#porcelain tiles price

[tiledealsshop]

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[floornigeria90]

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[floornigeria321]

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[peachetteprice]

CW: Mentions of alcohol abuse...

John Price as: the financially and psychologically burdened writer with an undiagnosed dependence on alcohol (namely, whiskey).

Most of John's hours are spent hunched over his bureau, a glass of Dumbarton on the shelf before him, fountain pen in hand, the bridge of his spectacles nudging the tip of his nose, face hollowed by the shadow of a candle. He toils over the lines of a sheet of paper - prose too unkempt like a wild garden, prose overly clean-cut like a porcelain tile - nothing sticks; nothing speaks to him; no single word is forged into the tangible with his hammer, his pen, and it is the worst agony - he is nothing of the professional he should be.

John plasters the gaps with every sip of scotch. His handwriting fogs, his spectacles are soon rubbed off with a drunken hand, and with every passing second that he stares adoringly at his canvas, his mood sullies; his hand reaches into his desk to retrieve a box of letters sent to him by an abandoned lover - your letters. The prose is delicate. It soaks into the fibres of the paper like a bloom of watercolour from the tip of a paintbrush. Your syntax is a medium, binding with the oils of the colour of your soul, and the melancholy he feels at not being able to walk alongside it, your stream of consciousness, the thoughts you carve into the branch of a tree, the image of your phrasing as stepping stones along that same stream, it pains him, gravely, and he can all but resort to taking another sip, for it takes him a step closer to washing away the grief of those lost nights with you.

| Masterlist |

[zanazirafanfic]

@agoldengalaxy, I wrote a second fic for your prompt yesterday too (surprise!) My brain went off on a more comedic modern-Charthur tangent while I was halfway through the first one, so I ran with it.

Two fics for the price of one! 😁

(I couldn't send two answers to one ask, but the prompt was "🩸patching up a wound with charthur!")

~RDR~

"Charlie, I really think we should go to the hospital and get you checked out."

"No. It's just a little goose-egg, nothing serious."

Arthur frowned, dabbing gently at the gash just above his hairline with a cotton ball dipped in antiseptic. "If you could see the amount of blood in your hair right now, you might disagree."

Charles grimaced. Wonderful. And he had just washed it, too. Or, rather, he'd let Arthur wash it, the man carefully lathering every strand in Charles's favorite tea tree shampoo while the two of them worked themselves into a lather in other, more entertaining ways.

Shower sex wasn't something either of them had a lot of experience with, but they still indulged in it from time to time. And seeing as they'd had a little extra free time this evening, and the combination tub-shower in their new apartment had yet to be properly broken in... well. One thing very predictably led to another.

Everything had been going fine - fantastic, even, in Charles's opinion - until he lifted his foot up onto the soap holder embedded into the wall to try and give Arthur a better angle to work with. Whoever had designed this bathroom evidently never planned for the soap dish having to support the weight of a man his size, because the porcelain lasted all of about three seconds before snapping clean off, sending Charles toppling face-first over the edge of the tub with Arthur - and the shower curtain - close behind. The landing hadn't been gentle.

"Head wounds bleed a lot, you know that."

"Yeah, especially when you nearly brain yourself on a tile floor."

"Arthur," he huffed, glaring up at his husband through the wavy curtain of his still-damp raven locks. "I'm fine. I'm not seeing spots, I'm not dizzy, and I'm not vomiting. It's a cut, not a concussion."

"At least let me call Abigail."

"Hell no, that's even worse!" Charles cried, his voice rising an octave and a half in horror. "If I don't want to tell an ER full of strangers how this happened, what makes you think I want to explain it to your brother's wife?!"

"She's a nurse."

"An obstetric nurse."

"Yeah, and how the hell you think all those kids get made, if not for people doin' exactly what we were doin'? She ain't gonna care, Charles, she sees worse every day."

"Jesus Christ..." Charles pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ignore the hot flush rising higher in his cheeks by the second. "Fine. Call Abigail, if it'll make you feel better. Just... keep the details to a minimum, please?"

Arthur snorted, rolling his eyes. "Nah, I figured I'd regale her with every detail of our sex life just for the hell of it."

Charles didn't bother to dignify that with a response. While Arthur dialed their sister-in-law's number, he went into the bathroom and ducked his head under the faucet, drowning out whatever mortifying things they were undoubtedly discussing in favor of rinsing the worst of the blood from his hair. He wrung it out and patted it dry, then combed and wove it into a loose braid, careful not to pull too hard and risk reopening the gash. After tying it off with his favorite powder-blue satin ribbon, he made his way back to the living room sofa and settled himself on the far end, legs tucked neatly beneath him and phone in hand.

He was still scrolling idly when Arthur walked back in, looking sheepish. "She didn't laugh, for what it's worth. Said you're probably fine, since you ain't dizzy or nauseous, but to bring you in if you get a bad headache or your pupils look weird. Otherwise she said you should just rest and keep the wound clean."

"So, exactly what I already told you," Charles huffed, not looking up from his phone.

"Yeah, I know, I'm sorry," Arthur sighed, looping his arms around Charles's neck and pressing a scratchy kiss to his temple. "I was worried, alright? You know how bad I'd feel if you'd really gotten hurt just 'cause I wanted to get my rocks off in the shower?"

"First of all, yes, I understand you were worried. If the situation were reversed, I'd be worried too. But you've got to trust me when I tell you I'm alright. When have I ever not been completely honest with you about that?"

"... Never," Arthur admitted quietly.

"Right. So what makes you think I'd choose tonight to change that? And secondly, don't give yourself so much credit. You weren't the only one enjoying himself in there, cowboy. Considering the circumstances, death by shower wouldn't have been a terrible way to go."

"Not funny."

"I'm the one who almost cracked his skull open, I get to decide if it's funny or not," Charles chuckled, opening more tabs on his phone's web browser. "Now come on, stop stewing and help me narrow these down."

"Narrow what down?" Arthur asked, climbing over the back of the couch and plopping himself down next to Charles with a quiet grunt. "Gettin' another of those fancy collars for Taima?"

"No." He angled the screen to show Arthur the items in his cart. "Next weekend I'm putting in a reinforced soap dish."

[msilwrites]

John Price's Home

✨ John Price’s Home - My Sims 4 Take 🎮

Hi, everyone! 👋 Remember how I mentioned in the A/N of my last chapter that the house described was inspired by @eleu22's moodboard for John Price’s home? Well, I loved it so much that I had to try my hand at bringing it to life—in The Sims 4! 😂

For those who might not remember, the A/N was from Chapter 11 of my Papa Bear Material story. It’s the chapter where John brings you to his home for the first time to spend the weekend together as a couple. That chapter was such a special turning point in their relationship, and I wanted to make sure the house really captured the warmth, cosiness, and charm of John’s character.

Whilst reading this, I want you to imagine John Price taking you here 😈—his home, his space, his rules. Just picture it: the cozy fireplace crackling, the scent of whisky lingering in the air, and that intense look he gives when it’s just the two of you. Go on, let your mind wander to the things he’d do… because trust me, he’s thought about it too.

This is my interpretation of what Captain Price’s home might look like, from the cozy interior to the overall vibe. I was inspired by @eleu22's vision��their moodboard really hit the spot! While I agreed with much of their design, I also put my own spin on it, tweaking it to suit how I imagine the Captain’s space.(So it’s more “inspired by” than a full recreation!)

Here’s a breakdown of what you’ll see:

📍 Structure - So, let’s start with the foundation of the place. The floors are a mix of old vintage tiles and polished hardwood—well-maintained and perfectly worn in with years of use, especially after John renovated the place. The walls? They’re made of rustic stone and sturdy brick, well-structured and kept in excellent condition. Captain Price inherited the house from his grandparents, and during his renovations, he made sure to preserve its warmth and charm while adding his own personal touch. You can almost feel the history and legacy of his family in every corner, a tribute to the generations that have lived here.

📍 Living Room - Warm, inviting, and just the right amount of rugged charm—because you know Price would keep it comfortable but not overly fancy. He has a cast iron fireplace installed underneath the original one, something he added during renovations for practicality and efficiency. The room is filled with old furniture, lots of books, and pictures of his late family, reflecting a deep sense of nostalgia. Price inherited his cottage from his grandparents, who originally owned the place. He lives somewhere around Kingston or Richmond—not too far from Central London but close enough to enjoy the woodland charm of the outskirts.

There’s also a door in the living room that leads directly to the garden outdoor area, adding a touch of tranquillity to the cosy space.

On the other end of the room, you’ll find a collection of vinyl records, a player, and an amplifier. I can absolutely see Captain Price brooding on the couch over his plans with a whisky or bourbon in hand, maybe even smoking one of his nice cigars, as he listens to Annie Lennox’s “Money Can’t Buy It” or something from Tears for Fears, The Police, Sting, Duran Duran, John Waite, or Spandau Ballet classics. And when he’s feeling especially emo or introspective, maybe even some modern ones like Adele or Hozier.

Duran Duran’s “Come Undone” or “Ordinary World,” and Sting’s “Fields of Gold” or “Shape of My Heart” would absolutely be on his playlist when he’s in one of those pensive moods. (And yes, Adele and Hozier have vinyls of their albums, and oh boy, they sound so good!) ��

📍 Kitchen - Functional and homey, with a touch of practicality that screams "This man cooks bacon in a cast-iron skillet." It’s a rustic space filled with lots of old items, including his grandparents' porcelain plates, some newer ones, and a vintage stove. There’s even a little porcelain chicken figurine that’s been there for ages—he finds it cute, so it’s staying. At the centre is a wooden counter island, usually covered in food, seasonings, garnishes, and maybe a bottle of whisky or two. This man makes a proper snack.

📍 Dining Room - The dining room exudes rustic charm, with another iron cast fireplace that doubles as an oven, perfect for cooking and grilling. Above the fireplace, a collection of herbs hangs, adding a fresh, earthy touch to the room. On the left side of the fireplace, there’s a sturdy hutch or cabinet, stocked with all sorts of fine spirits and selected wines. Next to it is a well-stocked drink cart, ready for any occasion.

On the counter, a cheese dome sits, showcasing a selection of his favourite cheeses, because this man is absolutely obsessed with cheese. Under the cabinet, there’s a collection of different glasses for various types of alcohol. Two framed vintage posters hang on the wall—one detailing British cheeses and the other offering basic cheese knowledge, both adding a touch of humour and character to the space.

An old chandelier hangs above the center of the room, casting a warm, soft light, completing the intimate, cozy atmosphere.

📍 Bedroom - A simple but intimate space that feels like a retreat after long missions. The room features a cosy, old queen-size bed with vintage charm. At each end of the bed, there’s an old end table. One holds a book and a tray of water, while the other has a tablet, probably for late-night reading or catching up on work. A dresser sits nearby, topped with a vase of fresh flowers and an old replica painting of a famous artwork. At the foot of the bed is a comfy ottoman, perfect for kicking back after a long day, and an old chair is positioned beside the bed, as if ready for quiet moments of reflection. A large window lets in plenty of sunlight, warming up the room with natural light and creating the perfect atmosphere for relaxation.

📍 Study - The door to Captain Price’s study is cleverly disguised as a bookshelf. It’s the perfect example of understated secrecy—who would’ve guessed that behind the shelves of books lies one of his most brooding spaces? A place for the Captain to retreat and get even more pensive.

Against one wall, there’s a shelf where his most precious drinks and cigars are kept, along with a stash of biscuits and cookies (because, yes, he’s got a sweet tooth—don’t let the gruff exterior fool you). All of this is strictly for his own enjoyment, mind you—no sharing.

His main desk, made of dark wood, is set up with the kind of tech Simon—his favourite, and let’s face it, only tech-savvy lieutenant—would be proud of. Simon installed a desktop computer, added extra memory and a camera for his calls, and even set him up with a high-quality mic. He even picked out a nice pair of headphones for those brooding music sessions, where Captain Price likes to sip whisky, smoke cigars, and disappear into his thoughts. And just for extra fun, Simon also set up his music app account. (Yes, Captain Price still insists on listening to his vinyls downstairs, but hey, he’s trying with the tech stuff.)

In the corner, there’s a telescope pointed toward the window. When the Captain wants to look at the stars (or brood about something—again), he’s got a perfect view. This too was set up by Simon. Why Simon? Well, because he's Captain Price’s favourite lieutenant, of course—or, more accurately, his favourite IT support. Remember that time in the game when Kyle asked, “Why can’t it be you instead of me going in?” when they were about to assault a location? Price just casually responded with, “That’s why they call me Captain and you Sergeant.” Same deal with Simon—though in this case, Simon got a nice haul of rare whisky, bourbon, cheeses, and, naturally, cookies, all for setting up tech in one go. And when Price calls him in for IT support, Simon always tries to act like he’s somewhere else, hiding from the task, but we all know he secretly enjoys it (and the perks, obviously).

Books. There are lots of books on the tall bookshelf, as the Captain likes to read—mostly military thrillers, obviously, but don’t be surprised to find a few spy novels by John le Carré or Frederick Forsyth hidden in there. The shelf isn’t just limited to that genre, though. You’ll also find a collection of cookbooks (because, yes, Price can cook!), fishing guides, gardening books, and even some on carpentry—because he’s always been handy with his hands. Atop the bookshelf sits a vintage typewriter in a glass case—his grandparents’ typewriter, which he keeps as a display piece. It’s a touch of nostalgia, a little piece of his past that he can’t quite let go of.

Next to the bookshelf is a small study table with his laptop. This is where the Captain taps away at his keyboard, writing stories in his downtime. (Who knew, right? Captain Price, aspiring writer, channeling his inner Andy McNab.) Maybe one day, when he’s feeling confident, he’ll share a manuscript with someone—just don’t expect it to be anytime soon.

📍 Garden/Outdoor Area - Lush, peaceful, and perfect for a man who appreciates some fresh air and quiet moments. It’s filled with trees, shrubs, and greenery, and there’s even a small stretch of the River Thames running behind the property—a little slice of tranquility amidst the chaos of life.

I had so much fun building this and imagining every little detail. I hope you enjoy this peek into what I think John Price’s home might look like—Sims 4 style! Let me know your thoughts, and if you’ve got your own interpretations, I’d love to see them! And if you’d like me to do one for another character, drop your suggestions in the comments below! 🏡✨

[spooky-pomegranate]

Testing His Will

Captain Price x F Reader (18+) 🔥 Word Count: 3.2k

Summary: Price desperately wants to be physical with you but after you’re injured he worries he’ll be too aggressive. His fear only intensifies when you kiss him for the first time.

————————————————————————

“Will you sleep with me?”

It had been some time since Price’s will had been tested like this. You had felt so warm when you straddled him. And bloody fucking hell, the way you had rocked your hips when he’d squeezed your beautiful soft body, he’d nearly snapped. The kiss had been so goddamn slow and passionate that it would have been so easy for Price to give in, to take you right then and there, to feed his appetite and satiate your own greedy cravings. But he had stopped. He’d told you to get some rest. He’d given you your own clothes and he’d drawn the heavy curtains. He’d pulled back the covers and he’d helped you to bed. He’d been so good.

But then you’d asked him that question…

“Will you sleep with me?”

…and Price felt like the gods were punishing him.

“Yes.”

It was a stupid answer. But how could he deny you? How could he say no when you had kissed him like that? He wasn’t sure he would get a minute of sleep laying next to you, but that didn’t matter. He could just stare at the ceiling and count each of your breaths. He’d be good and keep his hands to himself, because if he wasn’t, if his hands did touch your body, they would be demanding, impatient, and rough. Price couldn’t do that to you. No, he couldn’t be aggressive. Not when you were still harboring some major injuries. He didn’t want to hurt you. Not again. Never again. Right now you needed to be held like porcelain and he wasn’t capable of it. So yes tonight he would sleep next to you, but no he would not touch you.

It was 5:00 am when Price got out of bed. You had fallen asleep almost immediately and he guessed from your deep breathing you probably wouldn’t wake up any time soon. With another warm body under his sheets, Price had also managed to get a few hours of sleep. That was a feat these days. He often struggled with night terrors but last night…last night was different. He’d slept soundly with no dreams at all. He did however wake up with a throbbing headache.

Price quietly walked to the bathroom and grabbed a handful of painkillers he kept in the medicine cabinet. Washing them down with some water from the sink he caught his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t look nearly as bad as he was expecting considering he’d been pistol-whipped, kicked down a flight of stairs, and head-butted a few hours ago. He had a small cut on his cheek and a bruise on his temple. It could be worse. He’d definitely survived worse. At least this time he didn’t fall out of a bloody helicopter. He was still sore, but it was nothing a hot shower couldn’t fix.

The water was running over his face, trickling down through his beard and onto his chest when Price heard a knock. His eyes shot open wide. Your voice called out from behind the door.

“Price?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you in the shower?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I come in the bathroom?”

Panic. He should say no. He should be good. He should tell you to go back to bed.

“Yes.”

Fuck. He shouldn’t have said that. You pushed open the door and Price watched as you stepped into the bathroom. You were wearing a t-shirt and tight running shorts. Your hair was messy from sleep. Even through a foggy glass door and heavy steam, Price could feel his body react to the sight of yours. Bloody hell, what was he doing?

“I got worried when I woke up and you weren’t in bed.” You kept your eyes on the tile floor as you spoke. Your voice was sleepy.

“I’m sorry… I’m right here.”

“Umm, I was wondering… would you mind if I came in there with you?”

Price stood still as the water cascaded down his body. His dog tags stuck to his rapidly pounding chest. If he let you in you would see him… all of him. He was growing hard at the thought.

“I promise I won’t steal all your hot water.”

You laughed and it broke Price. Of course, you could come in.

“I wouldn’t care if you did. Come on.”

You tore away your clothes, throwing them on top of Price’s, and walked over to the foggy shower door. Price’s heart jumped to his throat. There would be no going back from this. You grabbed the metal handle and pushed open the door. He turned away from the showerhead and faced you. The hot water beat down against his back.

You smiled as your eyes met Price’s. He noticed they were large and fierce. Your pupils were so dilated they blacked out their normally striking color. Price raked his eyes down your body. Your curves were every bit as beautiful as he had imagined, but your ribs were marked by large black and blue marbling bruises. They were a reminder for Price that he had to be careful with you. You needed to be touched with tenderness.

But that would be a challenge with how you were looking at him. Vicious, hungry, and desperate. Price watched your face as you scanned his body, gazing over his shoulders, his chest, his stomach, and finally down to his throbbing cock.

You moaned at the sight and he laughed.

“Let’s get you cleaned up huh?” Price needed to touch you now. He couldn’t wait a single moment longer. Carefully he grabbed your hips and switched positions so the hot water was running down your back. He reached for the shampoo bottle and squirted some into his hands. Then gently he moved his hands through your hair, working the liquid into a sudsy lather. You took a step forward and rested your forehead on his furry chest as he continued to rub and knead. You didn’t seem to mind that his hard cock was pinned against your belly. He felt himself twitch as a sickly sweet whine escaped your lips.

“Does that feel good?” Price asked.

“Yes, sooo good.” You sighed and lowered your shoulders, tension clearly falling off them. Then suddenly you took a hard step back and looked up at him. Had he scared you off?

“I didn’t come in here so you could take care of me again Price. I wanted to take care of you… please.”

Fucking hell. What had he done to deserve this? Price watched as you took the shampoo bottle from his hands and set it back on the shelf. You picked up some body wash and poured it into your hands.

“Can I?”

Price nodded and you touched his chest, rubbing your hands through his short dark hair there. You pressed your fingers deep into his tense muscles and whispered a string of honeyed praises as you massaged him.

“You’re so strong.” “Shit, look at your muscles.” “They’re so big.”

Somehow Price managed to stay quiet as you whispered all those things to him. It wasn’t until you said…

“You needed this didn’t you?”

…that Price let out a deep rasping groan.

“Fuck, yes.” He immediately growled.

His answer must have excited you because a red blush spread from your cheeks down to the top of your chest. You both stood still for a moment. Price watched as a cluster of soap bubbles slid from your neck down through the valley of your breasts. He’d never seen something so beautiful in his life. He had to taste you again.

Price grabbed your jaw and tilted your face upwards. You rushed to meet his open mouth, tongues colliding in an urgent fervor that had been missing from last night. You tasted so sweet and delicious. He tried to contain himself as you sucked on his tongue and whined. Fuck there you went, testing his will again.

He broke away and started to kiss down your jaw and neck. His tongue was licking a long stripe by your collarbone when you sighed and weakly spoke.

“Price, please let me make you feel good.”

Price picked his head up. You pressed your forehead against his and thread a hand into the hair at the back of his neck, pulling slightly. He nodded and you slid your other hand down in between your bodies, moving it over Price’s broad chest, across his hard stomach, and then lower.

“Fuckkkkk.”

Price hissed as you wrapped your soft hand around the base of his cock. He grabbed your hips and buried his head into the crook of your neck, nuzzling his beard against your skin. He wanted to thrust into your hand and pound away until he came but he didn’t. He let you stay in control.

“You’re so big.” God, you sounded so sweet.

You were stroking Price at a tormentingly slow pace. Up and down you squeezed him like you were in no rush to ever leave the shower. He grunted into your neck before sucking and licking his thanks.

Price swore he must in heaven. Nothing could have prepared him for how good you were making him feel. But bloody hell did he want you to move faster. He thrust his hips up into your hand, hoping to find more satisfaction.

“Do you want me to go faster?” You whispered earnestly in his ear.

“Mhmmmm.” Price hummed in affirmation, his face still buried in your neck. You wasted no time giving him what he wanted. Your movements became frantic as you stroked him faster and tightened your grip. You let go of the back of his neck and added your second hand, leaving no inch of him untouched. Price took a hand off your hip and slammed it into the wall behind your head. He wasn’t going to last much longer like this.

“Mmmmm gonna come if you keep that up.” He grunted and raised his head from your neck. You kissed him. It was searing.

“It’s okay. Come for me Price.”

Price started to thrust his hips up into your hands, wildly chasing his own end without care. He was panting chest heaving as you focused your touch on his sensitive tip. He kissed you again and again, tongue swirling inside your mouth, teeth pulling the delicate and wet skin of your lips.

“Fuckkkk that feels so good.”

Price brought his head back down to your neck and buried it in your collarbone. He couldn’t hold on any longer.

He felt lightheaded as he came, painting your hands and stomach with his release. You continued to touch him through his bliss but you slowed your movements each time he shuttered. When you finally let go he was out of breath.

“Thank you.” Price huffed.

“You’re welcome.” He smiled and you laughed. That was slowly becoming Price’s favorite sound. He grabbed a wash cloth and helped you clean up his mess. Gently swiping over your body, he felt the water start to grow colder. Goosebumps began to form over your skin.

“Let’s get out of here. You’re getting cold.”

Price stepped out of the shower first and held your hand as you followed. He grabbed a fluffy large towel from a cabinet next to the sink and dropped to one knee. Starting with your calves he slowly dried each inch of you. He took his time, drinking in every beautiful mark. Now that you had shown him your gorgeous body he wanted to remember every single detail of it. If you never let him touch you again he would always have this moment. He could come back here again in his mind.

But Price wasn’t satisfied with just toweling you off and memorizing your figure. How could he be when you had been so sweet and giving? He hoped you say yes to his next question. He wasn’t sure what he would do with himself if you said no.

“I know you said you didn’t want me to take care of you in the shower, but please can I beautiful? You were so good to me. Let me be good to you.”

You looked at him again with those eyes. Those vicious, hungry, and desperate eyes. Please, please say yes he thought.

“Yes.”

Before you could even finish saying the full word Price grabbed your hips and lifted you off the ground. He kicked open the door to the bedroom while you wrapped your legs around his hips and your arms around his neck. Price walked over to the bed and gently set you down on the edge. Careful, he had to remind himself. You needed to be handled delicately.

“Lay down in the middle of the bed and spread your legs open for me.”

————————————————————————

You crawled to the middle of the bed and opened your legs just as Price had commanded. From the moment you saw his entire body in the shower, you had been dripping from in between your thighs. But that wasn’t supposed to be about you. The shower had been about him.

Price was constantly putting your needs ahead of his own. He’d told you to run, leave him behind, and save yourself at your apartment. He’d let you take his room that first night he carried you here, and he’d put you to bed when he clearly wanted to do more with you. If you were going to repay him you would have to catch him off guard. So that’s what you did… and God was it worth it. The look he had in his eyes when you stepped into the shower was pure heaven. The way his nose crinkled when he got excited and the noises he made when he was coming, fuck you never wanted them to stop.

But then, just moments ago in the bathroom, he asked you that question and you’d said yes. Now you were here and Price was standing at the foot of his bed looking down at you like he wanted to devour you. You thought your heart might explode. Price's voice was deep when he spoke.

“You look perfect like this.”

You squirmed under his gaze. He approached the bed and started to kiss your lower legs. You loved the feeling of his beard brushing against your skin as he worked his way higher. He alternated between licking, sucking, and kissing in varying patterns, giving both of your legs equal attention all while using his strong arms to keep you spread open. When he reached the flesh of your upper thigh he looked at you and groaned.

“Can I taste you?”

Afraid that your own voice would give out you simply nodded. The fire in his eyes burned brighter.

“Good girl.”

Price wasted no time lifting your thighs over his shoulders and burying his face in between your legs. He lapped at your wetness and groaned when you arched down into his face. You couldn’t help but whine. You were so eager, so impatient to grind further into him. Desperately needing to feel more friction, you tried to move on your own. But Price wouldn’t have it. He reached up and pushed down on your stomach with one arm, pinning you onto the mattress. You were in his complete control. His strength was on full display. He raised his chin and gave you the most wicked smile.

“Fuckkk you taste so good.”

Your whines turned into whimpers.

“More. Please Price, more.”

Price caved to your pleas. He moved his tongue to your clit and started flicking slowly back and forth. His strong wet tongue on your bundle of nerves felt so good that you needed something to hold onto. Your hands reached down and grabbed fistfuls of Price’s short hair. He closed his mouth over your clit and sucked, making the most carnal noises. You loved his grunts and groans.

You yanked him hard in a weak attempt to get him to stop. You needed just a minute to catch your breath, but he kept his head glued in between your thighs. Spurred on by your harsh grip, Price started to move his tongue faster and faster. You realized then he was only going to stop once he had made you come. This would be the death of you. Your head was spiraling.

“Oh my God, that feels so good. Please don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

You were a babbling mess when Price finally broke away from your center and kissed your thigh. But he didn’t let you collect yourself. Instead, he slid a finger inside you, curling it upwards and finding that sweet gummy place.

“Is that the spot? Right here? Is this where you like it?”

Price was smiling when he asked those questions. Smug bastard. He must have known from the way you were whining and moaning, that you were putty in his hands. He had to know that you were drunk on his touch. Your head snapped back against the mattress as slid a second finger inside of you. You could feel the pressure building in your core. How did he always know what you needed?

“Do you want my mouth again? Would you like that?”

“Yes Price, please. Make me come. Please.”

You were begging. Anything he wanted to hear you would give him. Anything to have his mouth over you again. But Price wouldn’t make you plead any further. He brought his mouth down and sucked on your clit hard while continuing to pound away with his fingers. You let go of his hair and grabbed the sheets, yanking them to your chest. You were on the edge, any second now you would fall. You just needed a push. Price raised his head from between your thighs. His blue eyes stared up at you through his lashes.

“Be a good girl and come for me.”

Price’s hoarse voice was all the push you needed. Your orgasm crashed over you rough and fast. You clenched around his fingers as he continued to fuck you with them. You let go of the sheets and reached down and grabbed his forearm with both hands, nails digging into his skin. Your body thrashed against the mattress. You could feel your pulse rapidly beating in your throat.

“There you go beautiful. Take what you need.”

You rocked your hips forward as Price lowered his chin and tasted you again. God how you loved the sight of him in-between your thighs. Every bristle of his beard against your skin made you twitch with overstimulation.

After he had thoroughly cleaned you with his tongue he climbed up on the bed and laid next to you, curling you against his chest. You tried to catch your breath as he rubbed small circles into your hip. The two of you laid together in content silence.

“I guess it’s my turn to thank you now huh?” Your voice was weak when you finally spoke. He laughed.

“Absolutely not. I think I might have enjoyed that more than you did.”

“There’s no way that’s possible.” It was your turn to laugh. You couldn’t remember the last time someone made you come like that. You laid your head back on Price’s chest and listened to his heartbeat. You felt safe for the first time in days.

————————————————————————

This is an excerpt from my much larger work on AO3. If you would like to read the whole story thus far here is the link. If you are just here for the *spicy bits* I have more fun excerpts called "Violence and Timing" and "Falling Apart" here on Tumblr.

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

Chapter 12 - Would I Lie to You?

[Also Available on AO3]

Shadow Dance Masterlist

Summary: Post clash with Shadow Company, Rory and Price share a moment together before she is sent in to interrogate Valeria

Warnings/Tags: Minors DNI, swearing, character with trauma, established relationship, military inaccuracies, referenced/implied torture, includes some in-game dialogue, references to previous fic (All Along the Watchtower), fluff, flirting

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

Word count: 5.3 K

A/N: the further continuation of Rory's story, this follows and expands upon the COD: MW2 reboot canon. Told from Rory's POV.

November 3, 2022 17:53 - Fuerzas Especiales base, Las Almas, Mexico

The base had been secured. Shadow Company stragglers removed. The prisoner still held under lock and key — she could be left to sweat a little while longer.

Joints were sore. Bodies bruised. Sweat clung to their backs, behind their knees, and their armpits.

Joints clicked and popped. Arms, legs, and backs were stretched and massaged by rough hands. Sweat smeared their faces as masks were removed, and eyeblack was summarily wiped away. 

As Price stood in front of the bathroom sink, washing away the dried blood that marked his face and arms, sloshing handfuls of water on his skin, Rory lingered in the doorway. She had placed herself on watch duty, leaning against the jamb, her sore shoulder resting against the cool surface of painted wood.

"Don't have to stand there all day, darlin'." The water shut off with the squeak of a tap, the faucet growing silent without the rushing flow. Shaking off his hands, droplets of water plinked against the porcelain of the basin. "I'm fine, Ror," he said, glancing at her reflection in the mirror.

She cleared her throat and sighed heavily, shifting her position to cross her arms over her chest defensively. "I'm well aware you're fine. This is more for my own benefit than yours." Her gaze flickered away to a small portion of darkened grout between tiles on the floor as she scratched at one of the drying flakes of healing skin on her cheek. "Thought I'd lost you there for a mo'."

"Pinch y'rself, might make you feel better."

"Oh it's certainly not a dream, you're still a bit of an arse."

His mouth curled into a wry grin, and a low, husky chuckle echoed in the concrete confines of the lavatory as he turned to face her, leaning against the edge of the sink, mirroring her stance. "How do I look?"

Her eyes roamed over the scratches and abrasions left behind, the reddened skin from the burns on his forehead and forearms, assessing the damage now that the gore had been removed. "Only slightly burnt and buggered." Her lower lip curled into an estimating pout. "Could probably still get good resale value on you."

The gravelly sound of his laughter escaped him once more as he snatched up his boonie hat waiting for him on the counter and ran a hand through his hair. Slipping the hat back on and adjusting it, he tugged it forward so the brim shaded his eyes. His hands, now covered in scrapes and bandages, adding to the collection of scars that marked his knuckles and stood out from the dark hair on the dorsal side, wrapped around the edge of the sink. "So, s'pose this means the cat's out of the bag for us, eh? Can't go on pretendin' like there's nothin' goin' on between us."

Rory scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Oh please, we do a good job on home base keeping things strictly professional, but out in the field we've never exactly been secretive, have we? Having a bit of a snog in front of Si is hardly going to be news to him, love. Besides, gives him something new to banter about. I'm sure Soap and Gaz will have some new quip to toss our way soon enough because of it."

"Oh Christ," he gruffed, "You're not wrong there. Those two are all too happy to give me the bollockin' of the century over any ol' thing."

A knowing grin spread across her lips, entirely too smug, as she tipped her head to the side almost innocently. "Karma, perhaps?"

"Oi!" He barked, pointing a finger at her in an accusatory gesture. "Not you too."

She giggled and moved to meet him at the sink, standing between his muscular thighs as she wrapped her arms around his waist. "My darling, I was the original," she purred, embraced by the warmth of his strong arms coiling against the swell of her hips.

Growling low in his throat, he leaned down to kiss the tip of her nose. "Bloody pain in my arse the whole lot of ya, an' you're the worst one 'cause I can't escape ya."

"Tendrils are in too deep now, eh?"

"Fuck," he rasped. "Are they ever." A slow, lazy smirk curled under his mustache, indenting dimples below the cover of scruff on his cheeks, his gaze warm and glinting with a spark of something they would have to contend with later.

Time seemed to stand still, even as the minutes ticked by, something that always occurred as they held one another in close proximity. The world blurring and fading away until it was just the two of them. The only two people in the world who really understood each other. But, just as rapidly as the sensation of being bound to one another arrived, it was so easily frayed as John pulled away and broke the bond between them.

Drifting her fingers over his barrel chest, stroking the wicking material of his tac top, Rory pictured the scars that lay hidden below, the many close calls they could have had before that she didn't have to see play out in real time. "You know, I don't think things are going to change too drastically for us. You just keep being the same stubborn, gruff bastard you always are, and I'll keep following along."

He curled the rough skin of his trigger finger under her chin, tipping her head back to meet his inscrutable focus. "Tha's my good girl." His voice vibrated through her with a deep rumble as he rested his forehead against hers, their breaths melding in the tenuous space between them.

"Come on, can't be stood here all day. Still have a job to do," he said, moving with purposeful strides towards the door. His focus was no longer distracted, diverted away from the objective. The romance kill switch engaged, allowing him to return to the role of the ruthlessly decisive Captain.

The door to the makeshift holding cell opened with a clanking groan inside the room of corrugated metal walls and lit only by the searing, oppressive gleam of fluorescent lights. The air inside stuffed brimming with a thickness that filled the throat and the lungs. Cotton batting shoved tight inside the confines of a plush animal’s form. Sewn in. Locked inside with the desperate desire to reach in and tear it free. A shoe box for holding an unwanted creature, the lid duct taped on and lacking any of the punched holes. A proper prison to inspire hopelessness.

Solitary confinement. Sensory deprivation. 

Enhanced Interrogation Techniques. A term Rory had become all too familiar with during her time serving in the Middle East and working alongside the CIA. A term with deeply Orwellian meaning considering it was the government approved use of sanctioned torture. A thousand and one methods developed to break a person, to incapacitate them, killing their drive to fight back until they were little more than a heap of flesh submitting to order and control. The use of violence, of humiliation. Techniques formulated by the military and psychologists that tore into the human psyche, reshaping them, moulding the mind into something docile. Weakened to the point where self-preservation was a scrap of a memory. Prey to be dragged into the next set of waiting shackles to be bent, bruised, and brutalized. 

She had thought taking a person’s life was the hardest thing to learn to do, but having an education in destroying a person’s mind, their autonomy, was worse. It was a heavy weight that settled in her gut, Medusa’s stare on her soul (if it was one that could even be considered viable enough to be named as such, if it even existed at all). To know that she was capable of performing such tasks, that she excelled at it, was a curse that made it difficult to look at herself in the mirror afterwards. But the fact that disgusted her most was that after so many years of practice the after effects had come to fade, the guilt a stain that could be washed away. Out, damned spot, out… and she had the Oxyclean spray to do it.

The shadowy lengths of the room were haloed by high beams. A single chair sitting empty in the middle of the space. Cliche in its barren minimalism. But, despite the state of the enclosure, the prisoner seemed confident, unburdened by their capture, and even less worried about their future as Colonel Vargas led the 141 inside. The brazen grin, the cocksure composure – Rory didn’t speak Spanish but she could glean that the Colonel and the woman known only to her as Valeria had some shared history. A person didn’t come to spit such vitriol about another without knowing them personally, without having been spurned by them, burned by them. 

Price rested his hands on the body of his rifle, maintaining the portrayal of a man composed despite the fact that his fingers sat a flinch away from gripping the trigger. It was a front that Rory saw right through as she stood there pressed shoulder to shoulder beside Gaz, noticing as John’s lips drew into a stiff, straight line. His gimlet stare swirling like stormy seas about to ravage the shoreline, tearing stone away from rocky cliffs with the power of rushing waves while obscured beneath the shaded brim of his boonie hat.

A beat of silence passed as the bickering between Vargas and Valeria fell away, leaving one woman to stand against a line of soldiers who she had done anything but ingratiate herself to. The broad shoulders filling up the width of the room blockaded the route to the door. No escape. No way out but through. An instant death sentence.

Keep the prisoner’s back to the wall. Make them forget there is a way out. Make them understand that their only means of survival is by the hand of those who serve as warden.

This was the sight of a man who had no respect for the individual who stood before him, restraining himself as he stared down the cartel leader. A violent, criminal pestilence that had sunk herself deeper into the pits of immorality by teaming up with terrorists. One of the lowest of the low in his eyes based off of the fierce gleam like that of a sharpened knife that reflected in his irises. This wasn't like with Hadir, working with AQ with good intentions — a means to an end — this was entirely selfish, through and through, driven by greed and a callous disregard for lives caught in the crossfire.

“You knew there was a third missile.”

“Oh, I didn’t count them,” Valeria replied coyly. “I have people for that.”

“She’s lying.” Vargas’ brows lowered, the darkened depths of his eyes narrowing to slits while dealing with the viper in his midst.

“Where’s Hassan?”

“Where’s the other missile?”

Everyone seemed to be getting their licks in, meanwhile Rory held back. Listening. Watching. There was more to an interrogation than pure intimidation. One had to read the signs, the tells, the tics. Observation was crucial. The difference between a bluff, a bold-faced lie, and the truth wrenched from clenched hands could be as simple as which direction the perpetrator’s eyes slid.

“Chicago.”

No fear. Valeria stared each man straight in the eye as they spoke to her. She didn’t cower, didn’t melt or fade into something timid at the sight of men with at least seventy pounds on her. She was hardened. Steel. Titanium. The mettle on her was astounding. Carrying herself as proudly as the gold chain she wore around her neck, this was no pyrite facade.

Gaz looked between his superior officers, at their unflinching reactions as the information was tossed in their laps. “What the fuck’s going on?”

“I said I’d tell you where he was, I didn’t say I would stop him,” Valeria retorted.

“You fucking scorpion,” Vargas rasped, circling the prisoner. Rage radiated off him in waves, his stare piercing into the side of her skull as he snarled,  “I warned you she would do this, eh?” 

A hard woman, Valeria was the kind of soldier Rory had been warned about throughout her career. The ones who stopped seeing the casualties, the ones who only saw how they could lucratively exploit their position. In the Middle East there had been dozens of them, ones who took up racketeering, who started asking the locals for protection funds. Ones who stopped seeing the objective, stopped caring about security or peace and just aimed to line their own pockets to make life a little easier, not bothered by the burden of conscience.

“I run a business, señores. We grow or we die. It's the way of the world." Shrugging off the carnage she had just unleashed with the ease of an insurance company at the loss of life. All business, nothing personal.

An utter disgrace, Rory thought. Contempt amassing into a slick, sickening knot in her stomach.

“You put a target on your back,” Price warned in a low husk, pointing at Valeria, putting her in her place. Stiff. Solid. Unrelenting. The unstoppable force of the Las Almas cartel having just met the immovable object that was Captain Price. A man just as proud, just as confident in his skills, and only bound and restricted by his own moral code made up of lenient rules to be used as he saw fit.

A cruel smirk curled at his lip as he angled his head to the side – the sharp tilt that began the imminent death roll. Shifting just enough to ease the tension in his knees and back, readying himself for the slow prowl of the beast, sharp eyes bore into the drug kingpin as he assessed the threat up close. 

“No – I put a target in Chicago… Now fucking leave Las Almas and go find it. Fucking assholes, get out of here,” Valeria cursed, gesturing towards the door impudently.

But he didn't move, the tight sneer that pulled at his lips was one that didn’t meet his eyes, hard and flinty as they were. A look that instilled dread in most, the ones who knew what he was capable of. As cold as a winter's night and capable of sucking all the air out of the room like a vacuum.

“Maybe we should give ‘er a moment with the Lieutenant,” Price threatened.

Vargas glanced over at the bulky man in the skull mask – the one most would have expected. “Ghost?”

“No.” 

Price’s gaze raked over to Rory, towards the woman standing inches shorter than everyone else on their side of the room. Stood there looking like she was incapable of harming a fly as she glanced up at the colonel with her big doe eyes, hand clasped upon the left side pocket of her tac vest. The brass knuckles that lay hidden were cold enough to burn her even through material.

“She’s very persuasive, our Rory,” Price said with a slight nod towards the female lieutenant. 

“We’re under strict time limits what with a missile on the loose, and all." Rory shrugged, slipping her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, nonchalant about the whole ordeal. "I’ll happily offer my services.”

As the bodies filtered out, Rory glanced over her shoulder as the last gasp of fresh air filtered in and the door clanged shut harshly behind her. Her first thought was of the small creatures that seemed so sweet and endearing, and their choice of prey — venomous predators. Meerkats and mongoose, scorpions and snakes.

The flinch of the lines tattooed between Alejandro’s brows was more obvious than he must have believed, staring at her like he would be praying for her the next time he decided to go to church. The admittance of her skill as an inquisitor was one that often caused others to fall off balance, as if their world view had been smashed to pieces, victimized by their own eager belief in the mask she wore that crumbled away to reveal the danger that lurked below.

Alejandro looked between Valeria and Rory, accepting the soldier's offer with a nod before turning on his heel to leave, the rest of the 141 following suit.

Ripping open the velcro closure of the pocket of her vest, she pulled out the metal cigarette case she kept on her person at all times and flipped it open. Placing a cigarette to her lips, she slipped the case back in her pocket without saying a word, and then collected her lighter. The smooth metal, cool to the touch, was a familiar weight in her hand as she brought the flame to the tip of her fag.

"Mind if I smoke," she asked, after lighting up. Pointing at the nearby empty chair, Rory flipped the lid of the lighter closed. "Take a seat while you're at it too, yeah?"

The calculating eyes of the drug lord shifted to the chair sitting in her periphery, flicking back up to meet Rory's placid visage as she exhaled a stream of smoke that formed a wispy cloud above their heads, stagnating the air further.

"Go on, then. Best not to have me asking twice." Rory maintained her manners, ever the diplomat in her approach, it was the fact that she could keep some semblance of kindness while threatening a person with bodily harm that made her such a keen interrogator. She didn't resort to name calling unless it was required, she was respectful in her interactions with her target. Until, of course, they started to require a heavier hand and the tools of the trade came out.

Valeria sighed, swaggering over to the folding chair and dragging it over. The screech across the ground was grating, ending in a bang as she slammed the seat down and sat in it. Resting her arms over the back of the seat, she pressed her legs together and leaned to the side, begrudgingly taking part in the exercise she had been forced into with her captors.

"So, you're the one I was warned about, eh?” Rory said, tilting her head to the side, giving the woman before her an appraising look. “Quite the impressive feat taking over a cartel all by yourself. All that ambition… and for what, I wonder.”

“If you're trying to soften me up –”

Scoffing, grey plumes puffed out over Rory's lips. “I'd need a bloody meat tenderizer and the patience of a saint to do that. Trust me, I'm not wasting my time with that palaver. I just want to know where we find Hassan and his missile.”

“What makes you think I'd tell you anything, huh? You've got CIA who can go digging, no?”

“We do, yeah. But that takes so much longer. And we both know that if you play nice then you'll get off a lot easier with the authorities, won't you?” Rory leaned forward, arms crossed over her chest, a smug grin on her face as she tapped off the ashes from the end of her cigarette. “You'll also have a much prettier mugshot.”

Cocking her brow, Valeria angled her head, lifting her chin to give Rory the once over. “You know, a woman of your talents… you could make a lot more in my line of work.”

Rory hummed, lifting her brow in retaliation to the proposal. “No thanks. I'll have to decline that gracious offer. Money's not really what I'm in it for.” 

“Then why do it at all? You think it's some achievement selling yourself like a whore for the government? Who do you think funded the narcos to begin with?”

Patting the other woman's shoulder, Rory stood up straight once more and then moved to stand in front of Valeria as she collected the plastic bag from her tac vest pocket. "I've seen the Sicario films. I'm well aware of what your type is capable of. And while I'm sure Alejandro has done some rather despicable things to get a job done —well, he's not Price. That's the sort of man who proudly claims to be the monster in the dark, the type who has no moral qualms about doing whatever needs to be done to deal with a target. And he's just left you alone in a room with me. So, before you think you're getting out of this unscathed, you should know exactly the type of people you've just pissed off.”

Rory stood there, unflinching, blinking a few times. Unfazed. Lifting her cigarette to her lips, she took a long drag, indulging in the burn of the smoke down her throat and the taste of tobacco and the many carcinogens that set the chemical receptors in her brain alight. “While I do appreciate you trying to play the ethical card with me, pleading to my sense of humanity and all, I'm afraid it won't work.”

Rory rounded Valeria's seat and grabbed the zip ties from her pocket, strapping them to the cartel leader's wrists, binding her hands behind her back and to the chair. The cigarette dangled from her lips as she mumbled around it, making sure the ties were secure, wrenching the closures tighter until they left marks in Valeria's skin. “You see, the man you basically, in no uncertain terms, just told to “fuck off” to his face, happens to be one, Captain Price. And while that name might mean nothing to you, it comes with some hefty history."

The smile Rory gave was too friendly, bordering on saccharine. Too personable. The kind made all the more frightening as the fluorescents glinted in her eyes like the eye shine of a nocturnal animal and she stretched the plastic in her hands out taut.

The instrument of her prey's destruction.

Shoving the door open, Rory hauled a disheveled and sweat-slicked Valeria out of the containment room, leading her towards the row of vehicles where the 141, Colonel Vargas, and Sergeant Major Parra waited.

With the nod of approval from Price, Rory stepped back from the situation, his hand gripped tight to her shoulder, squeezing. Leaning back, his chin pressed to his chest as he looked up at her through his creased brow. A look shared between them that made sure she was present, not still in the mindset of the torturer. Resting her hand on top of his, she interlocked their fingers for a brief moment. A promise that she was still his lamb.

The cartel leader had put up a good fight, holding out just long enough to make Rory work for it. The ragged plastic hanging loosely from the Lieutenant's pocket was proof of that, coated in the condensation of hot breath and salty sweat after being placed over Valeria's head and tightened to the point of slow, agonizing suffocation. It was a method that had never failed in all the time she had started using it, and never left any of the tell-tale signs of violence. No bruises, no blood, but it boosted the fear response. Physical pain wasn't always necessary, but the threat of helplessness, of forcing a person to watch their life slip away with each strained breath, was enough to break most — the head of the Las Almas cartel included.

Striding forward, Rory pushed the stumbling woman along with her. Valeria's arms were still bound behind her back, her feet crisscrossing in front of the other with each step she took, coughing and sputtering out ragged breaths that her lungs were finally allowed take, eyes squinting against the brightness of the sun after being locked away in a windowless room. The eyes of the 141 and Los Vaqueros members tracked her as she led the prisoner to the hand-off. But even after undergoing interrogation, Valeria seemed to bounce back. Reduced to a weakened state for only a short amount of time before the hard guise of arrogance returned. Smirking as her shoulders were grabbed by Alejandro and tossed into the backseat of one of the black armored jeeps.

The moment between them was fleeting before the Captain shifted back into the severe face of a man without mercy for his enemies. “For now, she’s yours…” Price said to Vargas, his head snapping to face Valeria once more, his eyes narrowing in a flash. “But, we’ll be back.”

“I look forward to it.”

Bloody brass bollocks. It was all Rory could think. Even after being held prisoner, threatened, interrogated, she remained unbroken. Stitched back together in moments to stand so steadfast and sure. It would be impressive if Valeria wasn't allying herself with terrorists, if she wasn't out for her own gain.

“You’re going down for what you did,” Soap threatened, his upper lip curled into the sneer of a growling dog.

“It doesn’t matter what I did. It matters what you can prove,” Valeria shot back.

Cartels had their hands in everyone's pockets. They controlled the law, the army, the police, the government. Anything to keep the money flowing and the drugs shifting. A woman like Valeria, someone who had run the show without a face or a name for some time, she would know how to play the game because she knew the rules and how to break them, and much like other gang leaders Rory had come into contact with in her career, she knew how to stay out of trouble. Evidence was everything. Make law enforcement have to jump through enough hoops, get caught at dead ends and trapped in mazes, and it wasn't hard to get away with it all. Eventually they would give up and consider it a cold case.

“It matters what you can prove.” Valeria's voice replayed back at her, albeit more tinny. A voice recording. Held up in Rory's hand, her thumb resting on the playback button.

The narco's eyes narrowed to slits as Rory slipped the recorder into Alejandro's hand. "Got it all on tape," Rory said, meeting Valeria's glare without flinching. "She's not the first of her kind I've dealt with. Doubt she'll be the last. Their overconfidence is a weakness." Patting Vargas' arm, she headed towards the ramp of the waiting plane. "A pleasure doing business with you, Colonel."

It might not have kept her locked up for long, but at least it would help build a case. An audio confession was a powerful thing. Rory knew all too well about the legal ramifications of having a recording straight from the horses mouth about the vile things she had done, the threat she had unleashed on American soil, and how it wasn't the type of evidence that could just be thrown out in court. It was one of the few times she was thankful to have grown up a barrister's daughter, sometimes it gave her tricks up her sleeve to deal with enemies within the red tape.

Price's gaze drifted over his soldiers, ever committed to that visual check to make sure they had come out unscathed before gripping Rory's upper arm and tugging her aside. Leading her to the front of the aircraft towards the cockpit door, he stopped and tucked them into the corner where the drone of the engines would dampen their conversation, not allowing it to travel any further than the two of them.

Funneling onto the transport plane after saying their goodbyes, the squad took their seats and strapped in for the flight ahead to Chicago. The ramp shut with a heavy clash of metal, sealing out the sunlight as the yellowed lights of the interior flicked on. A collective sigh was let out among them all, their game of hide and seek was about to come to an end in the Midwest of the Land of the Free. The sheer toll of the body count possible with not knowing the missile's destination was enough to make a person's stomach drop. The dread was palpable, heavy and insistent, a leaded millstone draped around their necks.

Cigarettes and lighters were passed around, the orange flares flickering to life and burning into ashes just as quickly. A sombre reflection of what they could be looking at if they failed. Tensions rode high as hands clenched into fists or squeezed around weapons as they were cleaned and checked. Music blaring through earbuds as the squad of soldiers otherwise remained silent. Their focus directed to the coming fight and what was on the line.

"Well?" His brows lifted, digging deep trenches into the lines of his forehead. Cigar clamped between his lips, held at the corner of his mouth, swirls of smoke curled from his nostrils.

Rory nodded, confirming that she was able to gather the intel. "Arch Industries Tower in Chicago. The building's owned by a cartel shell company. Apparently, Hassan's taken up shop in a fortified server room with his men, his own personal high-rise bunker. From how it sounds, he's become rather paranoid."

Withdrawing the cigar from his mouth, his jaw clenched, mouth scrunching into a displeased sneer. "Not gonna make it easy to barge in there and get 'im then, is it?"

"No. And considering how he riled up AQ… Botha had said Hassan was unstable to begin with after the death of Ghorbrani, but with a weapon in his hands, and so close to the goal… There's no telling how far his forces will go to succeed."

Rubbing his hand over his mouth, his fingers brushed over his mustache, the whiskers around his lips. and the harsh stubble on his chin. The bottomless blues of his eyes already swirling and storming as he concocted a plan in his head. "Right —" Price gripped at the shoulder straps of his tac vest, flexing out the stiffness in his shoulders and back. "I'll get in contact with Kate. We'll need assistance in short order." His cunning, analytical stare flickered back to her. "Any word where the missile was headed?"

"No. Doubt Valeria cared much to find out." Rory shook her head and tilted her head to the side, pondering momentarily. "Best guess though? — D.C." Hands slipping into the back pockets of her jeans, she worried her lip as she mused further. "Hassan knows it was the United States who ordered the death of Ghorbrani. This is retribution. Revenge. Plain and simple."

"Not so simple when Hassan's gone round the bloody bend though, eh?" Price sighed and curled his gloved hand around her arm once more, tugging her into him. Their bodies pressed together — as close as they could be with armored gear on — and his large mitt came to grip at her nape, holding her near, as he pressed a rough kiss to her forehead. "You did good, my girl," he purred in a gruff murmur against her skin.

Her eyes fluttered shut, gripping at his vest for support to keep her upright, her legs turning to jelly as the fact she nearly lost him crashed over her once more. Inhaling his warm breath scented with the smoke of his cigar, she invited the very essence of him to burrow into her, allowing his praise to melt right into the marrow of her bones.

Too bloody close. She would never let it happen again.

"Ta," she whispered, soft and low. Glancing up at him with a cheeky grin in hopes that it might hide the penetrating fear that had settled and taken root, knowing he'd catch the flicker of it in her eyes anyhow.

His fingers threaded through the choppy strands of her hair, knotting the tresses in his grasp, twisting and pulling slightly as his impenetrable stare seared into her. He had seen it, deep in the warm depths of her eyes, her heart on her sleeve when it came to him.

"Go on," he said, nodding his head towards the seats. "Strap in. I'll get things sorted with Kate and then we brief."

Darting her gaze away, Rory turned on a dime, murmuring a quiet "Yes, sir". It was unbearable to her sometimes to show weakness like that, knowing he could pry it out of her so readily. It was a sign of comfort, but it also made her feel small, powerless. The little girl still clinging tooth and nail to the last person who left.

[foap-enjoyer]

Anxiety - Soap Mactavish

Real tiny semi-finished drabble I conjured up for the fun of it at 1am ;)

One would think the John ‘Soap’ Mactavish wouldn’t have anxiety. Much less social anxiety. He was too loud - too boisterous. The whole base knew the famous sergeant and his childish, bombarding personality. Recruits would often feel a clasp of a hand on their shoulders, a warm smile guiding them through their learning, teaching them to create makeshift weaponry or explosives, telling them outlandish stories of fights and battles that couldn’t have possibly existed within their universe, with a laugh that could raise the ceiling off of the building like the lid of a steaming pot. 

So if someone were to say that John ‘Soap’ Mactavish had social anxiety, they’d, generally, be laughed at. No one would believe them, like children refusing to accept that Santa was, in fact, not real, and that it was their tired parents working constantly to fulfill their little needs and wants.

But he did. It wasn’t something he spoke about, wasn’t something that was known about, but he did. He’d buried that detail of his when he’d left for the army at the ripe age of eighteen; he wouldn’t let some trembles and awkwardness define him. So he changed, forced himself to, beat that big chunk of him until it shattered into smaller pieces that he could shove into a closet somewhere and hide. Changed his nervous rambling into confident storytelling, his trembles into excited non-stop movement, his nausea into pretend hunger, anything that made him anxious had to go, and he made it go. It didn’t matter that at the end of the day, when he could finally send off the recruits marching back to their own quarters, giggling and chatting amongst themselves, when he could finally move back to 141’s personal building, back to his own room, back to his bed, that he broke down. Every time, without fail. 

He would close his door, and tears, no matter how hard he tried to distract himself, would quickly sprout and run ugly lines down his cheeks as he sobbed. His confidence faltered every time, his trembles became quakes that wracked his body, his nausea staining his teeth, dripping down onto the tiled floor of the bathroom, over the porcelain seat, everywhere. It was pathetic, and embarrassing. Shamefully, so. It made him feel like a baby, a fragile little child who needed their mother to hold them and soothe them with soft lullabies. Which was ridiculous, because he was Sergeant Mactavish, one of the toughest fuckers in the military. A member of 141. He’d survived so much, only to be taken down each night by his own failing body. 

141. He couldn’t understand why, when he spent time alongside Gaz, munching stolen food from Price’s secret stash, watching movies on their shared, crappy, off-duty laptop on some very-much illegal site, talking quietly as they sat on the sofa of their common room, eyes wide in the darkness as they took in the film, he didn’t tremble. He couldn’t understand why, when he was with Price, sorting out long-overdue papers at the Captain’s desk that he was certain didn’t matter anymore, he didn’t ramble gibberish to fill the silence. He couldn’t understand why, when he was with Ghost, sat up late-at-night playing cards on Soap’s bed, dim moonlight being their only friend, he didn’t feel like crying until he threw up.

But he did, he did understand why. He knew why because it had bothered him so much he’d looked online, desperate to find a reason. Google, ever the provider, gave him that reason.

They made him feel safe.

[fangsforiris]

Can I please request shu with kianna komori but how would he be in a relationship with her and how would he react to her self-harm

By the way you can find something on my page on Tumblr

Shū/Kianna Komori (OC) Relationship HC’s

& His Reaction to Her Self-Harming

TW!! Self-Harm!!

Hi!! I’d love to, also your oc is so cute!! She sounds like an absolute doll. I absolutely love her whole fashion sense, it reminds me of Kanato and his type in women. Hope you like these <33

Word Count: 525

Topics Included: Relationship HC’s, & Reaction to Self-Harm.

Relationship HC’s:

🎀  Shū wouldn’t mind if Kianna dressed up for him.

🎀  In fact he’d be into it.

🎀  She’d be willing to do so if she’s in a good mood.

🎀  Her style reminds him a lot of what Kanato’s into, so he’d be used to Kanato’s off hand comments about it.

🎀  Shū wouldn’t know how he’d feel about it though, considering that he’s with someone who’s Kanato’s idea type. 

🎀  After all, everyone knows that Kanato has a set type, and what it could mean about you to go for that as well. 

🎀  It’s sort of an unsaid thing. 

🎀  Shū finds himself comfortable with her, but to a degree. 

🎀  He’s always still on guard. 

🎀  It’s sort of the price to pay after losing so many people you’ve loved in the past. 

🎀  If Kianna forces him, they’d go on dates. 

🎀  They both like going to the central gardens, it happens to be calming for Shū, while Kianna enjoys the variety of flowers and its aesthetic. 

🎀  Bonus Points if Shū always regularly gets her flowers for their dates. 

🎀  He gets a bouquet of pink roses, and always has a heart shaped card attached to them which is strawberry and cream scented. 

🎀  They definitely take naps together.

🎀  Whenever Kianna has one of her nightmares, Shū cuddles her and cradles her head, patting it and whispering sweet nothings to soothe her. 

🎀  Oddly, they're quite domestic. 

🎀  Realistically, throughout the relationship Shū would be haunted by the memory of Edgar and for being able to move on so fast. 

🎀  The entire ordeal feels off for him, but he does his best to push it down. 

Reaction to Self-Harm:

🎀  This would instantly bring Shū back to Subaru’s borderline suicidal tendencies. 

🎀  I like to think that he’s had to coax Subaru out of harming himself. 

🎀  Like Shū would have so many late night conversations with him, despite his own lingering thoughts. 

🎀  It would sort of feel hypocritical, in a sense, to Shū. 

🎀  So when he sees Kianna on the bathroom floor, with blood tainting the porcelain tiles, alarms go off in his head. 

🎀  He doesn’t want to be the reason that someone else dies. 

🎀  Shū’s already had enough experience with Edgar. 

🎀  So he’d approach it gently. 

🎀  He likes (?) Kianna, but he also has some sort of undetermined feelings to sort out. 

🎀   Shū would take the knife away, and lend an ear to listen or a shoulder to cry on. 

🎀  Just imagine this boy silently listening to all the troubles, whilst running soothing circles around Kianna’s lower back. 

🎀  In terms of cleaning up, he’d most likely use some of his saliva to seal up the wounds (canon fact that vampire’s saliva heals.) 

🎀  And the rest of the blood, I feel as though Shū would be a bit disgusted, or more so uneasy with swallowing the blood shed from self-harm. 

🎀  It’s just the principal of the situation which rubs him the wrong way. 

🎀  So he’d get some bandages and hope that it’s enough.

Oh and for any stars who like the divider used!! Search: dollete divider (in gifs)

Side Note: This is not my OC!!

[rabbitcruiser]

National Tile Day

National Tile Day is on February 23, and we are supercharged to enjoy the aesthetic pleasure of the superb craftsmanship and creativity of the tile industry. Did you know that tiles have existed for thousands of years? Yes, mostly ceramic, mosaic, and stone tiles, and they have evolved into the many varieties so many of us crave today.

History of National Tile Day

Tiles are timeless elements of architectural endeavors and design. Seeing them on the walls, floors, and roofs provides aesthetic pleasure, and they have become inseparable from architecture and designs in all spheres, both domestic and public.

More than that, tiles can be used for flooring all through the house. Kitchens, bathroom, toilet, sitting room; every room in the house can have tiles on the floor to provide a strong, durable, and beautiful flooring. There are many types of tiles, from ceramic, porcelain, and glass to marble, granite, and other natural stone tiles, and many others.

The use of tiles in history began in ancient Egypt several millennia back, and they were used for decorative purposes. They were mostly found in murals, mosaics, and various other designs. The Egyptians had already begun using blue brick tiles to decorate their homes around the fourth millennium B.C., and glazed brick tiles were common in Mesopotamia also, as found on the famous Ishtar Gate in Babylon, which was tiled and decorated with lions, bulls, and dragons. The Islamic empires are given credit for the spread of ceramic tiles as wall coverings, and then the Chinese via their access to the silk trade routes.

Today, tiles exist all over the world, gracing the walls and floors of millions of structures. They have evolved to different designs, patterns, and arrangements that are beautiful and pleasing to the sight, and National Tile Day exists as a moment to celebrate this wonderful, awe-inspiring craftsmanship.

National Tile Day timeline

3500 B.C.Tiles in Egypt

In Egyptian culture, they decorate their houses with blue brick tiles.

1500sPortuguese Heritage

Portugal incorporates the ceramic tile arts as an integral part of its cultural expression, influenced greatly by the Moorish influence of North Africa.

1956Tiling Company

The tile company Osiarte creates tiles used by artist Cândido Portinari to create the mural ‘As Quatro Estações,’ located in Rio de Janeiro.

2017National Tile Day

The biggest international tile and stone show in North America, Covering, initiates National Tile Day to draw attention to the importance of tiles in architecture and designs.

National Tile Day FAQs

Do tiles make the room cold?

Not necessarily. And there are specially made tiles that can regulate temperature, be it cold or hot.

What are the qualities of a good tile?

It should be without cracks, sturdy, be of regular shape and size, and should make a clear ringing sound when you strike it.

What is the difference between interior and exterior tiles?

There is no clear-cut difference, but exterior tile should have grit that provides traction when it gets wet, and should be slip-resistant and frost-proof.

How To Celebrate National Tile Day

Browse through various tile designs

Pick out designs

Share your experience

Surf the net and browse the myriad tile arrangements and designs up there, feeding yourself on the aesthetic pleasures. You will find awe-inspiring craftsmanship that will blow your mind.

This is a time to pick out tile designs for your apartment, dream house, or building. You can also research the prices of the tiles, and what it would take to afford them in your apartment.

Talk to your friends and families on social media and around about tiles, their versatility, and why you love them. You can do this with the tag #NationalTileDay on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, and other social media platforms.

5 Fun Facts About Tiles

It began in Egypt

The Arabs spread It

Spick and span

One million tiles

Freezing cold

The use of tiles began in Egypt before spreading to other parts of the world.

The Arabs were the ones who spread the use of tiles into Europe, where it soon gained ground.

A mixture of water and vinegar is a great and inexpensive cleaning solution for tiles.

More than one million tiles were imported from Sweden to cover the roof of the Sydney Opera House in Australia.

Porcelain tiles are best-suited to freezing weather conditions because of their density.

Why We Love National Tile Day

A time to appreciate tiles

Tiles are calming

They serve as a protective surface

What better day is there to appreciate the great craftsmanship behind tiles than this? This day affords us the opportunity to enjoy the beauty of tiles in their different facets.

Tiles can create a warm atmosphere, which adds to the feel of a home. This makes the home more enjoyable and the ambiance cozy.

Tiles protect surfaces in the house, and the building itself, as a shield against water, heat, and other things that can destroy it. It also protects the floor from dust and can last a lifetime.

Source

[blackcatruse]

𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔞𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔰

«prev. ❃ next» ❃ first chapter ❃ m.list ❃ ao3 pairing: r. haitani/fem!reader  ↳ she/her, fem descriptors, nickname ❃ chapter synopsis: i want answers. what the hell is going on? is the information worth the price? word count: 2.4k chapter cw(s): swearing, possible ooc, mention and slight depiction of suicide a/n: as of the day i'm queuing this up (6.25.24) we have officially caught up to where ashes is on ao3! \-^o^-/ ao3 will still be updated first, and tumblr will hopefully be shortly after.

When you woke, the only thing you remembered dreaming about was your old apartment. Again, it was the day you found your mother’s body, but you weren’t reliving the day. The bathroom was all wrong, too. It was way bigger than the one from your childhood. There was light blue tile on the walls and floor. A shallow layer of water covered the whole floor, with hints of rusty orange that seemed to curl around your foot with each step you took.

At the far end of the room the porcelain tub and your mother’s limp arm dangled over the edge, dripping blood into the water. On her forearm you saw it—that endless knot. Was that what was on her arm when you found her? You remember that there was something, but it was the first you knew of it. You don’t remember your mother having any tattoos. But she always wore long sleeves, even in the sweltering heat of summer.

It was possible that all the information you and Shika had compiled was influencing what you dreamed. The endless knot tattoo was superimposed on your mother’s arm because your brain wanted to make sense of it. Everything was a clusterfuck and you wanted to hibernate until the end of the world.

Unfortunately, you were graced to live another day. You ambled into your living room and saw Shika in the kitchen. You sniffed to make sure nothing was burning. Whatever she was making smelled good, but you had no idea what was in it because you didn’t know what food you had on hand. The rumble of the dryer reminded you that you’d forgotten to move Shika’s clothes from the wash.

“Rise and shine,” Shika said, focusing on whatever was in the skillet.

“What did you find to make?”

“Nothing. Your cabinets are empty.”

“Ah, just like my soul.”

Shika glared at you and you stuck out your tongue. She rolled her eyes before saying, “I ran down to the convenience store and got one of those heat and eat things.”

“A classic,” you said, nodding. You flopped down onto your sofa and noticed the blanket neatly folded on the opposite end. Your coffee table was still littered with your conspiracy theory. There was something legible on the scraps of paper.

“Did you rewrite all my bullshit?” you asked.

“Woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep,” Shika admitted. “We should get a cork board, push pins, and red string. Everything is so fucked about this.”

You snorted, “You’re telling me! Ugh.”

There was a comfortable silence before you remembered something you wanted to gossip about that you didn’t mention last night.

“Did you know Kirin had a wife?” you asked.

Shika dropped the wooden spoon with a clatter. “What?! There’s no fucking way. Wait, you said had.”

You nodded, even though Shika wouldn’t see it. “Yeah, Miko told me that Kirin has a grudge against her because she could save his wife or lover.”

“There’s no way that man was ever married. Maybe an arranged marriage, I guess. Something about gang politics?”

“That would make the most sense,” you agreed. “I’m so confused about everything and the Four Symbols know more than they’re letting on.”

“Without a doubt.” Shika nodded in affirmation.

“I’m going to talk to Suzaku,” you said.

That caught Shika’s attention. She looked at you with wide eyes before her brow crumpled with concern. “After everything that’s gone down,” she started hesitantly.

“I appreciate your concern, truly, but I can’t stay cooped up here and in the dark. If they know something, I want to know it.”

“What will you barter with?” Shika asked. There were unspoken words between you two: Knowledge always came at a price. “Everything you told me involves the secret spy missions you’re going on with the Haitanis.”

Shika had a point, and you hated that she did. “Okay, you got me there. I guess I can try to lie my way through it. If he beats me up, it’ll be nothing new.” You shrugged. “I also heard from Nezumi that my regulars are getting antsy.”

“They are. I did some of his—well, yours, I guess—jobs last week. They’re not happy dealing with new faces, and they want to call bullshit on you being sick.”

“Everything is going to hell,” you concluded after a long, ruminating pause. “They’re gonna have to figure out if I’m worth more than the money they’re gonna lose out on if the deals expire.”

“Suzaku announced at the last division meeting that he was looking for your replacement. They’d take your regular route and form some kind of bond with them.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, Suzaku said something about someone promising to pull more money than you ever did.”

“Big words,” you muttered.

“We all thought so too. Aside from me, Hato, and Nezumi, people were furious that someone who they’ve never met was just going to step into the top spot. They were all clamoring about how they had been doing their jobs longer and they deserved a ‘promotion’.” Shika’s sarcasm combined with the air quotes drew a small laugh out of you. “It’s like they think this is some boring nine-to-five office job.”

“I think it would be good to go visit Suzaku,” you said. “I want answers. And I want to meet my replacement.”

You heard Shika sigh loudly. “Fine,” she said. “But eat breakfast first.”

Every day was a new opportunity to piss Suzaku off. You could see in his head that he was delivering you to hell himself, but you just smiled and waved. “I started getting lonely, you know,” you said. “And stir crazy. I don’t want to stay cooped up anymore.”

Suzaku leaned back in his oversized, cracked leather chair and looked at the ceiling. His lips moved in a quiet countdown then he took a deep breath and sat back up. “They’re Kirin’s direct commands,” he said.

“Does Kirin know you’re on the verge of losing some of the regulars I brought in?”

Suzaku sucked in a sharp breath. “You heard about that?”

“People talk,” you said. “And I have friends now, they tell me everything. Looks like your hands are tied. Who’s my replacement? Am I just going to play prisoner with my debts frozen for an indeterminate amount of time? Seems like a waste.”

“We’re waiting on more information,” Suzaku started carefully. You knew immediately he was talking out of his ass. No more orders had been given and Suzaku was hoping some vague excuse was enough to keep you from asking.

“You’re lying,” you said simply. “There’s been no other orders or information. Did Kirin even tell you the real reason I’m locked up?”

“He didn’t have to tell me,” Suzaku growled through gritted teeth. “We already have an idea of who’s after you. Genbu’s men have been busy lately, gathering intel so we can get you back on the street.”

“Who’s after me?” you asked boldly.

“You wouldn’t gain anything from knowing.” Suzaku’s eyes narrowed. “They’re not someone you’ve heard of.”

“If they’re after me, I deserve to know.”

“You don’t deserve shit!” Suzaku lunged so fast you flinched. His fist slammed down on his sturdy desk and he glared at you. Real, genuine anger burned behind his eyes and it knocked you down a few pegs. You took a subtle step back, but you weren’t leaving without answers.

“Who are they?” you asked again. You decided to push your luck with a white lie. “They’ve all got the same tattoo, the endless knot or whatever? I saw it on one of the guys in the fake deal.”

You watched Suzaku’s resolve falter. You almost thought about revealing what Miko told you, but you weren’t about to endanger her. Suzaku flopped back in his chair. He put his arm over his eyes. You took advantage of his silence and pushed on, “What do they want from me? How do they know about me?”

“Lotus,” Suzaku sounded tired. You would’ve pitied him had he not contributed to the downfall of your youth. “What benefit does that information give you?”

I can pass information on to the Haitanis, you thought. Out loud you said, “If they’re going to be a persistent problem, then I deserve to know before I get back out there. It’s been a while and I’m still being held hostage in my own apartment. You haven’t found out shit. You know I’m good about snooping around. I could—”

“Nobody else will be familiar with them,” Suzaku cut you off. “As far as anyone knows, they’re ghosts that haunt Kirin. Stray members who off themselves after they’ve said their piece.”

“They were trying to break me with Hifumi’s and Kichiro’s deaths. There was no reason to kill them. They communicated through a third party and would know nothing about the true culprits,” you pointed out. “I’m good at what I do, but I’m not that well known.”

“The boys were an unfortunate loss,” Suzaku said, almost sounding like he was sorry. “They got tangled up into something bigger than them, and it caught up. Don’t take it personally.”

“I don’t want Shika, Nezumi, or definitely-Hato harmed because of their involvement with me,” you said. “They’re your other top runners, so you can’t risk them as well.”

The four of you were at the top for a reason. You weren’t afraid to get your hands dirty. You did what was necessary to pull in money. Others in the division may covet your positions, but they didn’t have the wits, determination, or guts to be at the top. They wouldn’t be able to adapt as quickly as you four. Suzaku was already down to three of his top four, and his number one was in isolation. Wuxing was going to take a hit they couldn’t afford, literally and figuratively, if things kept up like this. You had to play this in your favor. How could you spin it so this information is going to help you? You could make a bargain. You were pretty good at that.

“Rumor has it you’ve found a replacement for me,” you said. Suzaku’s eyes narrowed, but you ignored him and went on, “I will personally train them and then stay cooped up as long as you need me to. Just tell me who’s after me and why, or at least, why you think they’re after me. They know about my family, and that’s not common knowledge.”

At least Suzaku had the decency to look torn about making a decision. “He has been running with Nezumi,” he started, keeping the name of your replacement to himself.

“But my regulars don’t like Nezumi. They made a deal with me, so they want to do business with me. If I personally endorse this newcomer, they’ll be more accepting. I pass the baton to the new guy and retire until further notice, and you tell me what the fuck you know.”

“Allow me to make a call,” Suzaku said, standing up and swiping his burner off his desk. He strode past you and out the heavy door, which slammed behind him.

The door cracked open and you saw Shika looking around the corner. You had asked her to stay outside because it made you feel better. She was also going to be back up if you and Suzaku got into one of your regular screaming matches. You were overdue for one.

“He looks like you’ve got him cornered,” Shika said. “Shit must be real bad if he’s actually considering your bargain.”

“Shika, please,” you whined. “I know how he ticks and what cards to play. I can gamble with confidence against the boss.”

“And how many black eyes did that give you?”

“Well, I’ve only got two eyes so—”

Your banter was cut off when you heard Suzaku greet Shika. She simply dipped her head respectfully and moved out of sight. Suzaku walked into his office and behind his desk. He pulled open a few drawers and tossed an envelope on the desk. He then took a cigarette and a lighter from another drawer. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, before exhaling a cloud of smoke that made you cough.

“Take a seat,” he said, not looking at you. His hand gestured vaguely to the two straight-backed chairs in front of his desk. “I got clearance from Kirin to tell you very limited details. On top of your bargain, he wants you to add ten percent more to your debt.”

“Only ten percent?” That was news to you. You figured it’d be a higher percentage. You weren’t sure what you owed them anyway and it didn’t matter that much if you took on more. It would maybe cause problems when Kakucho tried to batter your freedom, but you doubted Wuxing would let you go so easily. Still, you had to hope or you’d find yourself splattered on the pavement.

With all the shit going on, the negotiation for your freedom would be pointless. But, if you passed along your duties and restored your business relationships, they wouldn’t really have a need for you. You figured they’d either shoot you in the head or let you walk free. If you had no gang affiliation, you wouldn’t be able to make new deals. It wasn’t like you were having any luck with them now.

Ten percent of your current, unknown but likely insurmountable, debt was a paltry sum to pay for information. Maybe Rokuhara could help you find some things out. They could help you put pieces together, but not without a price. What did you have to offer them? Maybe you should instead offer to work for Rokuhara instead of going for absolute freedom. It wasn’t easy to escape this life. And you’d take Kakucho over Suzaku any day. At the very least, you’d be free of Wuxing’s clutches. Nezumi and definitely-Hato were going to be released from their contracts soon, and Shika could leave any time she wanted as long as she tied up any loose ends. If you got out, you wanted to make sure they got out unscathed too.

“Fine,” you agreed. “What’s another drop in the bucket, eh?” You took a seat in the uncomfortable chair to your right and lazily crossed your legs. “So what can you tell me?”

Please do not reupload, translate, or steal my work! If it isn't here or on my ao3, it's not me! Likes & reblogs appreciated! <3 Dividers courtesy of @/cafekitsune & @/firefly-graphics

[floornigeria321]

Cover your home space by Hardwood flooring in logos

Hardwood is considered as classic flooring material because it is natural, elegant and strong. It is also made of rare woods that come at a cost. In earlier times hardwood flooring was most preferred because wood was easily available, It gets shiny and classy as it ages and exudes natural charm to attract one and all. It looks cosy and adds richness to interiors

If you are looking for Hardwood flooring in Lagos with installation at under the price then you should get in touch, and our experience team will give you best result.

[shubhinternational01]

We are the major Ceramic Floor Tiles Wholesalers in Rajkot. Here are some of the products that we supply: Porcelain Wall Tiles, Porcelain Floor Tiles, Porcelain Slab Tiles, Ceramic Wall Tiles, Ceramic Floor Tiles, Floor Tiles, Wall Tiles, Quartz Stone, Sanitary Wares, and PVC pipe fittings. The products that we supply are affordable and made with good quality materials. Our items are reasonably priced and made up of high-quality materials. If you require additional assistance, we have the most well-defined customer care structure in place to assist you with any questions you may have.

[myrontile]

There are several compelling reasons to choose Myron Tile And Stone shop in Mississauga. Firstly, we offer a wide variety of high-quality tiles, including ceramic, porcelain, mosaic, and natural stone options, ensuring that you find the perfect fit for your project. Our tiles are sourced from reputable suppliers, guaranteeing durability and long-lasting beauty. Additionally, our knowledgeable and friendly staff are experts in tile selection and installation, providing valuable guidance and personalized customer service. We prioritize customer satisfaction and strive to exceed expectations with our attention to detail and commitment to excellence. Lastly, we offer competitive pricing and convenient services, making us the ideal choice for all your tile needs in Mississauga.

https://myrontile.ca/

[surfacestilesltd]

https://instagram.com/surfacestilesltd?igshid=YmMyMTA2M2Y=

Porcelain tiles are a popular choice in the UK due to their durability, aesthetic appeal, and low maintenance. As the best tiles company in the UK, we offer the highest quality porcelain tiles that are made from carefully sourced materials and manufactured using advanced techniques. We provide our customers with a wide range of designs and styles to suit every taste and budget. Our tiles are cost-effective, and we offer competitive prices while maintaining the highest quality standards. Our exceptional customer service sets us apart, and we are dedicated to ensuring our customers have a stress-free experience when purchasing our porcelain tiles.