#so this is the first time shes seen me and has a brain that can remember people. and im already probably her favourite cousin

[justagalwhowrites]

Turkey Trouble - A TSATS Thanksgiving One Shot

You try to make Thanksgiving dinner for your newly adopted niece, Ellie, but need some help from Joel. A one shot set in the The Savage and the Sanctuary universe.

Pairing: Bodyguard!Joel Miller x Movie Star!Female Reader (from The Savage and the Sanctuary)

Length: 1.7k

CW: SFW; lil angst; modern no outbreak AU but Sarah is still dead (sorry Joel); NO SMUT; no use of Y/N; whole fic this is set in has mature themes and will have smut so minors DNI 18+ only

A/N: You can thank @diversemediums for this because she gave me the brain rot. This would be harder to read as a stand alone fic but it can be done with the understanding that Joel is reader's bodyguard and they have an antagonistic relationship. Reader has recently adopted her best friend's daughter, Ellie, after her friend's death. I'm not sure yet if this is canon or not but it could be? I haven't written to this time in the story yet but I THINK this is about where they'll be emotionally at Thanksgiving.

Joel hated Thanksgiving. 

He used to like it. Back when he was a father he liked it. He and Sarah would watch the parade, he’d make cinnamon rolls and the whole dinner spread, Tommy would bring over burnt mac and cheese and the three of them would go to Waffle House and to pick out a Christmas tree the next morning. 

Now, it was all a reminder of everything he’d lost, of just how little he had left to live for. 

So he took his time getting out of bed on Thanksgiving morning, not looking forward to spending the day missing something he could never have again, something that seemed even more painful when he was facing it with you and Ellie. 

But, eventually, his need for coffee forced him to move and he padded to the kitchen, not bothering to change out of the flannel pants and t-shirt he’d slept in. 

Ellie was on the couch with a mug of cocoa and a cinnamon roll, the parade on and she smirked at him. 

“Well don’t you look pretty in the morning,” she teased. 

“It’s Thanksgiving,” he said, trying to not take his foul mood out on the kid he’d become overly fond of in the last few months. “Not in the mood for a fashion show today.” 

“Oh so the jeans are a fashion show,” she said. “Got it.” 

He rolled his eyes and headed for the kitchen. 

“Careful,” she called after him. “She’s in a mood.” 

“Great,” he muttered, pressing on, anyway. 

You were, indeed, in a mood, standing at your massive kitchen island with a turkey that was far too big for the number of people you were feeding, frowning at a recipe, your hands covered in butter. 

Joel snorted. 

“The hell are you doin’?” 

You looked up to find him, seemingly surprised to find him there.

“Making a turkey,” you said. “What does it look like?” 

“Looks like you’re making a mess,” he said, going around you for the mugs and pouring himself a cup of coffee. 

“Well, cooking is messy,” you said, chin up defiantly. 

“Not that messy,” he said, smirking a little as he leaned back against the counter, crossing an arm over his chest while he drank his coffee. “Where’s Esmo.” 

“It’s Thanksgiving,” you said, incredulous. “I’m not about to ask her to work.” 

“Right,” he said, even though he definitely should have seen that coming when he thought about it. “You ever made a Thanksgiving dinner before?” 

“None of your business,” you said, going back to the turkey and trying to smear butter over it and failing. 

“It is if I’m stuck using this kitchen,” he said. “You’re gonna get salmonella everywhere.”

You glared at him. 

“Well there’s a first time for everything,” you said. “And all I have to do is follow the recipe, so…” 

Joel shoved himself off the counter and looked over your shoulder, down at the recipe. It was not, as he’d expected, some bullshit celebrity cookbook but a simple, handwritten index card. 

He skimmed the instructions and realized that there were parts missing that were probably simple assumptions that you just didn’t know about. 

“Where’s this from?” He asked. 

“Anna,” you said. “Ellie’s mom. She’s hosted Thanksgiving and made a legitimately amazing turkey, Ellie loved it even as a little kid. I should have paid more attention last year but I was stupid and I didn’t and I just want Ellie to have a normal Thanksgiving and I have Anna’s recipe and I just need to figure it out…”

Joel’s chest tightened at that. You wanted Ellie to have a good Thanksgiving, a holiday that was like the ones she had before her mother died. She deserved that. And Joel understood why you’d be dead set on being the one to give it to her. 

He cleared his throat before he got too choked up, trying to remind himself of the distance he’d been struggling to maintain with you. 

“Well, you’re doing it wrong,” he said, taking a sip of coffee. 

You glared at him. 

“Unless you’re some Thanksgiving dinner expert…” 

“Made more than you have,” he said, almost smug. 

“Really,” you said brows raised, incredulous. He shrugged. “You’ve made a turkey.” 

“Sure,” he said. “Plenty. Not sure if you know this but most people don’t got private chefs at their beck and call…” 

“Oh, fuck off.” 

“Do you want my help or not?” He asked. 

“I wasn’t aware you were offering,” you said. 

“Well,” he shrugged. “I am.” 

You ground your teeth for moment before you sighed, literally throwing up your hands. 

“Fine,” you said. “Show me.” 

“Well,” he said, putting his cup down. “For starters…” 

He stuck his hand inside the cavity of the bird and found the neck, pulling it free and holding it up. 

“You gotta take this out.” 

You laughed and groaned. 

“Jesus,” you said. “Alright, Big Miller, show me how it’s done.” 

Joel had to give you credit, you’d done a better job than he’d expected once he took a closer look at the bird. He helped get the rest of dinner ready to go, giving you smaller tasks to do while he managed the turkey. With the two of you working together, you were both able to make it to the living room before the parade was done, sitting on either side of Ellie and watching the musical acts perform and the floats go by. 

Part of him hurt, sitting there with a girl who wasn’t his daughter doing something that had once felt sacred. He didn’t let himself hurt like that anymore, he tried to drown it or shove it down deep as best he could but sometimes he just couldn’t. He couldn’t now. 

But, for some reason, it didn’t bother him the same way this time. Hearing Ellie make a bad pun (“Did you know they took turkey off the menu for Thanksgiving? I suspect fowl play.”), watching you bob your head in time to a musical number, smelling the turkey once it had been in the oven for a bit, even the taste of the coffee with the cinnamon roll warmed something inside him. The pain of loss was still there but so was this strange sense that it didn’t need to consume all of him. That there could be moments worth living for, things that weren’t defined by the missing pieces - even if that piece felt like everything. 

You got the hang of basting relatively quickly and Joel showed you how to make the other Thanksgiving staples, things that he’d once made for his daughter that he was now making for the girl who had become yours. When Elise, Ellie’s grandmother, came over that afternoon, things had come together well. 

“Where’d you learn how to do this?” You asked Joel as you arranged the last of the dishes on the laden dining room table. “You don’t strike me as the chef type.” 

Joel looked at you for a moment and considered telling you the truth, at least for a second. Part of him wanted you to know this, know him. 

But he couldn’t bring himself to say it, her name getting stuck in his throat. 

Instead he just shrugged, setting down a bowl of mashed potatoes. 

“Tommy ain’t much of a cook,” he said. “When our mom died, Thanksgiving didn’t make itself.” 

You cocked your head at him for a moment, like you were trying to decide if he was telling the truth, and then nodded slowly, like you were filing information away. 

“Well, thank you,” you said. “You really did save the day.” 

He shrugged again and took his place at the table with you, Ellie and Elise. 

When the meal was over and the dishes were done, he tried to keep to his room but instead found himself drawn away, something inside him tugging him toward the rest of the world. He went to the living room and found you on the couch, your legs tucked alongside yourself as you watched a movie. 

“Leftovers are in the fridge,” you said, barely glancing his way. 

He grunted and acted like he was walking toward the kitchen but, instead, stopped behind the couch, watching the movie, too. 

“What is this?” He asked eventually. 

You glanced over your shoulder at him and then back at the screen. 

“Love, Actually,” you said. “I used to watch it with Anna after Ellie was in bed on Thanksgiving. Have you seen it?” 

“Heard of it,” he said. “Ain’t seen it, though.” 

“It’s these individual stories about all these different kinds of love. I’m only a few minutes in if you want to watch,” you said, looking at him almost hopefully. He was taken aback, silent for a beat too long and you shook your head. “Never mind…” 

“No,” he said quickly. “Just… yeah, I can watch.” 

“Yeah?” You asked, brows raised. 

“Sure,” he shrugged. “Not like I’m going fuckin’ black Friday shopping in the morning.” 

He sat on the opposite end of the massive couch from you but, over time, drifted closer until the two of you were beside each other. Not touching but a sense of familiarity he wasn’t used to anymore hanging over you both. 

“So,” you said when the movie ended, tears clinging to your eyelashes. “What’d you think?” 

“Not bad,” he said. “Not sure it’s my thing but… not bad.” 

You smiled a little at that. 

“I should get to bed though,” he said. 

“Right,” you said, drying your eyes as he got up. “Hey, Joel?” 

“Hm.” 

“Thank you,” you said. “For everything you did today. I’d have fucked it all up without your help and Ellie deserves better and just… thank you.” 

“Sure,” Joel said. “It… it was nice. Best Thanksgiving I’ve had in a while.” 

“Really?” You asked, brows raised. 

He nodded, the truth of that clutching hard at his chest, just how much you and Ellie had come to mean to him in the months he’d been protecting you, this keen vulnerability settling in him at that thought. 

But he’d deal with that later. He wasn’t going to let it ruin shit now. 

“Yeah,” he said. “It was.’

[devilsandwings]

Quiet Scenes- A Paul mescal fic

Synopsis: This will be an ongoing story. About Paul Mescal and a singer/actress with Sabrina Carpenters discography. That’s all I’ll reveal for now, read to find out. Love yall 💕

1k words ~ CW: none

This indicates a flashback ✨

March 12, 2023

I’m sitting at the Academy Awards, sipping on my champagne and gossiping with my best friend, Florence Pugh. She’s presenting an award with Andrew Garfield later tonight, you’re her guest. “…so anyway after all of that they ended up getting back together.” Florence finished her story about one of her friends.

“Wow yea that is ridiculous why would she take him back after that.” I responded in bewilderment of her story. She just shrugs her shoulders and the lights dim. Jimmy Kimmel comes back out onto the stage.

~

The night has been going great, you and Florence are having an amazing time. She killed it presenting, the host is funny, you’re running into friends and icons. You’re having a wonderful time at the Oscars. The announcers voice booms over the audience, “Please welcome academy award winners Jessica Chastain and Halle berry”

The two women walk onto the stage in their beautiful gowns. They smile at the assuring crowd as they walk to the microphone. “When an actor or actress first approaches a role we use every tool at our disposal to help us create the world of the character” Jessica says, reading the teleprompter. They continue about how actors create their characters.

“Here are the nominees for best performance from an actor in a leading role” Halle says

“Austin Butler, Elvis.” The announcer exclaims. The screen above the stage changes to a camera of Austin at his seat, he smiles and looks at his costar. The crowd erupts with applause. The announcer continues to read off names and the crowd cheers.

“Would now be a bad time to tell you I’ve never seen Elvis?” Florence whispers to you

I turn my head and gasp at her, “YOU WHAT” I whisper yell at her, but it doesn’t really matter nobody else can hear us over the cheering for Colin Farrell. “Ma’am you have to see it, I’m showing it to you next time you come over, I own it.” She laughs at my demand and nods her head, she cheers for Brendan Fraser.

I turn my head back to the screen as the announcer says, “Paul Mescal, Aftersun.” My brain screeched to a hault at the mention of his name. Then he was on the screen, wearing a white suit. He looked good, really good. “Bill Nighy…” the announcer continues. Just like that he was gone again. Florence cheered and smiled at me with an exaggerated smile, yay see you worked with him and his next role got an Oscar nomination, she’s probably saying in her head.

She doesn’t know what happened, I didn’t tell her. How could I have told her? She loved Mike, she would have been so mad at me. I’ve never seen her mad before, upset and frustrated sure, but mad? No, and I do not want to see it.

“Do you mind if I sit with ya? My trailers a Sauna.” Paul asks, sticking his head into my trailer. “Well we’re in Australia, so it’s hot in my trailer too but sure.” I retorted. “You’re probably just looking to escape your own mess.” He closes the trailer door and puts his hand over his chest, “You wound me, I thought we were friends.” He “stumbles” down onto a chair. I roll my eyes at him and throw a pretzel out of my bowl at him, “friends don’t steal from each other.” “Don’t bake delicious biscuits and expect me not to eat some” he says to you smiling, looking at you with those blue eyes. You look back into them, you could look into them forever. Your eyes meet, and the moment hangs there, magical, electric. Then breaking the spell he clears his throat and looks away from me.

The announcer finished the names and all the nominees are shown on the screen but you can’t help but look at Paul. “And the Oscar goes to,..” Jessica begins, “The Whale”. You audibly groan and Flo gives you a strange look and laughs.

“God I know you worked with him but I didn’t know you wanted him to win that much.” She chuckled as she claps. “Did you even see his movie?”

“Of course I did” I reply, “it was amazing. He was very good.” I drastically lowered my volume halfway through because Brendan began his speech. His face, you can’t get it out of your mind. It was only a slight falter when The Whale was called but it was noticeable.

~

You’re standing at the bar of the Vanity Fair Oscars Afterparty, waiting for Florence to come back. You grab your drink off the bar and turn around to look at the crowd, you scan the room hoping to find a familiar face when you see Paul. Standing halfway across the room laughing with a couple people. Then as if sensing her gaze, he looks up. Their eyes meet.

He excuses himself from the group and walks over to you. There’s a beat of silence as you take each other in. He looks a little rougher, more grown, but his eyes are just as sharp. His blue eyes that I wanted to swim in.

“You look…” he breaks the silence, “incredible”.

“Thank you” she blushes, “you don’t look too bad yourself. White looks good on you.”

He chuckles at her compliment, “thanks.”

There’s an awkward silence. He takes a sip of his drink. “Congratulations on your nomination” I say to him, holding up my drink, “I was hoping you’d win. I saw your movie it was amazing Paul.”

“Thank you. That really means a lot, coming from you.” He says, “It’s good to see you. Really good”

I take a sip of my champagne, studying him. I’m about to say something to him when Pedro Pascal walks over to us.

“Paul hey, could I talk to you for a minute?” Pedro asks, then he turns to me “I’m so sorry could I steal him for just a moment?”

I laugh, “Go right ahead.” I pause for a moment and look at Paul, “It was nice talking to you, I’ll see you later.”

Paul nods, “See you later” His gaze lingers on you until Pedro grabs his shoulder and they turn away. You sit alone at the bar, finishing your drink.

Authors note: Hey this is my first time writing in like a long time so be nice. Lmk what yall think & if you want a part 2. Also feel free to request anything! ~rose

[pixeltwix]

-Unrelated McGucket Ramblings

Because my mental illness is metal illnessing my brain has been having a wonderful time combining interests. Specifically gravity falls and the Odyssey of all things?

The parallels between Fiddleford, Emma May, and Tate -& Odysseus, Penelope, and Telemachus is driving me bonkers. EVERYTIME I hear songs like ‘There Are Other Ways’, ‘I’m Just A Man’, and ‘Love in Paradise’ I can so vividly see Fiddleford so ardently longing for home, for his wife, for his son, but something or some event keeps pulling him back every single time he has a mind to just go home. I can’t help but let my head make the connections and rewire silly lyrics to fit closer together than I already feel they are.

‘Back at home my wife awaits for me, she’s my everything, my Emma May. And she’s all my power, all my power, but it’s been (x) long years. Oh (x) long years since I have seen my wife, and now the god of (chaos) is out to end my life-“

Additionally while I do not see Emma May as Calypso to any degree, her few lines in ‘Love in Paradise’ stuck out so hard to me if it was outside of the context of Calypso & Odysseus’s no good very bad situation. Just the-

“It will be fine dear, come back inside dear, love of my life come back to paradise. I know your life’s been hard, I’ll stay inside your heart. I love you my dear, I love our time here, life would be so much worse if you had died. Please stay away from harm, stay in my open arms.”

Is SO POST FIRST PORTAL TESTING FIDDLEFORD CODED- when Emma May finally comes up for herself to check on him in Gravity Falls and sees his condition. I refuse to believe for a moment that she didn’t at least try to understand what was going on before fearing for her and her sons life. Finding her husband most likely stumbling around like he doesn’t even know himself or where he is, trying to soothe and bring him back to her. And at first it seems like it’s working, like he’s slowly piecing together what she’s putting down, but then he’s sparking, spiraling again. She tries a final time to coax him from whatever whirl of madness he’s gotten himself into, but it never gets better. In fact it keeps getting worse. But just the vISUAL ALONE of her with that part of the song trying to bring him away from harm all the while he’s still deeply haunted with the ‘all I hear are screams’. AHHH-

Additionally the narrative of Penelope stalling her suitors for YEARS because she’s hoping, praying, that her husband is still alive, still out there somewhere. That maybe just maybe he’ll come home. I am screAMING and pointing at the Emma May core of it all. I’ve been meaning to develop elderly FiddEm dynamic be it platonic for the sake of recovery, but my biggest thing with her design is despite after all these years she sTILL carries aspects of her husband with her. Be it wearing his old specs he left at home or still keeping her floral motif with her brooch. She still loves him deep down- she always will, and she’s always gonna mourn the life that could’ve been if Bill hadn’t been involved, but still. Keeping him as apart of her even if she ‘hated’ him for so long kept her going.

Also idk plus just the-

‘Hell no, I could kill you where you stand. I’m no pet, I’m a married man.’

Is silly to me because I know it would be very ooc for Fiddleford to have THAT much bite even if he is capable of ‘lashing out’. Regardless it’s still amusing brain movie content to envision-

If I didn’t already have so many other ideas on hand I’d draw this all myself, but raaaaa so many other concepts I wanna draw first :(

[numberonetribble]

Some Continuation Errors and Other Hmmmm's I spotted in TF One! (this is for funsies!)

- When Orion broadcasts the news to Iacon we hear Sentinel say, "I'm working my miners as hard as I can, I swear I will get you the rest!" Revisiting the scene, he doesn't say this!

Instead the closest we get is; "I know what I promised you, but our mines, they're running out! There's barely enough Energon for us! I swear I will get you the rest!"

Which the miner line is super raw, I really like it, but why would they cut it? Maybe it's to convey to the audience that things are even bleaker ON TOP of the Quintessants being there? It's an interesting choice to keep both lines in!

- Staying in this scene, Orion plays the "I took his cog for myself." line. He was not there for that. Unless he'd digging around in her memories and this is first and foremost in her brain, he wouldn't know to look for it. Which also, it took me several rewatches for me to figure out WHY he thought she was the key. Thing is, other than that first line, he plays lines that he personally witnessed, Orion did not need her memories for this plan to work. Maybe one could argue he wanted hers as his would be considered bias to the public and Sentinel's Right Hand's are undeniable. But the citizens don't see that.

- During the race we see Elita moving crates around as if she's at work. Sentinel said that there would be NO work for all shifts. Yes she's a workaholic. However, she's not alone. There's at least two other bots working with her. Maybe they're also workaholics? Maybe their supervisor told them no you still have to work?

My only guess, it's the next day and they're trying to get those trains loaded as Sentinel has a delivery scheduled. However, these trains should've been prepped and ready to go WAY before this. It's too important to leave last minute. At MOST D-16 and Orion are in the infirmary for a day. They're un-cogged and barely injured, during triage they would've been put last to attend to. So at best, Sentinel is back for 2 days before leaving again. Not nearly enough time to load that many trains.

- When we meet B-127 he says that the new Shift Manager doesn't like distractions. We the audience know he's referencing Elita. She's been there for maybe 2 days. (This isn't really a Continuation Error more like, really interesting? It implies that the timeline was different in an earlier draft as that's very fast for her to establish herself to this division especially during a national holiday. Sure she's the kind of person who would but, you know, this is for funsies)

- The opening narration tells us the audience that the Matrix is needed for Energon to flow. Orion knows this, the citizens know this. Sentinel sees it as an object that can be taken and dismissed the lore of how it works. But why make this recording?? Maybe it was for new Sparklings to watch on their first day alive, but it's in the Archives now. Orion hadn't seen it before, meaning it got phased out. Why not destroy it?

Orion is so insistent that there might be data to help Sentinel, but he never stops to think that Sentinel already knows everything in that Archive.

These are just some thoughts I've been chewing on! I've been watching it everyday after work and these are what stick out to me the most. It's still a really good movie and I love it alot I just want to talk about this stuff 👉👈

[the-jennisms]

I have said in multiple posts that I greatly dislike Varric going after Solas and that it doesn’t make sense for the Inquisitor to send Varric.

That said. I can see Varric wanting to go.

And it all comes back to Anders.

Veilguard’s spoilers ahead!

I’ve seen some people upset that Varric seems like a bottomless well of forgiveness for Solas but spoke with so much contempt about Anders. And I get why people would be upset at something that appears to be a contradiction but the way I understand Varric, the only reason that I could see him going after Solas, is because of Anders.

When we see Varric in Inquisition, the mage rebellion is in full swing. It’s been a few years since Anders betrayed all his friends. Lied to them, used them, and caused them all to have to run from Kirkwall. Varric’s home. The only place he wants to be. And Varric is still bitter as hell. Understandably. I was angry and bitter too. (I romanced Anders and he tricked me into blowing up a church. Fuck the chantry but still)

We hear Varric say a few unkind things at Anders expense in Inquisition but again, I feel that Varric has a right to feel angry and betrayed. Varric is surrounded by reminders of what Anders did. So many people dead, dying, starving, suffering.

Now we don’t see this next bit, we see Varric in Inquisition then Varric on the hunt for Solas. Not so much the middle but. So unless Varric says something that contradicts any of this in the comics or whatever, thes are my thoughts about how Varric gets from point a to b.

First and foremost, Varric doesn’t just blame Anders. As more and more time goes by, he blames himself. We do see this in Inquisition. He blames himself for uncovering corypheus, for the lyrium dagger, for Hawke in danger.

But over time, I think he’d start blaming himself more and more for Anders. Beyond just him introducing Anders to Hawke.

Because he knew Anders was spiraling. They all knew. And no one did anything to help. Not really. He bribed thugs to keep them away from Anders’ clinic, he tried to help him engage with elaborate ‘revenge fantasies’ as a way to blow off steam, tried to be his friend. But he didn’t do anything.

He knew Anders was getting worse. And he didn’t stop it. None of them did. They all ignored it until it was too late.

Now this isn’t fair to Varric, There isn’t much Varric himself could have done to help Anders. What does Varric know about separating a mage and a spirit? Curing an abomination? Basically nothing.

But feelings don’t have brains. Varric didn’t help his friend when he knew Anders needed it.

Dragon Age Veilguard’s main themes are about regret. And the reason Varric goes after Solas is, appropriately enough, because of his.

He failed last time. He failed Anders.

And now he sees another friend, spiraling. About to do something awful because they’ve convinced them self that it’s the only way. The same pattern. Hauntingly familiar. More urgency is added to this if the Inquisitor is in love with Solas, if Hawke loved Anders.

I never got quite the same feeling of friendship between Varric and the Inquisitor throughout most of Inquisition because Varric saw them as larger than life. More of a legend than a person. We do catch a glimpse of a more friendly relationship in Trespasser, when he’s spoiling the shit out of them like he does with all his friends. His relationship with the Inquisitor is different, but they are friends.

Varric’s desire to convince Solas to stop exists regardless of the Inquisitor’s resolve. But in the case of a Lavellan that loves Solas? It adds a whole new layer to Varric’s decision to try. Because he sees another friend friend suffering and knows she misses him.

And this time Varric would be desperate not to fail.

This time he’d do more. This time he won’t ignore the problem. This time things will be different.

And he fails.

Or he succeeds.

That depends in you, the player. It depends on Rook.

If you manage to get Solas to stop. To reunite with the Inquisitor, Varric wins. The only reason Rook could have done all this to begin with is because Varric got them there. Varric saved his friend. It cost him, but he did it. And he knew it could cost him.

On the way to the ritual site he something to the effect of ‘if we fight Solas, we’re all dead’ He knows he can’t fight Solas into submission. All he can do is try to talk. And even then. He knows.

“Take care of the team for me.”

He fucking knew. He’s not stupid.

He knew. But he wanted to save Solas. To help the inquisitor. To save the world he loves, because the people he loves live in it.

I’ve gotten 3 of Veilguard’s endings so far.

The one where you trick Solas, and the two redeem endings. I’m not bothering with the fight one.

While the trick ending feels an appropriate and karmic punishment for Solas, I cant have that be my ending.

Because of Varric.

I can’t let him die for nothing. His last wish, denied.

So that bald bitch is getting put it the path to redemption even if I have to drag his pretentious ass kicking and screaming. He’s gonna spend the rest of eternity protecting the world that Varric loved. Warts and all.

Now, as I said earlier. This is just my interpretation of Varric, your mileage may vary. But this is how I see it, as far as Varric’s role in Veilguard and how I feel Anders was a pivotal player in Varric’s choices.

[boyfriendyke]

there r a lot of things about the myth of psyche and eros that makes me a little insane but one of them has always been the tasks from aphrodite and the unfairness of it. they're not intended to be possible. they're so obviously not meant to be possible, and psyche isn't fucking hercules, you know, she's not a demigod or whatever, she's mortal and these aren't mortal tasks!! it's why psyche has to be helped with each one, fucking by like ants and river gods and shit. and so like. idk. i know ppl see psyche and eros as like a story about love and shit which obviously it is but as a kid psyche and eros always felt like a story about being able to accept help

[ahalliance]

my roman empire is that one moment smth smth qsmp lore happened and étoiles responded to a chat message by saying smth along the lines of “bah baghera me fait pas confiance” and laughed tersely but i can’t remember when that fucking happened and maybe i hallucinated it . but i need to try and find it again . to satiate my qetoiles qbagz relationship and larger qfrench messy family dynamic illness

[chilapis]

I love posts that are like “imagine your f/o picking you up” because they’re meant to be so sweet and gentle but every time I get picked up by a friend my brain just… shuts down. Like for whatever reason my brain physically fails to compute the situation. I cannot imagine what it would be like with Ajax

[perilegs]

i think i'm the perfect family gathering babysitter bc i LOVE hearing people just go off about whatever topic and children LOVE doing that

[inbabylontheywept]

i once accidentally dated someone for a few months. its very difficult to explain how this happened, but the gist is that i thought we were hanging out, and she thought we were on dates, and it was just a very painfully highschool thing.

she was a little bit confused that i hadnt tried to pull any moves, at all, even a little. like, didnt even try holding hands because, and i cannot emphasize this enough, i did not know we were dating.

so, halloween rolled around, and she thought, you know, why wait for destiny, when you can grab it? so she hit me with a clue by four.

babylon, she said. babylon. my mom's gonna be out of town on halloween, and im gonna have the house to myself, and it's going to be kind of lonely. would you like to come to my house and watch scary movies with me?

you know, kind of a netflix and chill thing. except, and i cannot emphasize this enough, i did not know we were dating. also autism. so i took it at face value and said: oh! yeah! thatd be fun! and she thought she got her point across, but she didnt and it was a mess.

skip forward to halloween: my family has a block party every year, right? and at that point i was too old to really trick or treat, but we still wore costumes for our role in the block party, which in my case, was handing out cotton candy. so i took the first shift, and my costume was this homemade abomination minion thing. i had full yellow body paint, and goggles, and a bald cap, and overalls. the kids who saw it were like, uh, hm. overly realistic minion. and adults were like, oh, some kind of hills have eyes hillbilly with jaundice. very scary.

(it was not my best costume.)

my little brother swapped me out for second shift, and i was getting ready to change out to head to her house when i was like: no, she'll get a real kick out of this. this is one of the worst things i have ever worn. so i kept it on and just brought a change of clothes thinking i could shower real quick and change at her place after she saw my nightmare getup.

so i left after that, got there, knocked on her door, and she said come on in. so i went in, and there was this very long hall with an abrupt right turn into her living room where the tv was, and i went down the hall, and i made the turn, and my field of view went from beige drywal to her, on the couch, naked. naked in the paint me like one of your french girls pose. super naked.

i panicked. this was my first time seeing a real person like, full on sex naked,which is a totally different beast from other kinds of naked. you see one kind of naked and you think yeah, im ready for all the kinds of naked, but you arent. i wasnt at least. i really wasn't.

so my brain crashed to BIOS. she also crashed to BIOS, but for different reasons. of all the ways this could have turned me, having me show up in yellow body paint and overalls was pretty pretty low down the list.

so we sat there a while, and you know, she wasn't getting any less naked, which really wasn't helping me get my brain sorted out. it really wasnt much of a surprise when she got her bearings first and started asking questions.

"babylon," she said. "babylon. what are you wearing?"

and i was like, kind of rebooted, but i was nowhere near full functionality, so symbolic language wasnt loaded in yet. i had nothing running but my trusty autism.exe, so i said

"overalls"

and she looked at me like i was the dumbest person in the entire world, and i looked at her like she was the first naked person i had seen in real life who got naked specifically for me, and my upper level cognitive process went: "listen man, we are not going to get our shit together as long as 80% of your brain power is devoted to not blinking. you gotta get out of here."

and if id communicated that, maybe things would have been less of a mess, but instead i just kind of turned around and walked back to my car. i figured i could drive a few loops around the block, get my brain in order, and figure out what the hell we were gonna do.

the only thing i had said to her since arriving was, again, overalls.

first loop around, i was like: oh god fucking damnit. oh shit. oh shit. shes gonna get like, an eating disorder from this. oh no.

second loop around i was like: oh NOOOOO oh WHAT THE FUCK oh SWEET JESUS PLEASE. i dont wanna go back man. i just wanna bury this and forget about it. please. please. let this bitter cup pass from my lips.

and after my third loop, i went and i knocked on her door again.

she answered it this time, and i counted my lucky stars that she'd changed into some pajamas. she was all teary eyed which was the saddest thing ever, and we sat down in her kitchen and talked. it was pretty bad - i figured out we'd been dating, and she figured out that trying to jump from home plate to 3rd base is considered ballsy in baseball, least of all dating. no real winners there. and i can remember after all that, we sat there a bit a bit longer, just steadying ourselves, and i was like "well, im actually really glad we figured that out. guess i'll see you at school tomorow' and she said "WAIT. wait."

"lets watch shrek 2."

so we did and it was horrible. we did not look at each other. we did not say a word. we just sat in stony silence, while shrek 2 played in the background, and when it was done we shook hands. i think we might have been able to salvage that as a friendship if it hadnt been for shrek. as it was she turned white as a sheet and ran away every time she even got a glimpse of me at school, and that summer she moved to a new state to live with her dad. all her friends said she moved just so she wouldn't have to go to school with me anymore, and i dont actually think they were lying.

every time i hear relationship counselors talk about how important communication is, and i'm tempted to roll my eyes, i look back and go, alright. alright. theres probably some poor bastard, somewhere in the world, who doesnt even know that hes married.

and god help him when he figures it out.

other bad dating story here.

[thehmn]

I wanted to make this post because we don’t see a lot of asexual characters in western media and despite him being from a hugely popular show (Seaside Hotel) you’re unlikely to know of his existence if you’re not from Denmark.

His name is Hjalmar Aurland and he’s one of the more sympathetic and realistic asexual characters I’ve seen. He lives in a time and place where asexuality as a concept doesn’t exist yet so he’s never labeled as such but rewatching the show made me realize that he acts exactly like the asexual people I personally know. Asexuality can mean a lot of things but his specific brand isn’t naive to sex nor is he repulsed by sex, sexual desire or thoughts simply doesn’t come naturally to him.

He can be convinced to have sex with his wife Helene but only if she appeals to their emotional bond. Just so you don’t get the wrong idea, he’s not being forced or emotionally blackmailed to sleep with her. It’s simply that he understands sex is a way to show emotional love too and he wants to express that love for Helene when it’s important to her, and seeing as sex isn’t unpleasant to him, just kinda boring, he’s willing to do that for her.

Unfortunately that isn’t enough for Helene and despite her love for Hjalmar she starts an affair with the dramatic and emotional actor Edward Weyse. He has a string of relationships, marriages and divorces behind him because despite what it may look like from the outside Edward doesn’t really want shallow sexual relationships. He just can’t help himself and keep falling in love with women left and right, fully and wholeheartedly, only to be dumped or dump them once the initial excitement has passed.

So Helene and Edward’s affair that was only meant to satisfy their carnal desires quickly becomes romantic. Helene feels torn between him and Hjalmar who she still loves and Edward understands the difficult situation they’re both in while also feeling jealous of Hjalmar. And Hjalmar? He doesn’t catch on for years. He’s not stupid but his brain just doesn’t jump to sex. He just assumes they’re good friends and why shouldn’t his wife be allowed to have friends, even male ones? Things get really complicated when Helene gets pregnant and she has to have sex with Hjalmar so he won’t wonder how it happened. Edward even has to join in on the seduction, reminding Hjalmar how much Helene loves him, even though it breaks Edward’s heart to do so.

But like I’ve said Hjalmar isn’t stupid. He saw the signs but chose to ignore them until one night when Helene accidentally says Edward’s name. It breaks the dam in Hjalmar’s denial and he has to face that deep down he always knew. Overcome by sadness and betrayal he wanders off into the night in nothing but his nightgown and gets a room at a different hotel where he can think in peace. Eventually he agrees to return to the first hotel with Helene and Edward and decides to take control of the situation.

He sits them both down and tells them that he understands that the three of them share a bond and that there are things he can’t really do for Helene so from now on he wants their relationship to be open and honest. He wants Helene and Edward to keep seeing each other and Edward is welcome in their house, but Hjalmar wants to be allowed to call Edward by his first name and makes it very clear that Helene and Edward’s children “belong to him” because he still thinks of himself as their dad and loves them as his own children. Both Helene and Edward agrees to it, though the emotional Edward is very flustered and confused by the acceptance and love he’s being shown by Hjalmar.

This is obviously a very tv drama situation but I was so stuck by how much Hjalmar acts like my asexual friends. Having a lover for your partner isn’t the most common solution but it’s an idea I’ve heard a lot of asexual people be open to under the right circumstances and of course that’s the most dramatic solution for a romantic tv drama.

Hjalmar is defined by so much more than his sexuality though. His main characteristic is his passion for social justice and equality, and other than some early show weirdness before they really cemented the characters, Hjamler is the only character who floats freely between the men and women. He’s just as likely to sit with the men as he is the women, often appearing in otherwise entirely female spaces. It’s never questioned or even brought up, not because he’s a “safe asexual” but because he cares and think their worries are as important as the men’s. He’s often called a pessimist by the other men when in reality he is determined to be hopeful and compassionate and spread the love he feels the world is lacking as WWII draws closer.

So yeah, I just wanted to share this sweet ace guy with you because you probably wouldn’t have known about him otherwise.

[kisses4reid]

criminally hot | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,,

summary - you get wrongfully accused by a sheriff, and it isn’t you who’s angriest. it’s your boyfriend who has to expose your relationship in order to clear you.

genre - spencer x bau!fem!reader, fluff, slight angst if u squint, angry reid x calm reader

wc - 1.2k

warnings - reader uses she/her pronouns, handcuffs, violence, a weird white man i know id be fucking scared as well, oh swearing as well.

a/n - i love u you’re so awkward i am doing so well bc of ur request, keep requesting things your brain is crazy. ummm anyways this is my first time writing this kinda thing omg how exciting okay start reading it wtf you still doing here?

request - ( from @babyoureahauntedhouse ) omg hii!!! :3 this is my first time requesting, so please excuse the awkwardness 😭😭😭😭 first of all, how are you????? i hope you’re doing amazing!!! absolutely no pressure, but can you do one where reader gets falsely arrested (not a huge thing, maybe in a police station at a small town or something) and spencer absolutely **loses** his shit at how she’s being treated????? like, she’s freezing and the sheriff or somethjng keeps pushing her and then he just bursts into the interrogation room and uncuffs her and it’s just very fluffy???? thank you!

Emily handed you your coffee with a smile, receiving a small thank you in return. It was warm in your hands and created a comforting contrast to the cool chill of the police precinct you were set up in.

Things were going well given that you’d only been in the small town for half a day. The team debriefed on the plane, but Aaron had been on the phone with the leading detective for at least an hour now asking him where he was.

Emily headed off to the restrooms when a slender hand made its way to your waist. You turned and felt your cheeks heat, knowing exactly who is was.

“Hi Spencer.”

“Hi Y/n.” His eyes held sweetness in the chocolate swirls, and you felt like a kid who had been given candy. Spencer and you had been dating for a few months, but somehow in a team of profilers you both kept things under wraps, even with Spencer’s clumsy touches and your lingering stares. “I wish we were home,” he whispered.

You glanced around for anyone who could witness your interaction and get suspicious, but you were mostly alone other than Hotch and some officers who were weirdly taking a lot of attention to you.

“Yeah me too. I’m feeling oddly popular and not in the good way.”

Before you could talk more or offer him a sip of your coffee (even if you know he doesn’t like it), Aaron calls his name and the slim tall boy scurries away with a straight face.

You turn to find something to do. To reread a case, to help someone fill out papers, to talk to Morgan or Garcia. You would’ve opted to huddling in your cardigan if a tall man didn’t interrupt.

“Y/n L/n?” He asked in monotone. His arms were at his sides, one hovering above a pair of cuffs that hung from his police belt. Furrowing your eyebrows you answered,

“Yes? What’s wrong?”

“You’re under arrest for the robberies of…”

His voice pounded into the background of your head, thoughts attacking your eyes through a sudden headache as the words registered before you could help it. The room was silent except for the man’s voice, yet all you could hear was the furrow of eyebrows and quick approach of your boss, Aaron Hotchner.

“What’s going on here?”

“Your agent has been seen…”

You stood still as another officer came behind you and forced handcuffs onto your arms, gripping your wrists with unnecessary force that would surely leave bruises. You winced and looked between your boss and the officer, and then at Spencer, who was being pulled back by Morgan. He yelled your name in worry, witnessing the hardened grips on your body and rough pushing you were being subject to. Your coffee splattered on the ground, staining your white shoes.

There was only mumbles and white noise, as your eyes met with Spencer’s. The large officer behind you kicked your leg to get you moving, the shock glueing your shoes to the rubbery floor. And you almost didn’t even notice the hand on the back of your neck pushing you towards a dark room with a desk and two chairs.

You were so familiar with these rooms and yet it felt so different.

Of course, you didn’t actually do anything. And of course you attempt to clear that up to the officers who are slamming their hands on the table and screaming as much as they could, in a poor attempt to intimidate you.

Aaron was in the corner with a scolding face and hard hand to his chin, observing the situation with an intensity you barely ever see.

“Last month, you were seen at one of the houses that got robbed over night. You left a few days later, after also being seen at two of the other houses-“

“So she was seen at three of the ten houses robbed and you arrest her?” Aaron spoke up, bringing the men’s attention to your boss instead of you. You took the opportunity to look outside of the window.

Though it wasn’t clear, you could make out the outline of a tall boy you wished would just break into the room and save you.

And he did.

“Your evidence is illogical and childish. She’s an FBI agent for gods sake-“

“Anybody can be a suspect Agent Hotchner, even federal agents.” The tall one replied with a stubborn mumbled.

Suddenly, the door was slammed open and you were met with a disheveled Spencer panting with a red and severe face. He didn’t even bother looking at you before he starting schooling the men in blue, who at that point were glaring at him and attempting to look more intimidating than they actually were.

“I’ve read your files on this case and nothing links to Y/n L/n, not one-“

“There’s no way you read our-“

“I can read more in a minute than you can in a day, dickhead. Y/n was meeting old school friends when she was in town, we went to the Diner Inn afterwards and we met with her parents who have receipts for the meals because they’re-“ he turned his glance at you,” “sorry Y/n- they’re hoarders. You have nothing against her other than some positively reported visits and some photos of her hugging the house owners.” Spencer had slowly pinned the officers to the opposite wall unconsciously. It was hot. “I was there, I’m her receipt. And like her parents, she loves keeping those. So if you want to insist she’s your culprit, go for it. But your going against a man with eidetic memory and a lot of evidence.”

And while he was logical and correct, he was also a little too truthful.

The officers blinked in fear. Spencer definitely didn’t seem the type to yell or swear, so this clear, concise and undermining approach to the situation was somehow even scarier.

“Spencer,” you began, “thank you.”

He looked at you, his expression softening into empathy and care, “Of course.” His hands found a key in his back pocket as he approached you, starting to promptly uncuff you.

As Aaron continued to speak with the officers of their major mistake, Spencer took you outside of the room and into a private office. Your heart was racing, but it seemed Spencer was more stressed than you. He paced as you leaned onto the front of a wooden desk, hands over your chest as your eyes trailed Spencer.

“I’m sorry, Y/n. I should’ve reacted faster, then you wouldn’t have been..” He stopped closely in front of you, his breath hot on yours as his gaze scoured over your body for injuries or bruises. “Are you okay?”

You smile calmly, “I’m fine. My leg hurts, and I think my wrists will be bruised, but I’m fine.”

He took your hands and rubbed his thumbs on your wrists carefully, causing butterflies to explode in your stomach.

“Thank you Spencer.” Your eyes dance with each others. “You were really hot. Maybe I need to get arrested more often.” You joke with a lift to your voice and a smirk, causing him to look down with a smile and shake his head.

“If being angry makes me hot maybe you should reevaluate what you-“

Your lips found his, you hand going to his bicep and his going to the back of your neck, before a clearing of the throat took you both out of your trances. It was Hotch.

“I’ve got some paperwork you both need to sign. About the arrest and,” his hand waved between you two, “this.”

Morgan stood behind Aaron with a smirk, leaving quickly to go tell Garcia that she had lost their bet.

taglist: @jeffswh0re @reap3erslov3 @candyd1es

[usuallydyinginside]

TLDR: Francesca Bridgerton is Autistic. Fight me.

Okay so I did not go into Season 3 of Bridgerton expecting to have any feelings about Francesca Bridgerton. We have seen her only in glimpses in the show and I have not read the books, so I knew basically nothing about her before binging the first four episodes.

But guys. GUYS. I will die for this autistic queen.

Okay, so starting with first impressions. We know that on her big day, Francesca went out of her way to avoid her nosy, loud family by having a very early, quiet breakfast by herself and then calming down via playing the piano (clearly a special interest of hers).

In her first balls, we see Francesca light up any time she talks about music (clearly her current or forever special interest) but as soon as men try to take it to a flirting place she IMMEDIATELY shuts down. It's clear that even as she states very matter-of-factly that she plans to marry this season, she also is baffled and uncomfortable any time someone tries to actually, ya know, court her.

At one of her first shindigs, she got attention and then went up to her brother and (while making almost no eye contact) told him (rather than asked him) that she needed a sec.

She then sat by herself in the side of the ballroom.

Later on, she left a ball in search of quiet and solitude to fix her sensory overload, so she went outside this time. (A thing that we know from pervious seasons is a HUGE no-no, particularly unchaperoned. But she was very respectfully near the door so maybe that's fine?) The point is that she cares very much about staying respectable so she can get this marriage thing over with and get people to stop perceiving her, yet she risks some scandal by going outside just so she can be somewhere quiet alone.

Enter: this absolute (also autistic) Prince Charming.

He says hello (so she knows he's not like trying to sneak up on her in the dark like a creep) and then just stands there. 10/10, no notes, best way to flirt I have ever seen in my life.

Seriously just look at this. I'm in love. Never before has there been a greater sign of love at first sight than in this "standing politely five feet apart in total silence in the middle of a ball and enjoying each other's company."

I need to go watch these first four episodes about a hundred more times, but I THINK this might be the first sincere smile we see from Francesca??!? I at least got the impression immediately that this is the first time she's felt genuinely comfortable and happy while not entirely alone this season.

Like, these nerds did not even exchange names. They barely exchanged a word. Yet you can see them falling head over heels in love right there in that moment. I don't even LIKE love at first sight tropes and they have my whole heart. They are the only exception.

Then, of course, you have this second absolutely iconic Scene of Silence where the entire Bridgerton family stares in neurotypical confusion a these two amazing weirdos. The way these two do not know each other but they DO know each other. The way they are both so happy and so comfortable but also still playing the whole society game the way they were told they had to?? I just don't have words right now.

LOOK AT HER SMILE, GUYSSSSSSSS.

Look how happy this tiny, silent moment is making her. How she understands immediately what he's doing and is absolutely delighted to participate too even knowing her entire family is hardcore judging them from not that far away.

And then you get this smug little look from him and it's like you can see his autistic ass thinking, "Yes. I calculated correctly. This was the correct romance option. Gold star to me." (Okay, maybe that's just how my brain works but shhhhh)

Which, of course, brings us to this absolutely hilariously awkward ND attempt at flirting. We start off with some fairly normal "whoops, I'm flustered cause you make me nervous" sort of moments, but notice how little eye contact she makes. How she only looks in his eyes very briefly and it seems like she almost has to remind herself to do so when she's doing the "polite" answers (OR later when she's genuinely interested in a topic).

So as soon as Francesca is like "oh shit, I ruined it. I forgot how to neurotypical. It's over" then she loses patience with the practiced social niceties.

I spent like 30 minutes trying to find a GIF and I should already be asleep so I'm not going to go learn how to make one BUT I needed to look up exactly what happens next cause it's basically the most autistic thing I've ever seen.

WHICH IS that in response to the second awkward silence after Francesca shares all of this, John's response is, "That is helpful. If you'll excuse me."

Then dude bro just WALKS AWAY WITHOUT ANOTHER WORD.

Like it would be awkward anyway but now Francesca thinks she misread a social cue so she's feeling sad, and meanwhile this absolute king is over here on a romantic mission no one asked him to do because he is that set on showing her he's listening and cares.

The man shows up at the ball and as soon as he had a paper we were all screaming "he wrote her a song!!!"

Again, notice the eye contact (or lack thereof). I think with period dramas and women, it's easy to just go "oh she's just shy" or "she's just being demure like she's supposed to" but like NO. This girl does not want to meet anyone's eyes.

Until she does. Because in moments where she's talking about music or enjoying quiet, it's worth it to purposefully meet his eyes and see how he's feeling too. To make sure he can see she's happy.

ANYWAY, it was so much better than him writing a song for her.

SO. MUCH. BETTER.

Because he didn't just give her any ol' music. He sought out the music they'd specifically heard in the street, and he took her exact specifications on what was "wrong" with the music, and he FIXED IT. He then put the whole thing on sheet music and handed her a copy with no further explanation than this.

Our autistic lass was so excited she basically sprinted out of that ball so she could find a piano. (Which, the fact that she does this rather than try to stay and flirt/dance with the man who just gave her this incredible gift ALSO says a lot, just saying. Daphne could never.)

So our girl finds a piano and GUYS. LOOK AT HOW HAPPY SHE IS.

I'm pretty sure this woman would accept a proposal right this second. Maybe make one herself. She is so head over heels in love with this man that it's absurd. We have watched her mask in these first four episodes, but the last two where she's interacting with John are the first times she seems genuinely happy and like the real her is shining through.

Like, does she enjoy her family? Sure. But it's obvious (and she even tells us) that she finds them overwhelming and generally to be A Lot. But these scenes? This gesture?

You can just get how seen she feels. How weird and wild and amazing it is to her that this man can see who she actually is and wants to join her there instead of making her play some part of the perfect Bridgerton who likes to be the center of attention.

(And even here - the EYE CONTACT. She glances at people when she's talking to them, but the way she looks at the sheet music is so much more intense and intimate and personal than anytime she's looking at the average person in the show. She still even in places she's most comfortable, such as sitting at the piano, makes very little eye contact and only at very specific moments.)

Anyway I'm going to sleep now but I'm sure I'll add more thoughts as they come to me. Feel free to add your own case for why Francesca is autistic and/or otherwise neurodivergent. I want to hear allllllll the thoughts.

[buckyalpine]

18+ Sometimes I get an idea in my head and you'll hear 10 versions of the same thing, word for word, I swear (iykyk). I'm sorry. Just a little in coming fluff, angst and smuttt. We're giving him the ending he always deserved. This is a mess of my brain vomit.

Sergeant Barnes who can't help the crush he has on the sweet nurse stationed at his camp, always finding ways to talk to her, even if it means interrupting her in the middle of the way, wagging his finger around the tent because he has a dire papercut.

She'll patch him up every single time with a shake of her head, telling him to be more careful and he'll say yes mam, just to be back in the same cot the next day like clockwork.

Sergeant Barnes who walks her to her quarters every evening and bids her goodnight with a tip of his hat, always a gentleman. He never misses an opportunity to hold the door open, fetch extra supplies, grinning all while she tells him to get back to his work, worried he'll get in trouble for always helping her.

Sergeant Barnes who has a flirty little mouth on him, never missing a moment to tell her how lovely she looks. She dismisses everything he says, after all there's no way he could see her that way when she's sweating, covered in grime and blood aftering bandaging up different men.

Sergeant Barnes who wonders if she feel the same way when catches a tear roll down her cheek the first time she has to sew his injures. Her hands work quick and steadily keeping a straight face until the last dressing is placed across his abdomen. He's seen her do the same thing to plenty of others, sending them on their way right after but not him. She checked over him again and then once more, insisting he rest for an additional night before he was off again.

Sergeant Barnes who didn't realize it would get this far. He only intended to kiss her, he really did but the surprised little whine she let out was too much. How could he left her go when he hands clutched onto his uniform tighter, lips parted, letting his tongue lace with hers.

He made love to her that night.

Sergeant Barnes who took his time touching every bit of her body with softness, laying her in bed and covering her with the sheet when she shyly looked away. He didn't need much more than that, happy to feel her bare skin on his while he felt her lips flutter against his neck, he may as well have died and gone to heaven.

Sergeant Barnes who doesn't rush a thing while he pumps his cock, letting his swollen head rub though her slit while letting her know much he adores her. How perfect she already is. She whispers a please in his ear and he starts to push himself inside, his length already throbbing with need.

"I know angel, I know" He coos at the gasp she lets out, his hand coming up to caress her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin. "S'just me doll, s'just me you're feeling"

He stretches her slowly, after all his sweet angel has never felt anyone else. Her face hides in his neck, panting as he fully sheaths himself, cuddling her body, rubbing her back.

"S-so big, Sergeant" is the best she can get out and he has to force himself to not cum on the spot. He starts to move, holding her tighter because he didn't expect to struggle this much.

"I love you" He rasps out, it's all he can say without running his mouth, spewing all the things that were in his head. He really can't take it. His mind is working faster than he can comprehend. There were a thousand sweet things but that wasn't the issue. He bit his tongue from confessing she caused all his wet dreams, making him feel like a teenager all over again. That her pussy was so tight, he was leaking in her. That it felt too good, he felt like a virgin too, his cock was so sensitive like never before, fuck, she had to unlock her ankles that were wrapped around his waist-

"M'close" He pants, eyes locked with hers hoping she understands- "M'gonna cum, I-fuck, i'm cu-mph" His eyes grow wide in surprise when she tugs his dog tags and pulls him down for a kiss, her legs still wrapped around him, every bit of his cum filling her up.

"I love you too" she nuzzles her nose with his, relaxing in his hold as they drift off to sleep.

He holds her extra tight that night.

There was a war happening and tomorrow wasn't always promised.

Especially not when he had an assignment the next day.

-

Sergeant Barnes who dragged himself through hell and back, limping half sewn up with that cute little blush on his face cause he can't wait to see her again after months of nearly dying, losing men, the only thing that kept him going was getting to see-

Where was she?

"Has anyone seen Nurse y/l/n?" He frowned when the other nurses shook their heads as he searched, his worry increasing when he finds her things gone. He nearly sends off a search party until a close friend of hers quietly gives him an address. She says very little, only sending him off with a wink and a good luck.

He's utterly baffled when he sees the address is that of his own? Surely there was a mistake. That doesn't mean he'll waste anytime. The war was over anyway, injuries be damned, he's moving as fast as he can.

He sets off home, knocking on the door, his can't wait to find her again and he's missed his family soo much-

"Jamie!!" His sister throws her arms around his neck and he stumbles back, hugging her tightly, "Mama, Jamie's home!!" He doesn't let go of her as his mother runs to him from the kitchen, tears already streaming down her face.

"Sweet boy" She takes his face in her hands, looking him up and down. Her baby boy is back in one piece and that's all that matters.

Well, sort of.

"I missed you ma-ow!"

"I raised you better, you worried those poor angels to bits"

Angels?

He isn't given a chance to ask anything when she gives him a wack with a rolled newspaper, ushering him to go to his room, slipping something into his pocket before sending him off.

Sergeant Barnes who can't believe his eyes when he sees her again. Her pretty face. Same perfect eyes. Perfect nose. Perfect lips. All of it turns blurry from unshed tears because the only thing that was different now was a very round baby bump.

"Y'came back" Her voice melts into a sob seeing him standing at the doorway.

"I missed ya" He whispers against her hairline, kissing her repeatedly, his hands cradling her rounded belly, his little baby kicking against his touch. "M'so sorry angel, wish I was here-

"You're here now" she sniffled, inhaling his scent after waiting for him to come back, not knowing if he was hurt or alive, the thought breaking her heart. "We waited"

"Daddy's here" He kisses her tummy, holding her extra close again after months of waiting. Dreaming. Hoping.

He asks her to marry him. His ma wouldn't give him her wedding ring for just anyone.

A baby boy. 2 years later, a little girl. She asks for a kitten. They name her Alpine. Another little boy 3 years later.

Perfect.

[wcters]

𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘 𝗜𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗗 𝗜𝗙 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗞𝗘𝗘𝗣 𝗜𝗧 𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗦

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

summary: alex’s best friend and lando norris meet and something blossoms between them during a project the two are starting

warnings: swearing, pda, established relationships (later), rumours, hate, i do not know the whole magui situation, the comments are for the story, i do not affiliate with any of the beliefs of the people in here | faceclaim is shira klein as requested, i don’t think the international uni of monaco has a fashion program but let’s pretend it does for a hot minute

yourusername

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, yourclassmate, and 1,083 others

yourusername school is kicking my ass rn

view all 38 comments

alexandrasaintmleux my talented best friend 💗💗

↳ yourusername marry me

↳ alexandrasaintmleux yes!

↳ charles_leclerc 🤨🤨🤨

↳ yourusername sorry not sorry 🤷‍♀️

user1 you’re living the dream

yourclassmate no cause why is our professer so hard on us

francisca.cgomes pretty girl 🫠❤️

user2 how is the program there?

↳ yourusername it’s good! very nice people and teachers. i just like to complain 😔

alexandrasaintmleux

liked by yourusername, iamrebeccad, and 320,763 others

alexandrasaintmleux 🍓🍓🍓 dress by the best girl @yourusername

view all 1,012 comments

iamrebeccad beautiful 💕

user1 who is yourusername?

↳ user2 alex’s best friend! she goes to the international university of monaco studying fashion

yourusername i am blushing so hard 😚😚

↳ alexandrasaintmleux love youu

francisa.cgomes 😍😍

user3 fit made by y/n never fails

f1gossip

liked by user1, user2, and 74,974 others

f1gossip alex’s best friend, y/n y/l/n seen in the ferrari garage at the dutch grand prix. she was also seen congratulating lando on his win. what do you think about this? 🤔

view all 218 comments

user1 after magui i’m done

user2 not ANOTHER one

↳ user3 what do you mean?

↳ user2 this is like the sixth girl he’s been seen with

user4 love seeing y/n and alex together 💗

user5 she needs to stay away from him

author i know the timeline doesn’t match up with school semesters but let’s play pretend 😁😁

yourusername

liked by landonorris, alexandrasaintmleux, and 1,103 others

yourusername new project loading . . .

view all 32 comments

alexandrasaintmleux se excited to see the outcome of this one!

user1 girl tell usss 😫😫

yourclassmate i’m still coming up with an idea 😭😭

↳ yourusername   let’s meet up at the library and we can brains together together

↳ yourclassmate you’re my saviour

user2 my dream life

user3 cutie

user4 who’s the man

↳ yourusername   🤫🤫

f1gossip

liked by user1, user2, and 87,025 others 

f1gossip   lando norris seen meeting up with someone who has a striking resemblance to y/n y/l/n, alexandra saint mleux’s best friend. they then made their way to the international university of monaca? does this confirm its lando and y/n?

view all 235 comments

user1 we need to lando and his love life aloneee

user2 first magui and now her? this man is not slowing down

user3 why is he getting with a uni student?

user4 she’s probably just getting with him to get her and alex more attention

↳ user5 her account is literally private? 💀💀

user6 these lando fans need to chill

user7 at least this one’s smart 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

f1gossip

liked by user1, user2, and 87,963 others

f1gossip lando seen with the same girl before but at a restaurant this time. do we think it’s a date?

view all 233 comments

user1 she’s actually so ugly

user2 at this point i’d rather him be with magui 🤦‍♀️

user3 isn’t she a fashion student? shes probably a good digger

user4 she looks pretty

↳ user5 pretty ugly 🤢

yourusername

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, landonorris, and 1,487 others

yourusername the look of love, the rush of blood

view all 42 comments

alexandrasaintmleux so happy for you 💗🥺

↳ yourusername   i love you alex ❤️

user1 arctic monkeys reference !!!

yourclassmate this is why you have so many new ideas 🤨🤨

landonorris ❤️❤️

user2 i’m so jealous rn

niña bonita 😚

i don’t know if this is going to work

niña bonita 😚

if what’s going to work?

me and lando

the hate is crazy and i don’t know if i can handle it

niña bonita 😚

ma belle ☹️☹️

have you tried talking to him?

i don’t want to worry him with it

he already gets enough as it is

niña bonita 😚

oh y/n

whatever you think will help you more mentally and physically, do it

but please tell him. he would hate himself if he knew this was happening and you didn’t tell him

charles is the same

like, i know they don’t know it’s me, that’s just speculation

but they’re still taking digs at ME

what i look like, sound like, what i do

niña bonita 😚

i know honey

and you shouldn’t feel guilty for feeling like this either

and before you say you aren’t, you are. i know you

you are NEVER alone. ever.

not with me, not with lando, not with anyone

please don’t go through this alone love 💗

te amo mucho 🥺🥺🥺 (i love you so much)

niña bonita 😚

yo también te amo ❤️

now go and get that takeout you like. i know you’re questioning to or not

f1gossip

liked by user1, user2, and 100,368 others

f1gossip according to a fan, lando’s new girlfriend is y/n y/l/n! she’s a fashion student at the international university of monaco and are best friends with alexandra saint mleux. they were seen together holding hands and kissing. y/n also was there when the fan got a picture with lando

view all 364 comments

user1 she looks like a bitch

user2 she’s probably just using him for clout

user3 she’s not pretty enough to be his girlfriend 🤢🤢

user4 she’s so beautiful

user5 go back to the models @landonorris

landonorris

liked by yourusername, alexandrasaintmleux, and 1,297,034 others

landonorris yes. i do have a girlfriend. no, it is not your business, but yet you’ve made it your business. we wanted to keep it private but now we can’t. the hate that my girlfriend, and any girl seen with me, has been getting is ridiculous. my girlfriend is the sweetest person in the world, and you don’t even bother to try to get to know her before you run her name through the dirt. i have been silent on this for too long. forgive me, my love.

i am so proud of you and what you are doing. thank you for giving me a chance (and saving my style, apparently) ❤️

comments have been disabled

[yeyinde]

Brain went brrrrrrrr

Price and the new 141 member getting into an argument. Price is all like if you don't behave ill take you over my knee girl.

She's all like I fucking dare you or you'll have to catch me first or even you don't have the balls.

🫠🫠

i’ve always wanted someone who was super by the book to clash with John “i routinely tell my superiors i’m going to maim/murder/hang them” Price. this gave me the perfect opportunity to do so. 

noncon spanking. abuse of authority. power imbalance. size kink. mean, dom!Price. forced submission.

You have this way of getting under his skin. 

An impossible itch. No matter how many times he picks and prods at his flesh, you worm beneath the dermis, burrowing deep. Sitting pretty against his goddamn bones. Festering. 

Incurable. 

He turns to vice to stem the irritation. Cigars. Whiskey. His hand shoved down his trousers like he's a fuckin' boy and not a man on the wrong side of forty. 

Thinking of you—of breaking that smart mouth of yours on his cock. 

It's the way you saunter around with your head held high, balancing golden eggs on your crown, that irks him something awful. The patronising drawl when you huffily remind him that what he's doing is breaking seven, no, ten, different laws, Price. You can't just do whatever you want, there are rules—

And that's the crux of it. 

A difference of ideas. Experience. You still see the world in shades of black and white. Good and bad. Unwilling to acknowledge that the line between is saturated and blurred. A putrid muck that traps all. Bogish. 

He knew it was a mistake when they sent him your file, asked if he needed the additional help. Hostage negotiator. He's heard of you. By the fucking book. You recite passages like it's gospel, turning printed words into a knife. A terrible fit for a team that works in the pivotal no man's land you claim doesn't exist. 

Yet—

He takes you on. Brings you in. Buries his anger at your fucking gall deep in his chest where it rots. Grows. Swallows down the rage, apoplectic fury, when you undermine him at every opportunity, citing laws and regulations like it's a fucking prayer. 

A calamitous decision, he knows. Terrible. But—

Despite it all, you're good at what you do. Brilliant. A budding rose germinating in fecund soil. You'll grow into something wild, won't you? Something untamed. 

Under his hands, you'll bloom the prettiest. He knows this deep in his bones. But—

“You're breaking the rules, Captain—”

—pedantic little thing, aren't you? 

Obediently following the wrong master. 

It irks him. He's been known to step on the toes of his superior officers for less, caustic words hissing foul from between his teeth. 

But unlike them, you're worth something. Even as the moral antithesis to his utilitarian dogma, he sees your potential. How you can shape this world dangling on a brittle thread if you lay down your senseless principles and follow him. Listen to him. 

But of course, you don't. 

And he supposes he ought to have known better. It's dripping gasoline over an open flame. The sequence of events is easily premeditated, seen, when you refuse to listen to what he says (“it's against the law, Price!”), walking away from him, his team, the mission, and take matters into your own, morally righteous hands. Bringing his underhanded methods to the desk of your superior officer, demanding he be investigated for crimes. The result is a loose warning from someone in a suit several sizes too big for them, and your fury when he pulls you back, has you assigned to another mission with the 141, with himself. Preens at your glower when you march back into his office, into his hands. 

In the fallout, he has no one to blame but himself, really. Anyone could have seen this coming. But the thing about shirking his morality in favour of a better outcome—above all else—is that he doesn't have to. 

And so, he doesn't. 

No. He blames you. 

(How perfect for him, then, that there's no one on base except you and him.)

“If you think I'm not going to report you again if you do something illegal, Price, you're wrong.”

He scoffs, shaking his head at your fucking audacity. 

"Better watch that mouth of yours, Sergeant, or you won't like what happens next." 

His palm itches when you look up, offering him a slow, feline blink. Leonine eyes creasing at the corners. 

"And what is that, sir? I'm just doing my job—" it's whispered breathlessly, all faux professionalism even as jest leaks down your brow. They pinch, then. Drawing together in a mockery of confusion. "Isn't that what you wanted me to do?" 

"What is that, mm?" He mocks, arms folding over his chest. He has to breathe through his nose for a moment. Gather himself together before he does something reckless, something like— 

It's the defiant little jut of your chin that does him in. That unravels this fraying knot of control until threads slip through his fingers. Falling too fast for him to clench down on them. 

He's threatened his superiors for far less. His kin, teammates. You have no one to blame but yourself for this, really. No one at all when he pulls his hand from where it's tucked under his armpit, curling rough, worn fingers around your wrist. Pulls you close, wrenching you into his chest until your nose bumps the buckle of his vest. 

"'m'gonna take you over my fuckin' knee, is what's going to happen." 

Your swallow is a gunshot. “You—you wouldn't dare—”

He leans in close, closer still. Breath scorching over your cheek. Preening when you bare your little teeth at him. “Wanna bet on that, Sergeant?” 

It's easier than he would have expected to wrangle you over his knee, pinning you down with an arm across your lower back. The height of his chair keeps your front bent, belly pressed against his thigh. Ass seated perfectly in his lap. Precious gem. 

He hums low in his throat, teeth sinking into the butt of his cigar as he locks you tight against him. Grabbing your wrist, twisting it up behind your back. Holding steady. A warning. 

The dangerous twinge in your bone stills you. 

One wrong move and he'd snap it in half. 

This has you taking a different approach, legs falling limp over the armrest. Head dropping over the other side. Malleable in his grasp—however artificial it is.

“Price—” you breathe, winded. Panic on a spindle. “What are you—what do you think you're doing—?”

He hums, mouth tense around the cigar. Words muffled, slurred. “What I should have done a long time ago.” 

“What—hey!”

Your words pepper off into a choked scream when his other hand falls to the hem of your pants, grabbing the fabric in his fist. The shock fades into indignation. Anger. He tastes it in the air as your hips squirm, legs kicking at nothing. Furious little growls spilling from your lips as you thrash, unconcerned by the ache in your bone. 

“Better keep still, love,” he taunts, mouth curling over his teeth as he twists his hand high, higher, up the small of your back until your fingers brush the skin between your shoulder blades. Any more and he'll break it—

“I'm going to fucking—!” It ends on a whine. A whimper. The pain makes you shiver. “Fuck, fuck—stop, stop, ow, stop—!”

“Not a fan of a little pain then, mm?” 

Your breath is ragged. Paints the air in a fine mist of defeat. He has you. The only option out of this is breaking your bone, a threshold no one is willing to cross. 

Price purses his lips back around the cigar, inhaling once, thrice, before he slips his fingers out of the hem of your trousers, reaching up to take hold of the cigar. It's all so matter-of-fact. So nonchalant when he places it in the ashtray. When he brings his heavy, warm hand back to your ass, curling his fingers beneath the fabric. Pulling. Tugging. 

They come off easier than he'd expected. A harsh tug, and the cleft of your ass is revealed. Plush skin curving enticingly as he rips them down to mid-thigh—panties and all. 

The shock fades back into indignation. You hiss something foul under your breath that makes him huff out a chuckle. 

“Not really in the position for that, are you, love?” 

“Shut up—”

He likes the way you sound like this. Feral. Furious. There's ash in your throat. It blots soot around each word, giving them weight. Gone is the woman who barged into his office, sniffing like you smelled something foul. Backing him into a corner. Sputtering in his face about rules. Regulation. 

Now you're bare-assed, panting, in his lap. Small little fawn in the maw of a bear. But oh, do you fight back—

Teeth bared, indignation bleeding into embarrassment, blotting pink in the whites of your eyes.

The sight is hewn into his hindbrain. 

“Look at you,” he purrs, petting your cheeks. “Been beggin’ to be bent over my knee since you got here, haven't you?” 

“Begging? Don't be—ahh!”

He brings his hand down with a small huff, eyes glued to your flesh. Watching it shake under his hand. The width of one swallowing up an entire cheek. So big is he that you're nearly made infinitesimal in his clutch. The thought makes him groan.

You squirm more in shock than discomfort. Head craning over your shoulder, eyes misting over with tears. Glaring at him. 

“What the fuck, Price!”

He strokes your skin, feeling the heat of your flesh bleed through his palm. Resilient little thing, aren't you? He huffs again, blood buzzing. Electric. There's a kindling fire in his guts. Embers sparking, catching. 

He can't deny how badly he's been wanting to have you like this. Craving your tears, your agony, your submission.

“Count,” he barks out, rough. Abrasive. “You're getting ten. Count ‘em for me, and if you miss one, I'm adding two more.”

“You're crazy, you're—!”

His hand comes down again. The impact shakes the fat of your ass. The strike makes you yowl, thrashing to get away. You don't get very far, still trapped in his hold. The threat of a broken bone keeps you from lashing out too wildly, and all you can really do is sit in his lap, and take it—

The notion has him groaning low in his throat. Something wicked spooling in his veins. Wanting. The sight of you heaving, bare-assed, and begging for mercy unleashes something inside of him. Something primal. Starving. 

Price takes a breath to steady himself, head buzzing. Heart pounding. It feels like the euphoria of nicotine—all bliss, sedation. Ease. 

Cathartic. 

“I said count,” he rasps, words cinder in his chest. Smoke. Dragged up from that burning pyre in his belly. Nocuous, hungry. “That's an order, Sergeant.” 

His hand is scorching against your skin. Thoughts turning over themselves as you hiccup in his lap. So pretty, he thinks, eyes flitting over to you. Taking in the sight of your shock, your denial. It tastes like fine wine on his tongue. Heady. 

“Here comes one—”

“One?”

“I told you, didn't I?” His nail rakes across your skin, cruel. Mean. Something preens when you gasp. Your pain perfuming the air. “M’addin’ two more if you don't count. Thought your speciality was listenin’?”

You scowl, twisting back to level him with an awful sneer. “Oh, fuck you—!”

His hand comes down again, harder this time. Vicious. The scream is tangled in your throat, gagged. He feels pleasure—dark and ugly—bloom in his chest, dripping, liquid, down the length of his spine. The twist of agony on your face is beatific. 

“Not gonna count?” He taunts, pinching your inflamed flesh between his thumb and forefinger. “We're gonna be here all day at this rate, love.”

He leans down, broad chest curling over the small of your back, hand cupped possessively over your cheeks. “But maybe you want that, mm? Maybe all this, mhm, insubordination has just been for show. You wanted this. Wanted to be taken over my knee—”

“You're wrong. I haven't—” it tapers off into a squeak when he pinches your flesh again. 

Price pulls back, breathes shallowly through his nose. 

“You and that smart fuckin' mouth. Told you it was gonna get you in trouble—”

He doesn't wait. His hand rears, and comes down with a loud smack that echoes in the sparse office he has you trapped inside. Your howl races alongside it, curling up the walls. Beautiful in all its agony. 

“Christ—” it's a dagger to his resolve. You sound so fucking good howling like this. Oscillating between feral anger and pain, hissing vitriol between clenched teeth. Choking on sobs. 

The first few are experimental. Testing the waters. Feeling. You're combative during it all. Fighting. Screaming. Each strike is uncounted, echoed only with a plea for help. One he knows won't come—

The only person on base is his Lieutenant. Ghost knows better than to barge in on his affairs. 

“No one's comin’, love,” he grunts, sweat beading along his hairline, dripping down his temple. The room heats along with the blood in his veins, stifling and oppressive. He reinforces each hit with more strength, increasing the tempo until you're screaming on his lap, begging for mercy, mercy, please, please, Price stop, stop—

Your skin raises with each new strike. Swelling. Becoming inflamed. The perfect imprint of his handprint sits on each cheek, edges intumescent. The globes shake, shuddering deliciously under each hit. 

He gets to eleven before you break. Tears streaming down your face, voice a threadbare whisper. Hoarse from screaming. 

His hand rains down, slaps your left cheek so hard it stings his hand. Burns. You whimper. Mewling. Squirming on his lap, and then—

“O–one—”

He grunts, feels himself thicken in his trousers. “Good girl.” 

You shudder, body breaking out in goosebumps. “Price—”

“Ah, ah, love. You're not allowed to speak unless you're counting.”

He hits you again, cock throbbing when you tense up, sniffling. Grinding out a soft two between trembling lips. 

You don't break the way he wants you to. There's a glare on your face despite the tears, the sniffles. A defiance that burns over the bridge of your nose. 

But that's fine. He has eight more strikes to ruin you, doesn't he? 

He sets to it with a low moan, your pelvis pressing taut to his tumid cock, the friction raging in his guts. 

But that, he finds, isn't really the point. No. The pleasure, the arousal, is secondary to the way you fall to pieces at his hand. Flesh stinging his palm with each loud smack that rings out sharply in the room. Uneven breaths. Shuddering little ah-ah-ahs that tumble out through clenched teeth. 

It's addictive, this. Therapeutic. 

There's static in his head. White noise. It renders everything else mute. Moot. Molasses drips down, thick and entrenching, congealing over every churning thought in the back of his head. There's a sense of peace, ease, he hasn't felt in years. In decades. 

He feels his belly knot each time your ass jiggles, skin bulging up from the trauma of being hit so harshly. Chafed under his palm. Welts forming in the shape of his hand. A tattoo you'll have for weeks when he's through with you. Aching each time you try to sit. And fuck—

You'll think of him. Of this. Being taken over his goddamn knee like the bad fucking girl you are. Broken in over his lap. Helpless. Submissive. 

The whimpers fade, replaced with shallow hiccups. Your throat is torn. Raw, ruined, by your screams, yowls. Each rasping whine sends jolts of pleasure down his spine. Liquid want molten in his marrow. 

“S–seven, nngh—”

The moan slips out—scorched, bleached—and drills deep into his loins. 

He peels his gaze away from your blistered skin, glancing at your face, but you duck from his view. Hide. Dropping your head over the armrest. Evading him. 

It's new, this. This meekness. 

You were so combative, so feral before. His gaze rakes down the expanse of your spine, over the curve of your cheeks, before settling, hot and heavy, at the crease where your thigh meets your pelvis. You squirm in his lap, thighs sliding together. Rubbing. It's no different from before when he'd spank you, but—

He catches it. 

It glints in the soft light when you move, and he feels something dark, ruinous, curl in the tar-stained fibrils of his chest. Congealing in the crevasses. Hardening. 

Price flicks his tongue out, swiping over his lower lip. The bristles of his beard graze the soft flesh, prickling across it. His throat is suddenly dry. Parched. 

His hand comes down again, notably softer than the other hits he subjected you to. Almost—

Tender. 

This isn't meant to hurt. Not this one. 

He strokes his finger over your skin, cock throbbing with the rasping gasp that spills—a twisted amalgamation of pain, skin still smarting, burning to the touch, and—

His lashes flutter. Nostrils flaring. 

Your slick, wet, between your inner thighs. 

He slides his hand down, down, until your ass cheek is cupped in the bracket of his thumb and forefinger. Nestled tight. A perfect fit. The sight of your skin—soft, so soft—against his bearish, hirsute paw is sickeningly addictive. He grunts, pressing his thumb into the crease between your cheek and thigh. 

“P–Price—”

And then he pulls, moaning deep in his chest as he peels the fat of your ass away, unveiling your cunt to his rapacious gaze. Fuck—

“What’s this?” He taunts, breathless. Pinched. You squirm, trying to press your thighs together. Hiding your pussy from his scorching stare. He doesn't let you. “Gettin’ off on me spankin’ your arse?” 

“N–no, I'm—”

He pushes his thumb up, sliding it over your skin. Gathers your slick on the tip. “Don't lie to me, mm. You're fuckin' soaked.”

The air is punched from his lungs. Spills out in a wretched grunt. In the vacuum, something grows. Knots. Festering inside his chest. Animalistic. Primal. There's an itch in the back of his head. 

He lets go of your arm, knows you won't run. Won't try to escape. No. 

You're a good girl, aren't you? One who does what they're told. Follows orders. It tangles in the soporific slurry of his head, pitching a bivouac of need when you bring your arm down, curling it through the gap of the armrest, holding tight. 

Bracing yourself. 

His hum breaks in his throat. He drags his hand away from your cunt, reaching for the snuffed cigar idling in the ashtray. There's a fever in his veins. It makes his hand tremble. Shake. He needs the blunted drag of nicotine to quench this heady anticipation blooming in his guts. A brumous storm gyring inside him, an incipient maelstrom of want thickening. Intensifying. Threatening to spill over. 

He needs something to steady himself before he tears into you like a beast—

You cock your head over your shoulder, staring at him with eyes drenched in midnight ink. There's a flicker across your tear-stained expression. Something coy. Feline. Leonine. 

There's nothing said. Nothing needs to be. He finds what he's looking for in the fracture of your mien, and scoffs under his breath at your sheer gall. Little fuckin' minx. 

Tobacco proves to be a paltry facsimile when he draws in a bursting mouthful. The restive glow of it dulled under the adrenaline coursing through his veins, heady. Syrupy. A roaring deluge of anticipation broiling in the balmy air, crackling around him like a storm cresting over the horizon. Ozone saturates in the thickening atmosphere. 

Something will break. Shatter. 

He tenses, waiting for the first stormcloud to breach, and drops his hand back to your tender ass. Stroking over the raised welts just to make you gasp. Your hips flex under the shocks of pain riveting down your spine, undulating in his lap. Pitched perfectly over his cock. 

His breath shudders through a needlepoint. The friction is electric. 

In petty retaliation—and just to see you squirm—he trails his knuckles over your heated skin, luxuriating in the way you shiver. Head falling back down over the armrest, beautifully alluring in your vulpine submission. His fingers dip between the cleft of your cheeks, feeling the slickness sticking to your soft, sensitive skin. Soaked between your thighs. Wretched girl. 

His index and middle finger slide over your slit, parting your folds. He feels the small pulses of your drenched hole against his flesh when he slides over it with the press of his fingers. Eager little thing.  

He hums under his breath at the sight of his hand seated across your hand, fingers shoved between the globes of your smarting ass. Soft and tender to worn and gnarled. The cropping of dark hair over his knuckles, his hand, against your bare skin is obscene. The picture of sin with your stricken flesh and his thick veins. The contrast curdled in the back of his head, morphing into something ugly and wanting. 

Idly, he thinks of making you bounce your sore ass on his lap later, your pussy swallowing up his fat cock. Taking it all the way to the root. Over and over again. Breaking you on it until you're begging for mercy, until this little attitude of yours is crushed between his teeth. 

Slick gathers against the rough pads of his fingers, drenching them. The hair on his knuckles is matted down, wet with your arousal. Naughty girl. He'll make you pay for that. 

And for the puddle seeping into his trousers. 

You mewl when he slips, sliding over your clit. The noise spilling molten over your lips, bludgeoning into his loins. 

He drags in another mouthful of smoke. Lets it rot between his teeth as he drops the cigar into the ashtray once more, attention riveting to the slip-slide of your slick thighs rubbing together for friction against your aching clit. Cunt pulsing needily against his hand. 

You haven't learned a damn thing at all, have you? 

Smoke funnels out of his nostrils when he growls. “Spoiled, aren't you? Need to be taught a lesson in respect.” 

“I, ah, am respectful, Captain—” 

He sucks in a breath between clenched teeth. This lippiness of yours grates on his nerves. He wants you begging for mercy, limp in his hold. Pretty doll. Waiting obediently for him to put you back together again. Soft and submissive at his heel. 

“Got three more to go, love.” You shiver when he strokes over your ass. Petting gently with wet, tacky fingers. “If you're a good girl and take it for me, I'll play with your pretty cunt, mm. You'd like that, wouldn't you?” 

Price brings his hand down, grunting when you moan out his name. Sharp and needy. Your plaintive posturing is a spark inside a tinderbox. 

“E–eight.” 

The next one is harder, sharper. The force twinges his joints. Rattles through his bone. 

It's unexpected, and the pain makes you yowl, body drawing tight like a bow. There's no pleasure when it's like that. No friction against your cunt. It's just—

“Price—!” You yelp, shrill and distressed. The lead up to this has been child's play. A soft hand to tender a nervous mare. 

His old man taught him to never strike with the whip first but to wean them slowly. 

He waits, humming mockingly to your pettering whimpers as you heave, tremulous, into the air. Shuddering in his grasp at the aftershocks of agony rippling through your body. 

Waits. Waits. And—

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, cooing low and condescending when you gasp, craning your neck to level him with an imploring, pleading stare as you stammer out a frenetic nine in a breathless rush. Tears soak your lashline, clumping them together when you blink through another deluge pooling against the rim. Your lip wobbles. The stream breaks, spilling over. Fresh tears run down your wet, sticky cheeks. 

There's real panic in the whites of your eyes now. That haughty, pedant gleam buried under pyretic desperation. Gone is the coy twist to your lips. The wily little bloom of amusement in your gaze. 

Aw, poor thing. But—

Too late. “You didn't count. You know what that means, love.” 

That knot in his chest unfurls, and leaks acid into his lungs. This want is corrosive. A poison. The sob breaks through your chest. The first thunderclap. He relishes in it. Leans back in his chair to bask in the potency of your unmaking. 

“Good girl,” he husks out, burning lungs spewing black smoke into the air. “Just ten more now, love. Know you can take it for me, can't you?”

Pretty thing. He'll have that haughty attitude snuffed out before the end of the night. Have you begging for his touch, his cock, him, before the sun draws across the horizon. 

Your ruination at his hand. The thought strokes along the kindling smouldering inside of his chest. Burning away at the pyre he's been building since the day he met you. When you looked up at him, pretty in your scorn, and disobeyed his command. Undermined him. So righteous in your fury. A burgeoning flame he wanted nothing more than to snuff out under his heel, and now—

Wide, wet eyes plead with him. “Please, Price. Please, please. I'll be good—I promise I'll be good, sir—”

—ash in the palm of his hand. 

He strokes over your searing flesh, humming softly under his breath. “I know you will, pretty girl—” basks in the hiccup of relief you let out, lets it glue in his ears, echoing over and over again. So sweet. 

He lets your relief live for a moment. Take its first breath of air through aching lungs—

“But I told you, didn't I? That I'd take you over my knee.” Price pats his hand over your cheek, shushing you when you startle, squirming on his lap. 

“Now. Be a good girl and count for me, mm?”