#requisition approved

[lloth]

we’re watching glass onion for the first time

[unfortunately-a-fangirl]

[continent-of-wild-endeavor]

I was talking about this with a friend yesterday, comparing what was surprisingly easy vs hard for each of us at a beginners yoga class. (My hips are good at doing stuff! Other parts need work.) And thought about it again at the library, browsing the bottom shelf in the craft section for something fun. How else do you look at the books down there, or compare prices on bottom-shelf groceries? Do you get up and down a lot, bend wayyy over at the hips, look from a distance (you must have better eyes than me)?

Squatting is superior; I recommend practicing it if you're able.

I read somewhere that older ppl in cultures where squatting is more common than sitting in chairs can still comfortably squat, deeply & for long times, whereas what American over 50 can do that and not hurt

It's like a "use it or lose it" thing, so I made sure to spend some time squatting, getting up and down, and it did get easier, though I still can't do it like my little nieces, who can read a book on their knees, but I'm gonna maintain my mobility in this at least

And now it's a nice way to take a break from standing for a bit, or it's the easiest way to do something brief & near the ground, but this is still not what American adults usually do

So sometimes I'm just this strange 30 something woman squatting by the farmstand peeling a peach. And I never think it's an odd thing to do until someone else does.

[makoodles]

ミmy daddy didn't love me so i guess i've moved onto you

🍓 pairing: captain john price x fem reader

🍓 tags: nsfw, daddy kink, undefined age gap, oral sex, unprotected vaginal sex, rough(?) sex, both reader and price have a daddy kink that they indulge in with very little discussion, allusions to reader having a bad relationship with her father (but nothing concrete), price uses a lot of pet names for reader and also calls himself daddy several times

title is inspired by the song peter bogdanovich by my queen CMAT

masterlist

reblogs are always enormously appreciated!

If there’s one thing you know, it’s that you’re damn good at your job.

You have to be in order to survive in this ridiculous goddamn base. There are protocols to be followed, risk assessments to carry out, weapons and equipment requisition requests to send off, and you have to handle almost all of it for Task Force 141. That’s one thing about working with the military – they’re all about action, and rarely have the patience to fill in their paperwork, and then when they do it’s never done properly.

You’re patient when you need to be, willing to push when you have to, and you make sure shit gets done. It’s not an easy job; you work your ass off, and it’s often thankless. Most of your job is done behind the scenes, whether that’s requisitioning on-the-fly tactical or strategic airlifts, liaising with other units, or trying desperately to smooth over any little problems that might crop up with the higher-ups. 

It’s challenging and exhausting, and you love it, but damn, it can be fucking infuriating. Working in a male-dominated environment is a little bit soul-destroying, with every condescending comment and lascivious gaze that lingers over your body. But none of that matters, because you don’t need male approval to excel at your job. You don’t need male approval for anything.

You repeat it to yourself on the daily, which is something that you’ve never had to do before. But before, you weren’t working with Captain John Price.

He’s not… rude, per se. If anything, he’s always coolly polite. But it’s obvious, so obvious, that he just barely tolerates you. He’s gruff, short, to-the-point, and never speaks to you outside of brusque orders. It takes weeks for him to start trusting you with even the most basic of files, and even then chunks of information are often redacted. And it shouldn’t matter; you’ve worked for men like him before, you know how it goes, and if anything he’s one of the better ones.

In the beginning, when you had first been assigned to the task force, Price had not been happy about it. It had been a tough transition; your assignment had been approved by Laswell in order to take some of the strain of liaising off both her and Price, but the Captain hadn’t been too pleased about it. He had seen you as a sort of interloper, a silly little pencil-pusher sent in by the brass to do the grunt work of administration that no one else wants to do.

But you work hard, you always have done. And maybe… maybe, part of the reason that you end up busting your balls so hard is because you want– no. Maybe you need his approval. You’d prefer not to think about it; it’s easier to throw yourself into your work, and pretend that you’re doing it for you.

You’re not even sure how it started, but at some point, Price starts looking at you differently. Maybe he realises that you’re competent at your job, or maybe he just needs to get used to you. Maybe, you hope, he’s finally starting to realise that you’re good at what you do; that you can be an asset to the team, so long as they actually work with you. 

Whatever it is, he eases off. Stops being such a hard-ass, starts giving you space to do your thing. Eventually, he starts delegating too — stops hoarding the work like a miser, and finally starts treating you like you’re capable of something more than just photocopying.

He’s not a bad boss, not by a long shot. He’s kind, determined, patient when it matters, with a wry sense of humour. He’s also fiercely protective over his team, and that includes you now. 

But he’s also older, by at least fifteen years, and he’s not always the most diligent with paperwork. Typical man of action, you’ve seen it a hundred times before. There’s always something more important to do, and while he’s always so cognisant of your workload and careful not to add to it, he is also all too happy to let you take the reins when it comes to bureaucracy. You like to think that you’ve proved yourself to him, but maybe he just respects competency.

That should be it.

But you’re so ashamed to admit that even when Price stops treating you like you’re a hostile target, you can’t stop hoping for his attention. Your mental chants of I don’t need male approval for anything, I don’t need male approval for anything become a daily thing, and sometimes a several-times-a-day thing.

Because the thing is, Price can be a difficult man to please. He’s always so busy that he doesn’t have time to give you the approval that you’re straining for, but when he does it gives you the most shameful warm glow in your belly. 

A brief nod or a low grunted ‘Thanks, sweetheart’ is enough to fuel you for days now. Even better is when you’re walking along beside him, briefing him on the latest update from the higher-ups, and he leans his head in towards you as he listens intensely, sometimes even laying his large palm against the small of your back. Ostensibly, it’s to lead the way and guide you out of the path of the running cadets, but it just toes the line of professionalism and you flounder under the touch.

It’s stupid. You’re stupid. He’s just a coworker, and you need to keep your issues to yourself.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

You’re perfectly self-aware enough to admit when you’re in a bad mood.

You start the day tired, and when you check your reflection in the mirror first thing that morning you’re greeted with the sight of a big, fuck-off pimple on your chin. It’s big, it’s throbbing, it practically has its own fucking heartbeat. You barely restrain the urge to pick at it, though you can feel it even when you’re not looking at it.

Your mood doesn’t improve when you get to the small kitchenette by your office and find that someone has used the last of the fancy French Vanilla flavoured coffee that you’ve stocked for yourself. As if that’s not bad enough, your little stash of chocolate digestives you keep for yourself for emergency bad days have disappeared too.

You clench your jaw and continue about your business. Whatever. You can survive without your coffee and chocolate.

Your resolve falters when you see the pile of paperwork on your desk, but whatever. It’s all part of the job. A little chocolate biscuit to nibble on would definitely make your job easier, but you’re a big girl and you’re just going to have to go without.

Then you get the phone call. One that makes you want to bang your head against your desk hard enough to knock yourself unconscious so that you don’t have to deal with this.

It’s time to update the TF141 personnel files. Orders from above, since there’s been significant changes to medical and surgical history in the last couple of months from injuries on missions.

 Normally, that’s not such a big deal. It just involves updating their medical and technical files, making sure that nothing major has changed with regards their addresses or other personal information, even though a big portion of it ends up redacted anyway. 

And, naturally, updating their photographs for their files.

You start easy. 

Gaz is happy to come to your office when you text him, and he stands obediently for you as you take his picture. He’s gotten a metal plate fitted in his kneecap from the last time his file has been updated, and he sits and chats easily with you as you go through his information. He’s a sweet guy, and so easy to talk to, and you sigh with the knowledge that no one is going to make your job as simple and leisurely as Gaz just has.

After he leaves, you target Soap. He comes to your office as easily as Gaz, but he’s significantly more difficult to photograph.

He just keeps smiling, no matter how many times you tell him to quit it. 

“It’s a personnel file photograph, not a photo for your Instagram.” You sigh, irritated. “I need you to have a blank, neutral expression. It’s like a passport photo, Sergeant. It’s for a government document.”

“Can’t help it, lass.” Soap says easily, that stupid grin not even dimming. “I see a camera, I smile. It’s muscle memory.”

You think that your irritation is only encouraging him, which only worsens your mood. In the end, you don’t get a single usable photograph of him for his file. You have to give up on him, swearing that you’ll come get him to try again later. He leaves your office still chuckling, like he thinks your frustration is cute.

You have tougher targets to tackle.

The difficult part isn’t even taking Ghost’s photo — the difficult part is catching him in the first place.

You spend almost three hours trying to track him down (because he won’t read your texts and your phone calls go unanswered), wobbling all over base in your stupid high heels and somehow missing him by mere moments every time. You arrive in the gym, the mess, the firing range, even the barracks, only to see the man’s enormous broad back disappearing out of the other door as soon as you get there.

You can only assume that Soap had given Ghost the heads up that you were on the prowl with a mission and a camera, because the lieutenant is avoiding you like the goddamn plague.

So yeah. You’re in a real bad fucking mood. But you can’t help it — some days your job is entirely thankless, and your mood drops so low that you feel like going home and crying. But you can’t, and you don’t want to show weakness in front of these military idiots, so all you can do is lock your jaw and go about your business the best you can.

You go back to your office, jaw and fists clenched tight, and collapse at your desk with your head in your hands. You have to take a few deep, slow breaths to try and calm yourself, but then you make the mistake of checking your reflection and your mood sinks lower again when you see that the stupid pimple on your chin has worsened.

God, this is just not your day. You have to get these stupid files updated, or it’ll fall on your head. 

Eventually, you reluctantly stand up. There’s no point moping; you have a job to do, whether you like it or not, and your next victim is Captain Price.

You walk to Price’s office swiftly, your feet aching in your stupid heels. You wish you had worn something more sensible, but… well. Even subconsciously, you want to impress.

When you reach his office, you throw the door open and march inside without even bothering to knock. 

Price is sitting behind his desk, and his head snaps up as soon as you walk in. His expression is set in a hard scowl, though it softens when he sees who it is. You guess you don’t exactly pose much of a threat, so he sees no use in posturing.

“I need you for a moment.” You bite out, allowing the door to slam shut behind you.

You hear Price sigh, before he leans back and settles into his chair, making himself comfortable. He’s wearing the same dark compression shirt that he usually wears for training exercises or to the gym, and he’s recently groomed his beard down too. He looks good, though it takes a colossal amount of effort for you to not notice, because you have other things you need to focus on right now.

“Hello to you too, love.” He grunts, wiping a hand over his eyes. “What’s the problem?”

You struggle not to react to that, his low voice both soothing and igniting something in your blood. You take a breath, try to calm down. You’re a professional, and you’re not here to embarrass yourself in front of the captain.

“I’m updating personnel files,” You say, and this time it comes out calm and steady, “I need to take a picture of you.”

Price’s gaze lingers on you, his stern brow softening a little. For a moment, you think that maybe this is actually going to be easy. That he’ll just stand up and take the fucking picture, so that the two of you can go back to your jobs and relax for the rest of the day.

But then–

“Jesus, kid.” He sighs, already shaking his head. “I’m up to my eyes right now. Leave it ‘till tomorrow.”

For a moment, you don’t react at all. You just stare at him, letting those dismissive words settle over you. He’s already looking back at his paperwork, mission briefings and maps littering the desk, and you feel so effectively dismissed. You feel small, so silly and stupid standing in front of him in a way that you haven’t felt since you first started working with the task force. You had thought that you were past this, that you had earned some meagre sort of respect from him.

“I need it done today.” You say, and your voice comes out a little hollow to your own ears.

You don’t need male validation. You don’t. But damn, you’ve had a rough day and the fact that your captain isn’t even bothering to look at you makes you want to cry.

Price sighs, and rubs at the crease between his eyes. He looks just as tired as you feel.

“Yeah, well. I don’t have time. Tomorrow.”

You swallow, pursing your lips. He’s so effortlessly dominant, which means that his careless dismissal stings all the more.

“I have to get the whole team done,” You say, struggling to keep your voice firm. “Soap wouldn’t stop smiling for the camera, I couldn’t find Farah anywhere, and Ghost–”

Price gives a sharp, derisive snort. “Forget Ghost.”

You scowl. “I need to do the whole squad.”

“Not Ghost.” Price repeats, this time slower and with more emphasis. “Simon doesn’t do photos.”

You take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. You’ve been working alongside the task force for a while now, and you’re familiar with Lieutenant Riley’s penchant for covering his face. It’s not something you have a problem with – usually.

“There’s no reason for him to be the exception to personnel photos, Captain.” You say through gritted teeth. “Everyone else is being photographed. The task force might be covert, but Lieutenant Riley is no more–”

“Christ, enough.” Price snaps, his voice a deep boom that has your mouth closing with a click. “The One Four One is my squad, in case you’ve forgotten. I know these lads, and I’m telling you to leave it out.”

You stare, a little taken aback by the harshness in his voice. He hasn’t been this sharp with you in months, not since you had started to prove yourself competent, useful. Now, you can see the warning signs of his bad mood; the circles under his eyes are pronounced, his skin dull in the ugly fluorescent lights of his office. He looks exhausted, his skin lined and dry like he hasn’t been drinking enough water.

You realise, a little too late, that you might have been pushing your luck by insisting on something as silly as personnel file photos. TF 141 had only returned from deployment at the beginning of the week, and Price has no doubt been drowning in reports since.

“This is why I told Laswell you weren’t necessary,” His snarl is entirely unlike him, and he rubs his face furiously, his palms rasping through his beard. “I don’t need someone coming in here and making demands of my squad for– for fucking photographs.”

You inhale shakily through your nose; to your utter horror, you can feel your eyes burn with hot wet tears. It’s stupid – you’ve dealt with far crueller words from far harsher men. The nature of your job often puts you in the firing line for frustration, and when it bubbles over it’s frequently directed at you. 

But this… this feels different, for some reason. You’ve been working your ass off to try and earn some recognition from Price, to show him that you’re a valuable asset to the team, and so his sharp, frustrated dismissal of you cuts deeper than it should.

You hate that your eyes are burning like this. You don’t want Price to think of you as useless, or as the silly little girl who was put on the team by the brass who can’t even do her job right. He was just starting to think of you as competent, and it hurts your ego to have to go to him for help with something that you should be more than capable of handling yourself in the first place.

“Right,” You say, and even you’re startled by the sharpness in your tone. “Fine. Forget the file updates, then.”

You step forward, jaw clenched hard, and toss the files you’ve been carrying around all day onto his desk. They hit the surface with a smack that feels uncomfortably loud in the tense silence that’s fallen over the room.

“I’ll tell the higher-ups that you’re handling it.” You continue, your voice coming out brattier than you’d like. “Since obviously I have no idea what I’m doing–”

“Oh, don’t do that.” Price sighs, as though you’re the one being unreasonable. “What I’m saying is, if you’re going to work with the team, you have to understand the team–”

That, you think, might just push you over the edge.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” You snap out, and Price’s mouth closes. “D’you think I’m– that I’m some kind of idiot?”

Price blinks. It seems like you’ve managed to take him by surprise, as though your bad mood rivals his just enough to pull him out of his own grumpy form entirely. He opens his mouth again, but you’re not ready to hear him speak again just yet.

“I’m here because Laswell put in a request for me to work with you and your squad, Captain. I’m considered an asset to the teams that I work with,” You’re scowling thunderously, all the tension and frustration that’s been mounting all day spilling over. “And I don’t have to put up with being dismissed and unappreciated when I know that I would be respected in other squads for the work that I do.”

Price raises his hands, a frown creasing his brow. “Kid, that’s not–”

Usually, being called ‘kid’ by Price has a warm glow settling in your stomach that you’re absolutely not interested in examining, but this time it only lights an infuriated fire in your belly. 

“Don’t!” You snap, your breath juddering unsteadily. “God, you think I enjoy being treated like an idiot? You think I haven’t had to deal with this from men my whole career? My whole life? Even my father–”

To your abject horror, a lump forms in your throat and you can’t finish that sentence. Your eyes are hot with unshed tears, and you’re pretty sure your lip is trembling. 

Price stands, his stern expression slackening into something like uncomfortable surprise as he moves to step around the desk.

“Hey,” He soothes, lifting his hands. “I’m not your father.”

“I know that!” You snap, irate. You’re frustrated with yourself, embarrassed at what you’ve unintentionally given away. “I wouldn’t want you to be!”

Price’s expression flickers, as though he can’t decide quite how to react to you. You’re more than aware that you’re being childish, but you find yourself unable to temper your overreactions. In the face of your tears and your frustrated anger, Price looks like he’s at a loss.

“All I’ve done is work hard, and tried to take the burden off you to make your job a little easier.” You continue before he can interrupt again. “And all I get in return is stress, and my chocolate biscuits eaten, and breakouts, and– and–”

“Kid–”

“The only person who wasn’t an absolute dickhead to me today was Garrick,” You rage, on a roll now. “Everyone else has just been so– and look how bad my skin has gotten from the stress of having to deal with men who want to act like children–”

Price watches you with an expression that is plainly bewildered as you gesture at the stupid pimple that’s been throbbing on your chin all day. You don’t even think you’re making sense, too lost in your frustration and humiliation to be properly aware of what you’re saying. 

“Your… skin.” He repeats, a little disbelieving. 

You whirl away, agitated. You’re not getting your point across well, and Price must think you’re simply demented. 

“Hey,” He says slowly, approaching from around the side of his desk. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you weren’t doing a decent job–”

“Whatever.” You mutter, running your hands over your skirt in an attempt to straighten out the creases. “Whatever.”

It’s too little, too late. He’s always been a bit of a hardass, and you’ve always tried so hard to please him, to impress him. But you can’t bear to make a fool of yourself like this any longer.

“I’ll leave the paperwork to you. Update it, or don’t. It doesn’t matter.” You say shortly, turning on your heel and marching towards the door.

“Wait,” Price calls out. His voice is firm, echoing with the grim certainty of a man who is used to being obeyed.

But you’re not one of his soldiers, and his command falls on deaf ears. Your skin is still prickling with humiliation; you don’t think you’ve ever been so desperate to get away from the Captain before.

“Sweetheart, just wait a minute,” Price says, and this time you can hear the exasperation in his voice. “I understand that you’re stressed, that’s normal. Everyone gets stressed in this line of work. But you can’t just go and get your knickers in a twist because some of the lads are bein’ difficult–”

“My knickers are none of your business!” You yell. Truthfully, it’s more of a shriek, high-pitched and unsteady enough to have Price’s eyes widening and darting towards the door as though worried about someone overhearing from the corridor.

“Whoa, okay,” Price says with the air of trying to soothe a spooked horse. “You're right. Your... knickers... ain't my concern. But helping keep this squad running smoothly is, and that can't happen if my admin is on edge."

“Oh, give me a break!” You’re beyond on-edge now, sailing right into fury. “You ignore me most of the time when you're not on deployment, you dismiss me when I’m just trying to do my job, but now you’re telling me you need me to not be on edge?”

You’ve reached the door now, your hand clenched tight around the doorhandle as you take one last moment to turn and look at him. He’s stepping towards you, no doubt with the intent to stop you before you can leave, but you don’t plan on giving him the chance.

“Kid, just hang on a damn minute–”

“Sort the files yourself, or do whatever you want.” You bite out, yanking the door open but pausing in the doorway. “I don’t even care anymore. It’s your squad, you do it.”

Price takes a breath, visibly fighting for patience. Truthfully, you don’t know how he hasn’t lost his head with you already. He was already exhausted and in an obviously bad mood when you had stormed in here, and it couldn’t be more obvious that you’ve just made it worse with all of your frenzied anger and borderline hysteria. 

The fact that Price is staying calm and level even in the face of your stress-induced meltdown only makes you feel all the more ridiculous. You wish he would get angry, that he would snap at you like he had when you had first walked in – at least that way you could pretend that you don’t notice the way his stressed scowl had melted into a look of concern as soon as he had seen the tears welling up in your stinging eyes.

“And you don’t have to wear that stupid hat, we’re indoors!” You yell, your voice teetering on the edge of hysteria.

You just have enough time to see his hand reach up to touch the brim of his boonie hat before you hurriedly bolt out of the room, escaping into the corridor before he can stop you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

“— just thinking that maybe I’d be better suited with another team, that’s all. I heard Kortac’s liaison is approaching maternity leave—”

“That position is going to be filled internally,” Laswell’s voice is calm over the secure phoneline, a stark contrast to the shaky undertone of stress in your own. “Besides, organising a transfer like that is more trouble than it’s worth.” There’s a pause, then a sigh crackles over the phone. “You still haven’t explained what happened. As far as I can see, you were doing good work there.”

Yeah, you think sourly, because all you see is the paperwork end of it.

“... Internal conflict.” You mutter, playing with the fraying edge of your sweater sleeve. 

There’s a long pause, protracted enough that it makes you squirm. You know what she’s thinking – in your line of work, it’s impossible to avoid clashing with some of the big dominant personalities who are used to getting away with whatever they want. But you’ve always been able to handle it, well-versed enough in diplomacy to know when to stand your ground and when to bow out to avoid unnecessary strife. 

“Internal conflict.” Laswell repeats, her voice as bland as you’ve ever heard it. “Meaning?”

God, it feels like you’re disappointing your mom or something. You scrub a hand over your face, pacing in the living room of your small apartment.

“I know how it sounds,” You say, “But– they don’t want to work with me. There’s only so much I can do if I’m being met with resistance at every corner–”

“You’ve worked with resistant squads before,” Laswell interrupts. “It’s part of the job.”

“Yes, but…” You start, before trailing off. 

She has a point, of course. It is part of the job. There’s no way to professionally explain to your superior that the reason this assignment is so difficult is because you have a mortifying crush on the Captain of the Task Force. It’s making you stupid, making all the stupid bullshit that you’re usually able to look past feel so much worse, especially because all you’ve ever wanted was Price’s approval.

Another sigh. This one, at least, sounds a little more sympathetic.

“Look,” Laswell says, and this time her voice is a little gentler. “I’ve never given you an assignment that I didn’t think you could handle. Whatever is going on, you need to sort it. You’re a capable girl, and the One Four One is far from the most difficult team you’ve had to deal with. There might be some big personalities there, but nothing that you shouldn’t be able to tackle.”

“Mhm.” You grunt noncommittally.

“Sort out whatever’s going on with you.” Laswell’s tone leaves no room for argument, her suggestion falling just short of a command. “If whatever issues you’re experiencing continue, I’ll talk to John–”

“No!” You blurt.

God, you can’t think of anything worse. You’ve already made a show of yourself in front of him, the last thing you need is for him to learn that you’ve gone crying to Laswell about the whole thing. You don’t want him to think of you as any more of a useless little girl than he doubtlessly already does.

“No,” You repeat, calmer this time as you clear your throat. “I’ll… sort it. Sorry to bother you with this, ma’am.”

Laswell hums, and you can imagine her eyes narrowing. Judging by the wind whistling in the background of the call, she’s not anywhere near her cushy office. You’ve interrupted her on whatever assignment she’s on, and she’s been kind enough to listen to your silly little complaints for at least fifteen minutes of her valuable time. You feel more ridiculous than ever, and you pinch at the bridge of your nose.

“... Right.” She says. “Fine. Keep me updated on the situation. I want a sitrep by the end of the week, understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

You understand what’s not being said. Laswell expects you to work your own shit out, but you can hear the concern in her voice when she demands an update. All you can do is agree. Laswell has been by your side throughout your whole career, always having a hand in your assignments and your progression, and she’s always been an advocate for you and what you’re capable of. Now, after this conversation, you feel silly for getting so overwhelmed in the face of what is a relatively minor obstacle.

“Good. I’ll speak to you then.”

You hum, wish her goodbye and good luck, and hang up the phone.

For a long moment afterwards, you sit in silence in your living room. God, how did all of this spiral into such a mess?

For the last few days, you’ve been avoiding the base entirely. You have a few PTO days built up, and you’ve taken the opportunity to just chill out. It’s the first chance you’ve had to relax properly in months, since you had started working with the task force. The space is good, and it’s needed.

You get out of the headspace of work, and reports, and files and requisitions and debriefs, and instead treat yourself with full body self-care. You exfoliate, you moisturise, you use a hair mask, you take bubble baths. You even catch up on the trashy Netflix romance series that you had put on hold for ages, just waiting for some free time to indulge.

And you almost, almost, forget about why you’re hiding away in your little flat in the first place.

But your third day off creeps around, and you can’t help but feel as though your little bubble of isolation is about to pop. There’s only so much time away from the office that you’re able to swing, and the longer away the more you feel that your position on the team is untenable. No matter how you currently feel about the task force and your place with them, you’re not willing to let your hard work go down the drain just because you’re too cowardly to face them again after your little meltdown.

So, you go back to work after your little break away.

You manage to slink into your office mostly unseen, other than polite hello’s from other admin staff as you slip through the halls. Your office is far from prime real estate when it comes to office space on base – it’s well out of the way, down several corridors that no one ever goes down, and once you get past the main thoroughfares you don’t come across anyone. Even still, it feels a little like you’re doing a walk of shame, but you walk with your head held high before you finally get your office door closed behind you. 

To your surprise, your desk is clear. Typically, any slight break away from your desk results in work piling up on it, just waiting for your attention once you get back. You don’t know what to make of the absence of work; you can’t help but wonder, somewhat uncomfortably, if Price had taken your words to heart and dealt with all of the paperwork himself.

You check the drawers of your desk too, just in case, and come up empty yet again. 

Well. Okay, then. 

You sign into your desktop, waiting for the encryption program to load before accessing your emails. There’s a lot to catch up on, so you spend the next hour or so organising your to-do list in order of urgency.

You get lost in making your little lists, allowing yourself to relax into finding order in your schedule. You barely even look up until there’s a soft knock on your office door, and by the time you’ve raised your head the door has opened and Farah has slipped inside.

“Oh,” You straighten up in surprise. “Commander. What can I do for you?”

It’s a surprise to see her, especially since you hadn’t received any email correspondence. Your office is tucked away down a remote corridor, and soldier’s usually prefer to just email you their requests rather than make the trek down.

Farah offers a polite smile, approaching your desk. “I hear you are taking photographs.”

Your smile slips a little. “Oh. No, actually, I wasn’t–”

“Captain Price said I was to be photographed,” She says, pulling the chair out opposite you and watching you expectantly. “I tried to find you yesterday, and the day before, but I believe you weren't on base.”

You shift, feeling abruptly rather awkward. “Right. I was– Price said that to you?”

“Mhm.” Farah leans back in the chair, her dark eyes alert as they track over your face. “He said that you have been stressed.”

You feel your face heat, mortified. Oh, god. How embarrassing. Has Price given the team a goddamn debrief on your little meltdown? Farah tilts her head as though she knows what you’re thinking, and a tiny smile quirks at the corner of her lips.

“That’s all he said,” She says. “That, and that we should try to make your job a little easier.”

“Oh.” You shift, embarrassed and awkward. “I– Listen, I had a… rough day at work a few days ago, that’s all. I’m not– things are fine.”

Farah just nods as though that’s perfectly convincing, and you find yourself wildly appreciative of her for a moment.

“So, then,” She says, and raises her eyebrows. “The picture?”

You can’t find a way to explain that you had thrown that particular responsibility right back at Price in a fit of pique, but it turns out you don’t have to. Farah produces a slim folder that you hadn’t noticed her holding, and you realise with another flush of embarrassment that it’s her personnel file.

“There wasn’t much to update, just a recent blood work test.” She says as she lays it on your desk. 

“That’s… thanks.” You say weakly, taking the file in hand. You flick through it briefly, feeling something in your stomach squirm at the sight of Farah’s details all filled in – Price’s handwriting is unmistakable, the small neat blocky letters standing out amongst the messy scrawl of Farah’s medical report.

You dig out your camera, still a little flustered, and direct Farah to stand against your plain white-painted wall. She’s an easy subject to photograph; she stands perfectly still, unsmiling, and you get the perfect picture after only a couple of attempts.

“Lovely,” You murmur, flicking through the pictures. “Thank you.”

Farah hums. You’re expecting her to dismiss herself, and it takes a moment for you to realise that she’s still lingering. You glance up, blinking, only to find that she’s standing with her lips pursed, obviously considering something.

“The Captain is worried about you.” She says, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Is everything alright?”

You gape at her like a moron, camera still hanging loosely from your hands. You feel uncomfortably seen; there’s no way that Farah could know what happened, but she’s looking at you with an awful lot of sympathy right now.

“What?” You squeak.

“You fought?” Farah speaks slowly, obviously conscious of overstepping her boundaries. “I don’t mean to pry, it’s just…”

“No, that’s okay.” You say hastily. “We didn’t– there was no fighting, exactly.”

She just nods, as if you’re making perfect sense, then smiles politely. She gathers herself up and steps towards the door, and you feel your head spinning as she turns to go. 

“You look tired,” Farah murmurs, low enough that you almost miss it. “When Price wants to fix things, let him.”

“Mhm.” You nod quickly without really hearing her. You’re pretty sure you’d agree to anything right now just to escape the knowing intensity of Farah’s gaze. “Yeah, of course.”

After Farah leaves, you feel like you need another day off. It’s all you can do to just sit in your comfortably padded office chair and groan like a moron, because Jesus Christ you’ve made such a mess of things. 

It was bad enough when you were pining like an idiot from afar; you’ve had crushes before, and you know that you would have outgrown it eventually. But then you had your stupid little meltdown in front of Price, and revealed more than you intended, and all of a sudden you’ve made yourself into a fool in front of the squad you’ve tried so hard to impress these last few months.

You have to try hard not to spiral. In fact, it’s a challenge not to cave and grab your phone to call Laswell all over again to demand a reassignment right this second. You have a pretty good idea of what she’d say to you in response, but still, the impulse remains.

All you can do is put it from your mind. You potter about, printing Farah’s photograph so you can tuck it neatly into her file with a paperclip, and then decide to start replying to the many emails that have built up in your absence.

The emails vary in tone, from polite enquiries to not-so-polite demands for you to solve some administrative issues, and you sigh quietly as you respond to some of the more snotty messages from upper management. And if you’re a little bit passive aggressive, then you don’t think anyone can blame you.

Your mind has finally quietened, focusing on your work as the buzz of your thoughts settle down, when another knock sounds out from your door. This one is firmer than Farah’s soft knock from earlier, and a little louder, though this time you don’t look up from your screen.

“Come in.” You call, chewing at your lip as you struggle to keep the wording of your email civil.

You’re half-expecting it to be Soap this time around, or maybe one of the recruits hoping to get you to sign off on their leave. So when you finally glance up only to catch sight of the broad, thick-shouldered figure of Captain Price stepping into your office, you think you might go into cardiac arrest.

Email abandoned, you half jolt to your feet before changing your mind mid-movement and attempting to sit back down. It ends up being a humiliating sort of jerky motion, and you pray that he somehow missed it entirely.

“Captain.” You wheeze, your voice coming out a little weak.

Price’s cool blue eyes dart over your face and then down the length of your body, and you become suddenly, mortifyingly aware of the state you’re in. You might not want to admit it, but your wardrobe definitely changes when the Captain isn’t on deployment. Instead of professional trousers, you wear your tight knee-length pencil skirts and fitted shirts, and totter around in your heels. And it’s silly, but… well, you can’t help but notice the way Price’s eyes follow you when you dress like that, and you like his attention on you.

Except today, you hadn’t been planning on running into Price. You hadn’t planned on seeing anyone, so you had dressed for comfort — you’re wearing a pair of frumpy grey wool trousers and a super over-sized soft purple sweater that practically swallows you whole. You haven’t even done your hair nicely, and you curse yourself. This has to be the least sexy you’ve looked in months.

“D’you’ve a moment, love?” 

His voice seems loud in the quiet of your office, even though realistically you know he’s only speaking in a murmur. In the quiet days you’ve spent alone in your apartment, you’d almost forgotten how lovely and low and gruff his voice is, and you feel your toes curl in your shoes at the sound of it.

It’s not as though you can refuse him, though you’re already embarrassingly aware of the way in which you had stormed off the last time you had seen him.

“Yeah.” You swallow thickly in an attempt to strengthen your voice, but it still comes out high and thready. “Sure.”

As if he had just been waiting for permission, Price steps into the room properly and closes the door behind him. All of a sudden, the room feels a little claustrophobic. Price is a big man, broad-shouldered and thickly built with a soft layer of fat cushioning those hard muscles, and you can’t help but feel as though his presence is sucking all of the air out of the room.

But still, he approaches slowly, like you’re some kind of feral cat. Those sharp eyes of his are still tracking over you; he never misses a beat, and you know that he’s taking stock of you in the same way he would for an enemy out on the field. You feel raw, uncomfortably vulnerable. You find yourself wishing wildly and ridiculously that you had worn your usual fitted shirt and pencil skirt, or at least put on a bit of makeup.

“You look rested.” He notes, coming to a slow stop just in front of your desk.

You suddenly curse your last minute choice to stay seated, because now Price’s big body is towering over you in a way that’s honestly making your head swim a little.

“Yeah.” Your voice is a little hoarse. “I guess.”

Price nods, inhales through his nose. A moment passes before he clears his throat and reaches out to place a handful of files on your desk. Despite the plain manila envelopes, you recognise them for what they are almost immediately; the personnel files for 141.

“Finished ‘em off for you while you were gone.” He says gruffly, as though it were no big deal. “Nearly had to nail Soap down to a chair for that damn photo.”

You stare at the files for a long moment, making no move to open them. You find yourself totally, utterly lost for words. 

“This is–” You start to say, and truthfully you’re not sure where you’re going with that. You think you’re about to thank him, but he doesn’t really give you the chance to.

“Why don’t we talk?” He says, and motions to the dinky little couch in the corner of the room as if he owns it.

You hesitate a moment, a little peeved about the effortless way he takes command in your own office, but relent and push yourself up from the desk. You don’t make eye contact with Price as you step around him, walking to the corner, but you can feel his eyes on you all the same.

 The couch had come with the office, and you don’t even really want to think about how old it is, but you sink down awkwardly onto it anyway. The cushions are worn and threadbare and the springs creak gratingly when you settle your weight onto it, but it’s fine. It does the job.

You’re half-expecting Price to drag the spare chair at your desk over so he can sit opposite you – you’re not expecting him to step right up next to you before he drops down next to you, sighing as his thick thighs spread wide.

You barely bite back a squeak, a little bewildered. You’re not surprised that he’s asked to talk to you. Your behaviour had been wildly inappropriate, and you couldn’t exactly protest if he’s decided to caution you or something.

But you had expected it to be a more formal affair; sitting together on the pathetic, dingy little couch in your office feels entirely too casual for the dressing down you’re sure you’re about to receive.

“Think we’re due a discussion about the other day.” He says, gentler than you had been expecting.

You avoid his eyes, though you can feel his stare boring into the side of your face. Ugh. Time to eat humble pie, you think miserably. 

“I’m sorry, sir.” You keep your voice as dispassionate and prim as possible. “My behaviour was unprofessional and entirely unacceptable, and I have no excuse. It won’t happen again, I assure you.”

It’s as professional an apology as you can manage, and you chance a quick side glance at him to see his reaction. Your stomach sinks when you see that his brow is creased in a frown, and you panic a little at the realisation that your apology hasn’t helped matters at all.

“Well,” His voice is gruff enough to elicit a little shiver from you. “I wasn’t–” He clears his throat. “I wasn’t looking for an apology.”

That finally makes you turn properly, your eyes darting nervously over his face. He’s already watching you, his blue eyes searing under the brim of his stupid hat. He’s trimmed his beard since the last time you saw him; the salt and pepper bristles of his moustache and chops are neat and shortened. He looks good, though you try not to notice. He doesn’t look as dehydrated or drained as he did a few days ago either, though he still leans into the couch with an air of quiet exhaustion.

“Paperwork has never been my favourite thing in the world,” He confesses with an air of chagrin that’s painfully endearing to you. “Always found it a pain, to be honest. Puts me right out of sorts. I was… short with you, the other day.”

You frown, making yourself small on the couch. “You said I wasn’t necessary.”

Price winces, then reaches up and pulls his boonie hat off his head so that he can drag a hand over his short-cropped hair. Though you had insulted it only the other day, it strikes you as odd to see him with a bare head.

“Shouldn’t have said that.” He mumbles, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his hat hang from his hands. “You’ve been great these last few months. Don’t know what I’d have done without you, sometimes.”

You’re stupid. It’s the only reason you can think of to explain the way blood rushes to your head and turns your face hot, your whole body going hot and prickly in response to his low praise. You fidget, glance away, and pray he doesn’t notice. 

“You know I’m no good at deskwork,” He says, and leans in a little closer like he thinks you’re not listening properly. “Don’t have the head for it. I think you’re the reason the team runs so smoothly in the first place, love.”

The flattery is being laid on a little too thick, but it works. You fall for it entirely, a warm glow settling over you like a blanket, wrapping around you tight and soothing the jagged edges of your anger and anxiety. You hate that you’re so easy to appease, a couple of sweet compliments and assurances falling from your Captain’s lips assuaging all that upset that you’ve been carrying around with you for days now.

But still, part of you isn’t quite willing to let go of the sting, the hurt that his words and his harsh tone had caused. 

“Is this you apologising, then?” You ask, watching him from the corner of your eye.

He smiles, close-mouthed. “Yeah. It is. Not doin’ too good, am I?”

“You’re doing okay.” You murmur, before deciding to try to be a bit cheeky. “But you can keep going, if you’d like.”

Price laughs, rich and warm and low. You don’t think you’ve ever actually heard him laugh in all the months you’ve been working with the task force, and the sound of it rumbles right into your bones, settling something inside of you and finally allowing you to relax. No longer tense with stress, you melt a little into the corner of the couch.

“Shouldn’t have snapped at you,” He says slowly. “You do good work. Great work. You shouldn’t feel like you’re not a valued member of the team.”

You swallow thickly. You feel too warm, your head swimming a little. His attention feels too heavy, heating your blood and going straight to your head.

“I overreacted,” You mumble reluctantly. “I shouldn’t… your hat isn’t stupid.”

That gets another bark of laughter out of Price, and he slaps a hand down onto your knee. The contact makes you jolt, eyes widening, but Price’s hand doesn’t shift. His palm is so large, spread across your thigh as his fingers curl over your knee. The touch feels almost scorching even through the thick fabric of your trousers.

All of a sudden, your tongue feels very thick in your mouth. The hand on your knee is not in any way suggestive; it’s chaste, innocent, just resting there like a reminder that he wants your attention on him (as if it could be anywhere else). But your nerves are jangling all of a sudden, every one of your senses straining towards him as you hold your breath.

“The hat isn’t the problem,” Price mutters, though you barely hear him. “I wanted to ask you about something else you said, love. Something you said about your father.”

That has some of the heat in your veins cooling, your eyes blowing wide. “I– what?”

To your bewilderment, Price’s cheeks have reddened beneath the whiskers of his beard and moustache. Despite his clear chagrin, he doesn’t break eye contact with you, his thick fingers squeezing cautiously around your knee. 

“Don’t mean to overstep,” He assures you quietly. “And– and don’t mind me if I’m talkin’ nonsense. But I know that you’ve been working so hard, and you’ve got a tough job. Can’t be easy. And I just wanted to say that if you'd like some… guidance – someone to steer you on the right path, that is– well, that I’m here if you ever want to talk."

Oh god. You feel your mouth go dry. 

It’s funny, because even though Price isn’t even yet forty, he’s always seemed so much older. Maybe it’s the weight of the responsibility that he carries on his shoulders, or the battle-hardened icy blue eyes, or the paternal sense of protectiveness that he shows over his team. He’s always been like an almost father figure for the squad, regardless of age; you’ve seen the way he’s so protective over Ghost, the way he claps Soap on the back or shoulders in praise to boost him up, the way he beams with pride when Farah excels, the way he always makes time to guide or give advice to Gaz.

It’s sweet. He’s always been sweet, so aware of the personalities on his team, even when he’s acting like that typical military authority figure. 

"Sounds like you want to be my daddy." You mean to say it in a derogatory fashion, laughing as though it's ridiculous, though when it comes out you can hear that it’s missing some of the sarcasm you had intended.

Price reacts instantly. He reels back, eyes widening, the pink in his cheeks flares into a deep red flush, and you see his chest heave as his breath catches. You hadn’t been expecting a reaction like this; Price looks as though the words have hit him like a physical slap.

“Jesus. That’s not–” He says, and the gravelly hoarseness in his voice is a shock. “That’s not what I meant.”

There’s a moment of charged silence. Fuck, what have you done? Why would you say that? Why would you say that, to the captain of your task force? Hadn’t you embarrassed yourself enough in front of him the day you had had your silly little meltdown? It’s like you just can’t keep your damn mouth shut around him, like your brain turns to mush the second he looks at you and you just lose the run of yourself.

“I’m sorry.” You blurt. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know what– I didn’t mean it.”

The next silence is even worse than the last, tension humming between you like a live wire. He’s so close to you that his scent fills your nose – a blend of sweet cigar smoke, sharp gunpowder, and a heady masculine musk. You feel so fucking stupid, and more than a little panicked. You don’t think you could survive the humiliation of having to call Laswell and beg for a reassignment twice in one day just because you’ve completely humiliated yourself in front of the Captain again.

Price swallows, the sound painfully loud in the silence.

“Right.” He says slowly, before coughing roughly to clear his throat. “Mm. ‘Course. I didn’t mean to– perhaps I overstepped. Since you mentioned your father–”

“I don’t want to talk about my father.” You say swiftly.

God, you feel like your issues are out on display with a big damn spotlight. You feel so pathetic, so damn pitiful, as though your desperate need for approval and affection from an older male authority figure is written across your forehead.

But if your issues are on display, then so are Price’s, because you can’t help but notice that the vibrant red flush on his cheeks hasn’t faded. If anything, that deep flush has spread down his throat and over his chest; you can see how the skin that’s stretched over his pectoral muscles is glowing crimson beneath his shirt.

A niggling boldness begins to creep in, and you find yourself straightening on the couch. You turn, bring one of your legs up on the couch so that you can turn your whole body towards him, one of your elbows resting on the back cushion of the couch. 

Price’s eyes sharpen when your body turns towards him, and his body draws tense. Those cool blue eyes dart over you, and you’re surprised to see heat in them despite your oversized purple jumper and unflattering wool trousers. The whisper of his fatigues brushing against the fabric of your own trousers is both a distraction and an invitation, your thighs sliding surreptitiously against each other.

“What if I did mean it?” You blurt out before your courage can flee you.

Price goes so still it looks preternatural, even the breaths in his chest slowing. 

“Kid.” He says, and it sounds like a warning.

You don’t heed it, adjusting yourself so that you’re shuffling closer yet again. You don’t think you’ve ever been so close to him, his scent and his body and his heated gaze filling up your consciousness until he’s all that you’re aware of.

“What if I meant it?” You ask again, the whisper coming out low but charged. 

Price takes a breath that sounds like a groan, and it surprises you. You hadn’t expected that reaction; it sends a trickle of heated desire running down your spine, and you’re startled by how much you want him in this moment.

“D’you know what you’re asking for?” He asks, the gravel in his voice flooding wet heat between your legs. 

His carefully laced words linger in the space between you, daring you to accept, to shred the formal boundary that looms between the two of you. You get the sense that you’re walking a fine line here, that you’re getting close to the point of no return. 

“Yes.” You breathe, although you’re not entirely sure that you do know what you’re asking for. All you know is that he’s so close, and he’s staring at you with an expression of such hunger that it’s making you feel weak.

Price moves fast for such a big man, and all you can do is let out a soft sound of surprise when one of his big hands wraps around the back of your neck to pull you in. A deep, guttural sound escapes him when his lips crash into yours, his mouth demanding and greedy.

It feels like you go both lax and rigid simultaneously, before you positively light up. The hand that Price has wrapped around the back of your neck keeps you grounded, and before you can stop yourself you’re burrowing closer. It feels like the tension, your childish argument, the sexual friction – everything has culminated to this electrifying moment, where Price’s full lips are consuming yours, the hair of his beard rubbing over your cheeks and chin and keeping your nerves straining towards him.

The kiss doesn’t start out slow; it skips straight to hungry, fast and dirty, with Price’s big hands on your hip and the back of your neck, holding and guiding you. Overwhelming. 

Price’s big fucking body is leaning in, caging you against the couch. The wide shoulders and barrel-chested mass of him pressing you into the cushions is just short of breath-taking, but it’s not enough. You want to be right up against him, under his skin.

You swing your leg over Price’s, and climb up into his lap. His thighs are thick beneath you, wide and muscled, but you’re still hesitant to fully settle your weight against him. You just want to be closer, to feel the heat of him pressed against you, but the second you start moving Price grabs at your hips and pulls you down properly, uncaring of your weight.

“I’ve been–” You manage to say in between kisses, your words muffled and a little wet. “I’ve been working my ass off, for the squad, for you, and you never say or do anything–”

Price grunts, grappling with his sudden lapful of you. His eyes meet yours, and in them, you think you might see the spark of admiration, for your brave stupidity if nothing else. 

“Sh, I know,” He says as he grips at your hips under your oversized jumper, encouraging you to settle down your full weight on his thighs. “I know, love, you’ve been working so hard. What would I do without you, huh?”

And the thing is, you’re a very capable woman. You’ve had to be, in order to survive in your line of work. You know that you’re capable, you know that you do good work, you know that you help keep the wheels greased and everything moving behind the scenes for the 141, but even still, Price’s praise sinks into you like warm honey.

“Watching you walk around in those tight little skirts, Christ.” He hums, and his big palms land on your ass and squeeze there suggestively. “And those heels– completely impractical for a military base like this.”

You wheeze a laugh, clutching at his shoulders. It feels completely surreal that you’re currently perched in your Captain’s lap, with his big shovel-like hands groping your bum as he nips at your lips and confesses that he’s been watching you. It goes straight to your head, makes you dizzy, makes you wish wildly that you had worn one of those skirts for him today.

Oh, you could get used to this. Realistically you know the size difference between you two isn’t that immense, but Price is built like a man whose reality is all war, and when he shifts beneath you his muscles roll, unwittingly showing off his physique. You think you could stay here forever, feeling safe in a big man’s lap, cushioned by his body as he tells you that you’re valuable, and important.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Price groans, nipping at your lower lip before capturing your mouth wholly again. “You’re a handful.”

You’d love to argue that – you like to think that you’re perfectly measured and sensible, after all – but you’re already squirming in his lap, your legs spread wide over his thighs. Arousal pools in your stomach, makes you slick your knickers, and you can’t stop the slow grind your hips trace against his thigh.

Price’s breath shudders out of his chest, and his hands clench tight around your hips. “Hang on a sec,” He breathes, “Hold on. I’m still– I’m still your Captain–”

You think that it’s meant to be a warning, or at least a word of caution about the precarious situation you’re in regarding professionalism and inappropriate workplace relationships. What you’re doing right now is ridiculous, after all. You’re still on base, you’re in your office, and if the two of you get caught you don’t even want to think about the consequences. The fraternisation rule shouldn’t apply here, since you’re only considered part of the team by a mere technicality, but even in your lust-hazed mind you can still recognise that sitting on his lap and kissing like this at your workplace is wildly inappropriate.

But if it is a warning, it doesn’t work. The reminder of his authority only inflames you further, and a quiet whimper is torn from your throat when you rock against his lap.

He swears, and beneath you his cock stirs in his fatigues. You can feel the way it fills out where it’s pressed against the seam of your trousers, right between your legs. You reflexively squish your thighs together, tightening them around his hips.

“Christ,” He grits out like a curse. “Alright, then.”

He moves quickly, his hands secure on your back as he lunges forward, flipping you over so that you’re laying on your back on the shoddy, worn-down couch. You go so easily – 

you’re soft now, pliable and eager to please, and he could direct you anywhere he wanted.

He’s too large to be climbing on top of you on a couch like this, but somehow it doesn’t even matter. Now that he’s above you, holding himself up with those strong arms on either side of your head, he looks down on you with an expression that you don’t know what to make of. His eyes are still intense, but the lines around them are softened as he stares down, his gaze tracing your face. 

“You think I haven’t been looking?” He asks, and his voice isn’t as harsh or gritty as you’d been expecting. It’s softer now, fond, almost. “How could I fuckin’ miss you? Always so pretty, always workin’ so hard. ‘Course I noticed.”

When his fingers creep beneath your big purple jumper, you launch into helping him remove it, eagerly stripping it off so you’re laying in your bra. It’s one of your simple utilitarian ones, and you curse yourself for not wearing a sexier one.

But Price groans at the sight of your simple white cotton as though it’s premium lace. His palms are rough as they trace up your sides, the callouses on his fingers coarse against the soft squishy flesh of your belly. He leans forward and nuzzles at your ear, kissing behind your lobe before scraping his teeth along your jaw until he’s kissing messily at your mouth all over again.

“So gorgeous.” He says, his voice a low rumble that has your nerves buzzing. “I was too mean to you before, wasn’t I? Too harsh, when all you were trying to do was help.”

“Yes.” You whisper, though you feel a little bit petulant for it.

“Let me make up for it, darling,” He whispers back, and it sounds like a plea. “Hm? I’ll show you how good you’ve been.”

You’re nodding before he even finishes, desperate. God, yes. You’re not even sure what it is that he’s offering, but you know that you’ll take anything that he has to give you.

He’s looming over you, so large, as his hands fall to the closure on your work trousers. His fingers are so thick that he fumbles with the delicate button and little zip, and it takes him a couple of tries to pull it open and down. When he’s got it, he shucks your trousers off easily and tosses them aside, then stares down at you in your ugly shapeless underwear as though you’re wearing something else entirely.

Even though you’re laying unclothed and vulnerable, squirming and wanting, Price is so slow to get moving. He doesn’t grab at you, or grope greedily, or take impatiently. He acts as though he’s got all the time in the world, leisurely looking you over as though he’s committing you to memory.

“Need you to say it,” He says, strained like he’s trying to hold himself back. “Need you to say it out loud.”

“Want you to show me how good I’ve been.” You say immediately, your desire leaving no room for shame. “Want you to look after me.”

The request comes out a little bit plaintive, and Price sighs out before ducking his head and kissing you again. He’s so much more affectionate than you had ever imagined, and you feel as though you’re drowning in it. His attention is like a warm blanket, settling every craving you’ve ever had.

“I will,” He breathes like it’s a promise. “Oh, I will.”

His palms are rough and hot as they drag over your skin, deceptively gentle as he reaches your tits and pushes your bra up so that he can knead at the soft flesh there. He doesn’t even bother to unclasp it, impatient enough that shoving the cups up so to free your breasts is enough for him. 

He bends his head down, and licks a stripe over your nipple. His tongue feels scorching against you, like you’re hypersensitive to his touch, and he groans against your skin as though he’s tasting something incredible.

You writhe, hips arching up in search of some kind of friction, but Price doesn’t give it to you. He’s too distracted, peppering dozens of kisses over your tits as though they’re something precious even as his hands coast down your back to grope at your ass again where your plain cotton underwear is riding up.

“So pretty, ain’tcha?” He groans against your chest. “Fuck, even when you were walkin’ around with a face on you like a slapped arse, I thought you were the sweetest fuckin’ thing I’d ever seen.”

“Charming.” You snap, but there’s no anger in your tone anymore. In fact, you don’t think there’s a lick of anger anywhere in your whole body anymore, like Price’s hands and mouth on you have washed it all away.

All the brattiness, and the prickliness of your bad mood, is entirely forgotten now that you’re laid out and squirming beneath him. You can hardly even remember what you had been so stressed and angry with him for.

He finally reaches around to unclasp your bra, then tosses it to the side to let it slump sadly to the floor. His next target is your underwear, pulled from you roughly enough that you think the fabric might tear even as his hands cradle the plush flesh of your ass like it’s a treasure.

“Mm, so gorgeous, princess,” It seems like the name just slips out of his mouth, and you feel your whole body draw tense and hot. “So lovely, and I bet you taste even better than you look… like sugar, my sweet girl.”

Jesus Christ. You think your whole fucking body throbs, blood pounding and nerves straining as you wish so desperately for him to touch you. You can’t handle him talking to you like that, so fondly, as if you haven’t just acted like the biggest brat in the world for several days straight.

You can hardly even reconcile this man with the usual stern, gruff man that acts as your Captain, and you let out a choked whine of bewilderment as he slides down your body.

Your thighs are clamped together, shy under his gaze despite how desperately eager you are. You want this, you want him, but you can’t help but feel so mortified by the vulnerability of being nude beneath him on the couch while his big formidable body is still entirely clothed.

Price’s fingers stroke against your hip, his tone low and rich as his lips find your throat again. You can feel his tongue darting out against your skin, his hunger so palpable now that it’s infectious.

“Let daddy see you,” He croaks against the hollow of your throat. “Spread your legs, sweetheart.”

It’s not like you could ever say no to that. The request sends liquid heat shooting straight to your cunt, making you hot and sticky. You spread your thighs, and feel embarrassment flare when there’s a squelch as your cunt unsticks. And– Jesus, Price’s eyes fucking light up, and you realise that he’s clocked your reaction to his honeyed words, the way he calls himself daddy.

The kiss he gives you is claiming and hungry, consuming your lips with a fervour that leaves no room for doubt about his intentions. It’s a taste of both command and reverence — in equal measure. When he pulls away from your mouth you’re breathless, still gasping softly even as he pushes himself down the length of your body.

In the blink of an eye, he’s there — between your welcoming thighs, his hands resting securely on your soft hips, as much a lifeline as a promise of what’s to come. Your pussy is already sloppy, slick and wet in anticipation of him. He shoves his head between your thighs, using his thumbs to spread apart your folds and just look at you.

Your back arches at even the suggestion of his touch, feeling his breath ghost over the heated slick flesh of your cunt. Despite your obvious willingness, and his apparent eagerness, he doesn’t immediately touch you.

You crane your neck to see that he’s staring at your pussy as though the sight of it is earth-shattering. His gaze drinks you in, heated blue eyes taking in the sight of your swollen sticky folds, no doubt throbbing invitingly under his attention. You’ve never seen a man look so hungry, like he’s about to risk anything for it. A dark, groaned "fuck" escapes him as he kneels between your spread legs, head bowed as if in reverence.

"Daddy needs a taste, sweet girl," His deep voice a heavy rumble, vibrating against your soft inner thighs. 

It takes a beat for you to realise that he’s holding himself back, that he’s essentially asking for permission to lay his mouth on you, but then you gasp, “Yes, fuck, yes, please–”

Price takes it as the enthusiastic invitation that it is and bursts into movement immediately, reaching out and guiding your legs wider so that he can muscle in between them properly, before leaning in and finally getting his mouth on you.

You choke, hips aching as you try to spread your legs even further. Price drags the flat of his tongue along the seam of your cunt, groaning as though he’s savouring the taste of you, before wrapping his arms around your thighs to keep you all spread open for him as his tongue rasps over your sensitive flesh.

You want to call out for him, but his name stalls on your tongue. What would you call him – Price? John? Captain? Daddy? You think you would die if you said it out loud.

Then his tongue finds your clit, and your thoughts scatter. He flicks the tip of his tongue over you, back and forth, then flattens it to grind eagerly. You had thought, given the way he had taken that moment just to look at you before he’d pressed his mouth to you, that he would start slow. But instead, he gives you everything he has.

You cry out as he devours your cunt, his bushy eyebrows pulling up in delight as you give him your first moan. While your legs had spread wide in the beginning, eager to let him in, you now close them tight around his head to keep him in place. You have a brief, hazy thought that maybe this is an asshole move of you, a little like if a man were to hold your head down while you were sucking cock, but Price doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, judging by the snarl he lets out when your thighs close around his ears, he likes it.

You toss your head back against the worn couch cushions as jolts of white-hot heat spread from where his mouth is working at you, playing with you, tongue painting long, broad strokes up and down your pussy. 

Your cunt is syrupy hot, throbbing as his tongue rubs relentlessly at your clit. You’re so fucking wet, and you can’t help yourself from rolling your hips more assertively into his mouth. You’re leaking on his mouth, his tongue, your slick drenching his cheeks and his beard.

Seized by a sudden urge to watch, you clumsily raise your head so you can look down. It feels entirely illicit, watching Price’s head between your legs as he buries his face so enthusiastically into your folds. His eyes flash as he glances up, the bottom half of his face hidden entirely in your pussy as his jaw works, the soft hair of his beard tickling your sensitive inner thighs.

With a jolt, you realise that one of his hands has fallen to his lap, his trousers hastily pushed open. He’s fisting at his dripping cock, red and angry and still begging for release against the thick dark hair of his stomach. Sticky pre-cum leaks from his flushed head, pooling into his skin and clothes as his cock bobs and twitches at the sounds of your moans.

The sudden realisation that Price is getting off on this, on the taste of you and the smell of you and the way you’re whining, sets you aflame. He grunts, one of his big hand’s wrapping around his throbbing skin to pump his length to the rhythm of his tongue inside of you.

“Oh, oh fuck,” You press your lips together, stomach pulling tight as his tongue thrusts up inside of you, “Fuck, fuck, fuck that’s so good, oh god, Captain–”

“Yeah,” Price grunts, his words all wetly muffled, his arms wrapped tight around your thighs to keep you in place as he feasts on you, sucking on your clit like it’s a sweet. “I know, baby, I know.”

He’s so accommodating, so nice to you. You tilt your hips up and grind your cunt into his mouth, sighing in satisfaction as his tongue drags along your clit before dipping to lick inside of you. He barely even shifts when you hump your pussy into his face; he only opens his mouth wider, licks at you more enthusiastically as though your desperation is contagious. 

Your belly goes hot and tight, and a high-pitched whimper is torn from your throat. It feels as though you’ve been strung high and taut for months now, and your breath catches at your imminent orgasm. You’ve just been so stressed, and having Price hunched over you on the couch like this with your legs thrown up around his shoulders as he licks and sucks at you so eagerly that it has your eyes rolling in your head feels like it’s curing you.

You think, somewhat madly, that an orgasm like this, with Price’s mouth sealed over your cunt, will solve every damn problem you have right now.

“Wanna come, wanna come, Jesus fucking Christ, please please–” Your chest heaves as you scramble, one of your hands reaching down to cup Price’s head to keep him in place, face buried in your cunt. “Oh god, please make me come–”

Maybe it’s not fair to be so demanding of him, but to his credit Price responds with restless enthusiasm. You double over in pleasure as he heeds your broken little pleas, your nails scraping into the couch as you cling on for dear life. His tongue swirls over your clit quickly and with fervour, tight circles to make your vision go blurry.

You’re lost in the sensation of his hot, wet mouth in your cunt, the way he licks into you like a starving man tasting his first meal. It feels like a sensation overload, as though you’re just completely lost to your own desire, but you just want more of what he is offering. 

You grab his hair again and pull him closer, greedy with need, and he hums in affirmation as he allows you to guide his mouth to exactly where you need it. Arching your hips up, you grind into his mouth, chasing your orgasm. You groan, eyelids fluttering as you wrap your other leg around Price’s shoulders, up around his neck, and his hand snakes around your thigh to anchor you there.

Price’s fingers are gripping at your hips, surely hard enough to leave bruises there. You smile, almost deliriously; you could live with some souvenirs from tonight.

Your feeble gasps start to spiral into whimpers as that hot coil begins to tighten in your belly, and your toes start to curl. When your climax finally hits, it does so with a sense of relief that almost knocks you flat. Your body winds tight then releases, and you convulse in a wave of shudders that has you sobbing out loud.

Your chest heaves as you sob, squirming as Price licks at your clit insistently. It feels like your breath has caught in your chest, your toes curling so hard that your feet cramp. You’re panting like a damn dog as your orgasm rocks through you, until the waves of it subside and you can finally get a full breath again.

From one second to the next your nerves turn red-hot and oversensitive, and you clamp your thighs shut around Price’s ears and whimper-whine pathetically. Mercifully, he gets your unspoken message easily, and finally pulls back, chuckling breathlessly to himself as he pushes your legs apart in order to retreat.

“Fuck,” He says, and his voice comes out as harsh and gravelly as you’ve ever heard it. “Jesus Christ. Knew you’d taste sweet, knew that you’d come so pretty.”

The praise practically slams into you, ripping through you like a forest fire. It feels like you’ve lost your breath all over again, and ridiculously you suddenly feel shy. 

“I–That–” You start to say, but you still feel a little fuzzy-headed from your orgasm and your thoughts fizz away like TV static. 

“Mhm, I know, sweet girl.” He murmurs hoarsely as though you had said something coherent. 

When Price finally sits up, you blink hazily. He had been all hunched over you, crammed into the corner of the couch in order to squeeze himself between your thighs like that, but now that he’s straightening back up again you’re reminded with a tired jolt just how big and broad and strong he is.

A small, self-conscious part of your brain screams at you to close your legs. Your thighs are still spread wide, your cunt on display; you’re still all sloppy and wet, spit-slick and dripping, all puffy from the attention Price had lavished on you with his mouth.

But instead of closing your legs, you let your thighs fall open a little wider and shift restlessly under his intense gaze. Your desire makes you stupid – how could you ever experience anything as mundane as self-consciousness when he’s staring at you like that? He’s looking at you like he wants to fall atop you all over again, and you feel yourself throb – you feel so empty, your body craving something to fill you.

And Price notices the way you keep yourself all spread for him, the way you don’t make any move to cover yourself. Beneath his beard, his face splits into a wide smile, the apples of his cheeks practically glowing with pride.

“Oh, my girl, you're so pretty. Just the loveliest girl in the world with your beautiful face and your hair all wild like that.” He leans in then, and presses a hungry  kiss to your mouth. He tastes salty-sweet, the iron tang of yourself lingering on his lips. His beard is wet too, practically soaked through.

You gasp when he pulls back, overwhelmed by the kiss and the praise and the electric aftershocks of your orgasm. “Your beard is wet.” You observe dumbly.

He chuckles, as though you’ve said something terribly endearing. “Of course it is, sweetheart. That’s all you.”

You mumble a little incoherently, mostly because you’ve just spotted the way his trousers are still unbuttoned and his hard, swollen cock is jutting out from the band of his boxers. It’s angry looking, the head of it so red it looks a little painful, and you feel a sudden urge to return the favour seize you.

But when you reach out, Price is quick to grab your wrist. He transfers his grip to your hand swiftly so you don’t feel as though you’re being held down, his wide palm and thick fingers winding around yours.

“Don’t have to do that, love.” He grunts, shifting. He’s looming over you, hips tilted towards you and his wide shoulders blocking out your view of the office. “D’you think you could take me?”

It takes you a moment for your slow, stupid brain to catch up and process what he’s asking you. Then you nod swiftly, eyes widening. You're wet and sticky and so so empty, and you have no doubt your body is so ready to take him inside. 

You’re still a little limp and drained from the satisfaction of your orgasm, but you keep your thighs spread and wait eagerly for him to touch you again. He doesn’t keep you waiting long; he coos softly at you as he adjusts himself, kissing your tummy then up your sternum and back to your throat. The soft, sweet kisses distract you as he presses his hips between your thighs.

You gasp softly, your clit sensitive enough that when his cock rubs against it, you jolt. Despite the overload of sensation, you find yourself grinding back against him, so desperate for something. As if he can sense what you need, he presses a kiss to your jaw and dips a hand between your thighs. Two thick, calloused fingers circle your clit for a moment and make you whimper, only to dip lower and press inside you.

His fingers are larger than yours, but they still slip into you so damn easily that it’s embarrassing. You barely even feel a stretch, your body so eager for him that your cunt practically sucks his fingers up.

The worst part is the way Price laughs, all soft and breathy as he rubs his callous-roughened fingers into the spongey walls of your cunt. 

“Oh, fuck,” He murmurs, his lips dragging over your overheated skin. “Yeah, you’ll take me just fine.”

You burn with embarrassment, but you still don’t close your legs. It’s silly, but there’s still an element of pride as his fingers rub against the soft inside of your pussy; you want him to see how much you want him, how well you’ll take him. It’s obvious how wet you are, and you hope he’s imagining how good you’ll feel on the inside.

“Need you to turn over for me, love.” He murmurs, gripping at your hips and easing you over so that you’re on your belly beneath him. “That’s it, arse up. My knees aren’t what they used to be. Make it easy for me.”

You usually would make a joke about that, some sort of jab about being old before his time, but you simply don’t have the mental capacity for it. You’re too busy dropping to rest your weight on your elbows as you stick your ass up towards him, arching your back and hoping you look pretty.

He doesn’t waste any more time, much to your relief. Your mouth drops open with a sigh as you feel the blunt head of his cock glide between your slick folds, tapping once against your clit just to watch the way your legs jerk, then finally lining up with your entrance and pressing lightly in. His cock notches, catches, then slides in so slowly that it makes you want to scream.

“Gotta let me in, petal.” He says, using his grip on your hips to pull you back onto his cock in increments. “Relax, relax.”

You had wanted this, you’re more eager than you think you’ve ever been for anyone in your life, and yet Price is a big man and the stretch makes your breath stall in your lungs. Your cunt is sucking his cock in further with a hunger that’s almost embarrassing, even as you wince a little at the feeling of being stretched out to your limits. Though you’re wet and eager and ready, two of Price’s fingers briefly testing inside weren’t quite enough to prepare you for how fat his cock is. 

Your head is spinning. You’ve never taken a cock this big with so little stretching, but neither you nor Price are patient enough to wait. But the stretch feels good, and you find yourself wheezing like a moron as he presses inside inch by inch.

“Fuck… you alright, love?” Price breathes, adjusting his knees on the couch behind you and wrapping his hands around your hips. The motion only succeeds in shifting him far enough away to make you aware of the feeling of him sliding into you again. You both groan, and you feel Price twitch, deep inside you.

“Fuck,” You moan, breath gasping out of you. “You’re fucking huge.”

It feels like you’re learning for the very first time what it really means to be full. For a few seconds, it feels like you can’t even breathe. It feels like his cock is lodged somewhere in your belly, forcing the breath from your lungs as he nestles his way deeper into the eager clutch of your body.

“Am I– s’it too much, honey?” He asks, his voice rough and low as his hands squeeze at the flesh at your hips. “Need me to take it out?”

“No!” You blurt, and your body clenches up hard as though you’re trying to lock him in and keep him from escaping. “Don’t you dare!”

His cock still feels so big, and when you tighten up as hard as you do it almost feels as though he’s fucking impaling you. Price groans as though he’s been shot, and his head lowers so that he’s burying his face into the space between your shoulderblades. His body lowers too until his chest is pressed to your back, joined at the hips as he rocks inside of you. 

“Okay,” He grunts, and you can feel his chest expand as he takes a breath. “Okay, love, but you need to relax. You’re going to squeeze my cock right off.”

“Sorry.” You try to do as he asks, taking a deep breath and allowing your body to go limp and pliant. He grunts in appreciation, and you feel his whiskery beard rasp against your throat as he presses a kiss to your neck as if to reward you.

Your spine is still taut from the pressure of being all stretched out around his cock, and you reach back clumsily to grasp at his belly, the soft fabric of his shirt rucking up between your fingers. Price reaches back and grabs at the neck of his own shirt, tearing it over his head then tossing it aside. Your eyes are all hazy and a little blurred from your overwhelmed tears, but you look back over your shoulder and blink frantically in an attempt to get a proper look at him. 

God, he’s so big and strong, his chest furred with a layer of brown hair curling in whorls over his nipples and down over his belly. You feel yourself pulse in response, your mouth dropping open in a thoughtless gasp of desire. He’s exactly the kind of man you think of when you think of masculinity, and your belly tightens in anticipation when he presses all up against you, heavy and hot.

When he begins to pull out and press back in, the noise you make is utterly pathetic. It feels like he cleaving you in two, carving out a space for his cock every time he fucks back into you. He’s cautious at first, conscious of hurting you, but when your thighs close around his hips he grunts and begins to pick his pace up.

“Christ, you’re tight,” Price says, his voice all rough and muffled against your shoulder. “And you're all mine, love, my own sweet girl, ain’t that right? And daddy's gonna love you so good, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” You gasp stupidly, pressing your face into the couch cushions.

Typically, you find that doggy style can be a position that’s a little detached – usually, you like seeing the face of the person you’re fucking. But right now, with Price plastering his whole hairy body against your back as he ruts into you and the sweet filthy words he’s murmuring to you, this position feels so far from detached that it has your head spinning. It feels like he’s blanketing you, the heat from his skin igniting what feels like an inferno between the two of you. Sweat beads at your forehead, and you moan softly as Price begins to fuck you properly.

You’re bouncing against the couch, clutching at the cushions as your body moves under the weight of Price’s powerful thrusts. The sound of it is sloppy and wet, your bodies smacking together quick and hard. And fuck, it feels good. His cock is hitting that perfect spot deep inside of you, and your entire body jolts with pleasure every time he pounds back in. 

It’s enough to make you squeal, your nails scrabbling desperately for purchase on the threadbare couch cushions in an attempt to stabilise yourself. Your nipples are sensitive from Price’s licking at sucking at them, and your toes curl as your tits are pressed into the rough-textured cushions, electrifying your nerves to the point of almost too-much. 

The noises you make are entirely undignified, and you struggle to muffle them into the couch. Little burbling ah ah ah’s are being torn from your throat every time Price fucks into you, the sensation of his furred balls slapping against you with every thrust has your eyes rolling.

Your body is all loose and pliant from your earlier orgasm, and you whimper as though you’re being fucked absolutely stupid. It’s not that he’s fucking you all that hard, but he’s filling you up so deliciously and knowing that it’s him, your Captain, the man that you’ve worked so damn hard to impress and to please, makes you feel like you’re going to explode. Even through the haze of desire and pleasure, a little part of you is still so aware of making him happy. You keep your back arched, practically waving your ass up in the air as he fucks into you.

“Tell me how you like it, sweetheart. Tell me how it feels.” Price says in a low, rough purr. His chest is still pressed to your back even as the two of you pant and sweat as you rock together. “Tell daddy how good he's making you feel.”

Jesus Christ, Price feels like a fucking furnace against you. It feels almost as though you’ve been glued together, your skin sweat slick as he ruts into you like an animal. Your lungs are burning, and your mind is completely scattered. Getting fucked like this feels feels primal, an exchange of power through pleasure; you’re aware that he’s asked you a question, but you can hardly string two thoughts together. All you can do is squirm and whimper in below him as his weight pins you in place.

“Good,” You groan, vaguely aware that tears are leaking from your eyes and soaking the couch beneath you. Your vision is blurred, and you can’t even see straight. “I just– it’s so much–”

“I know,” He rumbles. “But you can take it, can’t you? You’ve been so good, sweetheart.”

The praise does exactly what he’s hoping for; you practically melt into a puddle beneath him. Your thoughts are slow and sluggish, and your jaw hangs open as you fucking drool. Even still, you manage to nod your head clumsily. You can take him – it feels like a point of pride to prove it now, to show off how good you can be.

Price’s rhythm is practically machine-like, and you make a quiet sound of pure appreciation when his cock slams into that gummy spot inside of you that makes you lose your breath. It’s as though he takes note of it, because from that point on he stays absolutely jackhammering into that little spot, making you see stars and have to bite your lip to stifle your moans. His balls would slam against your clit in a repeated motion that made your underbelly tighten like a coil so close to snapping.

He groans every time he sinks into you, his growls rumbling into your back and ratcheting up the intensity another notch. You feel lost in a sea of sensation, moored only by the places of contact between you and Price. Your hips are humping back against Price’s cock unconsciously, unable to help yourself and unable to get enough of him.

“I wanna come again,” You say, and it comes out in a demanding sort of whine. It’s a little humbling to hear yourself and realise that you sound so honest to god bratty, but you can’t bring yourself to care when Price is apparently in such a giving mood today. 

“You’re gonna come, love.” He promises. His voice has that tone to it, the one you’ve always tried to ignore during work because it makes you so horny. The authoritative one, when it drops just a bit in pitch, when it sounds just a little like a threat.

But despite his promise, he doesn’t change his steady pace. You’re just this side of overwhelmed, but you still need more to push you over the edge into the second orgasm that’s simmering in your lower stomach. 

“Please, daddy,” You let the name pass your lips on a whimper, finally giving in and calling him by the title he’s so clearly craving. He’s fucked all the shame out of your body at this point, leaving you with nothing but white hot desperation. “Please, please make me come again–”

“Fuckin’ Christ–”

Price’s arm reaches around your front, and you’re startled when his big palm wraps around your throat. You think for a moment that you’re about to get choked, but no pressure follows. He just grips you there, gentle and secure, before using his hold on you to pull you back against him so that he’s rutting up into you at a speed that’s overwhelming in the best way. His other arm reaches around your belly so that he can rub at your clit as he rails you into the couch. His soft grip on your throat ensures that no matter how much you try to squirm your way back into meeting his thrusts, you’re forced into stillness. 

It’s exactly what you wanted, and it has you wheezing and hiccuping out moans on every stroke. It’s better than you ever could have hoped for, and you’re nearly sobbing from the sheer sensation of it all. You feel your abdomen drawing tight, heat beginning to build rapidly in the bottom of your belly as he strokes at your clit hard and fast at a pace that matches his fucking.

You know that you’re already starting to shake, trembling from head to toe. You can’t even keep your back arched anymore, though you don’t think Price gives a shit because he just nuzzles at the base of your shoulder as he fucks into you. Between his cock and his fingers, everything just feels too much but your body is strung taut as you proverbially climb higher and higher.

“Oh god, I’m– yes, yes, yes–” You chant, your voice high and reedy and so damn needy.

Then the world falls out from under you. With one last whimpering moan, your body convulses beneath the heavy weight of your captain’s big body. Your vision practically wipes out, and you squeeze down around Price’s dick and pulse. Your whole body rocks with the flood of pleasure, the warm fuzzy feeling that makes you feel as though you’re losing your mind. You know that your hips are twitching madly, simultaneously trying to get more and less as you get overwhelmed by the feeling of him fucking you through it all.

You’re still coming down from the sweet release of your orgasm when Price practically tears himself away from you, leaving you cruelly empty and clenching around nothing. You let out a sharp sound of loss, startled that he’s pulled away so suddenly, and you find yourself slumping bonelessly against the couch now that his hands are no longer supporting you.

The wet shlurping sounds from behind you prompt you to glance lazily over your shoulder from where your face is smushed against the cushions, and you’re blessed with the sight of Price tugging his cock furiously behind you. His cheeks are bright red as he stares at the mess he’s made of you, his jaw soft and his mouth open as he pants.

He sees you looking, and whatever expression is on your face seems to be his undoing. He takes in your tear-clumped eyelashes and your dazed expression, and you can practically see the moment he hurtles over the edge. He practically snarls, his nose scrunching in a way that’s unexpectedly adorable right as his cock gives one fat pump of thick white come, then several smaller sputterings that collect in a creamy puddle right at the base of your spine, just over the swell of your ass.

You sigh, your eyelids fluttering lazily shut as you relish the feeling of his hot come hitting your skin. You still can’t manage to pull yourself together, feeling loose and floaty like you’re on another fucking planet entirely. You’re only distantly aware of his big palm rubbing gentle circles on the small of his back; you think for a second that he’s just trying to soothe you, until your fucked out brain catches up and you realise that he’s rubbing his come into you like it’s goddamn lotion. Your cunt gives a tired throb at the realisation, fluttering as though it’s sad that he didn’t come inside.

“Fuck…” You hear him rumble from behind you, then a hot heavy weight settling over you yet again. This time, he pulls you back into his arms to hold you tight against his chest. 

You go perfectly limp, curling into him and nuzzling into his sweaty hairy chest. Despite yourself, you’re reminded of cuddling with a massive teddy bear. All you can do is hum, basking in the affection and hardly able to think at this point after he’s turned your brain into a slurry of feelings without thoughts.

“You okay, love?” Price asks. You can feel his nose nuzzling against your temple, though you can’t quite summon the energy to open your eyes again. “Did I go too hard on you?”

Your legs are still shaky, your hamstrings aching and your back throbbing a little from the pounding you’ve just taken. But Price is being so lovely and soft, so gentle with you right now. His hands coast over your hips, your back, your waist, squeezing a little bit just because he seems to like the way you feel in his hands.

“Shhh,” You drawl shakily. “Don’t make me think right now.”

A low chuckle, and you feel his broad chest rumble with it where your head is laying atop him. His fingers run up the length of your spine, the touch making you shiver. He touches you like you’re delicate, a stark contrast to the way he’d just fucked you into your sad little office couch. It makes something in your belly squirm.

“Alright. My girl just needed to switch off for a while, hm?” He murmurs, and you can hear the clear undertone of amusement in his voice. “How are you going to finish out work today if you’re all sleepy like this, huh?”

That wakes you up a little, and you finally blink your eyes open again in order to look up at him. An edge of panic is beginning to creep in as awareness comes back to you, and you take a deep breath as your hands curl against his chest.

“Oh my god.” You blurt, eyes growing wide. “I– we’re at work!”

“Sharp as ever, darling.”

Not even Price’s lazy wryness can distract you now. You try to wiggle off the couch, already craning your head around in search of your clothes, but Price’s thick arm locks tight around your middle and keeps you pressed to him.

“We have to– oh my god, we have to get dressed, what if someone walks in–”

“Shh, shhh, I locked the door when I came in,” Price grumbles. He doesn’t appear too impressed with the way you’re attempting to wiggle away, but it doesn’t matter so much; even with one arm he’s perfectly capable of keeping you pinned in place against his chest. “Lie back down, love.”

Slowly, you let yourself relax back into him. It’s hard to hold onto your panic when he’s so obviously unbothered, so you end up hesitantly snuggling back up against his chest as his arms come up to close around you. Despite his encouragement, you’re unsure whether or not you’re allowed to be touching him like this. But his hands don’t stray from you, not even once, and gradually you return to your previous state of being a puddle of limbs and pliant muscle.

“That’s it, relax.” He coaxes, clearly pleased now that you’re melting back into him. 

“I have so much work to catch up on.” You grumble, though you have no intention of actually going anywhere now that he’s given you the greenlight to stay like this.

His chest vibrates beneath your cheek, and you realise he’s chuckling again. It feels good, and you sigh softly as your fingers stroke lightly over the defined shape of his soft pecs.

“You think I wasn’t capable of keeping the ship afloat for the couple of days you were gone?” He asks, one hand stroking over your flank then dipping lower to flatten his palm over your left asscheek. “I finished out those little files you were stressin’ over. No picture of Ghost for his, but like I said, that’s standard.”

You had known that he had finished updating the files for you when you had seen Farah’s, but hearing it straight from his mouth is something else entirely. You purse your lips and lower your eyes, still embarrassed about your little freak out despite his apologies. 

“Thank you.” You mumble. 

You try to hide your face in his chest again, but a large hand on your jaw stops you by tilting your head back and forcing you to look at him. A thumb strokes over your cheek, and then he’s leaning in and pressing a sweet kiss to your mouth. You respond tiredly but eagerly, still hardly able to believe that your boss that you’ve been mooning after for months is being so affectionate and intimate with you.

Price pulls back slightly so that your lips are just barely touching, breathing each other’s air for a moment.

“Ask for help when you need it, sweetheart.” He murmurs, his lips dragging over yours. “That’s what I’m here for. We help each other with the workload, alright?”

“Yeah,” You breathe, leaning in eagerly in the hopes of getting another kiss. “Alright.”

Price smiles, his cheeks going all full and round as his eyes crinkle, and you feel your heart throb so violently it feels as though it jumps right up into your throat. He leans in and kisses you again, soft and sweet as his beard rasps against your chin.

You want to stay like this forever, wrapped up so warm and cosy and safe in his arms. He makes you feel so safe, like you’re valued and appreciated, and you can’t even feel bad about being lazy because he so clearly doesn’t want to move either.

“Let me come home with you tonight,” He says suddenly, and you feel his bicep contract as he squeezes you closer. “You have an apartment off base, don’t you? I’ll… why don’t I cook you dinner, hm? Want to show you how much I appreciate all the work you do.”

There’s a pause, then he adds cautiously, “If I’m not being presumptuous, that is.”

You can’t stop the shy smile from overtaking your face. He’s so sweet, and being on the receiving end of this kind of attention from him is more than you ever could have expected. Ridiculously, he seems a little nervous as well, and you come to the slow realisation that he had been vulnerable with you as well when it came to his interests when he had fucked you.

“I thought this was you appreciating the work I do.” You say coyly, glancing pointedly at all of your bare skin pressed up against his.

“Mm. You do a lot of work, and I’m very appreciative.” Price murmurs, squeezing teasingly at your ass.

You giggle despite yourself, relishing the light-hearted air between the two of you. At the sound of your laugh, Price’s expression brightens further; it’s strange, seeing your usually stern, stressed captain being so sweet with you. You’re so used to seeing him with that flinty determined look in his eyes, or barking orders, or with his eyes sagging with exhaustion after a long deployment only to return to a pile of mission reports. Seeing him like this, with those soft eyes and a fond smile, makes your heart feel as though it’s beating out of rhythm.

“I said I’d look after you, sweetheart.” He murmurs, and this time his voice is missing that teasing undertone from before. He sounds so earnest now, almost painfully so. “You just need to let me.”

Yeah, you think to yourself as you let yourself succumb to the drowsy haze that’s been tugging at you, allowing your eyes to slide shut as you nuzzle into Price’s bare chest. You think letting John Price look after you might just be the easiest thing you’ve ever done.

[threebea]

The Office but it's Palpatine and Vader in the Michael and Dwight rolls. Fox is Jim.

Vader: Blast it all! He put my saber in jello again.

Sidious: (looks from Vader to Fox)

Fox: *Eating jello* clones don't have the approval level to requisition jello, couldn't have been me.

[djarins-cyare]

Never Look Down

Part 2: Maia’s (Your) Morning

← Part 1 | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Prompt: “I don’t know what’s happening but I love it.”

Summary: Din has been ignoring his crush on Grogu’s babysitter for a while now, with varying degrees of success. But after a misunderstanding leads to some revelations, there’s no denying things any longer. Sometimes you just need to look at things from a different perspective.

Rating: Mature (18+)

Pairing: Din Djarin x Original Female Character (for his POV scenes) / Din Djarin x Reader (for her POV scenes)

Word count: 7,830

Tags/warnings: POV switch, hangover hell, light angst, confessions, even more references to erections, some swearing, references to sex, kissing, reference to fellatio, a lot of fluff, Reader has a name (and a job and an inkling of a backstory). Regarding her prior bad relationship, I don’t want anyone to be triggered by an assumption, so please note she was NOT in an abusive situation. Her former partner was just a drug-dealing douche.

Author’s note: I finished something new! [*cries in disbelief*] 😭. Thank you so much for your interest and support! 💖

READ ON AO3 (author’s preference)

Tumblr version ahead if you prefer…

You wake up somewhere dark and soft. It takes you several seconds to realise where you are due to the throbbing ache in your head that’s screaming for focus.

You’re in Din’s bed.

Oh fuck.

Well… more like no fuck. A shameful absence thereof.

Slowly, memories of the previous night drift to the surface of your foggy brain, each one deepening your embarrassment until you’ve reached the pitiful depths of utter humiliation. It cuts deeper than your hangover, which includes a pounding headache and a bruised shoulder (how did that happen?), yet is almost trivial in comparison. Kark, you drank – and said and did – a lot more than you should’ve.

Babysitting Grogu is not your primary source of income. In fact, you have a contract with Karga for city planning and infrastructure upgrades. But that’s just building holos, presenting them to the High Magistrate, and then outsourcing the work upon approval. It’s sporadic and flexible, leaving you with plenty of hours to kill. You took this part-time job to keep yourself busy, but you’ve come to enjoy hanging out with the little guy and his bafflingly sexy father. Both are good fun, have always been friendly and welcoming, and you’re fond of their company. Who are you kidding – you’re profoundly attached to them both. Plus, Din has taught you to use a blaster, helping you feel safer and more self-reliant now you’re free of your ex’s ‘protection’. The extra credits are merely a bonus, and you’d do this for free if it came to it.

Well, not this. Not turn up drunk, pass out in your boss’s refresher, then misread a gesture of kindness as a sexual advance. And you just had to fucking let your thoughts spill out, didn’t you? Shit, you basically told him you think he’s a virgin! Sure, you’ve wondered, but you’ve never drawn any conclusions, so why did you have to vocalise those thoughts as if you had? You’ve been so careful to avoid suggesting his commitment to his creed might be impeding anything fun. So what if he can’t eat with you or sleep with you – that’s his choice. He probably thinks you’re judging him now. You shouldn’t have opened your mouth, damn it!

Of course he rejected you.

How could you ever have thought Din would want to be with you after everything you did last night? There are so many reasons for him to have walked away like he did. Not only did you fail to provide trustworthy childcare, but you also vomited in his toilet and were a drunken burden on him after he’d had to go out on a job. Then you assumed he wanted sex, implied he might not have the requisite skills, stripped naked, climbed under his sheets, and stole his fucking bed for the whole night.

You’re a disgrace. The regret burns in your chest, branding you from the inside out as the fool who pushed a former bounty hunter too far.

Plus, you work for the guy, so that’s surely a factor. Your role here is simply to take care of his kid. At least it was. And, of course, he’s never shown any interest in you. In fact, whenever you’ve wondered if the two of you are having ‘a moment’, he’s always run away.

Why did you have to make an already bad situation so much worse by revealing your desires? You were coping fine with your self-imposed celibacy. Sure, it was frustrating, but you were surviving. Repressing your libido around him was working for you.

As much as you want to hide beneath the blankets and avoid the fallout, you know you can’t stay in Din’s bed forever. Even though it’s soft and warm and smells like him – fresh yet with a hint of spicy musk. You really can’t.

Fumbling to activate the lamp, you drain the water on the nightstand, noting your clothes strewn across the floor. Thankfully, they don’t smell of alcohol or vomit (at least you’re a tidy drunk), so you get dressed and stumble to the refresher. More memories return at that crime scene, adding to your shame spiral and giving you a likely reason for your bruised shoulder.

Din has left his ultrasound cleaner out of the cabinet, which has to be a suggestion that you use it, and you can take a hint. You recall complaining that your mouth tasted like bantha balls, and accepting his pity is the lesser evil. Though it’s far more than you deserve, it’s also far better than this flavour.

You gladly let the vibrations clean your mouth and then rinse away the residue, feeling much better for it. It’s not enough to ease your thumping headache, but it’s a start.

You can’t hear any noise from upstairs or across the hall, so you wonder if your hosts are still asleep. It’s clearly past dawn since daylight is spilling down the staircase, but it could still be early. Maybe you can just slip out unnoticed? You debate checking on Grogu first. Din probably slept on the couch, though there’s a cushioned chair in the kid’s room that he could’ve used.

Guilt and concern make you check on your charge despite the risk of waking a metal sentinel. But you’re surprised to discover an empty room. That means they’re either both upstairs and being quiet, or they’ve gone out. You’re hoping for the latter. Zandi insisted you meet her for lunch, but part of you wants to run straight to your friend’s place and cry about what an idiot you’ve been. Hmm, no. You should go home for a shower first. Not that it could wash off the disgrace, but it might ease your aching head, at least.

You dart across the hall for your shoes, straightening out your boss’s sheets before you leave (a token apology, if anything). Catching sight of a comb on top of his dresser sends another type of guilt burning through you. Stealing his bed was already an invasion of privacy, but learning about what he hides beneath the beskar feels worse. You anxiously smooth down the blankets, flick off the lamp, and tiptoe up the stairs.

Thankfully, you find an empty living space, lit by sunshine so bright that you realise it’s already mid-morning. Din must have taken Grogu to school.

There’s no sign of your glowrod, but you don’t care. He can keep it. You shove on your boots with as much haste as you can manage and fly to the exit, darting through. Kriff, it’s so blinding outside that you have to turn your back to the sun or risk your hangover increasing tenfold.

Just as you’re gulping lungfuls of fresh air and keying in the lock code to secure the cabin, you hear him.

“Feeling better?”

The Mandalorian steps out from behind the cabin, and you wonder if he’s been waiting to ambush you. Damn it, you should’ve known. Bounty hunter.

You can’t look him in the eyes. Well, the visor, really. Either way, you fix your gaze on the porch. You’d normally come out with something playful and witty, but today, your brain gives you nothing except wry honesty.

“The hangover and torturous headache are nothing compared to my embarrassment,” you answer sheepishly. “I am so sorry about last night.”

You don’t specify which part because you mean all of it. Drinking to excess and throwing up in his home, as well as climbing into his bed, stripping off, and assuming he would fuck you, then commenting on how you thought he couldn’t fuck you. You’re sure you’ll never live down this shame.

Din doesn’t respond to your apology, but he steps forward, a wall of beskar and muscle blocking you from leaving the porch. He leans past you – so close he almost traps you against the door – and reverses the lock code you just entered.

When the door behind you swishes open again, he gestures inside with a nod. “We gotta talk.”

Oh, frotz, this is bad. This is so so so bad. He’s normally relaxed and happy around you, welcoming (or at least tolerating) your friendly jokes and nicknames. But right now, he’s all stiffness and silence, thumbs in his belt and elbows out wide, staring you down as if you were prey. He is not happy with you. You’ve fucked up bad.

You’re going to lose your job. It’s not a substantial source of income, but you’ll lose your bonding time with the kid and the friendly teasing thing you’ve developed with his dad. You won’t get to watch how strong and beautiful this warrior-turned-father is anymore, how soft he is with Grogu, despite his hard beskar shell. There’ll be no more shooting lessons. He’s going to tell you how offensive your remarks were last night… kark, what if he has a duty to punish anyone who disrespects his creed? Is it disrespectful to suggest he can’t have sex, though? Maybe the offensive thing was you throwing yourself at him. Or perhaps he thinks you’re hideous and finds the idea of having sex with you offensive. Whatever the case, he’s going to—

“Maia….”

Hearing your name growled through his modulator snaps you out of your spiralling thoughts, and you realise you’re just standing there gawking at him in the doorway.

Suddenly, you feel meek in his presence, which has never happened before. Even when you first met, he was careful to make you feel safe and welcome. This menacing demeanour is new.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Can I just go home?”

Din looms closer like a rancor threatening its prey. “This won’t take long,” he insists.

With widened eyes, you shrink back toward the scene of your crimes, your near freedom now a fool’s delusion. He walks forward as you step backward across the cabin’s threshold, maintaining the proximity – a fateful dance that promises a morning even more tragic than the night before.

“Sit,” he commands, gesturing to the couch. He watches you perch yourself where you’re told to and then nods, appeased by your obedience.

A heavy silence clouds the room as your soon-to-be-ex boss flicks on the caf maker and heats the beverage while you quietly unravel on the couch. You’re not even sure what this is. It feels like he’s about to punish you (and not in a good way), but you have no idea how. Is he going to yell at you? Torture you with some kind of ritualistic Mandalorian justice? Or is he just going to describe how disappointed he is, fire you from this job, and threaten to roast you with his flamethrowers if he catches you anywhere near Grogu?

Whatever’s about to happen, you’re zealously ignoring the part of you that’s low-key turned on by how dominant he’s acting this morning. You can’t examine that right now.

After a minute or two, Din brings a cup to the couch and perches beside you, performing an awkward shuffle as he angles his body toward you. Still unsure how to act, you remain facing straight ahead, watching him in your peripheral.

He’s fully armoured this morning, his movements determined but stiff, and you recall how fluidly his body moved when he was just down to his flight suit. When he swept you into his arms, cradled you against his chest, and carried you to his bed…

No! Bad thoughts! Now is not the time for those because you’re about to receive the worst reprimand of your life (and you work for Karga!).

But your brain won’t stop replaying the memory, leading you to a distracting notion. He keeps his armour on the shelves in his bedroom – you saw it there last night. That means he must have come in to grab it this morning while you were sleeping. Damn, he’s stealthy! Though, to be fair, you were utterly passed out.

Wait. You woke up fully covered and tucked in. You don’t recall falling asleep, but you do remember arranging the blanket for optimum cleavage display. Kark, you really hope you snuggled down properly in your sleep. Because if not, there’s a chance that he opened his door to an inadvertent boob extravaganza, and he covered you up for the sake of your dignity. Fuck! How much shame can you suffer in a single morning?

He still hasn’t started talking, so before your thoughts ricochet in yet another distressing direction, you prompt, “You, uh, said we need to talk?” It’s probably best to confront your impending doom so you can run home and scream into a pillow.

Din huffs a little. “We do. Doesn’t mean I know how to start.”

Hmm, well, he doesn’t seem too angry, at least. Perhaps there won’t be any Mandalorian torture-based vengeance after all.

You don’t have the energy to play ‘guess the punishment’, but maybe you can stave it off if you beg for mercy. “Okay, then let me start. I said and did some monumentally stupid things last night, and I understand if you can’t forgive me and never want to see me again. But I just need you to know how truly sorry I am and that I really didn’t mean to offend you, and if I could—”

“Stop apologising,” he interrupts, shaking his helmet.

His order startles you into silence. It was insistent, but he didn’t sound angry at all. In fact, there was an undertone of something else. Almost the amused side of frustrated. What the kriff is happening?

Din sighs and tilts his visor toward his lap, then seems surprised to realise he’s still clutching the caf he made but clearly can’t drink in your presence. He silently offers you the steaming cup, and after a beat, you accept it, staring at it just as he did.

Never has a cup of caf received as much scrutiny as when two parties are unsure how to vocalise their thoughts.

“I made it for you,” he offers. “Thought… with the hangover….”

“Thanks,” you mumble, unsure what else to do or say. This isn’t going as expected at all, and your confusion is only growing. Is he doing some kind of bounty hunter ‘killing with kindness’ act?

This is absurd. You just need to get him talking, accept your punishment, and then you can escape.

“Um,” you begin, and his shadowed visor fixes on you again, unsettling you further. “If… if you don’t want to hear my apologies… what do you want to talk about?”

Your reluctant host forces out his response like it’s stuck inside his throat. “I want… I wanna ask you… some things. And I need you to answer honestly.”

Your stomach churns with nerves. He has questions? He must want you to explain what you said. He’s going to make you relive it – not by telling you how offensive you were, but by making you deconstruct your own comments and actions.

Kark. It’s a punishment, alright.

But if the penalty for your folly is the discomfort of explaining yourself, you can deal with that. This is a man you’re used to teasing, and he sounds just as unsure about what to say here as you are. So, you need to gather your confidence and endure whatever awkwardness this brings up.

You square your shoulders and lift your chin. “Okay… ask me.”

“You’ll answer? Honestly?” There’s an edge of desperation in Din’s voice from which you intuit his real meaning. You need to check any joking at the door.

Well, your current embarrassment level is sky-high, so whatever he wants you to respond to or admit surely can’t be much worse. You’ve already laid yourself (literally) bare for him. “I will. You got a slice of my inner dialogue last night, so I might as well continue the honesty.”

“Good… thank you.” He releases a profound sigh, a rush of static through the vocoder, and appears to gather himself for his first question. “Why do you think my creed means I can’t…?” He trails off, but you follow his meaning and match his heavy sigh.

“I don’t really think that,” you assure him. “Honestly, I’ve never known what to think, which means I’ve made no assumptions either way. But I guess… my drunken brain felt it was… safer to err on the side of caution when addressing it out loud.”

You’re not in the least bit surprised that he’s starting with this. If he is a virgin, you’ve mocked him, and if he isn’t, you’ve no doubt hurt his pride.

When he doesn’t respond, you suggest, “If that’s your first question, it sounds like you’re worried I’m judging you, so let me reinforce what I just said. ‘No assumptions’ means ‘no judgments’. But if you want to clarify things, I can promise you that whatever the truth is, I still won’t judge you.”

The importance Din is giving this topic is by far the biggest clue to the likely truth. No virgin would question you in the way that he just did. If they mentioned it at all, they’d probably just insist it’s not a topic for you to concern yourself with and never speak of it again. But inviting him to confirm his expertise gives him an easy way to lay the matter to rest. It’s also the kindest thing to do in the wake of your drunken foolishness.

He nods a fraction, accepting the premise, pausing while he chooses his words. “My creed doesn’t impose any rules relating to that, only that I cannot remove my helmet. And… some people kind of, uh… they get off on the mystery. So I do pretty well when I need to… blow off some steam.”

Huh. That was surprisingly direct (for him). You can’t help but smile, wondering if your delight stems from finally having proof that he isn’t without experience or that this discussion (so far) isn’t about how badly you fucked up.

Hoping to conceal your thoughts and keep the focus on him, you instantly slide back into teasing mode with a new nickname and a vague compliment of sorts. “Super Stud! You’re very discreet.”

“That’s the idea,” he confirms, ignoring his new moniker. “Although it’s by no means frequent, and since I got Grogu, I haven’t had….” He clears his throat. “Time and opportunity are rare.”

As much as you wish Din would choose to ‘blow off some steam’ with you, all you hear is a chance to atone for last night’s thoughtless actions. “I can take care of him while you go have some fun…?”

A massive scoff comes through the vocoder, and he shakes his helmet widely. “No, Maia, that’s… that’s not gonna work.”

But you persist, desperate to make amends. “Oh, come on, Metal Man, you deserve a break. Isn’t there anyone on Nevarro you can call for some fun?”

He sighs. “I have… options, yes.”

You furrow your brow at that. “So why did you say time and opportunity are rare? If you’ve got options, why don’t you just get your shiny ass laid while I do what you pay me for and take care of—”

A distinctly peeved huff crackles through the modulator, and you instantly fall silent. You forgot you’re not supposed to be teasing. Nor is it clear yet whether you still have a job. Foot, meet mouth.

He curtly redirects you. “Next question.” You assent with a nod, but when he continues, his tone is suddenly guarded and awkward. “Last night, you said… you suggested… that you and I might… blow off some steam.”

Fuck, this is the part you were dreading, and your pulse picks up. He seems nervous. Is that good or bad? Well, it’s better than angry and scary. You try to freeze your movements to avoid either wincing or looking too eager, nervously awaiting his question.

“Was that… because of the alcohol? Or… something, uh… real?” All you detect in his voice is discomfort, so you can’t tell which option he hopes for.

You sigh and take a careful slurp of the scalding hot caf to buy yourself time. It’s hard to answer because there’s a lot at risk. If you’re too honest about your feelings and Din doesn’t feel the same way, your relationship might end – professional as well as personal.

But once again, the fact that he’s asking suggests your answer is important to him, so the odds are likely in your favour. If he wasn’t attracted to you, surely he’d play it down and give you a way to save face. Just say he knew your silly drunken advances were simply an extension of your usual urge to tease and meant nothing, and that he forgives you for them. Surely he wouldn’t ask if they were ‘real’.

The concept sparks a tiny flame of hope in a dark and dusty corner of your mind, a pinprick of light to chase away the fears you walked in here with.

However, you can’t be too hasty or draw conclusions without facts. Though this isn’t going as dreadfully as you feared it might, the sensible option is to avoid getting your hopes up. He asked you for honesty, so you’ll give him that, but you decide to err on the side of caution again. An assumption against any interest on his part shouldn’t be offensive.

“It wasn’t… totally the alcohol,” you confess cautiously, and you see his body instantly tense up. Is that a positive reaction? “I’ve been trying to remember exactly what I said to you. I told you it was a ‘dream’, right?” Din nods once. “Well… that’s true. I admit I’ve had some daydreams about the idea. But it felt… safer not to mention it. Last night, you made it clear you weren’t interested in me, and you’ve never given me any reason to think otherwise, so I—”

“I did no such thing.”

Shit. The anger you were afraid of is finally colouring the Mandalorian’s tone, and he leans forward with his vehement denial.

What did you say wrong? Did you tease too soon with the new nickname just now? Shock and confusion contort themselves across your face, and you shrink backward.

He almost growls at your retreat, and the creak of his leather gloves as he clenches his fists has you bracing yourself for trouble. You honestly can’t tell if you’re turned on or terrified.

Before you can decide, he declares, “Last night, I had to walk away from a beautiful naked woman in my bed because she’d been drinking, and I would never do anything without full consent. I did not make it clear I wasn’t interested in you. Fuck, Maia, I have dreams about you too. All the time.”

Your mouth hangs open in surprise. Even knowing it was vaguely possible, you weren’t ready for that response.

He has dreams about you too!

Now that he’s confessed what got him so worked up, you see him make a visible effort to calm down.

His next words are much softer, soothing your prior unease, though your heart continues to thump from his admission. “Time and opportunity are rare because you’re Grogu’s babysitter, and that kid loves you. When he’s not with me, he wants to be with you. He only goes to school twice a week. That’s not a lot of time or—”

“—or opportunity,” you finish. “Okay, I get it. Why didn’t you say anything before? We could’ve been blowing off steam on schooldays for months already, but I had no idea. I would’ve climbed naked into your bed way sooner if I’d known.”

Din groans, a low and sinful rumble, and you wonder if you shouldn’t have put those images in his mind.

A deep breath later, he answers, “My son is my priority; his needs come before mine. He needs a good babysitter more than I need a good… uh….” He trails off and clears his throat. “And last night was the first time you’d ever said anything. I had no idea either.”

“But, but…” you stammer. Okay, so you’ve been keeping it to yourself, but you’re surprised he didn’t pick up on your attraction at all. “I’m flirting and checking you out all the crinking time, Metal Man. I thought bounty hunters were observant?”

He hums as if he’s flattered by your admission. “Teasing me is not a sign of anything on its own. And I’ve never seen you look anywhere other than directly at my helmet. You would’ve noticed my interest otherwise.” You furrow your brow slightly, not following, and he shakes his head in frustration. “You never look down.”

You look down.

Holy mother of meteors…

That is one obscenely snug flight suit and one fucking impressive erection.

Granted, you’ve noticed he’s been wearing the loose flight suit pants more often. In fact, you’ve missed being able to check out his toned ass in the closer-fitting ones. But since you can’t see where he’s looking, you’ve always been careful to keep your roving eyes chaste whenever he’s facing you. And, kriff, you never figured the reason for his wardrobe change was to hide this glorious attribute.

“Wow,” you breathe, unsure of what else to say. Suddenly, the volume on your headache reduces, and your lust levels shoot up. It’s so….

Din fidgets slightly, perhaps on edge because of your sudden scrutiny. Oops.

You revert your gaze to his visor, chancing some levity to ease the tension. “If I wasn’t fighting a skull-splitting hangover, I’d have a whole host of new nicknames for you already. Something about being as hard as beskar or carrying a concealed weapon… ugh, gimme a day, I’ll come up with a winner.”

His chuckle suggests the ice between you is now well and truly broken. You knock back the rest of your caf in the relaxed pause. It’s still hotter than you prefer, but perhaps it’ll quell your desire.

He lets you finish before breaking the easy silence. “Another question before you go, if it’s okay. Maybe a couple more, depending on how you answer the first one. I’d rather not leave this topic hanging now that we’ve addressed it.”

“Sure.” Right now, you’re willing to give this man whatever he wants.

“Okay. There’s another reason I walked away last night – besides your drunken state. It’s why I haven’t mentioned this before.” He swallows and inhales shakily. “You told me that your last relationship was terrible. And the fact that you chose to celebrate its end tells me you value your freedom. On my side, my relationships are rarely meaningful or long-term. So it might seem easiest to keep things casual.”

He pauses, but it’s unclear whether he wants your input. You can’t tell where he’s going with this, so you give him a one-shouldered shrug.

He leans forward and rests his vambraces on his cuisses. “If Grogu wasn’t around, it might be. But casual never ends well, and I will not threaten the bond you two have just for something meaningless. For the child’s sake, we gotta be sure where we stand before we… act on any of this. I can’t do casual with you, Maia. So the first question is: are you interested enough to try something… meaningful? Because if you’re not, we gotta bury this.”

He’s right. You start to understand why he got so worked up at your admission that you’re attracted to him for real. It complicates things.

He’s asked a logical and vital question, and you take a moment to give it due attention. Whatever happens, this cannot threaten your employment. So where are the lines?

You’ve felt something for Din from the start, and your attraction has only grown. That line is already blurred, and it hasn’t threatened anything, but it helps you see what he’s getting at. Your attachment to him and Grogu has become far more profound than you expected, so you couldn’t do casual even if you tried. It could only harm your bond with the kid if you tried to repress that attachment and keep things casual with his father.

Simply put, your feelings are already meaningful, so whatever comes next must be too.

Strangely, that doesn’t scare you. Your prior experience was poor – both oppressive and neglectful – but you were a displaced teenager on a new planet looking for protection when you got into that. Din is nothing like your ex, and this couldn’t be more different. You have faith in this man and, thus, faith in your answer.

“I am,” you confirm with a smile. “Are you?” He’s already confirmed he won’t do casual, but you need his agreement to start something meaningful.

He swallows, then echoes, “I am.”

A thrilling but weighty moment passes as you both digest this, just staring at one another in the wake of your mutual confessions. The air feels charged with promise. You can almost taste it.

It’s hard to judge how long has passed when he speaks again. “Second question. Did you use my ultrasound cleaner?”

Well, that’s a non sequitur. You have no idea how this query relates to your previous answer, but you nod nonetheless.

“Great. Come with me.”

He stands and leads you downstairs, stepping into his room and tapping on the main lights. When he sees that you’ve made his bed, he hums happily.

You’re quiet but hopeful, the heady feeling of promise that consumed you last night slowly filling you up once more as he turns to face you and beckons you closer.

“We should take this slow,” he starts. “You’re hungover, and I want you to feel comfortable when we….” He nods at the bed, oddly still reticent to describe the act.

“When we fuck.”

Din releases the cutest whimper and tugs at his pants. “That is not helping me with this problem. If you keep talking like that, I might not be able to resist,” he warns.

You scoff. “Shiny, are you really trying to threaten me with sex? Kriff, please tell me you didn’t use this tactic on any bounties back in the day.”

“No, I did not. And I’m trying to save that until your head doesn’t hurt,” he sighs. “But… question three. Before you go home, can I… kiss you?”

Your eyebrows shoot up as surprise and desire collide and carve a messy path through your chest, sending your heart tumbling into a double-time beat.

“Are you…” You’re not quite sure how to phrase your query, still chagrined by last night’s verbal blunders. “Is that some kind of metaphor? Does ‘kissing’ mean something different for Mandalorians with the whole helmet thing? Because if we’re just gonna thumb wrestle or something, I’m still in, but it’s kind of weird to call it kissing.”

He chuckles, and it eases your worry. “We do have a kissing substitute, but no, in this case, I meant what I said. I just gotta turn the lights out so you can’t see me when I remove my helmet. If that’s okay.”

All of your fears and concerns melt away with his answer. Gone are your worries about your budding romance having awkward or difficult restrictions, replaced by a certainty that you can handle not making eye contact. If observing that single caveat allows you to be with this man, you don’t even consider it a sacrifice.

Well, if he brought you down here to ensure it’s dark enough, you can help with that. You saunter to the door and touch the control to slide it closed, blocking out the sunshine filtering down the stairs, and then you turn to him with a smile. “It’s very okay. I’m not leaving here without a kiss, Din.”

He sucks in a modulated breath and doesn’t move for a second. “You… used my name.”

You know you’re allowed to – he’s told you that many times – but you find the nicknames help to maintain a friendly distance. Treat him as a friend, not as a lover. Except now things are changing.

“I thought I’d practice,” you explain. “I’m guessing that when we do get in that bed together, you’d prefer I scream out your real name instead of ‘Shiny’ or ‘Beskar Boy’.”

He groans sinfully again and reaches for you, fixing a glove around your wrist and tugging you to stand beside the shelves he stores his armour on. “Don’t move,” he instructs. Then he releases your wrist and taps a button on his vambrace, and the lights very slowly fade out until the room is darker than the void between galaxies.

Suddenly, sensations are everything. You can detect the warmth of Din’s body so close to yours, though you’re not yet touching. You hear him breathing more audibly than usual, a gentle but slightly stuttered hiss through the vocoder. You feel the air swirl around you as he raises his hands to his helmet…

The rhythmic thump of your heartbeat quickens, and despite your lack of sight, it’s as if the events occur in flashes between the beats. The absence of sound as you hold your breath. The gentle rustle as he slides off the metal helmet. The muffled clang when it hits the shelf as he lines it up. The scrape of the edge as he pushes it home. The nervous breath he releases in the subsequent silence, reminding you to exhale too.

Then he’s reaching for you, and your mind goes blank as his hands find your hips, closing the distance further. It’s not close enough to feel his arousal against you, although that’s probably wise. But if you weren’t still harbouring a headache, you’d be unable to resist pressing forward and seeking the impressive bulge you admired upstairs. Instead, you lay your palms on his cuirass and slide upward, burying your fingers in his cloak. That’s as high as you’ll go until you know what’s allowed.

One of Din’s gloved hands engulfs the nape of your neck, and you love how he’s controlling this, moving you in the dark to where he wants you. You can tell he’s leaned in closer by the sound of his breathing – more audible without the beskar barrier. Then there’s a sense of warmth on your skin as he brings you close enough to nuzzle at your hairline, gently at first, until you register the distinct press of his nose against your temple.

You feel it just before he speaks, his breath tickling near your ear as he opens his mouth to husk smooth, unmodulated words. “Go easy on me; it’s been a while since I’ve done this.”

Fuck, his voice is gorgeous. It resonates through you like a rumbling storm, drenching you with wanton promise, unleashing a different wetness upon you. If there were any frequency that could subdue your headache, it would be his soft and smoky timbre.

“Oh?” It’s all you can manage; a single syllable of surprise at his admission. He seems so confident.

“Mm,” he confirms, brushing his lips softly near the corner of your eye, and you detect some stubble around them. “Before we swear the Creed, we spend a while doing the things we’re taught to avoid after. I’ve only used this loophole once since then. So….” He trails off and presses a gentle kiss to the crest of your cheekbone, warm lips on soft skin, and you melt in his arms.

You want to assure him that he’s nailing it, preparing you so perfectly that he seems like an expert kisser, no matter how little practice he’s had. You want to thank him for deeming you worthy enough to use this rare loophole and express your stunned gratitude at the privilege he’s allowing you. But the notion of speaking confounds you, and all you can do is lift your chin and indicate your willingness to do this.

Din gets the message.

You can sense his nerves in the way he cautiously presses his lips against yours. But in the millisecond it takes to register a connection, your body reacts before your brain and electricity shoots through your nerve endings. Instantly, thousands of perfect explosions stud your skin, making you shiver in bliss.

He’s sweet, gentle, respectful… and it’s good. But it’s a little chaste for your liking, and you can tell he’s holding himself back. He needs to let go, so you emit a low hum of pleasure, which spurs him on and increases his fervour. You gently part your lips, and he gets the hint and takes the lead, deepening the kiss until your tongues meet – a touch that halts the spin of the whole galaxy around you.

Then he lets go. It’s as if he’s suddenly remembered how to breathe after holding his breath for decades, and oh, how utterly starved of oxygen he’s been. This kiss is feeding him, keeping him alive. His tightened grip, the tremors of lust you detect running through him, the way he almost whimpers into your mouth… it’s assertive and adorable in equal measures.

You can feel his inexperience, but you let him lead anyway. He gets lost in the sensations a few times, his rhythm faltering, but he corrects himself and responds keenly to your subtle signals of what’s good. It’s not long before you’re locked in a perfect moment, sharing an exquisite kiss with your ideal man.

When you part, it’s by mere centimetres, and you’re so full of happy chemicals that your hangover is barely a niggle at the back of your brain.

“I think that fixed my headache,” you purr against his lips. “I bet I could even thumb wrestle you now….” You have no clue what you’re implying, but you’re low-key horny, and openly flirting with him for once is fun.

Din’s unmodulated chuckle is the cutest thing you’ve ever heard. “Well, I was aiming for ‘mindblowing’, but I’ll take ‘headache-fixing’,” he jests, bantering right back for once. You can’t help but close the tiny distance to steal another lingering yet closed-mouth kiss, eager to show him just how addictive his efforts were.

Once again, your lips barely separate, lingering close. “Oh, it’s blown alright – completely offline. Probably why it doesn’t hurt anymore.” A salacious idea comes to you then, and you voice it a hair’s breadth from his mouth, knowing he’ll refuse but wanting to show you’re willing. “Maybe now it’s my turn to blow something of yours….”

The sharp gasp he sucks in and raggedly exhales indicates he’s just pictured your suggestion and played the image to its fruition. In the pitch-black room, you can pick up on his obvious arousal through sound and touch – the almost-groan he swallows, the twitch of all the muscles in his body as he reins himself in.

There’s a pause as he considers your proposal, and you can tell he’s waging a war with himself to refuse. You’ve put him in a difficult position. But this new closeness allows you to upgrade friendly teasing into full-on flirting, and you can’t resist.

It takes longer than you expect, but Din finally releases a shuddering breath, swallows, and presses a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then he rasps, “I would enjoy that very much, but it’s not why I brought you down here, mesh’la.”

Mesh’la? Who the fuck is that? You stiffen in his arms, unable to process the idea that he’s just said someone else’s name during an intimate moment. Even if it does sound similar enough to yours that you could maybe understand the slip, how could he—?

“Maia,” you correct pointedly as your thoughts spiral, pulling away slightly, your stomach suddenly in knots.

He tightens his hold and hurriedly assures you, “Hey, no, it’s not— mesh’la means ‘beautiful’ in Mando’a.”

There’s a tense pause, and then you murmur, “Ah,” embarrassed and glad you didn’t instantly flip out at your incorrect assumption, then suddenly flattered by the compliment. As you fall back into his embrace, your sluggish brain gives you nothing more, too confused by the pelting of emotions you just received in quick succession. Perhaps it’s best to adopt Din’s usual policy of silence.

But he saves you from your chagrin and redirects you to another topic. “Final question. Can I make you dinner one evening this week? We agreed we’re aiming for something… meaningful here. Getting physical right away is not the best way to achieve that.” He squeezes your waist with the hand that’s remained in place throughout. “As much as I’m looking forward to that part.”

A sweet smile is your reply, though you realise he can’t see it in the dark. Luckily, it’s followed up by the return of your vocabulary. “Dinner sounds good. Grogu too?” You love the little womp rat, but this sounds like a date, so you’d rather it wasn’t crashed by a decades-old toddler.

Din hums as he follows your thought process. “The kids at his school keep inviting him on playdates and sleepovers. The parents seem like good people, so I’m sure we could arrange something both he and I would be happy with.”

You nod. “Then I look forward to our first date.” You can’t imagine how a dinner date will work with a guy who can’t show his face, but at least now you know there are loopholes. Perhaps he has another for eating together.

“Me too… mesh’la Maia.” You hear his slightly cheeky but utterly earnest tone, and you can’t help grinning. How apt that he should give you a nickname just when you decide to start using his real name.

You want to kiss him again, but since you pulled away a little, you can’t judge where his face is anymore, and you’re not sure if you’re allowed to touch him to locate it. “Another kiss before I leave, gorgeous guy?” (Two can play the nickname game, and you started it).

“Always,” Din agrees through a chuckle, bringing you in close again with the hand on your neck, finding your lips and pressing something firmer, more resolute there. You open eagerly for him and revel in the thrust of his tongue against yours. He’s settling into it now, more confident in himself and his technique, while carefully heeding your responses.

You enjoy it while you can – the sensations, the taste, the warmth, the delicious calm energy that washes through you with his lips on yours, his tongue in your mouth, his hand on your neck. You commit the feelings to memory, unsure when you’ll get to do it again. You hope you won’t have to wait too long for your date.

It’s over too soon, but you accept that it has to be. As you separate, you attempt to lock in the memories of the features you’ve felt pressed against you – stubble, soft lips, a strong nose. It’s not much, but it’s more than you had before.

Din’s hand falls from your neck, and you bemoan the loss of heat and comfort, spiralling back toward your hangover from the heady heights of such an intimate moment. As you hear the scrape of his helmet on the shelf’s edge again, you panic a little and blurt out, “What’s your hair like?”

He freezes, and your panic swells for a different reason. Based on the comb you spotted on his dresser earlier, you’re confident you’re not asking a bald man to describe his hair, but perhaps it’s forbidden to ask.

“I-I mean, if I’m not allowed to know, then forget I asked. I just… now that I’ve felt your lips, it’s made me wonder about the rest. It’s fine if you can’t tell me, though.”

A few seconds later, the scrape of the helmet resumes, and he slides it into his grasp. But you don’t hear him put it on.

Din’s reply is a low whisper, and he sounds even more nervous than he was before you kissed. “You can’t see my face… but you can touch it. If you want.”

Oh. You wonder how many people have touched his face, which makes you hesitate. This feels more intimate than you should be getting right now. “Thank you. I think… just your hair today. I’ll explore the rest of you on our date, face included.” That promise wins you an eager hum.

Your hands remain buried in his cloak, so you slide one to the back of his neck and rake upward. A gasp escapes you as you feel soft strands, longer than you expected and curling slightly at the ends. You picture the cutest mess of unruly waves.

“Is it… what colour is it?” You’ve seen him without his gloves a few times – last night included – so you know his skin is a warm amber. But human genetics are so diverse that you can’t really assume anything about his hair based on that.

It takes a few seconds for him to answer, busy sighing in bliss and pressing his head into your palm like a tooka getting stroked. “Dark,” he replies simply. It’s unclear whether he’s hypnotised by your hand in his hair or he’s not used to disclosing details about himself. Both are fair excuses, and you have much more data than you did ten minutes ago either way. You’re convinced he’s gorgeous.

“Thank you, Din,” you offer as you force yourself to stop running your fingers through his silken waves and withdraw a step.

There’s a quiet rustle as he places his helmet back on and seals it. “You’re welcome.” It’s modulated again, but there’s something about hearing that metallic rasp that makes you smile. You just kissed the source of that sound.

With a muffled beep from his vambrace, the lights fade up again, revealing an impassive black T-visor. However, the armoured body below it somehow looks more relaxed and assured. Gone is the stiffness you felt in his limbs earlier, and though you wonder if a certain stiffness in his pants remains, you’re not about to start ogling him when you should be going home.

So you smile and suggest, “Walk me out?” and you’re rewarded with a nod.

When you exit the cabin for the second time in one morning, you feel like a different person. Though your foggy head throbs and your bruised shoulder smarts, your very essence sparkles with an energy you’ve never felt before. It flares with each lingering touch the Mandalorian bestows upon you, with every prolonged stare of his visor, and with his soft instruction to get home safe.

He’ll call you, he promises, slipping a new comlink into your hand.

When you exit the cabin for the second time in one morning, you feel like a better person. The girl who disgraced herself last night has gone, leaving a happier and more fulfilled version in her place. Even so, you’re sure glad that idiot version of yourself ran her mouth and became the catalyst for your new path with Din.

And you can’t wait to look down again. Maybe next time you’ll get to go down too.

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Get ready for more loquacious end notes…

Maia’s job was inspired by this scene from s3e5. She’s not a civil engineer, but, like, she could be that girl with the datapad – doing all the planning and building the holos while the engineer gets all the glory (can you tell I work in a support role??).

I originally wrote details at the end of part one of everything Din decided – that she must be attracted to him based on how she worded things, and that he’d talk to her to verify that and determine whether it was something she’d like to act on or just ignore. But I realised it was better for the story to leave his intentions a mystery (is the thing he ‘doesn’t want to have to do’ ejecting her from his life, or simply having a grownup conversation?), which hopefully lets you feel more of Maia’s fear here.

I feel like there’s a lot of scope for misunderstandings, not just because of Din’s helmet, but also because he can be socially awkward. So there he is, massively attracted to this girl who threw herself at him the night before but he doesn’t know what to say, so he just sort of gravitates towards her, tries to get close. Is he sort of flirting? Maybe. The ‘get in their personal space’ thing might work for him when he’s casually picking someone up. So his actions here are him trying to say with body language “I like you too, I want to get closer,” but she misunderstands because of her embarrassment, sees it as intimidation, and shies away – a response which makes him even more clueless about how to vocalise things.

I hope the switch from third person (she/her) pronouns in part 1 Din’s POV to second person (you/your) pronouns in part 2 Maia’s POV wasn’t too clunky. I know it’s popular in this fandom to use second-person pronouns (you/your) even when writing from a third person’s POV (Din’s), but I just can’t make myself do it. If he’s the one whose head we’re in, when he’s thinking about the woman he’s attracted to, he wouldn’t be thinking “damn, you’re hot”, he’d be thinking “damn, she’s hot”. I was taught that we should hear internal dialogue exactly as it would sound to the person thinking it, thus we should use third-person pronouns when inside his head. You/your is only for when we’re inside the reader’s head (second-person POV so second-person pronouns). And of course, I/me pronouns are used if we’re ever inside the author’s head (first person POV). I hope that explains the switch here. I swear I can’t help my annoying adherence to grammar rules – it’s just been drilled into me. I wish I could be more flexible sometimes, but unfortunately the autism always wins 😔

GIF made by me again, slightly less blurry this time.

Definitions: An ultrasound cleaner is basically a sonic toothbrush from Legends. Both Boba Fett and Jabba the Hutt kept a rancor as a rather scary pet. Caf, as you probably know, is the SWU’s coffee. Din (and Maia here) often calls Grogu a womp rat, a pest on Tatooine (proving Din has spent long enough there to pick up the local lingo, and Maia has picked it up from him). A tooka is an SWU cat.

As always, comments/kudos (AO3) and likes/reblogs (Tumblr) will inspire me to produce more things. I don’t have a Kofi because I would rather have your help marketing my stories than take your cash, so if you enjoy my work, please support me with kudos and reblogs. Thanks!

Honestly, I’m not altogether thrilled with this fic. I struggle with shorter (ha!) pieces because, as those of you who have read Be-All And Endor will know, I’m much more comfortable playing the long game and writing things where I can focus on character development, foreshadow future events, reference and call back concepts, and do a heck of a lot of worldbuilding. So to me, this feels like it lacks depth because it’s a very simple and straightforward concept that lacks a full-on conflict/resolution arc, and as a character study it’s nothing that hasn’t been done before. I’ve also been struggling to write something I felt was good enough to publish in the wake of Be-All. I don’t think this passes muster, but in the end, I realised I had to just post something – anything – simply to get past that fear of doing it. So I hope this was interesting enough to at least hold your attention! I suppose I could write a part 3 where they have their date and the smut happens, but to be honest, I have several other smutty fics in the works that have much better setups, so I think I should focus on those. I might come back to this one day, though.

Tags requested…

@aheadfullofsteverogers @alltheotps @axolotllover225 @burntheedges @copperhalfcent

@dindenimchicken @feekedbeat @foomoosworld @jude77 @penvisions

@pigeonmama @secretelephanttattoo @stagerightlauren @the-mandawhor1an @titlee78

I tagged those below in part 1 due to interest in my series masterlist and WIP snippets (comments/reblogs). Nobody told me off for my audacity, so I’m hoping you’ll enjoy part 2 also…

@604to647 @cheekychaos28 @djarinmuse @gingerlurk

@joelalorian @kyberblade @readingupsidedown @sunflowersunlight7-blog

@thefrogdalorian @whataenginerd @wrathkitty

[your-poetic-lifeline]

Maybe some head canons of characters received gifts or small amounts of affection. Revenant perhaps?

showing kindness to robots sure turns them squishy like humans, hm?

think of this as a late valentines post

The Legends Receiving Gifts & Affection

characters included: revenant, loba, caustic

consist of: sweetness! long ass headcanons oops! and some vague gift ideas.

word count: 900+ (906 if you’re curious)

— • x • — • x • — • x • — • x • — • x • — • x • —

Revenant

- There isn’t a lot he’d expect as a gift, given that a lot of things wouldn’t be of use for him. The idea of gifts actually slipped his mind completely until the first time you gave him one. It was a nice little headband.

- He stared at it blankly in his hands. He wasn’t sure why you were giving him gift, but upon looking at it some more, he came to appreciate it.

- He gives thanks with a simple hum. When he’s alone, he’s fiddling with the fabric and deep in thought.

- He likes it a lot. He thinks it’s practical. And subconsciously, the color/pattern is a nice contrast to the red that takes over his design. Makes him feel… a little nice about himself?

- He never thought he’d have the capacity to accept and appreciate a gift. He certainly can’t remember the last time he did or if he ever did.

- Is secretly hoping for more. if his faceplate could move, the idea of getting gifts from you would bring a faint smile to it.

- He also craves affection (it’s a co-requisite with pretty much any other love language you choose to express)

- the act does something funny but exhilarating to his processors.

- Any act of affection could make him swoon in some way, but he usually tries to play it off with a sound feigning annoyance.

- Is secretly holding back a love-filled sigh when you give him soft kisses or subtle, fleeting touches

- my boy just wants some love. it’s a different experience for him and he chases it willfully

Loba

- Loves and appreciates every gift you give her. It doesn’t matter if she can steal anything she desires. The love put into a gift is more than thieving can outdo. The gifts she receives from you makes her swoon every time.

- “Oh darling… this is just as beautiful as the last. Thank you…”

- Biiiig smooch on your cheek or forehead as she continues to look over the item.

- She truly accepts every gift whether it’s jewelry or otherwise, expensive or not. She likes that the gifts you give her reflect your inner mind. Even if it was some obscure, handheld item, she’d find it cute/interesting and would find somewhere to display it or put it to use

- And she’s a huge gift giver herself! She’ll give you anything you ask for or even vaguely mention.

- “Now it’s my turn to give you something nice darling. No really, you deserve it my love.”

- Pretty much gives you twice the amount of gifts you give her

- She’s also very careful with you. If she decides to get you anything expensive, she’s sure to double check that it’s nothing too expensive or rare enough for someone to try and track. She doesn’t want you in danger because of a reckless steal.

- Is elated sharing gifts and other things with you. She’s very, very affectionate and seeing you in a good mood puts her in a good mood.

- She sometimes glances at you and simply decides to attack your face with kisses. Is always caressing your face as she just adores you.

- “You are so gorgeous…”

Caustic

- Ugh i cant stand this guy (lying)

- If you give him something, you may have to be a little patient with him.

- When you first started giving him things, he refused them.

- “You can have it back. I have no need for your obnoxious trinkets.”

- After a couple of attempts though he starts to accept them, but usually doesn’t even open them until days later. Chances are if you place it somewhere where he can see it constantly, he might open it a little sooner.

- If you give it to him unwrapped, that’s even better. It pushes him to see it for what it is and accept it. His reaction is barely a hum of approval, but he takes it nonetheless and moves on.

- When he’s alone he observes it meticulously. Truthfully, he thinks fondly of your gifts. Even if he wouldn’t deem them useful, they still get some appreciation.

- Has a spot somewhere where your gifts are all huddled up and subtly on display. He personally doesn’t like gifts, but the fact you occasionally give him things is something he can appreciate as well.

- He kind of wants to give you something in return, but is super bad with gifts.

- And being genuine.

- And nice. lol.

- He’s quite the observer though so he recalls your interests or anything else you’ve talked about to come up with a gift idea.

- Goes for something simple. He’s way too flustered to give you anything too specific because he knows you’d point out his attention to detail.

- He’d try not to make it a big deal when he gives it to you as well. Will stomp up to you and simply place it in front of you.

- Behind his brash demeanor, he’s actually smiling, satisfied with himself when your reaction to the gift is positive.

- When it comes to affection, he prefers to keep it to a minimum. But moments like these where you’re really happy loosen him up a bit and he may let you dote on him however you’d like.

— • x • — • x • — • x • — • x • — • x • — • x • —

banner source!

[geekysteven]

ZEUS: Release the Kraken!

*waits*

What's the holdup?

ZEUS' ASSISTANT, JOEL: the Kraken is a Norse monster, so I have to file a requisition form with the Aesir. If they approve the release we'll have to wait for the creature to travel here from Greenland

[lenreli]

submerge your inhibition

[AO3]

4.6k, Explicit. Models Dream + Hob. Inspired by Ferdie in The Comeuppance BTS.

-

Dream quietly slips into the room, and finds himself relaxing even as the chaos of a photoshoot mills around him. The photographer calling things out, a closed off partition where people are arguing about clothes and makeup, the requisite table of food and crew taking bites from it between running around. 

It’s not his photoshoot, but it still feels familiar. Like coming home, which Dream didn’t think he would feel after― 

But, Lucienne strongly recommended that he get out of his apartment, to be around people that aren’t her. Or his sister. Or his therapist, Matthew. 

So next week he will be having a photoshoot with Robert Gadling, someone that Lucienne seemed to approve of, and he’s learnt the brutal way that he should trust her more. Pulling his black coat tighter around him, he’s been avoiding where the camera’s pointing, re-familiarising himself with everything else first. 

Finally looking towards the main scene, there are many people ― but with just the picture Lucienne gave him, he’s easily able to spot Gadling, leaning against the wall, stare intense towards the camera. And Dream suddenly feels hotter, taking in the brown-and-grey hair and dark eyes, Gadling’s beard looking soft and touchable. 

And most absurd of all, is the ordinary clothes he wears. A brown leather jacket with a grey shirt underneath, belts and jeans and shoes so normal but Dream swallows, brain trying to figure out how this Gadling is the hottest model he’s seen in all his years in the industry, the plain clothes almost sinful. The peek of chest hair from his top, the way the jeans are across the crotch, bordering on obscene, the way it makes Dream’s mouth water. 

Did the man sell his soul to the devil? And he has to be near all that next week?! And function?! 

Any lingering doubts over his libido are quashed as Gadling’s eyes pass over to him, and it feels like the molten core of the Earth bursts in his veins as Gadling moves, settling into a different pose on the wall, hands in his jeans pockets. Dream’s mouth waters as he thinks about sitting in the spot in front of him, hands reaching towards jeans to― 

Apparently, the other people leave, but Dream doesn’t know, eyes stuck on Gadling as they are. Gadling stops looking towards him ― or, the camera, he reminds himself as someone comes over and gives him another jacket, more blood-red leather than the brown as Gadling nods and another touch of makeup gets put on him.

Dream can only watch, spellbound and body tingling as his blood rushes every way as Gadling moves to sit on a chair, intense stare still directed at the camera, and at Dream himself.

Then the photographer calls for lunch and Gadling smiles, lighting up the whole room as he stands up, bouncing on the heels of his feet and Dream blinks as Gadling heads straight for him. “Did our shoot get moved up? Right. Sorry. You can call me Hob, and we’re going to,” Gadling―Hob enthuses, a warm hand brushing onto his shoulder as he gestures.

“No. It is still next week,” he says as Hob breathes, huddling close to him with a soft smile, and Dream thinks that this might be even worse, the warmth from Hob, the bright grin and a faint smell of lemon and bergamot, “I wanted to get the lay of the land first.” 

Hob, still smiling, nods, and Dream doesn’t even feel like protesting as Gadling loosely takes his elbow, guiding them over to the food table. “Ah. Hope you’re still up for it, then!” Gadling says with a particular tone, which Dream’s unable to parse between all the warmth he can feel, the soft smile and brown eyes looking at him as Hob gets a mini custard tart to eat. “Honestly, I was so shocked when you, well, your agent confirmed it that I had to ask my roommate to pinch me, because your work’s so great and―sorry, again. I ramble,” Hob tugs at his ear and Dream blinks. “Also, I keep touching you. Tactile bastard, me,” Hob says with a chuckle. 

Dream blinks and Hob gets another tart, seemingly in no hurry for Dream to speak―”I do not. Mind. It is fine,” he says, surprising himself by meaning it, even with how stilted it comes out as Hob leans against the table, expression intently focused on him and what little words he says. “And you do not mind what―surely, you heard what happened,” he trails off as Hob finishes off another tart, apparently a favourite for him. 

Hob blinks and leans closer, not in a looming way, more for sharing secrets. “I heard bits, but I’m not gonna hold it against you, if that’s what you’re thinking. And honestly, just tell me to bugger off or stop something during our shoot and I definitely will. The last thing I want is for you to be uncomfortable.” 

The way it’s said, like it’s reasonable and okay, floors him as he tries to get his brain together, not helped with how attractive Hob in general is, and Dream tries not to lean closer to him, like he’s not helplessly magnetised. “I. Thank you. For the consideration.”

Hob’s brow furrows and Dream’s fingers twitch as Hob puts some hair behind his ear, “not so much consideration as common decency, I think. So. Curiosity sated, or will you stay to watch me flail about more?” Hob nods towards the area dedicated to the shoot, brown eyes sparkling. 

And. Well. “You do not flail,” he points out and Hob laughs, bright and loud. The sound of it is infectious, and Dream stops his lips twitching into a smile, feeling proud that he got such a response. Even though he’s sure that Hob laughs a lot, freely and openly. “I have nothing else to do.” There is ― fantasy book drafts in his notebooks, scribbled ideas of clothes and fashion, something gothic and avant-garde that he’s on a rough deadline for, but, Lucienne did have a point, much as he didn’t want to agree with it. 

“Oh, now I have to step up my game,” Hob says, a quick brush shoulder-to-shoulder as someone comes over and motions for Hob to return to make-up, which Hob agrees to with a nod. “Can’t disappoint you, after all.” 

Hob leaves him with a smile, and Dream takes one of the tarts to nibble on, settling on the far wall as Hob gets back into the shoot, easy smiles and demeanour melting off for the broody and intensity of the character he’s portraying, Dream’s shoulder gently burning with the long-gone touches. 

-

Robert Gadling, he learns while looking up Hob’s other photoshoots, is also an actor, starring in smaller roles but slowly gaining traction. And on the day of the fated shoot, Dream tries not to think about that one particular photoshoot Hob was in as they get put into suits, Dream a classic black with a red dress shirt and black tie, hair styled into a windswept mess with the help of lots of hairspray.

And Hob in a matching suit, but with a deep purple shirt. The photoshoot that Dream stared at for a very long time while looking up his fellow model involved Hob in a sharp suit coat, leather gloves and pointed shoes, which he eventually figured out was being sold. And certainly not the idea of a Hob Gadling like that stepping on you, which Dream definitely didn’t think about in detail in bed, as he saved the pictures. 

The photographer, one Johanna Constantine, took a look at them and nodded before barking orders with the set, and Dream tugs at the bottom of his suit jacket, nervousness blooming as the reality of it all becomes more solid.

Their makeup is minimal, apart from lip gloss on Dream’s end. With eyeliner on Hob’s, brown eyes even more arresting as they stare at him. Constantine is still working things out it seems, as they sit in the make-up chairs, waiting for the call. “You good?” 

“Yes,” he says after a deep breath, the set, Hob, everything unlike that time, the harrowing time afterwards. Hob smiles and knocks their shoes together briefly. 

“Constantine may be a hard-ass, but she’ll listen. One time with her, well, she may have punched someone out because I kept saying it wasn’t nice,” Hob offers with a shrug and Dream gapes. “They were fine, of course, and she got into trouble for it, but she will take out anything that, you know,” Hob says, gesturing expansively towards the photographer, who Dream can’t stop himself from admiring now, just a bit. “She’s good to us models.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

-

The photoshoot starts off slow, some standing in the same room, white walls and glass tables, and a red chaise lounge. Eventually drifting closer and closer ― then Hob puts a blunt switchblade to the edge of his throat, the blade facing the camera as Dream is given his own blade, to put on the other side of Hob’s neck as the camera shutter constantly clicks. 

Dream can almost see the story unravelling as their blades are taken away, distrust but tension and his heart jumps into his throat as Hob pulls him closer by his tie, the length of it getting curled around his hand as they stare at each other. As Dream grabs onto the knot of Hob’s silk tie, loosening it. 

Constantine’s orders filter through a far-off place, pulse racing as Hob’s eyes become softer, awe and devotion showing as Dream leans closer, his cheek eventually pressing into the stubble of Hob’s chin, soft and prickly, hiding some of Hob’s face from the camera. “Okay, now look down,” Constantine says and he does, looking at his hand on Hob’s tie, at the soft skin of his neck. 

“Good?” Hob asks quietly, a breath against his ear and Dream swallows a shiver, never realising how cold he was, with Hob as a column of heat, almost engulfed with it as Hob’s other hand, not on his own tie, touches his hip. 

“No complaints,” he replies without moving his lips, voice an octave lower as the tension stretching between them as the hand on hip presses in, can feel nails over fabric and Dream turns his head, their noses brushing, lips almost― 

“Break time,” Constantine barks out and Dream almost swallows his tongue, frustration lingering as Hob moves away, dark eyes sharp and bright. Dream resists leaning back in, the cold of the room bracing as Hob smiles, a loose grip on his wrist pulling him along to the food table. 

“Didn’t think we were working that long,” Hob mumbles, letting go of his wrist to pick at some strawberries, and Dream hums. Blood rushing hot, Dream gets one of the cold cold cucumber sandwiches, nibbling it as the crisp cool refreshes him, and as Hob weaves stories of another set he was on, where every minute felt like an hour, not helped by how much of an entitled prick one of the main actor’s was. 

Dream listens attentively as they finish their food and are whisked off to get their make-up touched up, their jackets taken off. Soon enough, they’re back to the set, this time closer to the chaise. And very close, Hob’s body heat making his tingle― 

And then Dream has to put his hand on Hob’s cheek, greying stubble under his palm as Hob’s hands go to undo his tie, eyes dark and focused on his face. Once again, Constantine’s orders go to some distant place, overwhelmed by the feel of Hob, the soft skin and prickly stubble, his hand going down the other’s jaw, to the edge of stubble on his neck. 

Then Hob’s thumb traces up his neck, the touch scalding hot that Dream doesn’t even realise that Hob’s going back down to his shirt. Constantine’s now the top button comes through and something cold runs down Dream’s spine as Hob slowly unbuttons his shirt―then a second button and― 

He’s attracted to Hob, there’s no denying that, but the undercurrent of fear and disgust, of the shape of what he dealt with― 

“No,” someone says, and it takes for a moment to realise that he’s the one that said it as Hob pulls his hand away, Hob’s brows furrowing. The relief is immediate, guilt and disappointment following after, a complex tangle of emotions as Constantine makes a sound. 

“Hobsie, you okay with Dream undoing your shirt?” Constantine barks and Hob tenses, looking towards the photographer and nodding. “Dream?” 

Dream manages to tear his eyes away to look at Constantine, as he nods and takes his hands off of Hob, taking a step back to breathe. “I apologise,” he croaks.

Constantine scoffs, “nothin’ to apologise for. Now, stop slacking off,” she orders, lifting up her camera with an eyebrow raise. 

“What she said,” Hob says, briefly showing a bright smile and Dream rolls his eyes. Taking another deep breath, he steps closer, next breath filled with the lemon and bergamot of Hob’s cologne, of the warm fabric under his hands as they rest on Hob’s chest. 

Hob’s look becomes soft and intense as he undoes the first button of Hob’s shirt ― and he can hear Constantine grumbling, more to herself then them, this might be even better actually―considering Hob’s closer to the chaise lounge, as he gently forces Hob onto it, the awe in those lined brown eyes making him shiver. Or maybe it’s Hob’s hands going to his hips as Dream undoes another button, chest hair showing. 

The tips of Dream’s fingers tingle and twitch as he slowly unbuttons Hob’s shirt, brain caught on the soft patch of chest hair as he sits on top of Hob, thighs pressed against Hob’s hip, the other’s groin against his, a searing warmth under him as Hob reclines onto the chaise. 

Dream bites down a shiver as a thumb manages to get under his shirt, the hot touch of it on the skin under his shirt all he can focus on for the moment. Perfect. Make the people wish they were you, he hears Constantine say, and his first thought is that he wishes he was doing this without a full crew in the same room, as he reaches the end of Hob’s shirt, revealing a dark happy trail going into black trousers. Straddling Hob as he is, he can feel how wet he is and hopes that the other man doesn’t.

His insides clench as he stares at where their bodies meet, and a sound gets pulled from him as Hob’s hand ― furthest from the camera, brushes his jaw, forcing his head up, his eyes meeting Hob’s, and Dream’s own hands rest on the other’s stomach, dark hair under his fingers. 

Hob cups his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek in the same tempo of the one under his shirt and Dream’s mind crashes, his hands travelling up Hob’s chest, feeling hair under his fingers and Hob continues to stare at him, devotion simple to see. He can almost feel it, making his tingle as Hob looks up at him, as his hands go further up and his hands stop. 

Looking down, he can’t see the scars below Hob’s nipples, covered by hair, but he can feel them, a line of scars, reminding Dream of his own. Though, his own had been made more invisible, compared to the one’s on Hob, and he blinks, staring at Hob in surprise, whose eyebrows raise. 

Whatever thoughts he had about the revelation disappear as the hand under his shirt moves, fingers pressing into his lower back as Hob starts to sit up, his crotch pressed flush against Hob’s, as the other’s face rests on his shoulder, prickly stubble brushing against his neck. Constantine says something, but he can’t catch it over his heart beating in his ear, over the way Hob’s breaths take all his attention, the hand on his jaw moving down his throat, brushing against his shirt and eventually resting against his hip. 

“Meet with me after?” Hob asks quietly, and Dream suppresses a shiver at how he can feel Hob’s words from his chest, can feel his throat moving against his skin.

“And if I say no?” He wrangles out, voice low and the hand under his shirt digs into his skin momentarily as Hob moves back to look at him, eyeliner making the brown of his eyes seem even more darker and Dream tries not to lean in, caught in the gaze as he is.

“Then it’s a no,” Hob replies, shrugging lightly. “So?” 

Dream can count on one hand, the times he’s gone through with the simmering tension that’s happened on photoshoots, but this time it seems more inevitable than most, with the way that Hob seems to warm him up to his bones from the lightest of touches. “Perhaps.”

-

Hob’s car is a “silver monstrosity” as described by the man himself, but Dream’s not interested in it, only that it can get them to the hotel Hob’s staying at. With Hob in jeans and bright pink Miskatonic University hoodie that Hob’s wearing, he wants to get his hands on Hob’s scorching skin again, his own black skinny jeans and band shirt feeling restrictive at the thought. Rolling down the window to let some air in, as well as stopping to stare at his reflection as Hob starts the car, there’s only one thing on his mind ― well, two. “Robert. Really?” He asks, skeptical. 

Hob laughs and shrugs, “I started life with a fancy name, when really, I’m just a guy.” 

Dream squints at the other man, “just a guy,” he repeats, still skeptical. Hob offers another shrug, and the conversation swiftly moves on. Well, Hob picks another thing to talk about, the words relaxing him as he stares out the window, listening to Hob’s gossip from a recent acting job he’s working on.

The soft tones of Hob’s voice settles under his skin as they reach the hotel, and as they get into the mirrored elevator, he realises that Hob still has the eyeliner from the shoot on. Reaching the desired floor, Hob loosely holds his hand, pulling him along until Hob stops and gets out his keycard, opening the door to his room. “Tea? Coffee? Or…” Hob trails off as Dream gives him a flat stare, “it’s polite!”

“Or,” he drawls, leaning forward to kiss Hob, the door shutting behind him as he gets his hands on the other’s stubbled jaw again. An oh is exhaled against him as they move towards the queen-size bed, Hob’s hands gripping his waist as Dream straddles him once more as they continue to share messy kisses, with plenty of Dream biting at the stubble around his lips, the soft and prickly feeling against his tongue pleasing. 

“Whatever you want,” Hob says, mouth unoccupied as Dream bites down his jaw, forcing his head back as he sucks marks into the stubble under Hob’s jaw, pleasure fizzling in his veins at finally being able to do so. Hob’s skin is warm underneath him, and he can feel the other’s racing pulse against his tongue as Hob’s fingers dig into his hips. 

A hand goes into soft brown hair as they continue kissing, and Dream feels smug as he pulls away from it and Hob follows, biting into his lips. In between those, Dream tugs off Hob’s hoodie, then the threadbare grey shirt under it to put his other hand on Hob’s chest, hair curling around his fingers as they kiss again. 

Just like before, Hob’s hands trail under his shirt and he shivers, quickly taking his shirt off in between biting kisses, and Dream lets out a happy whine as his chest comes into contact with Hob’s, only just restraining himself from rubbing their chests together. Though, with the way Hob laughs into his mouth, the intent seems clear as he holds onto the other’s hair, flush against Hob’s chest as he slides down and―oh.

A hard feeling against his crotch, thoughts derailing as he looks down, unable to see anything past their chests pressed against each other. Hob gives him a look from under his lashes, chin resting against his collarbone, “had to wear one of those cock sleeves for our shoot, otherwise…” Hob trails off, and Dream lets out a moan as a hand caresses his spine as Hob blinks up at him, skin tingling as he swoops in for another kiss, deeper and filthier as he grinds down onto the hardness underneath him.

Hob’s free hand comes up to his neck, gripping it lightly, a thumb swiping across his cheek as they kiss, sloppy and wet as Dream bites into Hob’s lips, into the stubble surrounding his mouth as his insides twist with heat. He shivers as Hob’s other hand moves to his front, fingers trailing down the dark hair from his stomach, slowly undoing his pants, and he has to break the kiss to gasp as a hand goes inside―with Hob making a triumphant sound as a finger goes inside his cunt. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Hob whispers, beard scratching down his neck, teeth nipping as well and Dream shudders as another finger goes inside him, fingers curling and twisting and making pleasure spark behind his eyes as he desperately holds onto Hob’s shoulder, other hand going to his hair as he melts. “Is this for me?” 

He can only cry out as Hob’s fingers, skilled and so warm continue to curl inside, and he can feel himself leaking even more around them, as other fingers press against his folds, massaging him gently. “Hob,” he breathes, voice cracking as he grinds onto them. 

“It is,” Hob sounds amazed, and Dream opens his eyes, confused when he shut them as Hob ― stares at him, awe and admiration plain on his face as Hob’s fingers reach deeper, the slow steady bliss making it so Hob is all he can feel, the fingers and warth, the body heat surrounding him as he whines, Hob sucking on his collarbones and up his neck. “You feel so,” Hob groans, another finger being put inside his cunt and he shivers, one of his hands scratching down Hob’s chest. 

“Hob,” he keens, fluid leaking down his thighs, still feeling Hob’s hardness pressed against him―but nowhere close enough. “Need you inside.” 

The hardness against him twitches and Hob whines, licking up his throat as his fingers continue to twist and stretch inside him, “not yet.” Fingers brush against that spot inside, other fingers brushing against his clit and dick and he writhes, orgasm meeting him absurdly quickly and he can only gasp as Hob’s fingers press and curl maddeningly, still relentless through his orgasm, whimpering at come he can feel leaking around warm fingers. 

“Inside,” he orders, voice a croak as Hob laughs, licking up his neck―and Hob’s fingers are still inside as there’s an awkward shuffle to get rid of shoes and pants. With more laughter as from Hob as Dream squirms out of his skinny jeans, Hob’s other hand resting on the small of his back and not helping at all, as somehow he manages it while straddling Hob still, settling fully back onto Hob’s lap once naked, feeling hairy thighs and a hard cock pressed against him as he can’t help but kiss Hob more. 

“I don’t have, I wasn’t―” Hob mumbles says between feverish kisses, fingers twisting inside him and Dream groans, his own fingers tangling into Hob’s hair as he nibbles at the other’s bearded chin. 

“I’m clean,” he throws caution to the wind, and Hob stops, pulling back from the kiss to give him a shocked stare. Dream sets his jaw as Hob opens his mouth, shuts it. 

“I mean, I am too, but still,” Hob stutters, hand on his back fluttering with a gesture and Dream resists rolling his eyes, tugging Hob in by his hair for a kiss. Hob shudders, gasping into him and Dream hums in pride. “If you’re sure,” Dream tugs Hob’s hair, and Hob groans, cock twitching against his cunt, which Dream would rather die than to not feel it―”okay, okay,” Hob strangles out, something like fondness in his tone. 

The fingers leave him and he whines at the loss, looking down to watch as the other’s cock enters him, and Dream gasps at the thickness, the warmth of it, can feel Hob shake under him, nails gripping his hips tightly. “Yes,” he breathes, and Hob lets out a strangled swear as he takes the rest of Hob in, slamming down on his cock, and he moans at the feeling. 

“Dream,” Hob keens, a hand coming up to his throat, tugging him into a sloppy press of lips, and Dream moans at the feel of chest hair on his dick as he presses down, pulling himself up to settle into a rhythm, the cockhead inside of him hitting that spot that makes him see stars, warming him up from within as he squeezes around Hob’s cock. “Fuck.” 

Aside from Hob’s exclamations, there’s the sound of skin-on-skin, and Dream can feel sweat gathering on Hob’s chest―or maybe a mixture of sweat and slickness as he chases his the pleasure heating him up, the constant cold he’s been feeling chased away due to the heat from Hob.

Time has only passed by the slowly building pleasure as he continues to ride Hob’s cock, in no hurry even as Hob’s whines become even louder, teeth biting into his throat―and Dream’s next breath is punched out of him as a finger enters him, another―two fingers on the top of Hob’s cock, curling inside, the rest of the fingers pressing against his dick, and he comes with a whine, gasping into Hob’s hair as his walls squeeze the other’s cock. 

There’s a groan as Hob comes, even more fluids filling him, and he can feel it leaking around Hob’s cock, his fingers as they gather their breath. The fingers leave him, making him squeeze Hob’s softening dick tightly, “stay,” he gasps, resting his forehead against Hob’s temple as he throws his arms around the other’s shoulders. 

“Bossy,” Hob murmurs, smiling and Dream’s cunt leaks as Hob puts his fingers into his mouth, licking them clean. “You know, I’d love to tug on your hair too, but I wouldn’t want to break it,” Hob’s other hand goes to the back of his neck and Dream scoffs, almost affronted as he touches it―

And he freezes, nose scrunching as he feels the tacky and stiff hairspray, still in it from the photoshoot. “A shower, then,” he proposes, then frowns, the feeling of Hob, even soft, not being inside him not something he wants to think about. “One more, then shower,” he amends. 

“What?” Hob pouts, arms going around his waist, dark eyes blinking up at him, “how about one more in the shower, a quick one, then we can come back to this?” Hob argues, eyes sparkling even with the harsh hotel lights. 

Dream works his jaw, pulling away from the other’s face with a sigh. “It might be acceptable.” 

“Might be,” Hob repeats, shaking his head and sighing, and Dream groans as Hob leaves him, sliding out from underneath as Hob puts a hand out, “come on. Sooner we shower, sooner we can get back,” Hob says with a wriggle of his fingers, eyes dark and sparkling.

Huffing, Dream curls up on the bed, hiding a smirk behind an arm as Hob’s eyes rove over him, “if you insist.”  

[Fin]

[williamedwardparry]

May 24th, 1845: The Illustrated London News runs an informative celebratory article about the Franklin Expedition, which left Greenhithe dock on the 19th. They describe outward and inward features of the ships, which had been visited by reporters, and give an overview of the careers of the ships and of their commander, Sir John Franklin. (In the process they accidentally invert the layout of Fitzjames' cabin, misspell Crozier's and Des Voeux's surnames, and omit to mention Sir John's second marriage.) [Internet Archive link]

Transcription:

DEPARTURE OF THE "EREBUS" AND "TERROR" ON THE ARCTIC EXPEDITION.

A desert waste of waters lies before— Behind, the anxious hospitable shore, Which like a parent bird sees ye depart, Bold wingèd messengers of daring Art ! We know that sunshine always 'round your path Cannot attend ; that rain and tempest's wrath Will be your portion ; but our pray'r shall be You live their fury out right gallantly, And after years you have perchance to roam That science crown'd you safely seek your home ! W.

On Monday H. M. sloops Erebus and Terror left Greenhithe, on their attempt "to penetrate the icy fastnesses of the north, and to circumnavigate America." The fitting out of this expedition was, we believe, definitively arranged by the Admiralty in February last, since which period the requisite equipments have been made ; and, as they involve several novelties, we shall briefly detail them.

The Erebus and Terror, it will be recollected, were fitted out for the South Polar Expedition, in 1839—1843, under the command of Captain Sir James Ross. The Terror had previously visited the Arctic regions ; it being the vessel in which Captain (now Sir George) Back, in 1836, attempted, by "way of Wager River," to trace the northern boundary of the American Continent. This vessel passed up Hudson Strait in August, 1836, and left it on her way home in August, 1837, after encountering extraordinary perils among the ice, and a narrow escape from foundering : she was then compelled to return home in a leaky condition, with her stern-post shattered. This was the fifty-seventh Arctic Expedition from England, commencing with Cabot's voyage (temp. Henry VII.)—the first of the kind that was made from our country; and the Expedition which has just sailed is the fifty-eighth enterprise of its class.

The vessels were put in commission at Woolwich on Tuesday, March 4. The Expedition is under the command of Captain Sir John Franklin, Knight, K. C. H., who is appointed to the Erebus (the larger vessel), with Commander James Fitzjames, Lieutenant Henry T. D Le Vesconte; mate, Charles F. Des Voux [sic]; second master, H. F. Collins; clerk, G. F. Pinhorn; gunner, J. G. Robinson; boatswain, J. G. Terry ; carpenter, W. Weekes. Captain F. R. M. Crosier [sic] commands the Terror, with Lieutenant Edward Little, Lieutenant G. H. Hodgson ; carpenter, Thomas Honey.

The fitting out of the vessels has been superintended and minutely inspected by the Lords of the Admiralty, and other persons distinguished in Polar expeditions. The ships are provided wit hthe most approved Archimedean screw propellers; and in one of the trials in the Thames, the Terror made such excellent progress that she cast off her towing steamer, and proceeded down the river without any additional assistance whatever.

In their visit to Woolwich, the Lords of the Admiralty proceeded to the west-end of the dock yard, opposite the wharf-wall of which was stationed the Rattler steam-vessel, fitted with a screw propeller. Their Lordships witnessed the manner in which the screw was shipped and unshipped by tackle and chains suspended over the starboard side of the vessel, and then proceeded on board the Erebus to witness the manner in which the screw-propeller could be taken on deck and replaced in its proper position, by letting it down through a well formed in the stern of the vessel. The advantages of this mode of attaching and detaching the screw, are self-evident, and the principle is so simple and easy of accomplishment, that any vessel in her Majesty's navy may by its aid be fitted with a screw-propeller, the objection and difficulty of shipping and unshipping it on the outside being completely obviated. Their Lordships went below and witnessed the construction of the tubular boiler and steam-forming apparatus, which occupies but a very small space in the vessel, and by aid of a large pipe, about one foot in diameter, conveys hot water under the deck to warm the men's berths, and all parts of the vessel. The funnel of the furnace is near the side of the vessel under the rigging, and is only about nine feet high. The pipe for blowing off the steam is not three feet high above deck, and is near the centre and over the boiler. Several other ingenious contrivances have been adopted to render the whole as simple and perfect as possible. The decks of the Erebus and Terror are constructed on the diagonal principle, and about twenty feet on each side of the bows of the vessels have been cased with strong sheet iron. There is not any copper sheathing on either of the vessels, as no danger is to be apprehended from the attacks of shellfish or barnacles, the ice soon clearing them from incumbrances of that description.

The arrangements made for the comfort of the officers and crews are excellent. The quantity of stores taken on board is considerable, and consists of preserved provisions of various kinds, a large quantity of tea, and extra strong West Indian rum, 35 per cent. over proof. The consumption is thus provided for a prolonged expedition. Ten fine live oxen have also been shipped at the Woolwich Dockyard, on board the Barretto, Jun., hired transport ship ; she will accompany the discovery vessels to the edge of the ice, and these animals may then be killed, and their flesh preserved fresh for any length of time.

Each ship has been supplied with 200 tin cylinders for the purpose of holding papers which are to be thrown over board, with the statement of the longitude and other particulars worthy of record, written in six different languages, and the parties finding them are requested to forward the information to the Admiralty.

The compasses of the vessels have been adjusted by Captain Johnson, and the most perfect arrangements made for the peculiar service in which the vessels of the Arctic expedition are to be engaged.

We annex, also, a portrait of the gallant Commander of the Expedition, who has already taken a share in three Expeditions to the North. Sir John Franklin is a native of Spilsbury, in Lincolnshire, and was born in 1786. At the age of fourteen, he entered the Royal Navy, as midshipman, and was on board the Polyphemus when Nelson made his daring and resistless attack on the Danish line and batteries off Copenhagen, April 2, 1801. Franklin next sailed with Captain Flinders on his Voyage of Discovery on the coast of New Holland, in which he endured shipwreck. We pass over several other of Franklin's services, but must not omit that on board the Bellerophon, at the Battle of Trafalgar. His first Expedition to the North was as commander of the Trent, in company with Captain Buchan, in the Dorothea, in 1818 ; both vessels returning in the same year.

Lieutenant Franklin's next enterprise was in connection with an expedition of Lieutenant (now Sir W. E.) Parry ; a journey by land, which, in point of severe and protracted suffering, has not been surpassed in the annals of discovery ; he left England in May, 1820, and did not return till July, 1822. In February, 1825, he left Liverpool on a similar journey, and returned in September, 1827.

Captain Franklin was promoted to the rank of Commander in 1821, and to that of Post-Captain in 1822. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society, and has published the results of his several expeditions. He married in 1823, Miss Porden, the daughter of the architect, William Porden, Esq. : this lady unhappily died of consumption, in her 30th year, in 1825.

Our illustrations show the cabins of Captain Sir John Franklin, and Captain Fitzjames, in the Erebus. Sir John's cabin is in the stern of the vessel, and has double windows.

Among the external peculiarities of construction may be mentioned the following: —Round the outside of both vessels is a projection as far as the shrouds, inclosing the chains as a protection against the ice : it is flat on the surface, except at the bows, which form an angle. What is generally the figure head is a solid block of wood ; the vessel is double, and the bows are a mass of timber about eight feet thick. The stern is nearly perpendicular, for unshipping the rudder ; and an ice board is raised above the bulwarks, which projects over the side, to aid in steering clear of the ice. The screw-propeller is worked by an engine of 25 horse power, which formerly ran upon the Greenwich Railway.

[lloth]

I love when I'm mindless doing something and I start thinking more of an OC's history, backstory, or like a series of events leading up to something. And then, I start thinking I've struck gold, when in reality, it's the equivalent of the "THE" from Spongebob.

[mwolf0epsilon]

A Disgraced Trooper's Last Resort

Corrie moonshine has the kind of punch that can knock your teeth out. It's bootlegged with whatever they can find that won't outright kill them if it settles in their stomach, but definitely strong enough that it would sooner be considered outright gutrot than an actual FDA approved drink.

Not something your run of the mill liquor license or health insurance would cover.

Not that Fox really concerns himself with either of those things as he takes a swig from his lucky flask. To him a drink is a drink, especially when he feels like he needs it most. And he did need that extra push of liquid courage tonight more than he ever had before.

To put it simply, he was between a rock and a hard place. Relations between the GAR and the Guard were at an all time low. And, despite his Corries saying otherwise, it was all his fault.

He'd stumbled and made some terribly misguided mistakes. Grasped at tantalising straws that he'd hoped would be his and his men's salvation, only to fail time and time again. Burying himself and his troopers deeper and deeper in a grave that had been prepared for them since arrival. Eagerly applauded by the man who'd made them all his fools and jesters.

He'd botched Commander Tano's capture and then shot a brother dead. And not just any brother either. He'd shot one of Rex's boys. The only surviving one that he'd claimed from the defunct Rishi Moon outpost.

The heat was on high and everyone he loved and cared for was suffering terribly for it.

From his commanders to the shiniest of shinies. All because he couldn't win against Palpatine. He was in too deep and had no allies that could get him and his men back out of this deep dark pit. At least not any allies that had any real power.

Fox was playing a game that he simply couldn't win. But maybe he didn't have to...

Taking another swig of the flask, Fox contemplated the only logical conclusion he'd reached in the last couple of months, as he'd noticed just how much things had deteriorated. Contemplated this rather outlandish plan of his that was very much a last desperate call to set things right.

It all came back to flimsywork and the world of bureaucracy. Things he hated but was much too intimately familiar with. He'd submitted the performance report a month ago before settling for another round of the waiting game. Detailed what needed to be scrutinised, and omitted what most definitely didn't. His idea was a little out there but not unheard of, especially with the observations he'd dutifully jotted down to back up his decision.

And then there was the matter of tempting the Chancellor with something he couldn't quite resist, which he thought he'd done so beautifully. If he was good at anything besides suffering through logistics and political nonsense, it was nicely baiting a trap of his own.

As soon as Fox made his next move, a few things would change. Hopefully for the better. Not that his men would understand. At least not at first... But it had to be done. He'd made the assessments and he had certainly done his homework. As soon as the report was called in for review to pick his successor, they would very easily concede to his wishes.

Due to the current losses and supposed number of decomms, there were simply not enough skilled guardsmen for it to justify promoting their most veteran commanding officers. Thorn would be barred the position of marshal commander due to both his position as head of the prison force, and his constant requisitioning for escort missions. So would Stone, who was far too proficient in his senatorial guard duties to be pulled aside as a glorified secretary to the Chancellor. And Thire would need to take time off to train a replacement officer to guide the patrolsmen due to having the best knowledge of Coruscant's layout, making him the most effective patrol co-ordinator they had ever had.

And time was not something anyone could spare on Triple Zero.

And, with no one else nearly as experienced or simply far too important in their current positions, that left only one option should the position of marshal commander ever open up: Requisition a trooper just as skilled as Fox himself from another battalion.

Which is exactly what he'd done when he'd submitted the report. Should he be incapacitated or destroyed, command of the Guard would fall to the only person he trusted to be capable of leading them. Or, in Fox's true motivation, that had the actual power to put an end to Palpatine's sick little games.

And the best part? No one would call into question his choice on the matter. He'd waited more than enough after he'd submitted the report for it to register as valid on record, even after he did what he was about to do.

Which is why, as Fox finished emptying his flask as he stood on the very roof of the Senate building, he couldn't help but smile. Smile and wish Cody the best of luck. The bastard was going to need it, especially when Fox knew Palpatine would rejoice at taking something, anything, from General Kenobi who he seemed to so greatly despise.

The neon lights and smell of chemicals and pollution greeted the disgraced marshal commander as he stood at the very edge of the roof. Ready to make a spectacle of this. Ready to set his own twisted little game into motion. Palpatine had won the first few rounds, but he would not be able to best Cody. Not with the reputation he had, nor the esteem he'd earned. Which was exactly what Fox was counting on.

And, as he flung himself forward towards his inglorious demise, he hoped against all hope that Cody's fondness for his general was a mutual thing and not once-sided. If just so his little brothers in the Guard could finally have a chance.

He was, quite literally, taking a leap of faith.

[nachosncheezies]

The Bet - Chapter 4

(chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 3)

Chasing Elves

Little Green Men; also on AO3.

~~~~~

Fast friends. That must be the term for it, because although their superiors intended her as a spy, he found that he really liked having her around. Scully was open and curious, enthusiastic and fun. She challenged and questioned and teased him. There was something easy and familiar about her company. Samantha would like her, he thought.

As an agent she was green but a quick study, and she worked overtime to hone her scientific rebuttals. She took advantage of his expertise by practicing her profiling at every opportunity. Her integrity was firm, but she had a bit of a rebel inside her; she could be remarkably conciliatory with others, but didn't shy away from getting a little mouthy when needed. And she was loyal. Once or twice, when she perceived others trying to mess with him, he saw her get her hackles up like a fierce little guard dog. She once backed up her concern for him with a hijacked car, a stolen gun, and an NSA man held hostage. She flipped the metaphorical bird at her academy friend just because he seemed too concerned with his career to risk taking an unorthodox but potentially life-saving truth to his superiors. She drove hours to bail him out of the drunk tank, and bought his breakfast, too. What he learned was that she took her assignment seriously, not just as a reporter on his life's work, but as a true partner in furthering that work wherever it made sense to her. Soon, his more outlandish requisitions were being approved at a much higher rate, and his solve rate was through the roof. It should have alarmed him, how quickly he trusted her, but she had earned it.

The longer he worked with her, the less he thought about their bet or its implications. The cases were not always fun, and had them drawing their weapons and looking over their shoulders more often than most new agents would on their first assignment. Her unrestrained laughter began to subside and became a little more understated, more often substituted for a poorly-suppressed, mirthful little grin. But she also intuited him more, and more and more often she knew exactly what to say to him. She was a straight shooter, and never stopped at just what he wanted to hear. 

Now, their office was locked up tight with cheap plastic dust sheeting over the furniture. Scully was back at Quantico, and his own new assignment was frustrating; mere busywork. He listened to one conversation after another about the finer points of pay-for-nudity etiquette, and wondered if the men on the wiretap had ever heard of a damn VCR, or Pay-Per-View, or the 1-900 prefix. They were using various questionable establishments to launder money and commit bank fraud, and for all their boasting, they weren't even very good at it. If they would talk less, just shut up and get their rocks off in peace, he wouldn't have three folders and counting of evidence to gift wrap them in for the prosecutors.

Three folders, and his superiors still wouldn’t give him a new case. He must be in professional purgatory. He wondered what Scully would have to say about that.

Since the Bureau had first reassigned them, he thought that perhaps it was for the best. He was troubled to lose his access, of course, but there had been a simmering sense within him that the honeymoon period between his his work and keeping Scully in it with him was wearing thin. The business that had ended Deep Throat's life - that could've cost him his - was a potent lesson in how seriously the forces behind it all wanted to keep prying eyes away. They had no qualms at all about killing. He still wasn't sure why they'd honored the deal and let him go. Perhaps to avoid publicity, or perhaps something more sinister. 

Once or twice, Scully passed through headquarters and tried to speak to him, but he pushed her away. There were dangers in every corner and shadow, dangers that she did not see. That must be a failure on his part: he hadn't adequately prepared her for what he had dragged her into. She was better off riding a desk. Haunting the labs, the morgue. Scully would not be dissuaded, though. She tolerated it for a time, but eventually his scrappy, erstwhile partner activated their secret signals, calling him to a clandestine nighttime meeting in an unpopulated parking garage. A ditched car. A cab, a bus, and two different subway lines. Dodging, weaving, doubling back and then doing it all again.

All this, to ask him how he was.

Later he dreamed of the beach at Martha's Vineyard. "Foooox," came a sing-song voice from behind him, and he turned around. Samantha stood there, age eight, smug and haughty with her pigtails and sun-kissed cheeks. She threw a beach ball at him as hard as she could and it landed right in his face, far harder than soft vinyl had any business being. The firm smack! of it left his nose smarting.

"Dammit, Samantha," he said, and lunged to grab for the ball as she darted and caught it on the rebound.

"Agent Mulder!" called a familiar voice behind him. Mulder turned to look; Deep Throat was watching them. The man’s hands were in his trench coat pockets, and he seemed to carry his own fog of darkness, making his figure a grim contrast to the sun splashing off the waves. Before Mulder could speak, Deep Throat pointed back toward Samantha. "Keep your eye on the prize, my boy."

When he looked back, Samantha was gone. In her place stood Scully, dressed for the forest with a scuff on her cheek, her hands dirty and her knuckles red. She had a tear in her sleeve, and sweat dripped from beneath her frizzy fringe and ponytail. 

"Where are we going?" she asked; all freckles and mischief and a big, toothy grin.

"I… I honestly don't know," he answered.

~~~~~

Puerto Rico. Hale's elves indeed; as if a new base pair she couldn't talk about hadn't been crazy enough.

She was a little wounded that he hadn't told her anything; she had to find out he was gone from Assistant Director Skinner, and no more than a day after she’d tried to encourage him. Perhaps it had worked a little too well. Somehow, he'd found a new ‘Wow’ signal, and whether it was or wasn’t a message from outer space didn’t really matter, because clearly he had decided to follow it. At least he left her a clue in the name he gave for the flight manifest.

Whatever it was he was onto, someone thought it was something. He had won back the surveillance he'd been assuming, and she earned a tail of her own, too. For being god-knows-who from god-knows-where - professionals, presumably - her shadows were surprisingly easy to shake. The fact she'd had shadows at all, though. The intensity of their interest made her deeply afraid for him, and she didn't need the bygone word 'partner' or the obligation of a silly pledge from a lost bet to ride her fears all the way into the jungle.

She found him on a mountaintop, unconscious and then seemingly delirious.

"We'll have to take separate planes, Scully," he said earnestly as she navigated down a series of dusty backroads. She had forced him to let her drive at the earliest opportunity, when the initial adrenaline rush of their escape had abated to reveal his dehydration and apparent lack of sleep or food or… any of the other things one usually requires to maintain biological function. She had been checking the mirrors constantly since she pulled roughly back onto the road at speed, but it seemed they'd been let go. "They'll be trying to track us."

"They knew we were here, Mulder. They sent half the army." She was exasperated. Frightened. Relieved. She was entirely uninterested in leaving him up to his own devices again, especially in his current state. Besides, "You need a shower. And clean clothes. You try to get on a plane right now and you're going to draw a whole different kind of attention."

She was aware her brow was pinched and that she had been halfway grinding her teeth. When she glanced away from the road, he looked perplexed and a bit chastened. He had twisted in his seat to watch her, and his head lolled a bit on the headrest. "Are you trying to say something about my bouquet?"

She glanced at him again and found him smirking. Some of her tension eased; she chuckled. "You look like some kind of hobo. A vagrant."

"Okay, okay, I get it. Shower. Clothes."

"Food," she chimed in.

"Food," he nodded. "I am a little hungry."

"Sleep."

"Right, sleep. There's, uh… there's one problem with all of that. I seem to be a little hard up.” He looked down at a fistful of crumpled, sweaty bills. “Think I only have enough left for my return ticket. Maybe some food."

She rolled her eyes. "I have enough."

“I can always count on you,” he beamed.

“I’m going to have to start advance-billing you for bail and rescue,” she said wryly.

As they entered San Juan, she stopped at a market, where she found a pair of baggy blue basketball shorts and a gaudy souvenir tee-shirt - highlighter green with two roosters fighting on the front. The old man hawking these garments tried to haggle with Scully, but when Mulder came plodding up from another shopfront he’d been examining, the man looked him up and down and gave Scully a sympathetic, almost pitying look, as though she'd brought him a wet and sickly puppy. He made a show of giving her the price she'd asked for.

A little over an hour later, she returned with a bag of food to the small room she’d found for them in a modest hotel. Mulder was on his bed, clean and dressed in his new tourist garb, but looking dewy with some combination of humidity and sweat. His jeans and gray tee hung in the window, swaying gently with the breeze as the evening’s failing sun ceased drying them. He stared at the tape reel he'd managed to salvage, listless; morose. "All that evidence,” he said sadly, and shook his head. “It was amazing, Scully. Terrifying. And I lost it all.”

“You got away with that," she offered.

“I should’ve had more. I can transcribe what’s on this tape, but without the data to go with it....”

She nodded, and silently handed him his share of their meal. He took it absently, and she sat down on the edge of her own bed. She stared blankly at the bag in her lap and sighed.

"I wish you had told me you were going," she said. 

"I couldn't," he answered. "This isn't your responsibility, Scully."

“I could’ve helped.”

"We're not partners anymore."

She felt a sting at that, disappointed more than anything else. "And yet here I am," she said quietly. He looked over at her, inscrutable, then turned toward his food.

Unfortunately the food did not improve his mood, and he said little else. He'd left his glasses in Alexandria, and silently squinted at a Spanish-language newspaper until he fell into a restless sleep. The next morning they found side-by-side seats back to Dulles.

He'll die for this, she thought as the sunny waters of the Caribbean passed beneath them.

"You'll be okay," she said as they parted ways at the airport.

The tape was empty. “But I still have you,” he said.

He kept in touch after that. When she met the new recruit he’d partnered up with, she was relieved to know he wouldn’t be out there alone. But she didn't really care to give the kid the time of day.

[moodymisty]

Long time listener, first time caller (so to speak XD) and I’m absolutely ADORING the Primarch content so why not officially throw my hat into the prompt-making ring??? My brain worm of the day is something in the same vein (haha blood puns) of Sanguinius’ where there gets to be a private more relaxed moment. Prying our dear Primarch away from his work for just a few precious minutes, maybe longer if it can be managed, to calm tf down for a bit. These guys are overworked to hell, they could all use some TLC let’s be so fr rn. I couldn’t nail down exactly who to pick but I did narrow it down to a top three, Dorn, Rob, and Magnus. Those three I think are the ones most likely to literally pass out at their desks (impressive given their demigod status but I’m sure they’d fuckin manage to somehow XD). Idk if there’s much to really be done with this idea I’m just in my “let these guys be human for 4 seconds plz” feelings again 😭

As always love your writing, Misty! Have fun, no rush, no pressure ❤️❤️❤️

(P.S. Plz tell your cutie chaos birb all us readers say “hi!!!!” XD)

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's note: So you sent this in and then I just kinda blacked out and when I came to I had this in my drafts. Enjoy.

This post has been approved and sponsored by the Imperial Fists.

Summary: Dorn takes a moment of respite during a particularly frigid night on Inwit.

Relationships: Rogal Dorn/Fem!Reader (no pronouns are used tho it's just the vibe if you know what I mean)

Warnings: General 40kness so mentions of war death etc, Dorn being pretty emotionally stoic, Me worldbuilding too much

Word Count: 1567

Inwit is cold.

Dorn had told you this as the Eternal Crusader moved to finishing mooring on the frozen planet, and you'd nodded in understanding. You lack the convenience of sealed Astartes armor, the cushion of air heated thanks to their unusually hot body temperature.

You knew already that Dorn's homeworld was an ice planet, so you didn't quite understand why he was telling you again.

What Dorn seemed to not specify however, was just how cold.

Your bed is covered in four different pelts, and you're still freezing. You have a blanket just for your feet, and they still feel like they're going to fall right off. At least during the day, you had an outer layer of clothing made of thick fabrics, in a design and shape more than likely traditional to Inwit. You assume Dorn had it requisitioned for you, but he mentioned nothing of it other than sparing a glance in your direction when he first saw you in it.

But now that outer layer lays on the trunk at the foot of the bed, and you're seriously considering attempting to sleep in it.

You know it's snowing outside, it always is, the fresh white layer of snow reflecting the light of the moon and illuminating more than what could be seen on a warmer planet at night. You can see more snowflakes fluttering downward, hitting the icy window. Your teeth feel like they are going to clatter right out of your mouth.

Inwit is cold.

And because of it you haven't been able to sleep, merely lay in bed trying to distract yourself enough to maybe drift off.

It would be better if Dorn was here; His body runs so hot you probably would've been able to leech the heat right from him and perhaps get a few moments of rest.

But Dorn is still tirelessly planning, as rarely does the man ever indulge in rest. He'll often times take on the the extra work to let you, one of the few silent ways to tell you he cares about you. Now is one of those times you so desperately wished he wouldn't do that and just join you before you actually froze to death.

Giving in you lean upward and kick your feet outward, sliding off the massive bed and hauling one of the smaller pelts with you. Your hands pull it tight over your shoulders, while slipping on your shoes. Without them just putting your feet on the floor felt like they were stepping on a solid block of ice.

You know Dorn is still at work in the messy workshop he uses as his personal room. If he won't come to you, then you'll come to him.

It's less cold now that you're on your feet and your blood is pumping, leaving the private quarters and walking into the hall. It's late, so it's largely empty apart from the occasional serf at work. You quickly pass by and keep walking until you find the door down at the far end of the hall. One of many in this maze of a building. You'd call it less so a palace, and more so a fortress.

You open the door and gently close it behind you, looking through the dim lighting across the room. You can see Dorn's outline as he sits planted at that massive desk. He's leaning against his hand, elbow seated firmly against the top of the desk. His hand doesn't even seem to be writing, and for a moment, you almost think he's asleep until he turns to you.

"What are you doing here?" You tug the pelt tighter around your shoulders and try to stifle a shiver.

"I couldn't sleep. Shivering too much." Dorn's face is just as stoic as always, though it softens just the tiniest at you admittance of discomfort.

"You will get used to it soon enough." You sincerely hope you do, because you're not sure how long you'd be able to stand this if you weren't.

Rubbing your hands together you swear you can see your breath, even in a room being warmed by a large but waning fire. Keeping fires blazing nonstop is considered wasteful by many natives of Inwit, given the scarcity of materials. It may be easier now given the ability to import, but Inwit being a Ice World will always remain. Life will never be truly easy. Not even close.

Trying to hold back a shiver you walk closer to him, watching his eyes glance to you for a moment. He's paying attention to what you're doing, even as you slip underneath his arm. You twist and turn until you sit across his thighs, leaning back against his arm as you look over his desk.

There's blueprints on them; Rough ones, scattered with various small notes and adjustments for a future draft.

"What are these for?" You don't really expect an answer, but Dorn does actually surprise you with one.

"Another wing for the Imperial Palace." You hum, looking over the mess of lines as your legs drape over his own. They only make basic sense to you, learning by sight in situations much like this.

His free hand lowers off the desk to cup the side of your thigh instead of leaning his jaw on it, keeping you from sliding off of his lap. It also holds your pelt blanket closer to you, keeping you trapped in a small pocket of warm air. Thankfully he isn't wearing his armor, so you can actually feel the heat of his body against you.

"You should go back to bed." You press harder against his chest as if worried he'll remove you as he continues to plot out rough measurements and structural supports.

"You aren't there." Dorn draws a singular line from one drafted spire to another, writing something along it.

"I don't need to be." You purse your lips.

Dorn has always been like this. He speaks with such indifference one would think that he doesn't feel anything; You wouldn't blame them for thinking it. You know he does, and quite deeply, but he's been harshly trained over so many years to barricade it so deep within himself that it will never seep out.

Dorn wants you to rely on him, not depend on him. He's formed and molded his legion under the same idea; That you should rely closely on your allies as they're pivotal to your survival, but you should be able to stand just as strong on your own. You shouldn't need him to sleep till morn.

At least, that's what Dorn wants to want. Sometimes he finds himself doubting. You aren't an Astartes; He brought you into a world of demi-gods and giants expecting you to hold your own, but he'll always desire to protect you from it all. You provide him with a tiny shard of glass that reflects back the humanity they're fighting for. That him and his sons had resigned to never being able to see. Sometimes he wants nothing more than to indulge in more moments like this.

Your head lays against his chest, and you divulge in the warmth after spending so long near freezing.

These blueprints span the entire desk and even curl off the edge at one end, with various notes drawn over them. There's so many redraws and revisions that it's hard to tell whats what, you don't even know how he reads them. But you still watch him anyways with hooded eyes.

"Dorn..." He knows what you're going to ask, as his hand stays firm and unyielding on the side of your leg so you don't slide.

"When I am done."

You had come here with the hope to bring him back with you, but now you find yourself trapped here with him; His personal vox making noise from the corner of the desk.

He silently hands you the device, and you begin reading them out while he continues to work.

"Requisition orders got approval, news that the Faithful Servant has been waylaid by a severe technical malfunction," You yawn. "Alexis Polux wishes to speak with you."

You remember that name. He's an extremely competent and surprisingly humble Astartes, from Inwit the same as Dorn. He's apparently recently been made Captain, judging by the honorific attached to his name. You remember speaking to him once. He deserves the title.

"And... Something about the Night Lords. They," You yawn again. "One of their ships drifted towards a battle barge a bit too close for comfort." Dorn doesn't find that surprising. The sons of Konrad enjoy those sorts of intimidation tactics, trying to goad fights and spread unease through even their supposed allies.

Dorn holds on your words waiting for you to continue as his pen slides over the parchment, until he finally looks away from his blueprints for the first time since you entered the room.

You're asleep. Your head is leaning against his chest, and mouth just lightly parted as you breathe. You had completely failed in your attempt to get him away from his work, not that it had a high chance of working to begin with. Dorn watches for a moment before he finally sits down his pen and takes the vox from your loose hands, setting the device back down when he'd taken it from. That same hand returns to you and fixes the pelt you'd brought here, keeping it from falling to the floor.

Picking up his pen again Dorn sighs- and continues to work.

[ladylucksrogue]

Prompt: Food

Seated at a table, Cody resisted the urge to adjust the collar of his dress grays, feeling the scratch against his skin. The unfamiliar dress uniform and the formal setting of the Galactic Senate's dining hall made him uncomfortable, like navigating uncharted territory. Among familiar and new faces, all members of the Appropriations Committee, discussions focused on logistics and budgeting. It was a necessary evil, the bill needed approval for the war effort to proceed. They needed provisions, supplies, the mundane yet vital stuff that kept the Grand Army of the Republic operational.

The absurdity of his presence at a Senate luncheon struck him. Was he here to assure them that clones didn't run on batteries, that they were, in fact, living soldiers who ate and breathed? A token gesture to humanize the war machine. If it got his men the gear they needed, he’d do what he had to.

Even as the appetizer was served, talk droned on about credits and allocations, Cody's attention shifted to his General. He couldn't help but notice Kenobi’s knack for handling the conversation. He engaged the senators with his own brand of wit and sincerity, steering the conversation back to the issue at hand. And they listened, seemingly charmed by the stories he told and the explanations he gave.

Cody couldn't ignore the subtle signs of strain on Kenobi's features, how his jaw clenched despite his smile, the flash of irritation or surprise in his eyes even as he kept his tone agreeable. The weariness of the burden of advocating for a seemingly endless war, of having to practically beg for the bare necessities to feed and arm his troops. Of once again explaining to some Senator, who’s outfit probably cost more than Cody’s armor, why it was necessary to requisition spare body gloves. Or boots. He didn’t envy Kenobi at times like this.

Cody couldn't quite place what the appetizer had been, all he knew was that it was unlike anything he'd ever eaten. As the plates were cleared, he overheard two aides across from him expressing disdain for the food, lamenting their current situation of dining on dry nuna instead of enjoying a meal at a proper restaurant. Cody was firm in his loyalty to the Republic. He understood his role, fighting for the safety and security of its citizens. Yet, moments like these highlighted reality, a glimpse into the disconnect some citizens seemed to revel in. Lost in his thoughts, he nearly missed the arrival of a plate in front of him. Everything seemed unfamiliar. While he could assemble a blaster in record time and calculate the velocity of a sniper shot in his head, nothing in his training had prepared him for determining which fork to use for whatever was on his plate.

General Kenobi took mercy on him. Cody felt a subtle lean as Obi-Wan quietly explained, "The green on your plate is an algae salad, I won’t eat it, I’ll give you mine when I get a chance. The meat is nuna, and the rest is a variety of grains and vegetables." Obi-Wan explained, demonstrating the use of the cutlery by subtly displaying the fork and knife he held in his own hands.

Cody appreciated the lifeline of information. "Oh. Just like in the mess. How boring." He couldn’t help but quip. One of the aids looked in his direction, not reacting to his words per se, but probably that he could talk at all. He smiled politely and focused back on his plate but caught the way Kenobi's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled.

The rest of the conversation became an indistinct hum as Cody savored each unfamiliar flavor on his plate. His attention wavered. His General would have to forgive him, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to recall a single bit of the conversation during the meal. Even under pain of torture.

After the main course was cleared away, negotiations continued. It wasn’t too far from any precarious diplomatic situation Cody had ever encountered. The battle plan was essentially the same. Even as the conversation continued, a team of droids appeared, setting up a table of even more food. Tiny, meticulously decorated cakes and sweets, finger foods, and a variety of beverages were made available. Cody was focused on the talks, providing insights when prompted to the needs of the GAR, to the troops. It was all too tempting to indulge in everything on display, but he refrained, sticking to a cup of caf and a single tiny cake. Maybe he should have indulged. Perhaps a demonstration of how much a trooper could actually eat might have emphasized the necessity of their requisition amounts. A bold move, but he couldn't afford to compromise the image he needed to maintain as Marshal Commander.

When the talks concluded, more or less successfully, Cody couldn't help but inquire about the fate of the remaining food. The response was predictable, no one truly knew but it would probably be disposed of by the cleaning droids. Cody sighed inwardly, fully aware of the galaxy's struggles, the whispers of food shortages. He was intimately acquainted with the daily fare of rations, nutrient pastes, and the occasional gruel for variety that sustained him and his brothers. The contrast between their reality and the excesses of the Senate left him wondering how anything in the galaxy managed to function at all.

He couldn't pinpoint when or how it happened, but back at the barracks, where his sole focus was shedding the uncomfortable dress grays, one enthusiastic trooper informed him of the unexpected delivery of food. Cody observed with a mix of relief and amusement as the 212th eagerly tore into the food, with more enthusiasm than he had seen at the Senate. Seemed the idea of waste hadn’t sat well with the General either. Cody felt just a little better about the day, even if it was just a small victory.