#names redacted for obvious reasons

[gachapains]

I was getting absolutely flamed in the work GC today bc of 1 my marvel tier list I was forced to take by a coworker and 2 for my opinion on "Avengers Age of Ultron" I was 14 and in love with Arron Taylor Johnson sue me, anyway my boss chimed in flaming me who mind you has been doing inventory for the past few days and had to be at the store at 5am, so I snapped back at him and then there was silence so apologized after a few minutes chaos insued....

The flaming:

The clap back:

Bonus context:

[the-evil-pizza]

So many actor's contracts end, they start complaining that they will never again do bls or return to it and then after s few years come back for that sweet sweet money.

And the straight girlies that watch bl forgive and forget and talk down on people disliking those actors for what they said. As if they didn't spit on the genre we love and care for and the entire community of not straight people that watch their previous shows that made them famous.

Like me personally, as a gay man, would NEVER just forgive someone that like said the worst shit, never apologized, and then just silently came back for more shows. No matter how everyone says the series is "good"

[beebo-of-the-day]

2/28/23

 February 28th was a normal day. 

[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.

[labyrinthphanlivingafacade]

productive post everyone go home thats a wrap for today love it here

Good evening sir!

Would you like to drop a morsel to ignite the Good Omens fan base? Dealer's choice.

Not really. I mean, you still have a long time until summer. The last thing I want to do is exhaust you all by telling you stuff now so by the time the show comes out you'll all be bitter and jaded.

I could make something up, though. Crowley wakes up at the beginning of episode 1 to find himself transformed into a giant cockroach, while a huge storm blows up and carries Aziraphale's bookshop off the Land of Oz....

[mosaickiwi]

All Clean!!!

How dare Sai deprive me of this tbh /j /silly

a lil itty bit angsty on angel's part… i meant to write it completely goofy oops

cw// mild nudity (but not for sexy reasons), blood, implied offscreen murder(s)

14 Days With You is an 18+ Yandere Visual Novel. MINORS DNI

“Should I be concerned?” you finally blurted out, curious about whatever had caused the sight before you. 

[REDACTED] sat completely relaxed on the edge of the tub, splatters of blood mixed with dirt and rain water over their face and torso. Under the scarlet streaks and smears, his skin was flushed as if he’d been running a long time. He was stripped to his boxers, and the clothes they’d come home in were being tossed around in the washing machine while you took care of him. 

“Not at all,” he quickly answered your question with a nonchalant shake of his head, then muttered an apology. “Didn't mean t’wake you up.”

It was strange that he was more worried about your sleep than the fact that he came home covered in bloodstains, but you knew exactly what to expect from them by now. The only sound in the room was the cloth in your hands loudly dripping into a bowl of soapy water as you rung it out to clean them up.

You’d heard noises in the middle of the night, and peered out of the bedroom to find your boyfriend halfway down his apartment’s dimly lit hall, making a mess of the marble floor with their clothes soaked from the rainstorm. Except the little puddles of what should've been water were slightly stained red, leaving a haunting trail in his wake as he’d staggered towards the bathroom. 

The apathy in their blue eyes disappeared the moment you called their name, a puppylike smile forming on his lips that was at odds with his ghastly appearance as he turned, fully intent on hugging you, then struggled to stop himself once they realized they’d get dirt and blood all over you if he tried. You would’ve laughed if you weren't still half asleep.

And if the hallway didn’t look like a crime scene all its own.

You brushed their dark bangs back and wiped at the liquid on their forehead and cheeks, gently scolding them. “Don’t apologize for that. I’d rather miss out on sleep and make sure you're okay instead of wondering if…” It hurt to even think the words.

He took hold of your hand, the cloth trembling against his skin from your fears. “‘M sorry for worrying you, love. I promise it’s not my blood,” they said in the hopes you’d calm down. Weirdly enough, it did make you feel better.

Though he never flat out admitted to it, he wasn’t really trying to hide the things they did from you anymore, only the brutality of it all. From the dozen or so times you came home to an empty apartment after a text not to wait for him, just to vaguely recognize a missing person on the TV a few days later, it was obvious without confirmation. This was the first time you’d “caught” them, though—and with actual physical evidence. He usually came home silent and squeaky clean.

“It better not be,” you halfheartedly joked to ease the tension. He smiled and let go of your hand so you could continue your work.

The cleanup went by quickly. Dipping the cloth into the bowl of soapy water and wringing it out one last time, you reached towards your hacker’s bare shoulders. The blood there was mostly gone—save for a streak just below their collarbone. It wiped away all too easily, but a tiny line of dots flowered forth from a small injury you hadn't noticed at all.

“So about this not being your blood,” you started, setting the cloth down in the bowl.

He must not have noticed it either, but recognition dawned on their face. “I did have a tree problem earlier.”

“A tree problem?” Your earlier worries were quickly pushed aside at the revelation.

“Yeah, a branch got stuck—” he suddenly paused. The pink in his already flushed cheeks deepened. Their eyes shifted to the side in embarrassment. “Never mind.”

You struggled not to laugh. Of all things to phase him about his night out, a tree branch? The more you thought about it, the more you wanted to tease them. But you held your tongue and quickly grabbed some ointment and a bandage from a nearby cabinet.

[REDACTED] didn't even flinch when you pressed a dab of ointment to the reddened scratches. His expression seemed to melt instead. You asked carefully, “It doesn’t hurt does it?”

Their gaze went blank and wide eyed for a split second, then a twinge of fake sadness oozed into his voice. “‘Hurts a lot, Angel. Be gentle with me and kiss it better?” He even pouted to sell the act.

“Of course.” You playfully rolled your eyes and applied more ointment. As you spread it over the scrapes, he resumed adoringly looking up at you until you finished. Satisfied with your work, you smoothed the bandage over his skin and loudly planted a kiss to the spot then stood up.

“Y’know…” he hummed while wrapping a tattooed arm around your waist with a devious smile. “My mouth hurts too. ‘Could use a kiss or four there, don't y'think?”

With a smile, you leaned down, grabbing both their cheeks as if to kiss them. His eyes glittered in anticipation as you came closer. Instead, you stopped millimeters from their lips and whispered in the sultriest voice you could muster, “I’m gonna go mop the hallway.”

[paperstorm]

Thanks for the tags @heartstringsduet and @corsage! Have a slightly longer snippet than usual to introduce you to a musician AU I am in the very very early stages of working on. ([Band name] redacted only because I haven't settled on one yet 😂 My dumb brain that loves a pun keeps suggesting Strand and Deliver but that's too silly)

-

TK blinks. For a moment, he’s sure he heard wrong. “A tour?”

“Limited American, to start,” Billy says. “And then expanding to Europe if we can, depending on ticket sales.”

With another blink and a dumbfounded shake of his head, TK reiterates, “You want me to go on a world tour? When I literally just got out of rehab?”

Billy frowns. “Oh, is there like … more shit you need to do? With that?”

“I – not, there isn’t …” TK babbles, unable to adequately voice why he’s reacting this way, because really, Billy isn’t wrong. He finished his 30 days. It’s been two weeks on top of that, and he’s stayed away from anything stronger than a regular strength Tylenol for the headache he had last Thursday. He’s not on probation, he’s not being required to do another month in some kind of halfway house. The only thing on his calendar for the foreseeable future is rotting on his couch with a bowl of cereal and binging some sitcom he’s already watched a million times. He doesn’t really have a good reason that he shouldn’t jump right back into work, he just wasn’t expecting it to happen. He hasn’t even reconnected with his band, yet.

“I’m not gonna force you to do anything,” Billy tells him, folding his hands on his desk and looking at TK with a furrowed brow. “If you don’t think you’re ready, we can put all this on hold until you are.”

“But?” TK asks, sensing there’s a big one coming.

Sniffing loudly, Billy’s hands transfer to his keyboard. It clacks noisily in the quiet room as he types, and then he rotates the monitor so TK can see the screen.

The sight that greets him is a Google search of his own name, and as Billy slowly presses the down arrow on his keyboard, TK’s eyes travel over headline after headline – Musician TK Strand seen emerging from upstate drug and alcohol rehabilitation facility, and Lead singer of [band name] checks out of rehab; fans wonder what’s next for the group, and [Band name]’s critically acclaimed album dropped almost eight months ago, here’s why no one’s heard from them since.

He gets stuck for a moment on a particularly cruel one, questioning whether the band will have what it takes to pick up where they left off after a widely publicized relapse derailed what should have been their biggest tour to date.

“The most surefire way to shut all this up, is to get right back on the horse,” Billy says, in a voice that’s serious but not unkind. “You’ve still got an album full of new songs that your fans are dying to hear live, it’s just a few months later than it was supposed to be.”

“They don’t think I’ve got what it takes.” TK nods toward the computer screen.

Billy rotates it back toward himself so TK can’t see it anymore. “They’re wrong.”

“What if they’re not?”

“Only one way to find out.”

“I guess,” TK concedes, swallowing over his dry throat.

“There’s one more thing.”

“Okay.”

“The label suggested it, just so’s you know.”

“God, what?” TK groans, expecting the worst.

“If you agree to this tour, they want to pick your opener.”

“Oh.” TK frowns. It’s not nearly as bad as some of the things he was imagining. “That’s all?”

Pursing his lips, Billy asks, “You heard of Carlos Reyes?”

The name sounds vaguely familiar, but TK doesn’t recognize it well enough to be positive as he asks, “Carlos … wait, that song that’s been all over TikTok? That people are like hoedown dancing to?”

“That’s the one.”

“He’s a country singer,” TK says, stating what surely must be obvious.

“He is,” Billy agrees without further explanation.

“I don’t feel like we’ll have a ton of crossover fans.”

“He is up and coming.”

“Does he even have more than that one shitty song?”

Billy turns to his keyboard again and shows TK the guy’s Wikipedia page. He’s a year younger than TK and handsome in that wholesome, good Southern boy sort of way, complete with a cross necklace glinting against his clearly shaved chest. As Billy scrolls to the bottom, TK’s gaze catches the information that the lead guitarist and bass player for Reyes’s travelling band are a married couple, and TK barely holds in a scoff.

“He has two albums and an EP,” Billy points out. “He just hasn’t really taken off much, until now.”

Annoyed, TK asks, “And the label thinks, what, we can’t put asses in seats anymore without some lame TikTok star? That I can’t?”

“He’s not a TikTok star, he’s a musician with a growing fanbase. And he’s got a reputation that is not, unlike yours at the moment, covered in shit,” Billy explains in a no-nonsense voice.

“Right.” TK huffs and slides back in his chair. “So, that’s what this is. I was high at a Grammy party three months ago and now my name is mud, so the label wants me to bring some Mouseketeer in a cowboy hat along to calm the shareholders down.”

“I doubt they’d put it exactly that way.” Billy exhales and shrugs. “But basically, yeah. That’s the long and short of it. Reyes and his band are good clean fun, whereas people are still circulating pictures of you almost puking on Ariana Grande, so they’re not willing to put up the money for the tour unless you agree to bring him with you.”

“Fabulous,” TK mutters. “What could go wrong.”

“For the sake of your future in this business, you better hope absolutely fucking nothing,” Billy warns, and it still isn’t unkind, but he isn’t joking.

Tagging @theghostofashton @birdclowns @reyesstrand @strandnreyes @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut

@carlos-in-glasses @actual-sleeping-beauty @thisbuildinghasfeelings @herefortarlos @heartstringduet

@goodways @alrightbuckaroo @lightningboltreader @freneticfloetry

@liminalmemories21 @nancys-braids @whatsintheboxmh @bonheur-cafebonheur-cafe

@reasonandfaithinharmony @thebumblecee @never-blooms @lemonlyman-dotcom

@sanjuwrites @orchidscript @jesuisici33 @kiwichaeng @honeybee-taskforce

@fifthrideroftheapocalypse @butchreyes @just-inside-her @firstprince-history-huh @captain-gillian

@tellmegoodbye @anactualcaseofthetruth @ironheartwriter @eclectic-sassycoweyes @ditheringmind

@emsprovisions @irispurpurea @nisbanisba @corsage @cheekgirl89

Want to be added or removed from the list? Lmk

[imayfeel]

Show all your faces.

;; Yandere! Popular Male. Loser! Reader. Perverted Behaviours, Light NSFW. Headcannons/Introduction (?)

The popular classmate who has little to no reason to pine after someone of their calibre; the head and the heart disagreeing with one another more often than not. He had no shame in the action of pushing other students around on school grounds early in the morning of the school day to ensure he would be the first to greet the student. To so generously give another of his "Goodmorning, [REDACTED]." blindingly paired with a signature smirk, so desperately wants nothing more than to grab onto them or sling an arm around their shoulder, do anything to touch them.

The popular classmate who nearly does it too, debating on if he should and casually write it off as a kind and friendly gesture— though, these emotions leave his mind at the sight of their darlings dull eyes boring into his in such an uninterested manner— his breath hitches. His olive toned cheeks flush, the twitch of his fingers in his pocket violent as he feels himself grow hotter with each passing moment their eyes pierce into him—

Until their steps resume and they continue walking through the school gates and past him entirely. The tension leaves his body immediately.

The popular classmate who gains so much adrenaline from just having you merely look at him would be enough to make a man feel pathetic, but not him. For he felt uplifted, as if it was only him and him alone in the entire school that would be granted their attention, even if only for such a pitiful amount of time (So little it would be barely considered time at all in its expanse). It seemed as if speaking and keeping acquaintances with others, although draining, and building up his untouchable reputation made it so he would finally be able to have a grasp on them when others could not (more like did not want to).

The popular classmate who could not help but picture vulgar images in his mind whenever they reached down to pick something up that they had dropped from their desk— collar moving and exposing some of their nape or the side of their neck, calling for his touch within his mind. How he wanted to run his fingers over it, to run his fingers over them. To touch what no one else has dared to touch, converse with daily who no one else wished to converse with.

The popular classmate who's entire body both felt like it was melting and freezing at the same time when the pairs had been announced in a sports lesson. Both happy and horrified he was when he heard their names together in the same pairing, as they always should be, he thinks. Perhaps it would be a chance for him to see something other than their dull uninterested expression, constantly present no matter the occurrence at hand— though even that face was breathtakingly, eerily, gorgeous to him; how many others faces did they have?

The popular classmate who was now carrying them on his back whilst running on the track, a race with their other peers (that he could barely remember the faces of). He found that despite their constant empty gaze and unmovable expression, their weakness was physical excursion. It seemed obvious to him with the way they had to stop every so often, hands on their knees as they forcefully take in oxygen through their lungs to attempt to relieve some of the tire. He was unable to exactly catch their expression as he caught their wrist, impulsively leading them to get on his back so he would be able to take the two of them across to the end line.

The popular classmate, who among his other traits, was also physically fit and carried the weight of most of his teams during any sport activities.

The popular classmate who damned himself for picking them up on a whim, now unable to help the ever so slight, and barely noticeable, buckle of his knees at the slightest breath washing against his nape. At the slightest contact of bare skin against his own, making the tips of his ears glow red (which he prayed would go unnoticed)— now all too aware of how close and intimate this was, not caring enough to notice that other pairs were considering following his example and were unsure of if it bent the rules of the race or not.

The popular classmate who, reluctantly, set them down after having crossed the end line— only to see an image which would forever stay in his mind. Them letting out soft, shallow breaths, cheeks flushed slightly pink and eyes tired, brows ever so slightly furrowed. Out of breathe, and beautiful.

How no one had already stolen them as their own, he had not the slightest idea— but now he would be the one to do so.

The popular classmate who rushed away from them before they could say a word (which he doubted they would either way due to their constant lack of awareness on when to speak and what to say), his own face flushed; but this for a different reason. His palms were sweaty. A slight tremble was present in his legs as he walked back to his group of friends; all speaking of how they did in the activities, all also noticing how suddenly out of it he was— which he dismissed.

The popular classmate who almost flew to the bathroom stalls connected to the changing rooms to fist his cock to the precious image he had now carefully stored in his mind of them. Would they also make that face, when he cornered them in an empty classroom and had his way with them? He wonders, when he would trickle strings of sweet words into their ears, genuine and true for once in his life? Or would they make a different expression, one degrading him due to his need for them, or perhaps they would crumple at his feet once given just a taste of the pleasure he could bring to them.

The popular classmate who casually slung an arm around them once he found them walking to their next period, stating they were in the same class. The same hand he had just finished himself with at the thought of his release looking so pretty on their face, with the same expression they had made for him the period before, absentmindedly playing with a lock of their hair.

[assassinnumber9]

Franky Franklin Appreciation Post

I'm here to spread appreciation for a certain curly haired honorary uncle, because without him literally none of Spy x Family would have happened (and he deserves to be recognized...and have a girlfriend...and money).

Before y'all go "Well, duh, Twilight would have never gotten his information if not for Franky" or "Twilight could easily do everything by himself," I want to clarify that Twilight would not even be a spy if not for Franky.

Twilight would likely either still be known as Roland Spoofy or dead if he hadn’t stopped himself from shooting Franky.

Why?

Because Twilight only found his friends because of the injuries he sustained when the Ostanians caught up to him and Franky. He was put on cooking duty, because he was taken off the front lines.

And if he hadn't reunited with his friends, Military Intelligence would have never found out his true name and that he faked his age to join the army. The spy we saw in ch 62 would have never approached him, because he would have thought that "Roland" was your average soldier. Twilight would have never gotten blackmailed into joining WISE.

Franky is literally the reason why all of these events even occurred - not to mention that he was also the one that made [Redacted] begin questioning everything.

Most of Operation Strix comes from Twilight's work rather than Franky's, but it would have never even started if not for him.

And sometimes, I wonder if Twilight ever realizes/will realize that.

Twilight only ever really admits that Franky is useful and has never outwardly called him a friend (I don't think anyway) but relies on him heavily, even drinks with him when Franky is having a bad time (even though he disguises it as him wanting a drink too and meeting him was just a coincidence. King of Denial, Twilight is).

Twilight has Franky to thank for his life pretty much, and it's likely that the other way around is true too, even though it may be a lot less obvious or severe.

These two were just destined to be friends apparently. And, that’s great.

So in conclusion, Franky changed everything so we could meet Anya and Twilight/Loid could meet his (likely to be beloved) wife, Yor.

Seriously. If TwiYor have any biological children, the reason for their existence would be Franky.

...Also, Franky is also kind of the reason TwiYor exists, because he was the one to tell Twilight that Anya didn't look like the daughter of an affluent family from the way she was dressed.

Every path leads to Franky.

Thank you for reading my rambling on this pathetic man.

[blingblong55]

She's my Collar- Simon "Ghost" Riley nsfw

F!reader, nsfw, Stalker!Ghost, Military!reader

This is based on a request.

But first, let me give you a little back story:

You are a highly trained sniper, and expert in hostage situations. And for obvious reasons, you keep yourself off the radar when off duty. Your age is redacted mainly for your own privacy. The nickname came around your first deployment, and everything went south real quick. Your team for hours looked for your body. Soon they heard a bullet pass through them, your third kill, and from the stinking dirt you rose. (referenced Ghuleh/Zombie Queen-Ghost).

----

"Ghuleh!" your captain called out. You looked up. "sir?"

He showed you the file, a reassignment. "Good luck." your teammate spoke. You stood up and went into the office. "What's the occasion sir." your monotone voice vibrating on the walls. "A captain requested you, congrats Ghuleh, you have been reassigned to Task Force 141, give 'em hell." he placed the file on the desk and patted your shoulder as he exited the room.

On the other side of the world, Brazil. The team was in need of a sniper, and after much searching, Price found you.

----

Full name: r/l/n, r/n

Age: [REDACTED]

Alias: Ghuleh

Rank: Sergeant First Class (SFC), ACTIVE DUTY

Sgt. R/l/n, who was involved in Operation: SEVEN JAWS, was among the five only survivors from a team, of 17.

She is a highly trained soldier, by far one of the toughest I've worked with. No matter the time, day, week, she's there. She's fast, silent, no remorse. Loyal and highly deadly.

Combat ready.

Skills: Sniper, infantry, insertion specialists.

----

Price hands Ghost your file. He scans through some pages. "Don't think she's ready for us." he tosses your file on the table. Your file sits high on the pile of many other operators. "Laswell says she's more than good enough, other teams even the enemy have asked for her. She's been bribed before. Think we aren't the ready ones." He stands up and makes the call.

13 hours later, you arrived at the base, Price, Soap, and Gaz, waiting there as you got out of the helicopter. You walked to them, you sniper and bag in hand. A smile plastered on your face. "Sergeant." his hand reached out. "Captain." you shook his hand. For the next three hours, you started to talk to your new teammates. "Ghost is busy at the moment, but he will meet with you later. Now what's with the name?"

"Classified." You looked up, your hands cleaning the snipe. He chuckled.

And for two weeks, you only saw Ghost passing by, then after hours on the shooting range, he was there. "Nice shot." his remark made you turn. "You must be Ghost." You returned back to your position. "What gave me away." his voice hinting at a slight chuckle.

Headshot.

You left your gun and turned to him. "So what can you bring to us? Just snipe?" "No, but I'll definitely surprise you, sir."

"Mind sparing with me?" he broke the awkward silence that fell upon the room. "How 'bout a no for now. But whoever can give the poor wall the most headshots gets a sparring match after the mission?" You loved playing around with your old teammates. And knew that soap and Gaz were already welcoming of you. He took out a knife and threw it at the target, headshot. You wiped out a pistol from your belt, headshot.

"Why the nickname?" he asked, he pulled a gun from his boot, another headshot. "Why the mask?" you look away from the wall, headshot. "Shit face." he answered, this time he missed his shot. "tsk tsk. s'no good," you shook your head. "Rose from the death, allegedly," you added, another headshot.

And for about an hour, you and him asked and answered. For about an hour, this man was looking at you. Studying your face, trying to read any emotions. He liked the games you played. How you dodged certain questions by shooting at his target. When he ran out of bullets, there you stood, smiling, "Guess no sparring for you sir." You walked away, content with your actions.

----

Three weeks after that day at the shooting range, he followed you closely and noted any quirk of yours. When you and the team were training, Ghost would watch from afar. He had a notebook of all you liked and disliked, and when he passed through the small gym of the base, he'd write down the music you listed. (For personal reasons: you listened to the band Ghost. Ironic ik). At times he would try and sneak behind you, trying to see if you were texting someone. To his luck, you weren't.

After week four, he, although perceived as cold and heartless, had slowly fallen for you. It was obvious you tried to be on his good side. And it was clear you were in the team for a reason.

Mere infatuation, he would tell himself. But when you consumed his last thoughts before he slept, when he imagined times when he was inside of you, pleasuring you, making you his, it was more than infatuation. He wanted others to understand, you were his. His special soldier, only his.

"r/n, time to train." He approached you, taking your scent in. "Be my partner?" your voice rang through his ears. He looked down. "hm?" "You want to train with me sir?" your innocent eyes staring at his. He nodded and followed along.

He started to think of how you'd look. Completely naked, crying for mercy as he penetrated every inch of you. How your whimpers would fill the room around. How he would part your legs, eating you out, making you scream his name.

But soon that picture faded, and he felt his bulge growing tighter around his pants. You stood at the mat, waiting for him. "Scared you'll lose?" your smirk laying high on your lips.

God those lips, the same ones he imagined would eventually be wrapped around his throbbing cock. How you would be on your knees, taking all of him in that small mouth of yours.

"Got a death wish?"

"Maybe I do."

He soon took his gear off. His muscle shirt revealed the tattoos. "Need a picture?" his ego speaking before he could form any other word. "Perhaps I do." You tried to make him nervous, just so the match could end soon. It was something you tried with Gaz, which worked perfectly, he was so nervous around you, that he couldn't think straight.

"Ladies, when in doubt, use your femininity, men will go crazy, military men are dogs when it comes to us. They get nervous, so use that against them. R/n, you have a good shot at getting the enemy on his or her knees."

You struggled to keep him down. His body weight was more than yours, but you were much faster. Soon his body lay under yours. He tried to bring you down, or at least to flip you both. "So what did I win?" you joked. "Me." uttered. Thankfully no one was around, your eyes looking for some lie. "Pfft, good one sir." now it was you that was nervous.

You had found him attractive, but geez was that a comment. "M'serious." his voice softened. Your grip on him loosened. And that was your mistake. He flipped you both over, now he was on top, your bottom with your chest rising and falling rapidly. "What d'ya say? let's get out of here and go to yours?"

It was a dangerous play if he said his.

In his room, pictures of you sat on his bedside table. A sweatshirt you left on the bench hung on a rack. The notebook he dedicated to you lay on his bed. And the small shrine he had of you in his closet, exposed if you opened it.

"Wouldn't this be inappropriate?" you asked, he got up, extending his hand for you. "Just frowned upon," he answered. Your hand on his, he lifted you up with no hesitation. And you both made your way to your room.

----

He looked around. Taking the details in. But soon, small kisses on his neck made him lose all concentration. He lifted his mask, just enough for his lips to be exposed. He grabbed you by the neck and guided your lips to his. You smiled once your lips met. Melting under the kiss, he knew it was time to make all his dreams come true.

He travelled down to your neck, his hands meeting the ends of your shirt, he lifted it up, your arms raised and felt as the clothing left your skin. He laid you on your bed. His hands hungry, traveled around your now exposed skin. You tasted better than he imagined. Your soft moans leave your lips. With one hand on your back, he unclipped your bra and threw it across the room. Your nipple piercings looking back at him, he smirked.

Fuck, the things he was about to do to you. He kissed and softly bit your nipples. This made you moan even more. He flicked your now-hardened nipples with his tongue, his eyes never leaving your face. He loved to see your reaction.

You giggled. In a matter of seconds, his shirt came off, and he trailed down your pants, impatiently trying to take them off. "Take off yours, I'll do mine," you said, and he did as told. When you two stood there, somewhat naked, you laughed.

Sex can make humans crazy. You two back in bed, and he played with your throbbing cunt. "s'ready for me. Like a good whore." he said, your lips never leaving his. "S'mine."

Moans filled the room as he rubbed your now wet panties. He lifted your legs up, taking your panties off, he liked the view. Looked down and smiled. Desire mixed in between touch.

He got on his knees and he dragged you to the end of the bed. His hands parted your thighs. He was leaving wet kisses as he went closer and closer to your throbbing parts. "please" you moaned, wanting him to stop the teasing and just finger you. "please what love?" he eyes looking at yours, a smirk planted on his lips. "please, just fuck me" you let out as frustration left your voice. "Jus'because you asked kindly." he chuckled against your now sensitive skin.

His tongue pumped in and out of you. Your hands made their way to his head, and you pushed him more in. His fingers made their way in. He fingers you so much that you start squirting. He licked the liquid that was leaking. "Taste s'good" he complimented. "Fuck!" your hands burying more deeply on his mask-covered hair.

When he knew you were ready for him, he grabbed a pillow and tossed it under you, he rested your legs on his sides. His hands touch your face. His thumb made its way to your mouth, and he made you suck it. "Spit on it," he said as his palm opened. You obeyed, he rubbed his hand on his already hard cock. And when you least knew, he went inside you.

In response to him, you moaned loudly. He rapidly covered your mouth. "Don't want them to listen just yet," he said and he deeply thrusted inside you. Your walls gripping on him. He moaned and soon he got desperate for the speed. "Can I?" he asked,

"Can I fuck you harder now?"

"Yes, please."

You grabbed the nearest sheets and covered your mouth, your moans still loud although muffled. "Now they're ready," he said as he moved the sheet from your mouth, you gripped the sheets, feeling your climax come. And once it did you grew more sensitive, your legs started to shake, but the noise and cries of pleasure fed him more.

"Please sir, I can't...I-cant take it any longer." you cried, your back arching and your nails digging deep on his arms. He liked how you were slowly leaving your mark on him.

It drew him wild. "You can take one more can't you?"

And with tears slowly falling down, you nodded. "Good," he said. He was rougher, his fingers went back down. He loved how you came on him. His fingers rubbing your now dripping wet cunt. He licked his fingers, and he dove back in. Only to come back with more of you on him.

"Taste yourself, love," he ordered.

You opened your mouth and licked around his fingers, he moaned. "obedient little whore"

And as your tears made your mascara melt, he was more than full. This was the image he needed for today. You a wreck, wrapped around his massive cock. Your body is all marked by his hands.

He came, very deep inside you. He pulled himself out and gave you a deep passionate kiss. "You did so well." Now his voice was low. A smile from both of you grew bigger the more the kiss deepened.

"Can we go again?" your voice still filled with lust. "Maybe later, don't want the others to ask why you can't do drills tomorrow" he laughed a little.

He walked to your closet, grabbed the nearest towels and started to clean you and his mess that still dripped from between your thighs.

"Don't worry, I'm on the pill," you said panic settled in his eyes. "Wise choice." he soon finished cleaning, he even wiped the now dry dark tears from your face. He grabbed one of your water bottles and handed it to you, his hands covering you and him, who now lay on your bed. His arms around you, holding you close. You two passed the water to one another.

"Next time I won't be so kind."

"don't want you to be."

----

A/N: I had a lot of fun doing this one, took shorter than I expected. also tell me why as I was writing this and a old lady walked up behind me and legitimately said "she needs some piercings like yours." MA'AMMMM HOW TF DID YOU EVEN TELL I HAD SOME!!! so shoutout to someones nan , she deserves an award for the piercing part of this story.

<333 Thank you anon!

Tags: @lialacleaf

REQUEST ARE OPEN!!

[literallys-illiteracy]

Ok its time to talk about Vergillius

SPOILERS CANTO 7 PART 3, MENTIONS OF EVENTS IN BOTH DISTORTION DETECTIVE AND LEVIATHAN

Ok so this is somewhat split into two parts, the first is talking a little in medium length about Virgillius as a character and the newer things in part 3, as well as some prior things that are interesting enough to discuss, the second part is about rivers.

Ok so, Verg. Virg is an interesting character as he has prior story to Limbus Company, in Leviathan of course, relating to Charon/Lapis, with several things yet to be expanded on. Lapis is in all likelyhood his primary motivation for continuing this contract with Limbus Company, as he is likely to know at least somewhat of the true nature of Limbus Company, being an extension of the Udjat (as partially confirmed by Moses' appearance alongside Vespa, whom would have returned to N corp should Moses's mission of capturing distortions be finished, and the fact that distortions of the companies contracts are captured rather than resolved) (also there was a hint towards the relation that Outis has towards the Udjat as well in this canto, the first part, wherein Moses's gaze rests upon Outis for longer (War veteran lesbians) than the other sinners; This is interesting for the obvious link of Odysseus blinding a cyclops, in fact:

Outis for a moment:

Putting Virgil on the back-burner for a moment, lets theorise about Outis potentially; So there are two possibilites for the relation that Outis and Moses have, the first being that they had previously passed each other in the Smoke War in the past, the second is that they had known each other through some relation to the Udjat or Diaz. Odysseus's most famous act of blinding a cyclops, and fooling Polyphemus by claiming to be named "nobody" or, in greek, "Outis". Outis's current name may suggest multiple things, the most striking of which is related to Limbus Companies relation with the Udjat as mentioned prior; There is a possibility that Outis's blinding of the cyclops, often assumed to be the Udjat even prior to this canto due to their motif being a singular eye, may be yet to happen. The theory of Outis being a traitor is nothing new, i think everyone knows that she isnt fully trustworthy (especially with her mention of killing tens of thousand in the past during the Sancho fight), however i rarely see people discuss the reasoning behind the betrayal, being that similar to Moses's current position taken in reverse, regretting her time working in the Udjat (we're getting presumptuous now) and repenting for it by blinding the cyclops from the inside, from within Limbus Company — This concept is furthered through Outis's sinner symbol (vaguely) resembling that of a horses snout, alongside Odysseus's relation to the Trojan Horse, a plan to invade and take troy from the inside (however this changes the timeline somewhat with the other theoretical aspects?), ok thats enough about military wife.

-

In the beginning of Canto 7's dungeon, we see Don Quixote's past memories, including her recruitment within Limbus Company and HOLY SHIT VERGIL IS A BLOODFIEND?

ok so, he didn't have or at least show any blood powers prior to manifesting EGO, we arent sure if a bloodfiend can fully manifest EGO either however its not out of the question due to Don's La Sangre De Sancho, even before he was a colour he possessed the same red eyes, which if im remembering correctly were stated to be a combat implement. However, in the flashback, Veggie claims that he, or rather, his *eyes* hold a higher generation than Don, which would of course be fist generation. Due to many reasons, I don't actually believe that Vigil is a bloodfiend, notably his clarification of "eyes". If we return to the basement of canto 6, Virtue's passives include one named "Eyes of a Friend Who [][][][]", redacted in the same manner that Catherine's name commonly is — I think that because of his clear distinction of his eyes possessing the higher generation, the statement that is made of them being combat implements, and the implication that the eyes were not originally his, i think that its safe to assume that this friend who [][][][] is a bloodfiend elder (hell it might even be the primogenitor i dont know). working on the assumption that [][][][] means "died", or means that they were somehow erased post-death, then there are multiple possibilities ive seen posed: the first, and im noting this purely out of spite because i still think im correct over this person, is that "Vinyl was bluffing about being a bloodfiend to intimidate Don". Personally, and only some offence meant to the person who posited this, i think that this isn't really a theory worth considering, not only is it more convoluted to assume that the oposite of what we've been told is true in an involuntary flashback seeing Don's past, but at the same time what use would Viate have to lie in that moment? His reaction immediately after wouldn't make sense without the bloodfiendish nature in place either, as, at least in my reading of the scene, Don's complete lack of reaction or primal fear (such that appears in the other bloodfiends when facing the wrath of an elder, such as Casseti in WARP), was what Viral used to judge that all of her bloodfiendish instincts were supressed.

Ok moving on from spite.

The second ive seen posed is that Virgo "diablerised" (or ate - in order to gain the power of, to non VTM players) a bloodfiend elder friend in the past. Due to the [redacted] nature of the phrasing within the passive name, unless Vexing is Chainsaw Man, i doubt this to be the case, unless somehow said [Friend] merged with Vroom-vroom in the past, becoming the same entity.

Similar but somewhat different to the previous theory is that the eyes were gifted post mortem to Vindigo-elder, which fits with the concept of them being implements.

personally, im just not really sure about this in any way shape or form.

Ive also seen some theories as to who Viori's "friend" was, and the most likely one ive seen posed... actually the only one ive seen posed, is that of Longinus, the soldier who stabbed Jesus on the cross, due to Vargalia's EGO having the crown of thorns, due to Virgil(real life one so he doesn't get a name change)'s relation to Catholicism through the Commedia, through the Roman links, and through the connection to both blood and water, as:

"One of the soldiers pierced his side with a lance, and immediately there came out blood and water.

I personally dont have too much to add to that theory, however i would like to take my own shot in the dark, enough shots and you've covered every angle:

My proposed [Friend] is Aeneas, whom, after dying, was never found a corpse, and was thereafter worshiped as a god. Aeneas has links to Virgil (once again, the historical one) due to his poem of the Aeneid, which was the first poem to properly weave together the many disparate strands of legend into the singular myth that stories were based on sense. There is also the obvious link to be made with the "golden bough" being the name of a chapter within the 6th book of the Aeneid, but that wasnt what prompted this it just helps at bit.

ok rivers

Im not talking on this at length, as i am far from an expert on the Commedia, and also because Loony Toons exists and is probably more likely to note a link between it and the rivers of the underworld (i dont know, ive not checked whats to be said about Canto 7 since release yet), but i want to note the different mythological rivers that are linked to the river of oblivion, or "Lethe" as Outis calls it.

Lethe, meaning forgetfulness or oblivion, is a river in the underworld with many literary ties, such as Goethe's Faust (part 2), the Commedia, Paradise Lost, and, arguably, The Wonderful Land of Oz, all of which are literature referenced by Project Moon at various points.

The Lethe is mentioned twice in the Commedia, once in the inferno, canto 34, flowing down into Cocytus, the river of "Lament", which freezes to form the 9th and final layer of hell, treachery. In the second Cantica, Purgatorio, the Lethe is mentioned again, in canto 31 of purgatorio, as being placed upon the hill of purgatory, within this river Dante is then submerged to forget all memories of sin, so that his body may move forth into paradise. The water containing the sin then flows down to contain satan in Cocytus.

somewhat interesting to note, as the game has been confirmed to be getting a Purgatorio and Paradisio, it is possible that this will come back later. Foreshadowing is a literary device in whic-

Another thing, back on Loony Tunes, if we're assuming their current timeline to be correct in terms of canto 7 being within the Circle of Violence, which is an assertion that i will return to at a later date, then its important to note that another river of the underworld is belonging to this ring, being Pyriphlegethon or Phlegethon, meaning flaming, which in the inferno, canto 12, is a river of Boiling blood which in the sinners of the ring are submerged in, (specifically those within the first sphere of the ring, for violence against your neighbours) — the blood motif is obvious, alongside the violence against ones neighbors; If we were to assume that the entirety of Canto 7 takes place within this river, then the next would take place in the second sphere, Violence against your self, but once again, i will return to this concept when you are older, by a few hours at least.

[return-to-ravenbrooks]

Return to Ravenbrooks:

Biography

Entry 2

Name: Delroy [REDACTED]

Date of Birth: 1996

Gender: M

Current Address: 910 Friendly Court

Height: 5'7

Hair color: Black

Eye color: Dark brown

Key features: Wick Pompador, shaved eyebrow

Role: Bagger

Abilities: strength, endurance, charisma

Occupation: Stock boy

Status: Fair

Biography:

I wasn't close with Aaron.

It wasn't like I hated him or anything- at least, not unlike the way everyone seemed to after the accident. We just weren't the kind of people who jived well. He was quiet to himself and his goals, and I was to mine.

And like most of the town, I didn't care too much when he disappeared. We were all fed the same lie through town gossip. Aaron and his sister Mya were shipped upwards in the country. Minnesota I think. But I remember one thing, one person who made it loudly known that he didn't believe it.

"I- you guys don't understand! He left me a note and- there was blood on it! Mr. Peterson he-" his eyes were red, like he'd been crying recently, but his voice was livid. Scared, but livid.

I'd winced at his yelling. It was kind of a shame, really. Even for a new kid, he wasn't the largest social outcast I'd seen in town. And supposedly he could even snap back a decent insult occasionally. But with this- outburst. Standing on the outdoor picnic tables, yelling like a lunatic? All that was washed down the storm drains, just like everything else that got stranded in the streets of Ravenbrooks.

And now here I was, sitting in a cheap folding lawn chair in the middle of Trinity's dining room. It wasn't ideal, sure. But I didn't mind. We alternated which of us sat in it with every meeting.

Did it even matter that her dining room only had six chairs though, if she couldn't even manage to sit down? Her pacing was vigorous and thoughtful.

"...So?" I leaned back in the lawn chair, listening as it creaked softly. "People move in and out of town all the time, who cares?"

Almost immediately I could feel glares on me. Most obviously from Trinity, slightly from Enzo and Mari, and while his was the least obvious, I felt the most silent hatred for my question from Nick. No, not the question, the implication.

Trinity paused her steps finally and sighed "I dunno I just... I thought- I mean after they checked the basement and- I thought-"

"He was...gone gone." Enzo finished for her. Finishing sentences had become commonplace since the Inventor's Club became the Ravenbrooks Investigation Club. The things we'd seen together, heard. You understood what someone else wanted to say, but were too stunned or maybe even polite to let the words out.

"Well, not to burst your collective bubbles, but he's here." Finch yawned. I don't blame her, it was too early for this meeting. Too early to be looking at the photos Trinity took at most half an hour earlier. But an emergency meet-up was an emergency for a reason.

She set her hand on the table, not a slam or anything, more-so shifting her weight. "What should we do?"

"What do you mean? I mean... He's just building a house, right?" Ivan asked quietly.

"Over Peterson's house!" Nicky, resting both his arms on the table, straight, to balance his weight as the chair he sat in scooted back across the dining room floor, all in a voice too loud for this time of day. Finch leaned away slightly and he sank back into his chair sheepishly.

"Probably cheaper land-" Ivan excused. "Or- I dunno, maybe he's sentimental of the land. Either way, it's not like we can do anything, really." I nodded, leaning forward again to rest my elbows on the table.

"Yeah, what, we gonna sneak around his half-built house for 'clues'?" I laughed.

[eddiediazismyhusband]

Okay dude, not cool. I don't appreciate being called a problem when I'm trying my best to make this work for everybody. But my point is that some people will always complain. If you are happy with the tagging, I guarantee there will be somebody else who is pissed at the same tags. And why? Because it's a grey area, especially in those fics where the love interest shifts from Tommy to Eddie.

Who is to tell at which point you should tag which ship? In your scenario it's pretty obvious I won't argue that. But that isn't always the case. So you as writer got to make a decision. Tag it Buddie and the BT stans will flip. Tag it Bucktommy and the Buddie stans get mad. There's no winning. Tag both? That might work if it's a clear 50-50 between the pairings.

And that's not even taking my intentions as the writer into consideration. I have a clear vision in my head while writing, but to get there we might need some Bucktommy. Is it enough to warrant it's own tag? It's a grey area! Hence the exhaustion.

It isn’t a grey area, anon… it quite literally is tagging the fics as they are. If BT is central to the story then tag it as such— if people don’t wanna read BT then they don’t have to read it if it’s tagged. It’s not cool to mistag fics when people already have a plethora of tags filtered out and shouldn’t still be getting shit showing up.

you just agreed that in my scenario that it was obvious- so why are you still whining in my inbox? sending me anonymous messages trying to tell me what is and isn’t “exhausting” as a fic writer when i literally am one— im literally currently writing a buddie fic rn that’s centered around marisol keeping them apart… and yknow what? its gonna be tagged as an eddiesol fic bc they are together for like half the story! and yknow what else? its gonna be tagged clearly that eddiesol isn’t endgame! so that way, if people don’t wanna read it bc they either wanna read eddiesol or bc they wanna read buddie then they can filter out the tags respectively or they can scroll past it! but what im not going to do is tag it as “minor eddiesol” and then spend over half the fic w them together because that’s not accurate tagging.

If a fic is tagged “bt”, then as a buddie stan im not gonna read it— most buddie stans ive seen getting upset about fics in this situation are mad bc of the absence of a bt tag when there should be one. That’s the crux of this issue. No one is upset about the bt tag being there in a buddie fic if bt is a central part of the story (like i literally said in my response to your previous message), we’re upset about the absence of tags/or using tags that don’t accurately describe the fic at hand.

i have never seen a “grey area” of people getting upset about something being tagged when it’s correct— everyone i’ve seen are upset over the fact that there are fics tagged as buddie, and not bt when they are clearly bt fics and vice versa.

you say that if you’re writing a buddie fic and it needs bt to get there does it warrant a tag? yes it does bc that ship is part of the story! and unless it actually plays a minor role, then don’t tag it as “minor.”

This “grey area” you’re talking about doesn’t exist in the way you are trying to paint it out. People don’t wanna click on a fic that has content that isn’t tagged, that’s not fair to the reader.

as far as my response being “not cool” for pointing something out the way i see it… you opened yourself up to be responded to the moment you sent me an anonymous message trying to make excuses for not tagging fics correctly.

please block me if you’re going to keep pushing this argument; i am not going to keep responding to you.

and if you need further proof of people disagreeing with your argument, might i suggest looking at these responses to my posts on the matter: people on both sides of the “ship war” agreeing with my point (names and pfp’s have been redacted for privacy reasons)

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

[Text: Tell me, what do you think of people actually liking the character development in season 4-5 and the show's treatment of mental health? [Redacted] thinks that and she's the mother of a teenager]

Re liking the show: I generally assume that they have poor taste and/or media literacy.

Re the mental health rep: I generally assume that they're incredibly privileged and/or ignorant.

I'm posting this as an image and not an ask response specifically because I will not participate in fandom drama or shaming. This blog exists specifically so that people can actively choose to engage in my content and so that I can post critical thoughts without dragging their source into some petty fight. So I'm not going to talk about the named individual. Instead, I'll replace them with the show's head writer and talk about him in a similar context.*

He's pretty famously denied that Chloe suffered any abuse, ignoring her obvious neglect, which came from both parents, just in different forms. When you pair that with how the show handles people like Gabe and Jagged Stone, we see a clear pattern of the show ignoring the devastating effects that abandonment and neglect can have on a person, especially if they're a child.

Now you could look at that and say, "The head writer condones abuse! He's a monster!" But I prefer to go the more likely route and assume that he's a privileged middle-class cis white man who has never had to deal with those issues or support someone who has, so he has no idea how to handle them properly or that they even need to be properly handled. There's every chance that he's a loving, kind man and a fantastic father who just happens to not be very good at writing a complex topic that he clearly has no understanding of or desire to learn about. I apply similar logic to fans who share his opinions. Never attribute to malice what can be explained by incompetence or ignorance.

And all of the above is assuming that we're talking about someone who thinks that the show is objectively good or that the mental health rep is good, which are big assumptions. It's fully possible to enjoy a piece of media that you know is objectively bad or even "problematic" in some way.

Personal confession time: is Loonatics Unleashed an objectively terrible show that you should never, ever watch? Absolutely. 100%. Are Rev Runner and Tech E. Coyote two of my favorite characters who will live rent free in my head until the day I die? Yep! I pulled up a YouTube highlight real as I was writing this and those dorks still make me smile even though the show is terrible on multiple levels and I know that I'm not alone in that sentiment. Those two clicked with a lot of people for some reason.

A piece of fiction need not be good for you to love it and you don't need to justify your love for a piece of fiction if you're not claiming that it's good. Similarly, people hating that piece of fiction or pointing out flaws in it is not a reflection on you in any way shape or form. You can even agree with their criticism and still love the piece of fiction. This approach to media - loving a thing in spite of its flaws - is normal and healthy and I'd really love to see it make a comeback in younger fandoms.

Like, I cannot emphasize this enough, most fandoms consider it perfectly normal to have lots of fans who are critical of the source or who have even lost interest in the source for one reason or another, but they still like some element of the source enough to want to create/consume fan content for it. These more critical fans arguably make some of the best fan content because looking at canon and saying "That's nice, let me show you how I'd do it" often leads to some of the most complex stories that you'll see in fandom spaces. Stories that can often blow canon out of the water for TV shows and movies since fanfic isn't limited by budgets or studio policies or marketability concerns. Fans who think that the source is perfect tend to just write fluff or romcom type fics, which is not a dig! I love bother of those genres! But woman does not live on fluff alone.

Obviously there's some complexity here because who decides if a show is bad? Saying "it's okay that you like a terrible thing" can certainly sound like an insult and prompt a feeling of needing to defend the thing, which is why I don't fight with fans who like the show. There's really no need to convince them that the thing they like is bad. Do I think it is? Yes. Does it matter if they disagree? No, not really. At worst, they create stories with similar issues and, well, they're not the only ones and fighting with them isn't going to stop them. You're much better off focusing on creating your own good media and trying to get that popular. Heck, even if you made the head writer see all of Miracuous' flaws, it wouldn't change anything. The show is already made.

So, yeah, I don't really assume anything bad about people who think that miraculous is good. I know lots of wonderful people who have terrible taste in media and I'm still friends with them. I just don't take recommendations from them.

It's important to remember that, when you're online in a fandom space, a person is condensed down to a very tiny snapshot of who they are and judging a person solely off of their thoughts regarding a poorly written kids show is a dangerous path to tread. Like, looking at this blog, you might assume that I spend all of my time thinking about miraculous and obsessing over its flaws, which is very much not the case. I actually have this blog specifically so that I don't obsess over miraculous' flaws because I've found that, when something is bothering me, writing it down or talking to someone about it is the best way to stop thinking about it. Even then, most of my posts are reblogs of stuff I come across while browsing my tumblr feed, which is not solely miraculous content. I mostly interact with the show by creating non-salty fanfic that I honestly enjoy writing and find to be a relaxing, positive outlet.

It's human nature to judge and it's totally normal to think that a person's an idiot because of something they post online, but be careful to not lean into those thoughts too hard. At the end of the day, Miraculous is just a stupid kids show that will fade from the popular consciousness a few years after it stops airing. If it and/or the fandom are negatively affecting your mental health, then it's okay to step away for a while or use the block button. It really is your best friend. I enjoy being critical about Miraculous specifically because it's not that important. While I do think that kids deserve better media, I don't think Miraculous is some terrible evil harming the youth. I'm not horrified when a kid watches it, it's just not a show that I'd encourage them to watch and, if the kids was close to me, we'd spend a lot of time talking about the bad things that the show showcases from time to time. There are lots of episodes that are fine and I can think of way worse kids shows. Shows that tell their horrifying morals really well, making a kid far more likely to pick up on them and internalize them.

*Note that I only feel comfortable talking about the head writer like this because he's a public figure with an active social media presence AND because I'm not @ing him. If he was a private person or if he was not a professional creator, then I would not talk about him like this and even in that context I try to avoid it whenever I can. You can think that he's a terrible writer, but he's still a human being and, as far as I'm aware, nothing he's done deserves people harassing him.

I absolutely understand how devastating it can be to see a story you love get ruined by the creative team. The first time that happened to me, the life lesson I came away with was, "I will no longer put my happiness in the hands of another creator. I will enjoy stories, but I will temper my expectations and remember that they're just another human being and it's completely possible that their vision for this seemingly awesome story may end up being terrible."

[curator-on-ao3]

Hi! How's you? Lord's Grace, I'm fine.

Just wanted to ask, what are the standout moments from both the seasons about, for, in, about Pike and Una? Ones that you remember or half-remember but they feel like they're the defining moments about them, or reveal something about them or just moments where they're together and we simply enjoy them, moments you'd love to write more fics about.

:') Lord Bless! Have a lovely more lovely even more lovely day

I’m glad you’re doing well. ❤️ Thank you for asking — this was fun to consider!

I understand the boundaries of your question, but I’m gonna color outside the lines a little bit to say that it starts for me in The Cage when Pike is so considerate of Number One’s feelings that he apologizes for the reasonable choice not to put her on the landing party. Then, on Talos IV, they work together so cleanly, handling the same equipment and picking up on each other’s ideas and plans. Yes, the episode kicks off the ship in the obvious way of revealing that Number One fantasizes about Pike. Yet the episode also makes clear why — a closeness and camaraderie that’s evident from the start. (And at the end. Colt asking who would have been Eve and Number One shutting Colt down, then Boyce pressing the question and Pike shutting Boyce down. Meanwhile there’s me ignoring the Lilith story to shout: “Her name is literally ‘Number One,’ y’all. Who else would be Eve?”)

Then we get to Discovery and she appears before him in a shimmer of transporter beam and the camaraderie, the understanding, the care for each other — it’s all still there. He teases her about her food and drink order. She teases him right back. She knows his orders before he gives them. He trusts her completely. It’s so lovely and comfortable and real-feeling.

There’s more in the Short Treks (Number One freaking out when Spock notes her “most careful study of the captain,” etc.), but let’s get to the heart of your question.

Strange New Worlds took the care, the camaraderie, the understanding, and deepened all that even more, made it so Chris has never served on a non-redacted ship without her, made it so they’ve known each other most of their lives, made it so we see them talk about life and duty and journeys whether in his quarters or the ready room, it doesn’t matter because the comfort they have with each other transcends location. Both times she even mentions resigning, he says absolutely not. Twice, he holds her service record in his hands and rushes off to do what he can to save her from a dangerous situation. And, as we all know, Mr. “He Views Resorting to Force as an Admission of Failure” (per Number One in Q&A) gets violent when Starfleet arrests her and is about take her away from him.

So, in terms of truly answering your question (finally), I love how, in the premiere, the second Chris walks in to rescue Una from Kiley 279 that she starts teasing him, he instantly teases back, and she knew damn well that he would come and rescue her even though he wasn’t technically on duty. I also love little things like how when he’s helping her get around despite her injured leg that there’s no self-consciousness in touching (even in underboob territory) because they’ve served together in close proximity for ages so why would they be self-conscious?

Which takes us to Children of the Comet and more talking and domesticity (yes, I can fully believe that dishwashers are a lost technology since that means I can watch them do dishes together) and sharing hard truths in his quarters. There are layers at the dinner party, stories and him teasing her in front of other people for everyone to be able to laugh together … and her deep care for his feelings when he’s not laughing at all.

Clearly, I could keep going for season one:

Ghosts of Illyria when he subtly checks in on her feelings at the beginning, then she’s so worried about him on the surface, and finally his stalwart support for her in the ready room.

Memento Mori when he asks how she’s doing — and the way he asks in the midst of a crisis with softness in his voice.

Serene Squall with the casual intimacy of her helping him put on his gear, then their history together and understanding via the Alpha Braga IV reminisce.

Quality of Mercy when she chases after him even though he put her in charge of the meeting, then his reaction to her being missing in the future, him trying to figure out what happened to her, him standing by the command chair when he finally sees her again, and, of course, as mentioned before, his reaction to her being taken away.

And I could keep going for season two:

Ad Astra Per Aspera, like, all of it but especially when he speaks of the loss it would be to him if she left, the fact that he’s an adult who suffered from asthma as a child yet he risks asphyxiation to help her, the picture of them both that she keeps in her quarters, everything about The Hug™️, and so much more.

Charades with the There Was Only One Couch scene and, earlier, the “🎶 first contact get down, get down, first contact get down” look on the bridge.

Those Old Scientists having them both like the communicator better than a commbadge — and getting how Pike and Una visually check in which each other so much than even their cartoons do it.

Subspace Rhapsody letting them kiss (I always say I will send a bouquet of flowers to the editor who put that in the show).

Under the Cloak of War showing him listening to her and trusting her where her talents exceed his.

I’m leaving things out that I’ll remember as soon as I hit post.

There are vibes and glances. There is body language. (🎶 There were moments of gold/ And there were flashes of light/ There were things I'd never do again/ But then they'd always seemed right.) There’s a certain groundedness that lets me believe these two truly know each other.

And, for all of that, I am grateful.

Fun fact: This is my first post in which I hit the image limit and couldn’t add more. Even after I combined some. Whoo-hoo! Also, I apologize for not sourcing the gifs. I had them saved and Tumblr gif search is a nightmare.

Edit: I remembered one of the many things I’m sure I’m leaving out: their conversation in The Broken Circle. The mutual concern, the lived-in feeling of their talk, the vibe that this was far from their first conversation since everything went down. I loved it all.

[cheapsweets]

An Accumulation of Additional Sea Creatures

My entry in this week’s (FINALfinal!) Maniculum bestiaryposting challenge from @maniculum

Pencil sketch, then lines in TWSBI Eco fountain pen, extra fine nib, using Monteverde Raven Noir ink.

Not had a lot of time this week, but I was determined to see it through, particularly for a batch of critters as fun as these. Also, finally justice for fishes (and other assorted squishy and not-so-squishy sea critters)! "What human affection can equal the sense of duty that we find in fish?" 🤔🐟

Though process below the cut;

Ahrmegyaeb

Other fish produce living offspring from their bodies, like the great whales, dolphins, Ahrmegyaebs and others of this sort; when they have produced their young and have, perhaps, a premonition that these are ever threatened by some kind of trap or in danger, in order to protect them or to calm with a mother’s love the fear of those of tender years, they are said to open their mouths and hold their young, without harming them, in their teeth, and also to take them back into their body, concealed in their womb. What human affection can equal the sense of duty that we find in fish?

A face only a mother baby could love; while there are a lot of mouth brooding fish, I took more inspiration from crocodiles, so we have some babies (had to get the baby animals in!) peeking out from between the pointy teeth of a parent.

Bursgaenga

The Bursgaenga is so called because, they claim, it alone ruminates its food; other fish do not. They say it is a clever fish. For, caught in a pot, it does not try to break out with its forehead or try to stick its head through the wicker sides, but with rapid blows of its tail loosens the rear entrance of the pot and thus swims out through the back. If by chance another Bursgaenga sees it struggling, it seizes the captive’s tail between its teeth and helps it to break out.

Fairly obvious in terms of the behaviour, I gave the bursgaenga a bit of a cow-like face, and a tail slightly influenced by a thresher shark for whacking pots (and being good to grab on to).

Chraekhret

The Chraekhret is a very small fish, six inches long, which gets its name from the fact that it holds a ship fast by sticking to it; although the winds roar and the storms rage, the ship stays still, rooted, it seems, in the sea, immobile. The fish does this, not by holding the ship back, but simply by sticking on to it.

I suspect I know what this creature is, and I struggled a bit to think of a way to represent it sticking to the hull of the ship without it resembling my suspected fish... In hindsight, I could also have referenced lumpfish (very beautiful, very powerful) where the pelvic fins are modified into suction cups...

Dhrakyetor

Dhrakyetors, [redacted], get their name from their similarity to serpents, [redacted]. They are born from mud; for this reason, if you catch an Dhrakyetor, it is so smooth that the harder you grip it, the quicker it slithers away. They say that in the River Ganges, in the east, there are Dhrakyetors thirty feet long. If dead Dhrakyetors are soaked in wine, anyone drinking the liquor develops a loathing of wine. [I know we just had that same wine factoid in the previous sea creatures entry – either it works with multiple fish, or there’s a scribal error.]

Long boi fishy sliding around in mud. To be honest, there are a lot of animals that I suspect would make wine taste foul if you soaked them in it... 🤔🐠🍷

Eavbechtgi

The Eavbechtgi, [redacted], is called by the Greeks [redacted], because it twists itself into circles. Eavbechtgis, it is said, are of the female sex only and conceive from intercourse with snakes; as a result, fishermen catch it by calling it with a snake’s hiss. It is difficult to kill a Eavbechtgi with a single blow from a cudgel; you need to beat it repeatedly with a stick. It is a fact that the life-spirit of the Eavbechtgi is its tail, for when it is beaten on the head, it is difficult to kill; but when it is beaten on the tail, it dies at once.

Ignoring previous prompts for a moment,I figured this would have to be fairly long and flexible in order to twist itself into circles. Regarding its life spirit being in the tail, I interpreted this as it having a very long snout, but a short body.

Fatrihrukh

The name of the Fatrihrukh means ‘many-footed’, because it has a large number of coiling legs. It is a clever fish; it makes for the fisherman’s baited hook, catches hold of it by entwining it in its limbs, and does not let go until it has nibbled round the bait.

Although some fish do have 'legs', they don't tend to have many, so I figured in this case we are including assorted creatures that live in the sea as 'fish'. As such, it could be a many-legged polychaete worm like a ragworm. I wonder if the coiling legs act like propellors when it swims so I figu, legs + fish? Probably not taking tihs literally, polychaete worm like ragworm. wonder if the coiling legs act like propellers when it swims?

Griggkhraz

The Griggkhraz is so called because it numbs the body of anyone who touches it when it is alive. According to Pliny the second, if a Griggkhraz from the Indian sea is touched by a spear or rod, even from a considerable distance, the muscles of the fisherman’s arms, even if they are very strong, grow numb, and his feet, however fast they run, cannot move. So great is the power of the Griggkhraz, that even its breath has this effect on the limbs of the body.

Conversely, we're assuming here that any sea creature we don't get a description that indicates otherwise is an actual fish, in this case, one covered in toxic slime and radiating this into the surrounding water.

Hretchngin

The Hretchngin also plans a series of tricks to acquire food. For it has a taste for oysters and sets out to feast on their flesh. But because seeking food means looking out for danger, the more difficult the chase, the greater the danger. The Hretchngin’s quest is difficult because the food is enclosed within two very strong shells, for nature, acting in accordance with the will of the Creator, has furnished the softness of the flesh with walls, so to speak, nourishing and warming it within the shells in a bosom-like cleft, and the oyster spreads its flesh out as if in a valley. As a result, all the efforts of the Hretchngin come to nothing, because it has not the strength to open the closed oyster. The Hretchngin’s quest becomes dangerous if the oyster shuts its shell on one of the the Hretchngin’s claws. The Hretchngin resorts to strategy and works on the idea of setting a trap, using a new kind of trick. Because all kinds of animals yield to pleasure, the Hretchngin watches out for the time when the oyster, safely out of the wind and lying in the rays of the sun, opens its double-shelled prison in order to satisfy its inner longing for some fresh air. Then the Hretchngin, stealthily inserting a pebble, stops the oyster from closing its shell and, finding what was shut now open, it inserts its claws in safety and feeds on the flesh inside. [These guys come back around later, wherein the author repeats himself a bit, summarizing the above in a couple sentences and then adding the portion below.] They say that if ten Hretchngins are bound together with a handful of basil, all the scorpions in the neighbourhood assemble at that point. There are two kinds of Hretchngin, river and sea.

The noble Hretchngin, on its brave quest to, erm, eat all the oysters?

Ooh, this is a fun one (even if I got confused and drew mussells rather than oysters). Claws indicates a crustacean, so we have the claws and influenced by knightly helmets, with antennae atop its head like a plume.

Khaboghrad

The Khaboghrad is small, worthless and contemptible – I am talking about the maritime kind – and is customarily taken by seafarers as a sign of a storm ahead or as a herald of calm weather. When it senses that a stormy blast is on the way, it seizes a good-sized pebble and carries it as a kind of ballast, and drags it like an anchor lest it is thrown up by the swell. Thus it saves itself not by its own strength but by using weight from another source to steer a stable course. Sailors seize on this behaviour as a sign of bad weather to come and take precautions lest an unexpected hurricane should catch them unprepared. What mathematician, what astrologer, what Chaldean can make sense in this way of the course of the stars, or of the motions and signs of the heavens. By what instinct has the Khaboghrad acquired this skill? From what teacher has it learned this art? Who interpreted such omens for it? [The author continues in that vein for about a page.]

A small, worthless and contemptible fish... I may have taken a little pop-culture influence from this one 😉

Lungyoggea

The Lungyoggea and Lungyoggita are so called because they are hollow, that is to say, they empty themselves, at the waning of the moon. For the limbs of all the enclosed sea-creatures and shellfish grow at the waxing of the moon and empty when the moon is waning. For when the moon waxes, it increases a humour; when it wanes, it diminishes them. This is what physicians say. Lungyoggea is the name for those in the first state, that is, growing; but Lungyoggita are what they are called after they have shrunk - Lungyoggita, little Lungyoggea, so to speak.

So, a creature with limbs (or, at least one), that is hollow, and that grows or shrinks depending on the phase of the moon. Might be a bit of a stretch here, but I interpreted this prompt as a brachipod, (not a mollusc, an entirely different phylum, visually similar to bivalves but with a stalk-like pedicle that anchors them to substrate). I interpreted the pedicle as the 'limb', extending during a waxing moon and filter-feeding, and shrinking during a waning moon (and clamping its shell closed for protection).

Magtlegyeg

There are many species of shellfish, among them the pearl-bearing Magtlegyegs called [redacted], in whose flesh a precious stone is formed. The authors of the book of the natures of living things relate that at night these creatures go ashore and are fertilised by the dew from heaven, for which reason they are called [redacted].

So, this creature can create pearls, which means it has to be a mollusc (the only other animals I know that could produce pearls are the extinct Conulariids). We also know its mobile and can crawl out of the water, which means it probably has to be a gastropod, in this case I've taken it to be a large conch.

Nolthrigyo

The Nolthrigyo is a sea snail, so called from its sharp point and rough surface; it is known by another name, [redacted], because when you cut around it with an iron blade, it produces tears which are purple in colour, from which purple dye is made; from this comes the other name for purple, [redacted], because the dye is made from the fluid enclosed in the shell.

A different kind of snail here, the shell was fun to draw.

Ormlalaehr

The Ormlalaehr, [redacted], is so called because it is covered by the vault of its shell, in the manner of an arched roof. There are four species: land, sea, mud – that is, living in swamps or marshland; the fourth species belongs to rivers and lives in fresh water. Some relate the incredible fact that ships sail more slowly when they carry the right foot of a Ormlalaehr.

I went back and forth a bit about what kind of shellfish would work best with the arched shell, but settled on a cephalopod because I hadn't drawn one yet, because there is a mention of it having multiple feet (molluscs normally just have the one, but in this case we can interperet the two longer tentacles as separate 'feet'), and they're awesome! With the siphon located where it is it probably mostly moves backwards...

Riggmungku

Riggmungkus, [redacted], get their name from their constant chatter, because they make a croaking noise all around the marshes where they breed, calling out in an uncouth manner with their peculiar sound. Of these, some are called water Riggmungkus, others marsh; some are called Riggmungku-2, [redacted], because they live in brambles, [redacted]; they are larger than the others. Others are called Riggmungku-3, since they live among reeds, [redacted], and bushes; they are the smallest of all, they are green, they are dumb, and they have no croak. Riggmungku-4s are very small Riggmungkus living on dry ground or in fields, [redacted], from which they get their name. [I didn’t think the one-sentence ones rated their own spot, so they get numbers.]

It's a fish that sometimes lives out of the water, so heavy mudskipper influence here. Also, I don't know about you but the only type of animal I can think of that croaks are crows or ravens, so I gave it a crow-like beak to reflect that!