through his fingers, the wound on his side more serious than it had first appeared.

"Marcus!" you called out, your voice trembling with a mix of panic and urgency. He looked up at you, his eyes softening despite the pain etched on his face. You reached his side, gently taking his arm to support him.

"We need to get you cleaned up," you said, your voice firm despite the fear gnawing at your insides. "Come on, let's get to the baths."

With your help, Marcus managed to walk, though his steps were unsteady. The journey to the baths felt like an eternity, every moment filled with silent prayers that his injuries were not as severe as they seemed. The noise of the arena faded into the background, replaced by the rhythmic sound of water cascading into the stone basins of the bathhouse.

Once inside, you guided Marcus to a bench, your hands shaking as you began to remove his armor. Each piece fell away with a metallic clang, exposing the blood and sweat-soaked tunic beneath. The sight of the wound, a deep gash along his side, made your stomach churn, but you forced yourself to remain composed.

"Sit still," you instructed, your voice gentle yet commanding.

Marcus winced but managed a weary smile. "It's not as bad as it looks," he said, his voice strained but attempting to be reassuring. "Just a cut. It'll heal."

You shot him a stern look, not fooled by his bravado. "You need to let me clean and bandage it properly. No arguments."

He sighed, nodding slightly. "Alright, alright. But I promise, it's not a big deal."

You retrieved a basin of warm water and a cloth, kneeling beside him. The water steamed in the cool air of the bathhouse, the scent of the herbs you had added calming your frayed nerves. You began to clean the wound, your touch as gentle as possible.

Marcus hissed in pain, his muscles tensing under your hands. "I've had worse, you know," he said, trying to lighten the mood. "Remember that time with the boar?"

You couldn't help but smile at the memory, despite the current circumstances. "Yes, and I remember you saying the same thing then too. 'Just a scratch,' you called it, when it nearly took your leg off."

"Well, this time I mean it," he replied, though his attempt at humor was undermined by another wince of pain.

You shook your head, focused on your task. The wound was deep, but thankfully it had missed any vital organs. As you worked, you noticed the fabric of his tunic was too blood-soaked to use as a bandage. You looked down at your own dress, the hem already stained from kneeling on the wet floor.

Without hesitation, you tore a strip from your dress, the sound of ripping fabric startling Marcus. He looked down, his eyes widening in concern. "You didn't have to do that."

"I'll sew it back later," you said dismissively. "Right now, you need this more than I do."

He watched you as you wrapped the strip of fabric around his torso, securing it tightly to staunch the bleeding. Your fingers worked quickly and efficiently, but you could feel his gaze on you, a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, something unspoken.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice soft. "For everything."

You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. "Just promise me you'll be more careful next time," you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

"I promise," Marcus replied, his eyes closing as he leaned back against the bench, exhaustion overtaking him.

You finished bandaging his wound, then dipped the cloth back into the warm water to wipe away the remaining blood and sweat. As you worked, the reality of what had just happened began to sink in, the fear and relief mixing into a potent cocktail of emotions.

Gently, you started cleaning Marcus's upper body, your hands moving over the hard planes of his chest and shoulders. His muscles were defined, a testament to the countless hours he had spent training and fighting. Each scar you encountered told a story, a silent testament to the battles he had survived. Your fingers traced the ridges and valleys of his skin, lingering on the old wounds that had healed over time.

Marcus watched you, his gaze intense and unwavering. "You always take such good care of me," he murmured, his voice low and filled with affection.

"It's because I love you," you replied softly, continuing to wash away the grime of the arena. "I can't stand seeing you hurt."

As you moved the cloth across his chest, you couldn't help but marvel at his strength and resilience. Despite the wounds and the exhaustion, he was still the man you had fallen in love with, still the warrior who had captured your heart.

Your eyes met his, and for a moment, everything else faded away. The world outside the bathhouse ceased to exist, leaving just the two of you in this intimate space. The intensity of his gaze made your heart race, and you felt a warmth spread through your body that had nothing to do with the temperature of the water.

Without breaking eye contact, Marcus reached out and gently took your hand, pulling you closer. "Come here," he whispered, his voice husky with desire.

You hesitated for a moment, the propriety of the situation briefly crossing your mind. But the longing in his eyes and the way he looked at you erased any doubts. You allowed him to guide you onto his lap, your body pressed against his as his arms encircled your waist.

Marcus leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, tentative kiss. The sensation sent shivers down your spine, and you melted into his embrace, your hands resting on his shoulders. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more passionate, as if he was trying to convey all the emotions he couldn't put into words.

Just as you were about to lose yourself completely in the moment, a roar of people from the arena outside broke through the haze. You pulled back, breathless and flushed. "We could get caught," you whispered, your voice tinged with both excitement and caution.

Marcus smiled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "They're more focused on the battle," he said, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your back. "No one's paying attention to us."

His words made sense, but the risk still lingered in your mind. Yet the way he looked at you, the way he held you, made it hard to resist. You leaned in again, your lips finding his in another searing kiss. This time, you allowed yourself to get lost in the moment, the world outside fading into oblivion.

Marcus's hands roamed over your back, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and steady despite everything he had been through. The warmth of his skin, the taste of his lips, the feel of his hands on your body—it was intoxicating, a heady mix of desire and love that left you breathless.

"Marcus," you murmured against his lips, your voice a mixture of longing and need.

He responded by pulling you even closer, his hands sliding down to your hips. "I need you," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "Now."

The urgency in his words mirrored your own feelings, and you surrendered to the moment, your worries about being caught dissipating in the heat of your desire. You kissed him again, pouring all your love and passion into that single, searing touch.

Just as the kiss reached its peak, another roar from the arena reminded you of the world outside. With a reluctant sigh, you pulled back, resting your forehead against his. "We really should be careful," you said, trying to catch your breath.

Marcus nodded, his eyes still filled with that burning intensity. "I know," he said, his voice softening. "But I couldn't help it. I needed to feel close to you."

You covered his mouth with your hand, silencing him. The action made his semi-hard cock become fully erect beneath you, the sensation unmistakable. "I'll do the work," you said, lifting the fabric of your tunic and grinding into his hardness. "Sit back and relax."

A moan escaped your lips as the friction between your bodies grew, the rough fabric of his tunic adding to the slickness between your thighs. Marcus grabbed your hips with his large, calloused hands, his fingers digging into your flesh as he watched you with those big, pleading eyes.

"I love this..." he murmured, taking in the sight of you. "But we don't want to get caught."

You nodded swiftly, your breath hitching with anticipation. Moving his tunic out of the way, you exposed his throbbing cock. You spit into your hand, rubbing it onto his length, mixing your saliva with the precum that was already leaking from his tip. The heat of his flesh under your palm made your pulse quicken.

Straddling him, you guided his cock to your entrance, the stretch making your head fall back as his hips met yours. A deep groan left Marcus's lips, the sound vibrating through you. Wasting no time, you began to rock your hips back and forth, starting at a teasingly slow pace to build up the pleasure for both of you.

Your hand gripped his shoulder for support as you moaned, the other hand bracing on his knee. With the extra stability, you started to bounce on his cock, testing different angles until you found that perfect, spongy spot inside you. Marcus had always been adept at finding it, and now you wasted no time in exploiting it.

Faster and faster you moved, the feeling of his cock sliding in and out of you becoming almost euphoric. "I'm gonna cum," you panted, your voice trembling with the intensity of your impending orgasm.

Marcus's hips began to thrust up to meet yours, his own climax approaching. "Me too," he groaned, his voice rough with need.

You moved your hand to his other leg, bouncing harder and harder, driven by the twin desires of pleasure and the fear of being caught. As your hips met his with each thrust, the friction and the slickness between your bodies brought you both closer to the edge.

With a final, deep thrust, Marcus's orgasm crashed over him. He growled, pushing his hips as far into you as possible, filling you with his warmth. The sensation sent you spiraling into your own release, your body tensing and then shuddering with the force of your climax.

Marcus pulled you into his arms, his breath still ragged. "We really shouldn't be doing this here," he murmured, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

You stayed like that for a moment, both of you catching your breath, your bodies still intimately connected. Slowly, you lifted yourself off him, feeling the absence of his warmth inside you as you settled beside him.

You laughed softly, resting your head against his chest. "Probably not," you agreed. "But it was worth it."

He kissed the top of your head, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your back. "Always worth it," he echoed, the love and desire in his voice making your heart swell.

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ NEED TO LISTEN TO ME — price is disappointed in you and your other three lovers, and finds that some 'training' is in order

read on ao3.

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, poly tf141, ANGRY sex, mean dom price, angst, degradation, minor dom/sub, light humiliation, orgasm denial, dacryphilia, minor spit play, minor blood play (not really), rough sex, price orders EVERYONE around, price-centred, whiny johnny and gaz agenda

// NSFW CONTENT UNDER THE CUT //

You weren't scared of many things at this point in your life.

Being a signal officer for the military certainly aided that statement, but it was more the fact that you had four guard dogs in the form of the most seasoned special forces operatives you've ever known. Four very large, very scary men that you'd somehow found yourself lucky enough to get to call your partners.

Both on, and off, the field.

That being said, there was one thing you were terrified of. Like, to your bones, petrified.

And that thing had a name.

John Price.

He was formally the captain of your force for a reason, but he was also informally the captain of your relationship, as well. The one you all looked to in the most difficult of moments, the one that held reason and guidance above all.

It's been that way since the five of you met, and remains the same to this day.

Nonetheless.

It was a known fact between you, Soap, Ghost and Gaz that none of you liked seeing the man mad. You four could count on one hand the amount of times you'd witnessed it, all of which having been directed at either his superiors or an enemy.

But. Right now, in this office, seated on the small couch between your three lovers?

Yeah. You don't fear many things.

But John Price's disappointment is quite easily in your top three, and this situation only cements it.

"He's probably ordering our caskets," Gaz murmurs wistfully, eyes wide as he stares at his foot, tap-tap-tapping against the wooden floor. It's a nervous tic that gives him away too easily, but even with your hand on his knee, it doesn't seem able to quit.

You exhale a deep breath, squeezing your eyes shut. "I hope he gets me a cute one," you mumble back, tone matching the resignation that clouds your captain's office.

"You four. My office."

Those were the only words Price had spoken to you guys, before marching off to a meeting with Laswell.

To say that you and your lovers were mortified was the biggest understatement of the century.

Even Ghost, sat perfectly still, expression perfectly neutral beneath his mask, oozes trepidation like it's the carbon dioxide he exudes with every breath.

"I know 'm 'n tha military, but I still don't wanna die, ya know?" Soap whines, his head flung back and blue eyes glued to the roof as his hands shake in his lap.

You guys must look like unruly students sat outside of your principal's office to any onlookers, and it should be embarrassing.

It would be, if you could feel anything but mortal peril.

You're about to quip a reply to Soap, when the door clicks open, and the three of you sit ramrod straight, Ghost not moving from his already perfect posture.

Price steps in, the door shutting closed behind him.

The silence is a tangible force, and your mouth is so dry, you'd think you were in a desert, not in your lover's office.

His footfalls echo around the modest space, before he leans against his wooden desk, folding his arms over his chest, before directing his furious gaze to you four.

"When I give orders," he starts, and oh god, his tone, it's so unbelievably firm, "I expect my team to follow them."

There's no response, except for the overwhelming quiet coming from the usually passionate and comforting presence that underlies your entire dynamic.

Price clears his throat, meeting all of your eyes one by one. You wonder if you can see the glassiness of yours, the barely restrained tears.

"So why," he begins, before swallowing once more, determination settling in, "Did all four of my teammates rush into an unstable building after being ordered to keep out?"

You know it's not just the anger of a captain's orders being refused.

It's the anger of a lover having to watch all four of his partner's risk their death, while he can do nothing but watch from the scope of a sniper rifle.

The clock on the wall above the door ticks, and none of you make a sound.

Price grabs a pack of cigars from his pocket, quickly sliding one out, placing it between his lips, and shoving the pack back into his slacks. He then pulls out a lighter from his back pocket, lighting the tobacco, before exhaling his first breath of smoke.

In any other situation, you or Gaz would be chastising him, telling him to stop smoking, or to at least do it outside.

Neither of you say a word.

Rubbing at the furrow between his brows, Price then drifts his eyes to Ghost, the only one who hasn't said a word since the mission.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Price says on a deep exhale, shaking his head. There's hurt there, genuine pain, and your heart stutters in your chest at the sight. "You're my lieutenant, Simon. I thought you'd at least 'ave the brains to listen to me when I make an order."

Ghost's hand tightens where it sit on his cargos, and even with his mask on, you can tell that a disgruntled frown lays beneath it.

"And you, Soap," he looks at the man to your right, now, and you can physically see him deflate at the disappointment in his captain's eyes. "Disrespecting authority is cute 'nd all, until it's me, mate."

Those words feel like a physical wound, even to you, and judging my Soap's crestfallen expression, for him, it must hurt tenfold.

And, then, it's your turn.

His mouth is set in a grim line, and you hope that he can see the regret, the genuine sorrow you feel at disappointing and -- and scaring your captain. Your lover.

"What were you thinking?" He asks, and your mouth wants to open, but it's as if there's an invisible force pinning it shut. "You weren't even supposed to step foot on enemy grounds, and you knew that."

And it's true. Your role is mainly with communications and technical supplies, not actual combat. You were trained, yes, but it has never been your role.

But you'd seen Soap rush in, Ghost trailing after him, yelling, and then Gaz not long after, and it was like your mind shut out any rational lines of thinking. There was no rationale when it came to your partners.

That was a flaw. A genuine character fault, and Price was cementing that fact in this very room.

"Kyle," Price runs his hand down his face, cigar in between his middle and index fingers, "Kyle."

The pain, regret, the melancholy -- it's its own element in this room, its own being, and it feels as if it's choking you from the inside out. Like a gas leak, or a grenade stuck in your throat, about to go off.

Ghost, shockingly, is the first to speak.

"Captain," he grits out. Not 'old man'. Not 'love'.

Captain.

"We're aware of our... misgivings," he states, the words coming off of his tongue like hot coals he needs to rid off, lest his entire mouth burns.

Price nods, slowly, eyes narrowing at Ghost. It hits you, then, how your lover's just dug all of your graves in one sentence. Gaz seems to realise, too, his eyes going wide, exhaling a low, short breath in surprise.

"Sweetheart," he quips, standing up in the transition of one moment to the next, eyes snapping to your glassy ones. The endearment holds no warmth to it, for the first time, and your heart shatters where it beats in your chest, shards of glass embedding into the muscle surround it. "Get on the desk."

He says the words, and in the next movement, sweeps his arm over his desk, causing all of his papers, his pens, his folders, to go careening to the floor.

Soap mutters a curse under his breath, and Gaz winces.

On shaky legs, you stand, walking the short distance to the wooden surface and sitting on it with short pants of breath.

His large hand grips your chin in a tight grasp, tilting your head back and forcing the eye contact between you both.

He leans in, mouth mere millimetres away from your own, before speaking. You can taste the tobacco as he does. "I'm gonna let every single one of my subordinates fuck your disobedient cunt, and it's not gonna get any cum. Do you understand that order, sweetheart?"

It's cruel. Patronising, and so unbearably condescending, but you nod, a tear finally leaking down your cheek.

With a calloused thumb, he wipes it away in one stroke. "Save that for the actual punishment, operator."

And then, he steps back, and takes a seat in his chair, allowing him a full view of the other three still sat at the couch, and your position in his desk.

"This is a lesson on following your captain's orders," Price barks his order, like most other men of his rank would. It's a stone cold contrast to the gentle, comforting way he usual spoke to the four of you. His voice, now, holds no love, no underlying adoration lacing through his words. "You will follow every command I give you, and hopefully, this training will carry onto our future missions."

You're all aware that if it gets too much, one of you will utter the safeword you're all aware of -- the weight of it almost embedded into your beings.

Price knows it, too. And no matter how angry he is, he'll always put you all first, listen to you when you genuinely need to stop.

The feeling in the room has shifted from one of heavy disappointment, to an electrifying anger that has liquid heat melting to your core.

"Simon," Price snaps his fingers, and it's almost as if you're in a parallel universe, because the large man immediately stands. "Lay 'er down on the desk."

Ghost only needs to take two steps from the couch before he's standing in front of you, hand fisting into your hair, before somewhat gently pushing you to lay flat against the smooth surface. Your breathing is harsh, your chest moving in quick rises.

"Strip 'er down," Price orders, voice gravelly as he takes another deep inhale of his cigar, folding his leg so his left ankle rests on his right knee, legs spread wide. He fills out the chair with his frame, and it makes you shiver as Ghost gets to work peeling your clothes off of you.

When your heated skin feels the kiss of the cool air, you let out a haggard breath, head falling back to hit the wood as you clench your eyes shut.

Ghost goes to spread your thighs, before pausing, awaiting Price's directions like a dutiful dog.

You never thought you'd see the day.

"She's wet enough," Price shrugs, taking another drag of his cigar. "Fuck 'er."

Oh, fuck.

He wasn't lying, you were soaking, something about the fear unknowingly having your inner thighs sticky and core aching to be filled.

But... not getting prepped? At all?

Ghost makes a surprised grunt of a noise, pausing for a moment, before recollecting his senses and unbuckling his pants.

Oh. Fuck.

He's really, properly following Price's directions, like the man had demanded. The guilt was eating all of you alive, and that festered in Simon's actions.

His deep brown eyes flick to yours, before he unzips his fly with one hand, gaze not moving from yours. There's slight apology in them, only a hint, before he leans down to spit on your cunt.

You inhale a sharp breath at the act, squeezing your eyes shut as his dick presses against your heat, rubbing against it slightly.

Then, he pushes in -- it makes you cry out, breath hitching as the tip enters. It's a tight fit, but he continues to push in, and it's almost as if you can feel the intrusion, the pressure in your chest.

"So you can follow orders, huh?" Price quips, almost nastily, and it has you shuddering as Ghost's hips finally flush against your own. You don't think you've ever taken any of them without foreplay, and it's a special form of torture. The pressure is almost too much, his cock filling you up so much.

Simon's head hangs between his shoulders, muscles tense as he stares down at you, the epitome of self-restraint.

He always was the most controlling one, the most calculating.

Not today, however.

That title easily belongs to Price, who merely relaxes further into his seat, as if he wasn't just mere feet away from the two of you.

"I said fuck her, Riley. Not stand there and keep it warm."

He's so fucking. He's fucking cruel about this, fully willing and wanting to make this hurt. It's so completely unlike the man you love, and it's psychologically damning in a way nothing else could be.

But, like directed, Simon fucks you.

He stops trying to be kind about it, stops wallowing in guilt. It's rough, forceful, urgent, unlike the way he usually liked to savour your pleasure, your pain. He usually delighted in the smooth, deep strokes, prolonging the passionate act almost vindictively.

No. Now, it's quick, punishing thrusts, and your head falls back and little moans escape your throat.

It's like you've both forgotten that Soap and Gaz sit on the couch, watching, waiting. Price has likely made it that way on purpose, to make them envy the attention you and Ghost are getting.

"Fuck," you moan, tits bouncing as Simon continues to fuck you relentlessly, harsh in his movements.

"Does he feel good?" Price is standing, and when you open glassy eyes, it's to see his face looking down at you. If you had the mind to, you'd flinch under his criticizing expression. "Answer me."

You nod, shakily, and when his brows narrow, you rush out a verbal response. "Yes, yes, he does!"

Price hums a noncommittal sound, before his hand slides down your stomach, leaving your hairs to stand on end, before his fingers reach your clit. In tight circles, he has you on the edge almost immediately, and you cry out.

"Gonna fuckin' cum," Ghost grunts, voice low as his eyes clench tight.

"Aww, you two close?" Your captain's voice is gruff, all too condescending, and just before you can find your release, his hand leaves your clit, and wraps around Ghost's neck. He leans into his ear, and his whisper is loud enough for everyone to hear. "Pull out."

Simon makes a noise suspiciously close to a whimper, and it's so unlike him that it has your eyes opening wide, before he does just as Price ordered.

He pulls out.

"Seriously?" You groan, filter eviscerated like your high was. You lean up, using your elbows for leverage.

Price raises one brow, before scratching at his beard almost absent-mindedly. "Got a complaint, sergeant?"

You shake your head, lightning quick, like a puppet on a string.

That's what you were right now -- what all of you were. Just puppets in whatever acts Price wanted to see you all star in.

It's exhilarating in the worst of ways.

"Soap, Gaz," Price snaps once more, and Ghost is nothing more than a neglected mutt. Which, really, is almost funny considering the amount of times the man teases you, Soap and Gaz about such a comment. You couldn't count the amount of times he's compare you three to 'needy puppies'.

Now, he was nothing more than that, and you wish you could enjoy that fact more.

The two men adhere to the command, radiating nervous energy as they stand to attention, not unlike they would if they were in a standard military unit.

"Gaz, take her mouth," Price demands, before his hand buries in the short hair near the nape of Soap's head with a mean grip, meant to hurt. Soap barely hides a whine as Price tugs him, forcing the man to his knees as if he's nothing more than the mutt Ghost usually refers to him as. "You, lick 'er clean."

You realise, then, what exactly this is.

It's truly a display of power. Of control. Because you four took that away from him on the field, unrightfully so. There truly is thought behind his anger, his pain.

It only makes the ache in your heart burn, makes it bruise and bleed where the shattered pieces cut and embed into the innerworkings of your body.

This 'training' won't make up for what you four pulled. Not in the slightest.

But it's something to let John get some of his emotions out, in a somewhat healthier way than you lot usually resorted to.

You'd always offer your support, offer yourself, and he knows that.

He's deliberately taking away that option for you, taking control to comfort the side of him that is so deeply ingrained, so deeply relied on for him to live.

You love him. So effortlessly.

Those words remain accurate, even as Johnny first licks over your wet pussy, and Kyle's dick bumps against your lips.

Opening your mouth without a thought, Kyle's tip slips in, his pre-cum salty on your tongue as you flatten your tongue against it. Johnny's as enthusiastic as ever, maybe even more than usual, as he delegates all of his attention to your aching warmth.

John's grip doesn't release from Johnny's hair, shoving his closer against you, and the sight is so hot that you wish you could fully, properly enjoy it.

Another time, when you're all in better spots, happy and unapologetic, you'll ask them to re-enact the scene.

Johnny moans against your pussy, hands coming up to grip at your bare thighs, and you just know there'll be finger-shaped bruises come tomorrow morning. He's always been unaware of his strength, not understanding the proper damage he can inflict, especially in the bedroom. It's attractive as all hell.

"Yeah? She taste good, hm?" John nearly snarls, and you let out a drawn out moan at the pleasure and words. The sound is muffled by Kyle pushing in deeper, having you almost gagging on his length.

Your eyes flutter shut at the onslaught of feelings, but even with no sight, you can feel Simon's eyes on you like a physical weight.

You know what position he's in, without having to look. Leaning against the wall with a furious expression, large arms folded over his bulky chest. Maybe he's pulled off his mask, maybe it's just been hooked over his crooked nose.

"Fuck, cap," Kyle groans, bucking into your throat. "So fuckin' good--"

Johnny muffles a whine as his efforts nearly double, and you swear spots colour the darkness of your vision. You're already there, and it's not like you can say anything, with Kyle abusing your mouth like this.

"She's close, ain't she, Johnny? Feel her clenchin' on your tongue?" John taunts, and you can feel Johnny nod against your core, nose brushing your clit as he does.

John huffs a cruel laugh, before he abruptly pulls Johnny away by the scruff of his neck. You can't help by buck up, searching for touch, but none comes.

"Kyle," John's tone is one requiring no resistance, and with a shaky exhale, Kyle pulls out of your mouth, a string of spit clinging to his dick, before snapping and leaving your cheek covered with a line of it.

You shakily open your eyes, your pussy begging for a release, knowing that you won't get one. Not yet.

"You make a mess, you clean it up," John says.

So, Kyle leans down, his tongue licking over the spit trail, and really it should be disgusting.

Instead, it only makes you wetter.

Your thighs incessantly shake, no hint of stopping as your body aches. The emotional turmoil, mixed with the physical kind -- it's a concoction for torture.

With half-lidded eyes, you watch as John forces Johnny's head in between your breasts, pressing his face into them. It must be almost suffocating, but Johnny manages to whine as you feel John's hand wrap around Johnny's dick, positioning it against your twitching hole.

"Rut into her," John orders, before stepping back.

Johnny does just that -- he thrusts in, bottoming out with one push. Your moan sounds too alike to a squeal at the stretch, the sudden intrusion. Your arms wrap around his back, nails scratching lines down Johnny's back as he thrusts into you almost manically. You're sure that you're drawing blood, but it only seems to encourage the man rutting into you further, his thrusts urgent and feral.

"Jesus christ," someone -- you're sure it's Kyle -- murmurs, and you suddenly want to know what you must look like from a spectator. Ruined, probably.

Your breaths are harried as you feel yourself getting close once more, tears burning at the corner of your vision at the pure need coursing through your veins.

"Please," you whimper, squeezing like a vice around Johnny's dick. "Please, oh god."

"Now you want me to make decisions? Let you two cum?" There's a hand in your hair, and in any other situation, it'd be calming.

Currently, it feels like a thinly veiled threat.

"Please, John, 'm so sorry, please," you beg, eyes blurry as you look up into the man's stormy blue eyes.

Usually, they're comparable to a calm ocean, the beach mid-summer.

Now, they're akin to the darkest of storms, the ones sailors whisper about, the ones that haunt them while they're asleep at sea. Ones that cause shipwrecks to wash up on shores, ones that cause stories to be passed between campers on the scariest of nights.

"Now you're sorry, sweetheart?" And, oh, there's a sliver of the warmth you've come to crave, and it almost has you melting where you lay.

You're so close, you can taste it on your tongue, and your moans get louder, needier, more frantic --

"Stop, Johnny."

Tears fall, then. Hot and heavy down your cheeks, leaving sticky tracks in their wake. Hiccups fall from your lips as you sob from the deprevation.

Johnny whines, head drooped low as he stops, and you can feel him pulse inside of you, both of you at your wits' end.

"You follow orders so well in this room, don't you?" John says. The voice of a captain.

It's almost your last straw. The devastation is too great, the mix of physical and emotion stress weighing on you heavily.

"'M so sorry, shoulda listened," you cry, body trembling.

"John, please, we're sorry," Kyle insists, a furrow between his dark brows where he takes a step closer to you and Johnny.

Simon, although silent, is also closer to you both now than he had been, no longer stood against the wall.

Your boys -- they're so inherently protective, and it's such a nice feeling. No matter how guilty they feel, how genuinely sorry, they can't stand to see you or Johnny so weak, so vulnerable.

Love. You love them, in a way words can never describe.

John exhales. A deep, thoughtful one.

"We're talking about this, after we're all cleaned up," he says. It's the first hint of himself that you've heard tonight, and the relief is like an intoxicating drug.

It's like even the room itself takes a deep breath, dispelling of some of the tension lining every inch of it.

"Off 'er," John snaps his fingers, and Johnny pulls out with a small whimper, head still hung low.

Grabbing your hips, John flips you over, making you bend so your face is to the desk and your ass is in the air. His large hand presses against your lower back, bending you into an arch.

He slides in, and it's an easy entry. You don't think you've been more wet in your life, and gods, you need it.

Setting a ruthless pace immediately, every thrust forces a whimper, a moan, a whine out of your mouth, eyes dazed as your cheek presses against the wood. His hand fists into your hair, forcing your head to face the three men stood side by side, watching you both with a flurry of emotions behind heavy stares.

"Feel so fuckin' good, christ," John seethes, his grip tightening in your hair, causing your moan to become louder as it leaves your lips.

It isn't long before you're at that cliff once more, begging for a final push, just so you can reach that finish you ache for.

"Gonna, fuck, please, let me cum, John, I love you, I'm so sorry," your words aren't fully your own, and they come out in a desperate plea.

"Yeah? My girl gonna cum for me? Needy slut."

Those words are your undoing, your nirvana.

You cum, body strung tight as tears fall down your cheeks once more, your vision nearly blacking out with the strength of your orgasm. It's almost painful, the stimulation altogether too much, and not enough.

John finishes not long after, his cum filling you up with a loud groan from him.

He releases his fist in your hair, and you head falls to the desk, body slumping with the final release of pleasure.

Stroking a smoothing hand down your back, he pulls out, and you can feel his seed leaking down your thighs. You must be a sight -- all worn out and dripping with the white liquid.

"We don't getta cum?" Johnny whines, and you can hear the roll of Simon's eyes.

There's a hand stroking stray hairs off of your face, and from the texture and size of the limb you can tell it's Kyle.

"You won't get to tomorrow, either, if you keep tha' up," Price mutters, and you let out a delusional giggle at his words. You're cum-drunk, almost, from how drawn out your orgasm had been.

"We really are sorry, Cap," Kyle murmurs genuinely, and the hurt is a sharp barb on his tongue. "You know we love you, didn't mean to hurt you."

John releases a long, worn-out breath. "I know that. I do. But you're a bunch of reckless muppets 'nd you fuckin' went too far today. I'm your captain, lover or not."

"We'll talk it over later," Simon states, and you can't help but agree with the sentiment.

You will. And it'll be a painful conversation, but one that you all owe to your captain.

Because, at the end of the day, you four would do anything for the man that you love. That includes the tough words, the difficult exchanges.

John presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, and with complete certainty, you're sure that you're all going to be okay.

a/n. the day that i stop loving poly 141 is the day that i die. price needs all the love omg this one kinda hurt to write cause oof angst but hopefully it was an enjoyable read!!!! thank you to everyone who comments on my fics, your notes etc make me do a lil happy dance ily all!!!!!!!!!!!!

[inkyajax]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ what they’re like during sex (aka how they fuck!)

anonymous asked: how do you think sunday and aventurine are during sex?

characters: aventurine, sunday warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem reader, rough sex, marking, overstimulation, consensual noncon, dacryphilia, implied blood, implied degradation words: 1k

⋆₊˚⊹♡ aventurine

aventurine is sadistic 97% of the time. aventurine needs to constantly push things to the extreme, to the very edge of a perilous cliff, in order to feel anything at all. as such, i think he has pretty hard kinks (cnc, heavy degradation + dumbification, marking/branding, impact play, bondage play, power dynamics but never total power exchange (he wants some fight in you or else it’s boring), dacryphilia, intoxicated sex/intoxication, exhibitionism in very risky locations). his cursed luck enables him to get sex easily and quickly, so simple vanilla romps just don’t do it for him. there’s no thrill, no spark, no fun, especially if the person is faceless, nameless, and thrown away the next day. 

soft sex isn’t impossible with him but it is extremely rare, and you’d have to 1. be someone incredibly close and trusted to him, and 2. catch him at the right time, in the right mood (which is to say, he’d need to be really fucking upset, and be seeking solace or comfort in the form of flesh and pleasure). if you do manage to meet those two conditions, then consider yourself very lucky—you’re seeing a side of him that no one is ever allowed to see: small, vulnerable, weak. in a way, aventurine’s soft sex is more real, more raw. it’s honest; it’s hurtful. it isn’t exactly gentle, but it is slow and a stark contrast to his usual style of fucking, with all of it’s bites and bruises and blood. his breath is shattered, exhaled across your skin in shaky shards—half-stifled gasps that he tries to swallow against, nearly choking in the process; raspy moans that snag on sobs, stuttering painfully in his chest. 

when he gets like this, he needs to fuck you in some form of missionary, needs to see your face and feel your breath, needs to crush his lips to yours as his eyes squeeze shut, tears leaking from the corners to pool along the seams of your conjoined mouths. he ruts into you in an unhurried but steady tempo, each thrust deep and drawn out, almost as if he’s taking a moment to memorize you—the trembling of your flesh when his hips collide with your ass, the fluttering of your hole around his shaft. when he cums on these nights, it isn’t brutal and frenzied the way it normally is, with jackhammering hips and snarled words; it’s with his cock buried in your body, head pressed flush to your aching cervix, hips gyrating in small, tight circles, grinding his cum into your sensitive flesh. it’s almost as if he’s attempting to burrow into you, to find a safe space, carve out a home for himself, and stay there forever. 

aventurine is also extremely loud and extremely vocal. his dirty talk is impeccable, and his tone ranges from sugary sweet condescension, gooey words oozing from his lips like slow, silky syrup, to sharp and vicious, razored insults spit from his mouth as if they had sliced his tongue, hurled at you like daggers. his moans are clear and resonant, and he can get a little whiny when he’s close. he definitely has a penchant for sucking in air through his teeth in a harsh hiss (often chased by a deranged chuckle)—when he first sinks into your hole, tight and unprepared; when you bite him back twice as hard and pierce his skin; when you rip out a chunk of his hair, golden strands wound tightly in your fisted knuckles; when you land a good kick or a decent punch; when he finally pumps your womb full of thick cum. 

⋆₊˚⊹♡ sunday

sunday has range when it comes to his style of fucking; sometimes he can be soft, sweet, slow and sensual, rolling his hips with unhurried conviction and ensuring that his cockhead is gliding over your g-spot every single time. he murmurs out praises, tells you how pretty you are, how perfect you are, how precious you are when you sob while taking his cock, pace never faltering—a smooth, strong rhythm he keeps flawlessly as his tongue unfurls from his mouth to drag up your salty cheek in wide thorough strokes, consuming up your tears, then planting chaste kisses in their place. he breathes out encouragements, says you’re doing so well for him, promises you that you can take it for just a little bit longer for him, swears you can cum all over his cock once or twice more for him—he knows you can, and he’s going to show you, just like a good master would.

other times he’s fucking merciless, downright relentless, cock pounding hard and fast as he snarls out condemnations, fingers sinking into the flesh of your arms, your waist, your neck, your wrists and snapping vessels beneath their grip, leaving a smattering of five fingerprint-shaped blotches of violet to pool under the surface, or a ring of grotesque purple seared into your skin. his teeth are latching onto the back of your neck like he’s some sort of rabid animal, strong jaw flexing, burrowing ivory into your flesh until the skin splits and floods his mouth with pungent copper. this type of fucking usually occurs when he decides one of you is in need of an emotional stress relief, or when you’ve been ‘bad’ and are in dire need of punishment. 

in either instance, sunday will often fuck you well past the point of coherency, positive that you haven’t been fucked nearly enough until you’re unable to hold your own body up, bones melted and muscles heavy; until you need his help to do literally anything; until you can only drool out his name and his title, sweet lil brain gone stupid from pleasure turned pain, or vice-versa. he’s an absolute god at aftercare, and finds a deep amount of self-satisfaction in the act, never failing to end a session with meticulous care, irregardless of how vigorous or vicious he was. it is unfathomably important to him to wipe you down and patch you up and make you all better again, tenderly humming out sweet nothings all the while. 

in terms of noises, sunday emits mostly quiet little moans and breathy little haah whimpers when he’s sensual, and muted grunts and growls when he’s really fucking you harsh and rough—strained sounds that vibrate in his chest or claw at his throat with each ruthless slam of his hips, shoved back down by his tightly pressed lips.