#and also some risk assessment. he knows it was not likely to work

[domoz]

Girl help i keep Hikaku posting instead of writing the fics I need to.

In this one, Tobirama takes a gamble:

No good sense has brought them here, just Madara's grief and rage.

Hikaku cant begrudge the man that after what's happened to his brother, but in this moment he wishes it had manifested another way. A battle with the Senju is nothing new, but in all of his perfect memory he can never quite remember things being this chaotic.

Hashirama is tearing up the landscape just to match Madara, who in his fury is trying to break past his usual opponent to go after Tobirama.

Tobirama, who without Izuna there to stop him, is currently beating Hikaku to a pulp.

This guy is on another level, he thinks breathlessly. He'd always known that, in theory. Izuna had been one of the best, after all and Tobirama had always matched him (until he surpassed him).

In practice, the only thing keeping Hikaku alive is the sharigan's ability to predict movements and whatever it is that's stopping the Senju from using whatever technique it was that injured Izuna.

He stopped trying to block the water dragons after the first and has gone from disrupting their paths with boulders to trying to shred them apart with pebbles as he's grown more exhausted. It hardly slows them, but it's kept him from being completely swept away so far, and if that keeps him alive than that's what he'll do.

That's what he's just done (ending up soaked, but still on his feet) when Tobirama pauses, landing on a high branch a decent enough distance away that even Hikaku might have a chance to avoid whatever he throws at him.

From his perch, Tobirama tilts his head, looking over Hikaku with a considering gaze.

"You have excellent chakra control." He says after a moment, "Even better than Izuna's."

Hikaku blinks, but he does not un-tense, remembering Izuna's many rants about how Tobirama liked to play games with his opponents -- to let them think they’ve won, until they haven't.

Hikaku does not think himself anywhere close to winning, but every moment they aren't actively fighting is another moment he hasn't died.

"It's hardly worth comparing us." Hikaku frowns, "And pointless. He still lives."

"For how long? Days? If that." Tobirama purses his lips, a tiny thing that Hikaku would have missed from this distance if his sharingan weren't still activated, "No, I don't think there's much time left at all."

Hikaku has no idea how he knows that, but he isn't wrong. The gut wound he'd left Izuna with has been festering. He wouldn't be surprised to return to the compound to find him dead already. What kind of sick taunt is this?

As he talks, Tobirama starts making hand signs -- a long string of them, and not a jutsu Hikaku recognizes. His breath catches and he readies himself, prepared to run from whatever devastation this is going to bring -- but when he finishes the only result he can see is a pale green glow coating the Senju's palm.

Tobirama raises his hand, touches it to a cut on his cheek where a bit of rubble had caught him. When he draws it away, the wound is gone.

A technique that can heal injuries with chakra. When he realizes what he's just been allowed to see -- what he's just been allowed to copy with his sharingan -- Hikaku nearly staggers under the weight of it.

His next thought is 'I'm going to die'. Because surely, surely, there's no way Tobirama Senju is going to allow him to walk away with the knowledge he's just been given.

There's a piercing two toned whistle, a bright white flare high in the sky. Retreat called, on both sides. And contrary to everything, to all rational thought, Tobirama does not leap forward, does not cut his throat or snap his spine, but turns, gives Hikaku a long glance, and follows the rest of the Senju in their retreat.

It takes Hikaku a long moment to unfreeze. To go regroup with his clan, mind whirling.

It must be a trap, but what use is there to lay one for a man already as good as dead? If this was some ploy to give false hope, then why pick him, when he could just keep what had happened to himself?

His clansmen are all silent as they return from the battlefield, Hikaku most of all.

I don't think there's much time left at all. That's what Tobirama had said. But time for what?

Hikaku is not a fool -- he does not try to use what he's learned on Izuna, or even on himself and the many cuts and bruises he's come home with. When everyone else goes off to see their own hurts treated, to see their loved ones, when Madara goes straight from the battlefield to go sit by his brother, Hikaku slips away from them all.

The main house has a koi pond, and though the landscaping leaves much to be desired after years of Madara and Izuna using it for their sibling rivalries, it still holds fish. Hikaku mentally apologizes to the late Lady Uchiha as he grabs a koi by the tail and yanks it out of the water, but he thinks, if this works, he will be forgiven.

He waits for the fish to stop thrashing before he makes a cut down it's side; nothing too deep, nothing it couldn't survive on it's own. He lets his sharingan spin, calls up the memory of the hand signs, the way Tobirama's chakra had been stripped of its element, how it had condensed thicker than he'd ever seen.

It only takes him a few moments to understand why Tobirama had made a comment on his chakra control. It's difficult -- more than any technique he's ever tried. But… Not impossible.

If he had more time, he thinks he'd be able to get it to work. As it is…

Hikaku is not optimistic. But he will try.

He lets the koi back into the pool as, for the first two hours he focuses only on the chakra -- cleaning it, folding it in on itself over and over and over again. He gets his hands to glow green once before he pulls the koi out of the water again.

There's a delicate balance, he learns. He very nearly overloads the fish's chakra coils before he understands what he's meant to be doing. The information the jutsu gives him is nearly incomprehensible, but there's a feeling to it. The cut feels like metal in the back of his mouth -- and it wants to heal, its already trying to, all he has to do is help it along. To hold his chakra on the bits that make his ears ring (and nowhere else, or the chakra will burn healthy flesh) until they've knitted themselves together again.

He thinks he's starting to get the idea when he released the koi back into the water -- cut gone but side covered in chakra burns. The chakra is giving a place for the scar tissue to form sooner than it should, or something like it. Hikaku shakes his head. It's interesting, but the theory will come later when he's got less important things to think about.

A chill has fallen as the sun has gone down, but Hikaku finds himself wiping his brow from the exertion of it all. If he could, he would rest, would at least find another animal to test on, but… Time.

He's not ready for Izuna quite yet, though. Hikaku goes home, throws together the most nourishing food he can in as short a time as he can manage, and tries to heal himself.

It's easier and harder than the fish; humans being the more complicated animal. Hikaku ends up getting a lot more feedback he has no idea what to do with -- but he can tell when he's coming close to hurting himself, too. That probably won't be true, when he tries this on another person. To avoid that he needs more control, and more than anything else, a hell of a lot more practice.

By midnight, Hikaku has managed to heal a bruise that had been starting to bloom on his thigh. Nothing, compared to the wound Izuna has, but he did it.

He feels dizzy when he tries to stand up, to walk over to the main house. Hikaku curses, but it seems like his body has made up its mind for him. Sleep is the best thing for stamina, after all, and he's not certain how much longer his control will hold out without rest. If he's too late, he still knows he's tried his hardest.

He's asleep nearly as fast as his head touches the futon, for all of four hours before anxiety has him rising right before the sun.

Well, he's a shinobi, he's done more on less. He eats old rice, drinks tea that's hardly had time to steep, and walks across the compound in the pre-dawn twilight to try and perform a miracle.

Madara is awake when he steps inside -- hunched over, face in his hands, looking like he's aged about ten years since Hikaku saw him last. For a heart-stopping moment, Hikaku fears that he was too late after all.

"He asked me to take his eyes." Madara says in lieu of a greeting, voice muffled.

Hikaku grimaces. The mangekyo is as horrifying as it is powerful, but if Izuna is asking that, it means…

He's given up. He's conceded that he's going to die. Hikaku has even less time than he'd thought.

"…Is he awake right now?" Hikaku feels breathless, like he's walking on a wire.

"He was when I left him." Replies Madara, voice rough. For him to have left Izuna's side while his brother was still awake, they must have argued. Probably about the eyes.

Hikaku nods, turns to walk to the room where Izuna's sickbed is without asking any more. He won't explain, not yet, won't give false hope. Explanations can come after, right now he's just got to try.

Izuna doesn't react to his entrance -- he's still breathing, but asleep or unconscious. Just as well, Hikaku thinks wryly, pulling the chair he knows Madara has spent hours in to give him better access to the wound on Izuna's side, He'll be less distracting like this.

He's changed this wound before, and when Hikaku pulls the bandages off its still as ugly as it was the day Izuna got it, the blood clotted and dark. It doesn't smell, at least. Hikaku has no idea how this jutsu handles infections.

One bracing breath is all he allows himself before making the handsigns, pulling the chakra to his hands. It's easier after rest, but harder, for the nerves.

Izuna twitches as Hikaku places his hands over the wound, as the back of his throat fills with the taste of copper. His entire attention focuses down to his hands, to the skin and muscle under them, to threading his chakra back and forth and pulling things back to how they should be.

"H'kaku?" He hears after a while. Izuna's voice, but he doesn't look, even as the man goes tense beneath him. He seems to understand that whatever Hikaku is doing, it needs concentration.

It could only have been minutes, or it could have been days by the time Hikaku's chakra starts to waver. He dismisses the technique, not wanting to undo his work. He hasn't done nearly as much as he'd wanted to but he thinks… He thinks he might have stopped the downward spiral, at least.

"Hikaku." Izuna's voice again. When he looks up, Hikaku's vision goes white with spots. He's sweating with exertion, he realizes, and now that he's dropped the jutsu his hands are shaking so badly he doesn't think he'll be able to form the hand signs again.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder. When his vision finally stops spinning Madara and Izuna are both staring at him with wide eyes.

This is the most lucid he's seen Izuna in over a week.

"Hikaku." Madara is the one who speaks this time, sounding breathless, "What was that?"

 "I think…" Hikaku gasps, "That was Tobirama Senju's way of asking for peace."

#oops! no writing tag #naruto blog for naruto things #hikaku uchiha #tobirama senju #not. tagging the uchiha brothers their roles are too minor. but they ARE here #youve seen tobirama and hashirama heal izuna #now get ready for THIS #i like to think tobirama did some research before he just gave that technique away #and also some risk assessment. he knows it was not likely to work #but he also knows not many people would be able to figure out that technique from just what hikaku saw #ie: even if izuna dies and hikaku spreads the technique around its not likely many people will be able to use it and use it properly #hikaku certainly isn't doing it very efficiently! #but i think tobirama would be impressed that he figured it out from what little bit he saw. and then. heh. you know. #oneshot

[orangerosebush]

In my opinion, Artemis and Angeline have very similar experiences of paranoia as a symptom of

And thus every single family vacation will have a like, medieval war general moment where you can watch them animatedly debate the merits and/or weak points of whatever barricade they've constructed in front of the hotel room door

#I jest but I HC that Artemis' paranoia somewhat genetically comes from his mother's side whereas his issues with dissociation and #reality assessment is more genetically on his father's side of the family #The twins occupy this weird space in the family where they were born after a lot of things exacerbating mental illness in the family were #less present than when Artemis was young due to the Fowl empire #like my personal version of this is watching my aunts' kids grow up in a house where they were diagnosed with autism and adhd really really #young bc their mothers work in early ed. and are really knowledgeable about how to apply that in their home so that they have the support #they need #and let me tell you watching young autistic relatives exist and interact w kids their age who are so much better #about including 'different' peers socially then when I was a kid? that is so fucking surreal #I am very much an 'autistic Artemis truther' and I know Fox has some posts about Tim being autistic too during an era of the Fowls where it #wouldn't have even been 'masking' to borrow a contemporary term so much as just learning Not to Act Fucking Weird ever and performing this #whenever there is someone else present #but to return to the point of this post Artemis and Angeline will see a 5-star resort with insane security and go 'what I'm hearing is that #when the sun sets we will be in the Purge' #Artemis' form of paranoia is fascinating because he experiences it in the 'struggles trusting people and can spiral and believe people are #out to get him and harm him when that is not realistically assessing a situation' but also has horrible risk assessment which is so realist #realistic lmao

[makoodles]

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

🍓 pairing: captain john price x fem reader

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

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

masterlist

reblogs are always enormously appreciated!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That should be it.

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

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

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

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

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, naturally, updating their photographs for their files.

You start easy. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have tougher targets to tackle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kid–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kid, just hang on a damn minute–”

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

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

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

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

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

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm.” You grunt noncommittally.

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

“No!” You blurt.

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

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

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

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

“Yes, ma’am.” 

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

“Good. I’ll speak to you then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well. Okay, then. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” You squeak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“D’you’ve a moment, love?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh god. You feel your mouth go dry. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Price swallows, the sound painfully loud in the silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuckin’ Christ–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sharp as ever, darling.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.” You mumble. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#PLEASE don't look at me right now i will be taking NO questions on my state of mind #captain john price #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #price x reader #john price smut #cod smut #cod fic #141 x reader #daddy issues price

[sunderwight]

SV Malevolent AU where, due to a system error (Shen Jiu not actually dying from the qi deviation? Mu Qingfang being present and resuscitating him in time maybe?) Shen Yuan ends up only half-possessing SJ by gaining control of his eyes.

SJ, of course, fully believes that he's been possessed by a demon and wants to evict the creature in question as soon as possible. However, he's still a paranoid bastard before anything else, so his first attempt is to just quietly do it himself after chasing Yue Qingyuan and anyone else away from his house. He doesn't want either a reputation for being weak and susceptible to possession, or one for having ties to demonic influence. There's enough grime on his reputation and the ONE thing he has confidently never been at risk of adding to it was consorting with demons, and he'd like to keep it that way.

Except, of course, Shen Yuan's not a demonic spirit, so none of the efforts to "evict" him actually work. Much to Shen Yuan's relief. A blind cultivator is still plenty formidable, but after a few days of deadlock over the issue, and with Shen Yuan fully in control of Shen Jiu's eyesight but otherwise unable to do much, Shen Yuan negotiates with the system (which SJ cannot perceive at all) to be able to tell Shen Jiu some things. Enough to get him to do something other than crack and run out of his house to let the other peak lords try their hands at ousting SY.

He tells Shen Jiu that he's not a demon (not for the first time, not that SJ believed him) but that he IS a spirit from another realm, and that he got turned around somehow on his way to try and warn this world about an impending catastrophe. SJ is naturally still suspicious, but after SY provides him with enough tidbits of information to verify that he's not completely lying, he decides to at least entertain the idea that SY isn't a demon and that a more nuanced approach is called for (also this route is appealing for him because it means he can still avoid telling anyone else that there's anything wrong with him).

Thus, uneasily, the two Shens reach a truce. Shen Yuan offers to help SJ navigate the world by describing things to him (within the privacy of their now-shared mind, of course), and SJ just sort of gives up on destroying him. For now.

Shen Yuan also, of course, tries to stop SJ from abusing Luo Binghe. Both because he would do that regardless, but also because he's now co-piloting SJ's body, which means he has a vested interest in making sure it retains all of its limbs. This has varying degrees of success.

But mainly I think this would be hilarious because Shen Jiu would essentially be held hostage to Shen Yuan's descriptions of things. Flowery, detailed and fascinated descriptions of monsters (at least these are useful because SY also has encyclopedic knowledge of their weak points). Largely vibes-based descriptions of scenery and women. Glowing assessments of Luo Binghe. Constantly bringing up Liu Qingge's beauty. Shen Jiu doesn't need his own shidi described! He knows what the asshole looks like! Go possess his body instead if you like it so much! (SJ was maybe kind of hoping that would happen when the spirit did something during the debacle in Lingxi Caves -- but no, SY just saved Liu Qingge's life, like some kind of not-evil creature. Infuriating!)

#svsss #scum villain's self saving system #scum villain #shen qingqiu #shen jiu #shen yuan

[evilminji]

Back at it again with the BNHA crossover Ponderings!

Nedzu is LITERALLY one of THE smartest beings on the planet, right? Like... he's probably on some internationally recognized list of Top Planetary IQs? Which is why Japan let's him get away with so much?

Cause they REALLY fucked him over, he has the power to leave, and that would be really, REALLY bad Brain Drain wise/politically for the Japanese Government? (Also pls don't become a Supervillian we literally can not afford that, Mr. Nedzu Sir? Etc etc)

You think he has... like? Chats? With the OTHER top intellects? Some kid in Siberia with the New Super Intelligence Quirk his parents can't begin to even handle, gets put in history's WEIRDEST group chat? I like to think so.

But the REASON I ask this?

What hero do you call? For Weird Shit in international waters?

Suspicious, floating, weirdly two dimensional and HIGHLY radioactive... corrosive... green goop? Rings? Orbs? CAN it be an orb if it's two dimensional? It certainly LOOKS like there is depth to it... somehow...

A THING. In the sky.

Shouldn't be there, man. This is a shipping lane. It's scaring the people on passing ships. No one knows what Quirk could have made this. Might be a trafficking victim's call for help. Might be a first Quirk Use mishap. They need to know what it IS and how to get rid of it.

They go the normal routes first. Doesn't work. Okay, call in some professionals. Kinda pricey, but no big. Right? Doesn't work. Okaaaay, call in a SPECIALIST. REAL pricey, but this thing is holding up international trade, making people in fancy ass suit all Nervous(TM).

Doesn't Work.

Specialist tells um to not to bother with calling anyone else on their normal list. Is looking at the green goo like it spat on his mother and called his dog a whore. They would prefer he NOT make that facial expression. That is a facial expression that will get them yelled at by their bosses. Fuck(TM).

Now Politics(TM) are involved. People want to STUDY the green goo. Harness it for dubious and unknown green goo experiments. Poke it with their Quirk to see what'll happen. There's fuckin REPORTER with no concept of self-preservation, trying to get CLOSER to the RADIOACTIVE POISON GOO.

Fuckin Heros have shown up.

Why are you bastards even HERE. What? Are you peacocks gonna PUNCH it? Get off their rig! Stop posing in front of the GOO!

Then? Oh thank GOD. The SMART people show up. Certified, highest grade, triple refined, PREMIUM Nerds(TM). The WAY above our pay grade folks. We're SAVED! Can we PLEASE go home now? We are just ocean cleaners! Our job is debris! Not weird GOO!

Enter, stage Super Cool Helicopters? The Elite Nerds of Earth. Of which Nedzu is one. Since Japan is closest. And it's a school weekend! He had some time.

And?

Ha ha... Thanks, he hates it! Nedzu's stoat brain is SCREAMING and he wants NOTHING to do with...? What he is somehow CERTAIN is a floating pit of Death! Interesting effect. Anyone getting that or just him?

Then? Some hot head on loan to Korea from the states? Spots something. SomeONE. And does he TELL the newly arrived professionals? So they may do a risk assessment? Figure out a way to rescue this individual SAFELY? Of course not!

Said hot head has supposedly indescribable chains! So he just flings them rights on in! Grabbing the boy from the center of the portal, pulling him free, and in the process? Immediately destabilizing it. Causing it to collapse down towards everyone bellow.

He also then proceeds to DROP the young lad, in his alarm at this entirely predictable outcome.

Right. Into. The Ocean.

A boy, who is dressed in filthy medical scrubs, haunting familiar in a way nothing should EVER be again, and entirely unconscious. Plunge down into the briny deeps and bitter cold. Alone. Abandoned. Death, thick and viscous, losing form and raining down like bile.

Everyone saving themselves.

Ah, he rather liked this suit.

The salt water ruins it. The droplets of Green, burn like molten glass each time they touch him. He will likely have at least a few new scars, after today. Assuming this is not the end of him. But he swims fast. The boy sinking slower then his size would suggest he should. He grabs hold and arcs, dragging them both from beneath the fallout of yet another humans hubris.

He does not stop swimming. Not until he knows he is near the helicopter. He is thankful, that he dragged Aizawa along. The man takes one look at his serious expression, the state of his rescued young friend, and merely hauls them both out of the water and into the machine.

Time to go.

They saw nothing, it seems. And there is nothing to be found.

The boy does not wake. Not for quite a while. Long enough, that Nedzu, perhaps unwisely, has grown attached. Is considering adoption. If only too terrorize a few goverment bodies. And... well... the boy will need some who UNDERSTANDS. And the scars paint a very specific sort of tale. But first, the most important question, when beginning these things...

"Tea? Or would you prefer coffee?"

@the-witchhunter @mutable-manifestation @hypewinter @hdgnj

#minji's ponderings #bnhaxdp #dp x bnha #principal nedzu

[luveline]

Jade!!! I’m so in awe of how you write Steve, like you capture his character so well! I was thinking about if the reader had also been dragged into the mess that is saving Hawkins and, as a result, has also unofficially been anointed a baby sitter - Steve would be all heart eyes seeing how well you get on with the kids and just how much you care for them (and how much they care for you)

thank you! Steve and you having a quiet moment between all the hubbub and just loving each other and being proud of each other for how you take care of the kids (word count: 1k) fluff and softie steve 🥺 ST4 EP 4 SPOILERS AHEAD

You try not to be too obvious about what you're doing as you stare across the room at Steve. He's sitting with his back pressed against the chair Dustin's currently slumped in, eyes blinking slowly as he attempts to stay awake. 

You're opposite on the sofa between Max and Lucas, Max finally asleep. Her face is pressed into your arm. She might be drooling. You decide that this is more than allowed considering what she's just been though. 

Lucas is still awake. Still worried. 

"I don't know…" he confesses quietly, almost too quiet to hear despite the room's silence, "what I would have done. If something happened." 

If Vecna got her, he doesn't say. 

You brush your knuckles against the back of Max's hand as you twist, giving him what you hope is a soft, reassuring smile. 

"Nothing happened, and nothing is gonna happen. We're gonna work this out. She's safe, Lucas. I promise," you whisper, putting on an exasperated tone. You're not sure how truthful you're being but you believe vehemently that everyone's gonna be okay. You have to.

You don't know him very well, any of them, only through Steve. They love Steve and seem to like you, and despite a big risk of going too far and overstepping, you really want to reassure Lucas.

These kids are so young, they don't realise how young they are. Growing up is traumatic enough without the constant threat of an evil power, and it shows on all their tired faces that they're stressed beyond words. 

Lucas sighs and crosses his arms over his chest, reminding you of Steve. You look to him, find your brown eyed boy watching you with an earnest, fond smile stretched over his lips. 

"Steve and I," you say, a little firmer, "we won't let anything happen to Max… or to you." 

"I'm a great fucking babysitter," Steve agrees, voice rough with fatigue. "And so is Y/N. That's double the protection, Sinclair." 

"Exactly. We've got a basement full of dorks who, including yourself, are smart and brave enough to get through this." 

Lucas starts to get that look on his face despite his overall maturity that you recognise as embarrassment; too much heart to heart for a teenage boy right now. You dial it down. 

"And to do that you need to sleep. Get some rest, gather your strength. The campaign isn't over," you say. Both Steve and Lucas snort at your cheesy joke. 

Lucas settles down and eventually falls asleep after you make a big show of not feeling tired. "I got it," you whisper. "I'll be on Max watch." 

Now, with all the babies asleep including the academics who basically saved the day, it's only you and Steve. 

"Are you okay?" you whisper. 

"Baby, I should be asking you that. I've been through this whole shtick three times already."

"Don't you think that's worse?" You can't imagine how scared he is. 

Steve straightens up with an awful groan and sets a dead stare at you that withers your bravery almost too fast. "I'm fine. I am," you say, words riddled with a scratching weakness, like your voice might break. "I'm okay." 

Steve gets up. You lift your head as he walks towards you, careful not to make too much noise. His hands are soft and very, very careful as he bends at the waist and takes your face into them, like he's assessing you.

His thumbs aligned at your jaw and his fingers cupping the underside, Steve dips his head towards his chin. "It's okay if you're scared. This is ridiculously terrifying," he says seriously. Then, less so. "Not that I'm scared. Shit's getting kind of old for me, if you know what I mean," he says, rolling his eyes. 

You laugh and shake your head, eyes closing. "Don't make me laugh, I don't want to wake up the kids," you whisper. 

His bravado softens. "You're good with them," he says, hands smoothing down the column of your throat, over your shoulders and up again, massaging you with a light pressure. "Really good." 

"I'm just following your lead," you murmur. 

He smirks. "Yeah," he says, leaning in, the heat of his lips fanning over your own, "I must set a good example, 'cos you're amazing." 

He kisses you, a soft, chaste peck that eases some of the tension you're holding, his smile pressed to yours. 

His fingers flex around your neck. 

"Are you really okay?" he asks as he pulls away.

You don't have to think about it.

"I'm good, Steve." 

"Yeah, you are." 

He leans down to give you a hug, an awkward struggle because of your position and the bodies you're acting as a pillow for. You can only use one arm when you hug him back, the other sandwiched under Max's shoulders, but it's a pretty good hug, all things considered. 

"You wanna sleep in my lap?" you joke into his neck. 

"Don't tempt me. I miss you," he says. Your arm tightens where you're wrapped behind his neck, crushing his perfect hair. 

"I miss you too." 

And you do. Taking care of the kids, trying to stop whatever it is that's happening from happening, you'd never not try your hardest but you can't wait for this to be over. To fall asleep next to Steve, and to not worry that it'll be the last time you see him when you close your eyes. 

You're on Max watch, but you're on Steve watch too. 

Steve pats your face gently, just once, and goes back to play guard dog at Dustin's side, though he lies on his back.

Max mumbles something in her sleep. You turn to her, your heart racing at the idea that she's having a Vecna related nightmare. You're tentative as you rub her jacketed arm, hoping to soothe her through it. 

"Poor kids," you murmur. 

"They have you and me," Steve says quietly. "They're gonna be fine." 

"Go to sleep, Harrington," you say, not bothering to turn to him. 

"They're gonna be fine," he repeats, sounding both amused and affectionate at your worrying. 

"I know. Now go to sleep, idiot." 

"Wake me up when you're tired." 

"Yeah, whatever you want."

"Wake me up when you're-" he starts again, in a tone usually reserved for the kids when they aren't listening.

"Alright, Steve. I will," you say, laughing under your breath. "Control freak." 

"What did you say?" 

"Nothing." 

"Yeah. S'what I thought." His scathing tone is dampened by the sleepiness. Your chest fills with warm affection.

#stranger things 4 spoilers #stranger things spoilers #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things 4 #stranger things #spoilers stranger things #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve and max my beloveds #steve x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x gn!reader #steve harrington x reader fluff #steve harrington x reader fanfic #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington drabble

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Ayo can we get a hot ass "keep my wife's name out your goddamn mouth" Kathy x John

Kathy does routine physical exams obviously and in the showers Price overhears some locker room talking about his wife, how they'd like those hands to go further, like how she bosses them around etc.

Cue him rounding the corner to give them a solid punch and "Don't you dare utter my wife's name again"

Up to you if she rewards him ☺️

yes you fucking can!!!!

That's My Wife!

pairing: F!OC: Kathleen "Brass" Moore x John Price words: 1.5K~ cw: jealousy, protectiveness, arguments, violence, injuries (mentioned), misogyny, sexually-charged comments, "locker room talk", smutless smut.

The worst time of the year for the army medical staff at Tidworth is September. Oh, how the nurses and doctors hate the month of September during which, for two weeks straight, they see nothing but soldier after soldier for health checks and physical exams to confirm that they’re fit for service.

It’s, unfortunately, repetitive, mind-numbing and time-consuming. It’s also, unfortunately, a whole hands on deck situation. So, everyone who’s not actively doing something else, gets called in to help process the soldiers.

That’s how Kathleen ends up, every year, in the clinic, helping physicians assess the soldiers. Her jobs tend to be easy. More of the same that she tends to already do: measuring heights and weights, calculating their BMI and body fat percentages, using the stethoscope to listen to their heartbeat and breathing, manning the blood pressure gauge…

And, of course, the most interesting stuff. Conducting stress tests and having to strap all sorts of machines and sensors to the soldiers and monitor how they perform as they run on a treadmill, as well as doing physical checks on old injuries, scars…

In short, she spends a long time in front of shirtless men… and even longer touching their chests, arms, backs, and sometimes their legs, to check for injuries, which often ends with her crouching or kneeling at their feet.

And, of course, the stupid soldiers can’t keep their mouths shut. More often than not they make a few remarks about taking her out later, about coming to see her more often, of being lucky they get her for their checks…

It’s a nightmare. Kathleen hates it. In fact, she wishes she wasn’t tasked with that every year… But the choice is her or risking one of the pretty new interns having to do it, girls who haven’t yet developed the thick skin she has, and would likely giggle and get flustered at the lads behaviour… instead of calling them out on it or just downright ignoring them.

September, as it turns out, is also a nightmare for John. But he only figured that out today.

After his Bravo team finished training for the morning, John allowed them to hit the showers and he stayed behind to finish some work and talk with Soap.

As they enter the locker room, the rest of Bravo team is already in the communal showers, talking loudly amidst themselves and laughing, their voices echoing amidst the spraying of the showers over them.

John pops open his locker and starts shedding his workout kit, tossing it into his bag on the shelf. Soap isn’t far from him, a few lockers up, in the adjacent wall, his locker door having his name ‘MACTAVISH’ inside the clear plastic name tag holder, with a post-it naming him ‘F.N.G’ scotch taped below it.

John doesn’t need to pay much attention to know they’re talking about women, especially, the nurses from the nearby Tidworth base. All of them had gone through their check-ups in the last couple of days and, as is typical, they couldn’t keep their traps shut about the pretty women with soft hands doting all over them.

“Oh, mine bent over and pushed those tits of hers right up to my knee.” One of them said.

“Lucky bastard. I got a bloke.” Another replied.

Oh, how many times John had told them to be quiet and keep those sorts of talks to themselves when they were at the barracks, and not in public… But did those knobheads listen? No, never.

John grabbed his towel and 2-in-1 shampoo and bodywash and headed into the showers, taking up one of the vacant spots and drawing the curtain after hanging the curtain just outside his stall.

“I swear she was giving me the look… Definitely wants a piece of me.”

“No bird would want a piece of yer ugly mug.”

The lads continued talking as he let the water run over his body and began quickly lathering himself up with his 2-in-1, washing his hair and face aggressively before running his head under the falling shower water.

“I’m not devout, but this new batch’a nurses they got this year makes me a believer.”

“That’s right, brother.”

One-by-one they started vacating their stalls, still chatting loudly about their check-ups and the young women that treated them, lounging about the locker room and making each other laugh.

“But that arse of hers… I just know she’d bounce so well on my cock-”

“Oh that’s nothing. You didn’t see her last year before they changed the colour of the scrubs… That blue colour just… mmmmm…”

John finishes his shower not long after, wrapping his grey towel around his hip and tying it up to stay still. Then, he collects his 2-in-1 bottle from its perch atop the metal piping of the shower and starts making his way back.

That’s when he hears it:

“It’s no wonder the Captain’s peacockin’ himself around like that… I mean have you seen the size of her tits?”

John’s blood runs cold. They wouldn’t fucking dare. They wouldn’t talk about Kathleen. 

No. 

Not they. 

Him.

Sergeant Ellis Evans. 

One he’s always had problems reining in.

“Captain’s lucky is all I’ll say… Body like hers… Hell, even I’d forgive that bloody attitude of hers.”

The others laughed as Evans continued.

“I mean, I’m sure Kathleen’s mouth’s good for more than just talking… Gotta be good on her knees.. They call her ‘Brass’ for a reason, right? Bet she leaves ‘em with a nice polish and shine once she’s done.” 

That did it.

John rounded the corner into the locker room and, abruptly, the room fell into silence, breaths hitching and the temperature dropping into an uncomfortable ice.

But John didn’t stop walking at the doorway… In fact, he beelined right for Evans.

“Captain, I-” Evans immediately tried backtracking. “We were just joking, we were just-”

“Keep my wife’s name out your bloody mouth.” John grits at him through clenched teeth before he throws a right cross to Evans’ face.

-

It’s just past 7P.M. when Kathleen comes in through the front door. John has made dinner for them and little Charlotte is already asleep in her crib by the time she does.

She sets her bag down in the entrance, takes off her shoes, and pads over to the kitchen in search of John.

“Hi…” She greets him softly as she approaches the table, causing him to swivel on his chair to greet her, wrapping his arms around her waist. 

She presses a kiss to his mouth, which he returns. “Hi, Da’lin’.” He murmurs to her once they separate.

“Is she down?” She asks in a soft tone as she looks at him.

“Mhm… Full belly and empty diaper.” He tells her, which makes her smile softly, seeming relieved.

Kathleen feels exhausted, as usual, still not used to the work-life balance that comes from having a 4-month-old baby who doesn’t like to sleep + and a physically demanding job that runs on a 12-hour-shift schedule. 

John swivels back to his previous position, nursing a glass of whiskey with his left hand, the right one resting on the table, the knuckles covered by a blue gel ice pack.

“So that’s what happened...” Kathleen muses as she glances at his iced hand, before backing away to grab herself a plate of food from the cupboard.

“What is?” John murmurs as he glances at her, watching her serve herself of some frozen lasagna and salad.

“One of your lads ended up in my emergency room after some ‘roughhousing gone wrong in the locker room’... I was musing about what he did all afternoon.” She quips as she pads over to the table again again.

“Hm.” John mutters quietly, seemingly a mix of embarassed and annoyed at that fact.

“So what did he do?” She asks as she takes a seat on his lap, perched on his lap, as she pops a cherry tomato in her mouth.

“Talked about you.” John murmurs, wrapping his free arm around her waist. “Only I get to say debauching things about My Wife.” He grumbles as he looks up into her eyes.

Kathleen rolls her eyes at him and shakes her head, but she can’t help the smirk that takes over her rudy lips as he calls her ‘his wife’. “My, Mr. Price, defending my honour, huh?” She jokes as she pops a bit of lettuce in her mouth.

“Defending my honour… and yours by proxy. Just an unforeseen consequence of it.” He tells her, trying to act nonchalant about the fact he broke a man’s nose, eyesocket and three of his ribs, for demeaning his wife.

“Right… Of course… How stupid of me…” Kathleen teases as she leans toward him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, which makes his blue eyes close, a smile taking over his features. 

“As opposed to… what exactly? There isn’t much up there other than thoughts of my cock, da’lin’.” John remarks, causing her to roll her eyes, annoyed, and flick his head away from her by pushing his cheek, annoyed.

“I can very well just stop thinking about it all together… And I’m sure you wouldn’t want that when I was just about to reward you for defending me…” Kathleen teases as she pops another cherry tomato in her mouth, eyes locked on John and the way his pupils dilated, his cock already stirring awake in his joggers against her ass in her green scrubs.

#ikea writes 💚 #tw violence #tw misogyny #tw injury #cod x reader #cod fanfic #masterlist #call of duty #cod fandom #cod oc #oc: kathleen “brass” price #price x kathleen #john price x oc

[pitinthelanepages]

against the odds

summary: after a tragic accident, ollie struggles to regain his confidence and ability to run. with the help of you, he sets out on a grueling journey of physical and emotional recovery.

pairing: ollie bearman x reader

word count: 4.2k

genre: warning! graphic description of injury, angst but good ending!

a/n: please note that the following content is entirely fictional and should be viewed as just another story for your entertainment. it is not intended to romanticize any situations or actions portrayed within. however, it is written with the understanding of the risks that drivers take in the pursuit of racing. please read with caution and do not attempt to replicate any dangerous behaviours depicted.

(feedbacks and reblogs are highly appreciated as i have worked really hard on this oneshot and want to know your opinion on this)

As a doctor at the track's medical centre, you had seen injuries and accidents, but nothing could have prepared you for the sight that greeted you when Ollie Bearman was rushed in after a serious crash. 

Ollie is a talented Formula 2 driver, with a promising career ahead of him. He had always been passionate about racing, ever since he was a young boy tinkering with go-karts in his backyard. He was always pushing himself to be better and was never afraid to take risks on the track.

However, this Ollie was barely conscious, face swollen and bruised, with cuts on his forehead and a split lip. His arms were badly bruised and one of them appeared to be broken. His chest and ribs were also bruised and tender to the touch, making it difficult for him to breathe properly. Your stomach plummeted with dread as you took in the extent of his injuries. You knew that you and your colleagues would have to work quickly if you were going to save his life.

After arriving at the hospital, Ollie was immediately taken into the operating room. As the doctor, you scrubbed in and joined the surgical team, ready to do whatever was necessary to save his life.

The operating room was a flurry of activity as the doctors and nurses worked to stabilise Ollie. The beeping of the monitors and the sound of medical equipment filled the air as the team worked to repair the damage.

You focused on Ollie's injuries, assessing the damage and deciding on the best course of action. His injuries were extensive, and the surgery was long and complicated. The team worked together seamlessly, each person playing their part to save Ollie's life.

Your mind raced as you worked, your training and expertise kicking in. You couldn't afford to let your emotions get in the way, but you couldn't help feeling a deep sense of concern for Ollie. He was so young, and had so much potential ahead of him.

After several hours, the surgery was complete. The team emerged from the operating room, exhausted but relieved. The surgery went successfully.

You knew that his recovery would be a long and difficult road, but you were determined to be there for him every step of the way. You would do whatever it took to help him get back to racing again, and to make sure that he never had to experience a crash like this again.

You stayed with Ollie for the rest of the night, monitoring his condition and administering medications as needed. As you watched him sleep, you couldn't help but feel a sense of hope. Ollie was a fighter, and you knew that he would make it through this.

DAY 2

The next day, you were still reeling from the previous night's events, and made your way to Ollie's hospital room. You held a bouquet of blue hydrangeas, a flower that symbolises perseverance and renewal, and hoped it would bring some comfort to the unconscious driver.

As you entered the room, you were relieved to see that Ollie was still breathing steadily, hooked up to various monitors and machines. You checked his vital signs and began to assess his injuries, carefully examining his broken arm and fractured ribs.

"Hey there, Ollie," you spoke softly, knowing he most probably wouldn't be able to hear you. "You had us all pretty worried yesterday, but you're in good hands now. We're going to make sure you recover fully."

You adjusted the IV drip and jotted down some notes on Ollie's chart, your eyes flickering to the bouquet in your hand. You decided it was time to introduce some positivity into the room and placed the flowers on the bedside table.

"These are for you," you said, smiling gently. "Hydrangeas. They symbolise perseverance and renewal. I thought they might bring some positivity to the room."

You stood there for a moment, just watching him, wondering what was going on in his mind. It was a strange but powerful feeling to care so deeply about someone you had only just met, but there was something about Ollie that pulled you in. A driver so young, he had his whole life ahead, his ultimate goal yet to be reached.

"I hope you wake up soon," you said softly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. "There are a lot of people who care about you, Ollie. You're not alone in this."

With a final glance at the unconscious driver, you made your way out of the hospital room, hoping that Ollie would feel your positive energy and that he would wake up soon.

DAY 3

You walked into Ollie's hospital room, carrying a fresh bouquet of white lilies. It was the third day since the accident, and Ollie was still unconscious, but you were determined to keep talking to him, hoping that somehow he would hear your voice.

"Good morning, Ollie," you whispered, placing the flowers on the bedside table. "I hope you're feeling a little bit better today."

You began to assess his vital signs, checking his heart rate and blood pressure. As you worked, you spoke to him, telling him about the progress he was making, the tests you were running, and the plans you had for his recovery.

"I brought you these lilies," you said, gesturing to the flowers. "This time, it symbolises purity, quite fitting for your recovery, isn’t it?"

You paused for a moment, studying Ollie's face. He looked peaceful, but you knew that his injuries were severe, and his road to recovery wouldn’t be easy.

"But don't worry, Ollie," you said, reaching out to touch his hand. "You're a fighter, and I am here with you. I know it would probably sound unsettling to you that a stranger is speaking like this to you even though you probably can't hear me, I feel like I need to talk to you…" your face contorts into a sheepish smile, “I am waiting for you to wake up so I can assure you that I am no creep.”

As you finished checking up on him for the day, you sat down next to Ollie's bed, taking his hand in yours. “Let me tell you a bit about myself today. I don’t think it’s fair to completely leave you in the dark. I am YN, your head doctor.”

Your eyes trailed from his hand in your palms to his face, looking ever so calm, “Did you know that I have initially wanted to be a racing driver just like you? You wouldn’t believe it when I tell you about how I won a karting championship when I was 10-” you continued talking about your experiences on the track.

After a few minutes, you stood up, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "I'll be back tomorrow, Ollie," you said. "Rest up, and keep fighting."

DAY 4

The fourth day since Ollie's crash, you entered his hospital room, holding a fresh bouquet of flowers in one hand and a clipboard in the other. You checked the usual, there wasn’t much improvement. Ollie remained unconscious, and you couldn't help but feel a pang of worry.

"It’s me again, Ollie," you sighed, taking a seat by his bedside. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound tired. Today I brought you Angel's Trumpets. They're supposed to represent healing and transformation."

You placed the flowers by the window, adjusting their position so that they caught the light just right. Then you turned your attention back to Ollie and readjusted his pillows, making sure his head was properly supported.

"You know, I've been thinking a lot about why I became a doctor," you began, more to yourself than to Ollie. "It's not just about fixing broken bones or treating illnesses. It's about making a connection with people, helping them through difficult times. And that's what I'm here to do for you, Ollie. To help you get through this and come out stronger on the other side."

You turned to look at the flowers resting by the window, a pool of sadness gnawing on your chest as you continued. “Did I tell you why I brought these flowers, yet? I mean, sure I did tell you they hold special meaning but looking at these flowers, I couldn't help but think that they hold some sort of magic. I feel like it’s not just me, the team, your friends, fans and family who are rooting for you but also these flowers that look after you, you know?" a sad smile takes over your features. 

“Wait, I sound crazy, don’t I?” you said, before getting reminded of the fact that you had yet to have lunch. “Would you mind if I have my lunch today here, Ollie?”

Without waiting for a response, you took out your lunchbox and set it on the bedside table. “For today, I’m having oven heated pasta.” You began to eat, occasionally glancing at Ollie's still form. “Mhm, it smells weird but you know what? I don’t care. I have been having a hard time cooking these days so I am having these store bought ones. I don’t know what happened to my patience. I cannot handle having to stand in front of the stove for over 20 minutes but I can certainly stand in an operating room, doing surgery for god knows how many hours one takes depending on the injury.”

As you sat there, finishing up your lunch and talking to Ollie, you noticed that the sky outside had started to darken. A few drops of rain splattered against the window, and before you knew it, a downpour had started.

The sound of the rain hitting the window was soothing, and you found yourself getting lost in thought. You wondered if Ollie could hear the rain, if it would have any effect on his state of mind.

The rain continued to pour down, and you watched as the drops ran down the window in rivulets. You felt a sense of calm settle over you, as if the rain had washed away all of your worries and fears.

As the rain gradually started to subside, you turned your attention back to Ollie. "It's raining outside, Ollie," you said softly. "It's one of those rainstorms that makes everything feel fresh and new. There are many people who don’t like rain but me? I personally love it when it rains. It’s so beautiful outside right now. I wish you could witness it."

You picked up one of the flowers that was resting by the window before slightly opening it and held it up outside, letting the raindrops fall onto the petals. "See how the rain is nourishing this flower, making it stronger and more resilient? That's what I want for you, Ollie. I want you to be strong and resilient, to come back to us even stronger than before."

The rain continued to fall outside, but you felt a sense of hope growing inside you. You knew that Ollie had a long road ahead of him, but you were determined to help him through it, no matter what it took.

With that, you rose from your seat and made your way to the door. You turned back for one last look at Ollie, sending a silent prayer his way before stepping out into the hallway.

DAY 5

Ollie's eyes flickered open, the sterile white of the hospital room blinding him momentarily. The last thing he remembered was the screeching of tires and the sickening crunch of metal as his car collided with another on the track. He tried to move, but his body felt heavy and unresponsive. Panic rose in his chest as he realised that something was very wrong.

But then he heard a voice, soft and comforting, that seemed to be coming from beside him. He turned his head as much as he could, and saw a girl, a bit older than him, clad in a white coat standing there, looking at him with widened eyes.

“Oh my god!” You gasped, hands over your mouth before forcing yourself to close it. “I- I am so sorry. This is so unprofessional of me… b-but… you’re awake?”

Ollie blinked, trying to focus on your words. He didn't remember you, but something about your voice was familiar. Then it clicked - he had been hearing your voice in his dreams. You had been talking to him all this time, even though he couldn't respond.

He tried to speak, but his throat was dry and scratchy. You noticed and poured a glass of water, holding it to his lips so he could take a few sips.

"Thank you," he managed to whisper, his voice weak.

“No problem! I’m your doctor, YN," you said reassuringly. "I've been monitoring your progress since you were brought in after the crash. You had a severe concussion and multiple fractures. You've been in a coma for the past few days."

As you spoke, Ollie felt a wave of relief wash over him. He had been terrified that he might never wake up again, but now that he was conscious, he felt hopeful that he might make a full recovery.

He looked at you again, taking in the kindness in your eyes, and felt a rush of gratitude towards you. You had been taking care of him even though he was unconscious, and he couldn't thank you enough for it.

"Thank you," he repeated, his voice still hoarse.

"You don't need to thank me," you replied with a small smile. "It's my job. But I'm glad to see you're doing better."

You walked into Ollie's hospital room, finding him sitting up in bed and looking a bit down. "Hey there," you greeted him with a warm smile. "How are you feeling today?"

Ollie shrugged. "Better, I guess. Just a bit frustrated that I can't be out on the track right now."

"I can imagine," you said sympathetically. "Motorsports must be a big part of your life, huh?"

"Yeah, it's everything to me," Ollie replied, his eyes lighting up. "The speed, the adrenaline, the competition...there's nothing like it."

You nodded, leaning against the wall next to his bed. "I can see why it's such a passion for you. It takes a lot of dedication and skill to race at the level you do."

Ollie smiled. "Thanks. It's definitely not easy, but I wouldn't have it any other way."

"I used to race go-karts when I was a kid," you admitted, recalling your own memories of the track. "It's not quite the same as what you do, but I understand the excitement and the rush you get from it."

"Really?" Ollie asked, genuinely interested. "That's so cool. What was it like?"

"It was intense," you said with a laugh. "But also a lot of fun. It's been years since I've been behind the wheel of a go-kart, though. I'm a bit out of practice."

"I'm sure you still have it in you," Ollie said, grinning. "Maybe we can go to a go-kart track together when I'm all healed up."

You chuckled. "I think I'd like that. It'd be nice to get back on the track again, even if it's just for fun."

As you both continued to chat about your love of motorsports, you couldn't help but feel a connection growing between you two. Ollie's passion for racing was infectious, and you found yourself admiring his determination and drive. In turn, Ollie appreciated your genuine interest in his sport and your willingness to share your own experiences with him.

By the end of the conversation, both of you felt a little more uplifted and connected than before. As you left the room, Ollie couldn't help but feel grateful for your presence and the unexpected bond he had formed with you.

Ollie was relieved to finally hear the news that he had been waiting for. He had been in the hospital for what felt like an eternity, and he was eager to get back on the track. The doctor had just cleared him to leave, but with one condition - he needed to undergo rehabilitation before he could race again.

The thought of rehabilitation had never been a pleasant one for Ollie. He had always been someone who wanted to push through the pain and get back to racing as soon as possible. But he knew that this time, he had to follow the orders.

As he was packing his bags to leave the hospital, he heard a knock on the door. It was you, the doctor who had been in charge of his care since he had been admitted. "Hey, Ollie," you said with a smile. "I heard you're being discharged today. I wanted to come say goodbye."

Ollie was surprised by your visit, but grateful for it. "Thanks, doc," he said. "I really appreciate all that you've done for me."

You smiled. "Of course, Ollie. It's my job. But before you leave, I wanted to talk to you about your rehabilitation."

Ollie sighed. "Yeah, I know. I'm not looking forward to it."

"I know it's not easy," you said. "But it's important if you want to get back to racing at your full potential. I can help you with exercises and physical therapy sessions if you'd like. And if you need someone to talk to during the process, I'm here for you."

Ollie was taken aback by your offer. He had never met a doctor who was so invested in his well-being outside of the hospital. "Thank you, doc," he said. "That means a lot to me. I'll take you up on your offer."

Ollie had been feeling increasingly frustrated with his slow progress in his recovery. Despite being cleared to leave the hospital, he still had a long road ahead of him with rehabilitation. The first few days after his release were particularly difficult, as he struggled with the limitations of his body and the pain that came with trying to regain strength.

But you were true to your words as you had been a constant presence throughout his recovery journey. You visited him daily and worked with him on his exercises, patiently encouraging him and pushing him to do just a little bit more each day.

Today, you were working on his leg strength. Ollie lay on his back on the mat, his legs propped up on an exercise ball as you stood beside him, holding his ankles steady.

"Okay, Ollie, we're going to start with some leg raises," you said, your voice calm and measured. "Just lift your left leg up towards the ceiling, and then slowly lower it back down. We'll do ten reps on each side."

Ollie gritted his teeth as he lifted his left leg, his muscles protesting at the effort. But he focused on the task at hand, determined to push himself as hard as he could. With each rep, the burn in his muscles grew stronger, but he could feel the satisfaction of his progress as well.

As you gave him instructions for the next exercise, Ollie found himself distracted by your presence. He couldn't help but stare at you, taking in the way your hair fell over your face as you leaned over him. 

"Is everything okay, Ollie?" you asked, noticing his gaze. 

"Oh, sorry," Ollie said, chuckling. "I was just lost in thought. I didn't mean to stare." 

You smiled at him, shaking your head. "It's okay, Ollie. Just let me know if there's anything on my face or anything like that."

Ollie nodded, his gaze meeting yours again. "You know, I've been thinking. I know you're a big motorsport fan, and I've been wanting to ask you something."

"What is it?" you asked, curious.

"Well, once I'm fully recovered, would you want to come to a race with me? I think it would be great to experience it with someone who shares the same passion as I do," Ollie said, excitement evident in his voice. 

You sent him a teasing glance. "First, you said you'd take me go-karting, and now you're saying you'll take me to a race? You do know I'm a doctor, right?" But you couldn't help but grin at his enthusiasm. "I'd love that too, Ollie."

The day of Ollie's last physical therapy session had finally arrived. As you both walked towards the therapy room, you couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions. On one hand, you were proud of the progress Ollie had made and excited for him to finally be able to race again. On the other hand, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness knowing that this would be your last session together.

As you entered the therapy room, Ollie's eyes were shining with determination. You could tell he was ready to give it his all, one last time. "Let's do this," he said, his voice full of confidence.

For the next hour, you led Ollie through the exercises that had become second nature to him over the past few weeks. But this time, there was a sense of urgency in his movements, a drive to make every rep count. You could see the sweat pouring down his face, and the strain in his muscles as he pushed himself to his limit.

As the session came to an end, Ollie collapsed onto the mat, breathing heavily but with a huge smile on his face. "I did it," he said, his voice full of triumph.

"You sure did," you replied, feeling a lump form in your throat. "I'm so proud of you, Ollie. You've come so far."

Ollie looked up at you, his eyes bright. "I couldn't have done it without you," he said, his voice full of gratitude. "You believed in me, even when I didn't believe in myself."

You felt your heart swell with emotion as Ollie continued to speak. "You gave me the strength to keep going, even when things were tough. I don't think I could have made it here without you."

You tried to hold back tears as you looked at Ollie, knowing that this would be your last session together. "You're the one who did the hard work, Ollie. I just helped guide you along the way."

But Ollie shook his head, his expression serious. "No, I mean it. You've been my rock through all of this. And I want you to be there with me when I finally get to race again. You're not just my doctor, you're my friend."

You couldn't help but feel a lump form in your throat as you looked at Ollie, realising how much he had come to mean to you over the past few weeks. "I'd love to be there with you," you said, your voice full of emotion.

As you both left the therapy room, you knew that Ollie was ready to tackle anything that came his way. And you knew that you would always be there, cheering him on, no matter what.

After months of hard work and dedication, Ollie was finally cleared by the doctors to race again. He couldn't believe it - he had been waiting for this moment for what felt like an eternity. As he strapped himself into his car, he couldn't help but feel a sense of nervous excitement wash over him. This was it - the moment he had been waiting for.

As the race began, Ollie's heart pounded in his chest. He had trained for months, but this was different. This was the real deal, and he was determined to give it his all. He took turns with expert precision, pushing his car to its limits. The wind rushed past him as he sped down the straightaways, and he could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins. This was where he belonged - on the racetrack, pushing himself to the limit.

As the race progressed, you cheered Ollie on from the sidelines. You had watched him train and work hard for months, and you were proud to see him back on the track. As he rounded each corner, your heart raced with anticipation. You could see the determination in Ollie's eyes, and you knew he was giving it his all.

"Come on, Ollie!" you yelled, pumping your fist in the air. "You've got this!"

The crowd around you erupted into cheers as Ollie crossed the finish line, his car roaring triumphantly. You could see the look of pure joy on his face, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of pride. You had been there for him every step of the way, and seeing him achieve his dreams was an incredible feeling.

As Ollie pulled his car into the pits, he looked up to see you waiting for him. He climbed out of his car, grinning from ear to ear.

"Did you see that?" he asked, his voice filled with excitement.

You nodded, a huge smile on your face. "You were amazing, Ollie. I'm so proud of you."

Ollie pulled you into a tight hug, laughing with joy. "I couldn't have done it without you," he said, his voice filled with gratitude.

You hugged him back, feeling a sense of warmth spread through your chest. This was what it was all about - supporting the people you care about and celebrating their successes. You knew that this was only the beginning for Ollie, and you couldn't wait to see where his racing career would take him next.

#ollie bearman #ollie bearman x reader #ollie bearman imagine #ollie bearman x you #ollie bearman fanfic #f2 imagine #f2 fanfic #f2 writing #f2 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 writing #f2 x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 imagine #f2 fic #f1 fic #f1 fic rec

[mgparker]

recruitment gone… right?

platonic!steven grant/marc spector x teenage!reader

summary: who in their right mind sends a teenager to recruit a dangerous vigilante all on their own? oh sam and fucking bucky.

warnings: teenage avenger reader, inaccuracies, clueless steven being an overall mess and a huge cap fan, violence, swearing, gen z shit? perhaps idk, 2k word count

request: ‘can you do a father figure Marc Spector/Steven Grant x A teenage avenger who was sent to recruit him? I imagine the reader being a typical Gen Z kid with a sarcastic sense of humor, but meaning well.’

notes: loosely based off this request i got MONTHS ago. i’m so sorry it’s taken forever this has literally been in my drafts for a year. not a whole lot of father figure-ing going on but i think it’s a funny little neutral recruitment blurb/one-shot. enjoy. also not sure if this is gen-z enough but i was not going to make this obnoxiously “relatable”

“It shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Sam, I want you to think about what you just said. Then think about who you’re talking to. And then… consider the possibility that your plan might actually work if you send Barnes.”

A distant voice shouted through the speaker of your phone. “No can do, kid. Recruitment is below my paygrade now!”

You rolled your eyes, shuffling down a busy sidewalk in the midst of London. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot I’m talking to the big champs now.”

You heard Sam chuckle in amusement, and you could imagine him shaking his head at your words. “You know what you gotta do. The sooner you get it done, the sooner you can get back to base. Kick some ass with the big champs.”

“Yeah, yeah,” it was time to get serious. “Got it, Wilson. I’ll check in later.”

Instead, it was Bucky who answered. “You’ve got this, squirt!” 

Rolling your eyes, you didn’t even give Sam a chance to get a word in before you were ending the call, stuffing your phone into your pocket and narrowing in on the bus stop ahead. 

This is stupid, you thought as you waited a safe distance away. You couldn’t risk your target spotting you before you could properly assess them. Who in their right mind sends a teenager—a freaking teenager—to recruit one of England’s most dangerous vigilantes?

You’re not scared—you were far more than capable to defend yourself, even against the famed Moon Knight—but it feels out of your way, something you’ve never been asked to do. But of course, as an Avenger, this was your duty.

You couldn’t help but think of this whole thing as a personal attack. With Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson assuming the mantle of interim leaders of the Avengers (or rather what remains of them), this whole mission seemed like their version of a practical joke. 

Those two loved you with all their heart, you didn’t doubt it, but they take the role of “fun uncles” a bit too seriously. 

But anyway, this recruitment... This isn’t fun. Not in the slightest.

This is like being a salesperson. 

Shudder. 

Finally, you catch sight of your target—Steven Grant, an extremely sleepy, stumbling gift-shoppist who had appeared at the bus stop surprisingly early for once.

He seems gentle enough, guard mostly down, clutching his bag with a paranoid grip but that was the only thing tense about him. He’s technically older than you, not ridiculously so, but a bit younger than Sam.

You watch as his lips start forming some words; it’s subtle, nothing anyone would really notice unless they were analyzing him piece by piece like you currently were.

Ah. You realized with a pleased smile. Steven Grant and Marc Spector are working together. 

You’re snapped out of your thoughts by the sound of the bus arriving, squeaking loudly as it stopped in the street. 

Showtime. 

There was a click in your brain, or that’s what it felt like at least, and a quick scanning of your surroundings made it easy to instantly blend in. 

Steven Grant was having a decent morning. He actually woke up in time, ate a decent breakfast, and rushed out of the house with ten minutes to spare. 

Even Marc had been pleasant this morning, making unusual small talk as Steven went about his business, getting ready for work. 

And everything was well. Up until now—as he stood in the bus, trying to keep himself from falling asleep on the passengers around him, despite the extra shot of espresso he’d slipped into his drink this morning. 

Steven. 

He jolted awake, pulling his head away from a man’s shoulder with a small ‘sorry!’

But before he could doze off once more, something odd came over him. A strange tingling feeling, as if he was being watched. 

It snapped the drowsiness right out of his system, eyeing everyone suspiciously. 

You feel it too, don’t you? Something isn’t right. 

“What—” He mumbled quietly, searching for the source but coming up emptyhanded.

There was nothing peculiar or odd about his fellow commuters. 

So, he continued about his day, feeling that unsettling eye on him at all times but unaware as to its source. 

It was only when his shift was over, that he was walking home, that he decided this charade had gone on for far too long. 

Despite Marc’s pleas to let him front, Steven stopped in his dead tracks, away from any curious eyes. 

“Oi, who’s there?”

Great job, Steven. If that isn’t the most cliché thing to say before the main character gets killed in a horror movie. Marc sighed. 

“Shut up,” hissed Steven quietly. “You know I don’t watch horror movies—”

Steven blinked and suddenly you’re there, standing in front of him as if you’d been there the entire time. 

“AH!” 

The scream echoed down the alley, high-pitched and nearly startling you into a similar yelp. 

But you were quite used to your presence spooking others, it’s a part of your abilities that you’d never been able to control. 

Chest heaving and cheeks tinted with embarrassment, Steven gave you a suspicious glare. 

“Oh, it’s—it’s just a kid,” he tried to brush off his embarrassing reaction. 

You scoffed, a bruise to your ego. “Not just a kid.”

“Well, I know what I’m seeing,” Steven argued. “And you look like a child—“

“Firstly,” you’re staring at Mr. Knight’s suit, taken aback by the change in his appearance that you’d apparently triggered by startling him so bad. “I’m seventeen. Second, I thought you had a whole—“

You aimlessly motioned around your head in a sort of halo way, confusing the ever fuck out of Steven who just stood there blankly.

“A whole w-what?” He gaped, desperate to know what you— a complete stranger — had to say about his kickass suit.

“You know, a whole cape thing goin’ on.”

Ha! Colonel Sanders.

Steven wished there was a way to punch Marc.

“Now, you’re just talking about my lesser counterpart,” Steven shrugged, trying to hide the fact that he had just been offended to the core.

“Ouch, hard feelings?”

Steven pulled his lips to the side. “You could say that— wait. How do you know about—?”

“Let’s cut to the chase,” you interrupted. “I was sent here on behalf of an organization that is really interested in having you join our ranks. Normally, they’d send someone else but you’re stuck with me so—“

“What organization? What ranks? You’re hiring?” I guess we’re both interrupting each other now. You fought the urge to roll your eyes. Even if the task was annoying, you wouldn’t be returning to base with a new recruit if you hit him with a bunch of attitude.

Patience was not your strongest virtue. “Not exactly. As soon as you put that blade down, maybe we can talk some more.”

Steven looked down with a jolt, as if he hadn’t realized he’d been white-knuckling the weapon since you appeared.

Slowly, he started to store the blade before Marc cut in hastily. Hello? Are you seriously letting a kid tell you what to do? A kid who appeared out of thin air?

Steven caught Marc’s glare in the reflection of a small puddle, the road damp from London’s regular showers. He looked much more menacing than Steven, even with his half-assed suit. 

He hadn’t said it yet, but Steven knew Marc was aching to take over. And it was probably the smartest option- Steven wasn’t the best at confrontation. 

“Don’t hurt a minor please,” he pleaded quietly. Marc narrowed his eyes at the notion. But he nodded his head dismissively.

With a sigh, Steven allowed Marc to front.

All the while, you minded your own business as well as you could, staring at the sky suspiciously. You wouldn’t be surprised if Sam had sent Redwing to spy on you. Not because he didn’t trust you of course, but because him and Bucky loved to get a laugh in whenever they could. 

“Alright, let’s cut the bullshit. Who sent you? Harrow?” 

You nearly gave yourself whiplash from how fast your head snapped forward. 

The suit was different, cape billowing behind him, and eyes even whiter than before. They seemed to glow-- no, they were glowing-- and glare into the depths of your soul. You were almost intimidated.

“Who the hell is Harrow? Absolutely not. Since you asked so nicely, I was sent on behalf of Captain America.”

Captain America? He gripped the crescent blade tighter. 

He considered your words carefully, staring at you with the utmost suspicion. Lip curling up, head already starting to shake in disapproval, annoyance consuming him altogether— 

“That’s bullshit.”

“That’s- that’s amazing!”

You couldn’t help the smirk on your face. “It is pretty cool,” you shrugged thirty minutes later, chewing through a particularly large bite of your warm bagel. You were sat in the corner of a small, dingy bakery. What it lacked in aesthetics, the bakery definitely made up for in flavor.

“Do you think you could maybe, like I dunno, introduce us?” Steven asked with an excitement that barely kept him still in his seat.

You’re surprised he hasn’t gathered the attention of everyone else in the bakery, but for once, you’re not the one worried about being on the opposite end of a judgmental eye.

Being an Avenger in these post-Blip days isn’t as easy as it was before… stack that on top of being a ‘child’ and it’s the perfect recipe for disaster.

‘They’re too young!’

‘They can barely contain their abilities!’

‘The Avengers already ruined our lives before! Why should we trust a child?!’

Even if you denied it a million times, there was always a small part of you that craved their approval. Their vote of trust…Maybe this mission would help with that, once they learned that it was you who got the infamous bad-guy-turned-good Moon Knight to join the world’s mightiest superheroes…

Well, maybe it wasn’t exactly you who got Steven to willingly agree. But there was absolutely no way in hell you were ever telling Sam that it was his pull that got the deal sealed.

“Sure,” you smiled back at Steven who just about died at your response. The coffee in his mug jostled out and splashed onto the table. “Big Captain America fan?”

“As of late,” Steven grinned. “So, when do we leave? Is—” He gasped suddenly and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Is Captain America coming to pick me up?”

Jesus Christ. Marc groaned. This was a fucking mistake. 

Steven ignored him and looked at you expectantly.

You glanced up from your phone where you’d been rapidly typing something up. You did a double-take as you processed his question.

“Absolutely,” you deadpanned. “He’ll send a car for you. Probably meet you at the airport with his private jet.”

Steven’s eyes grew wider with every word. Marc was scowling in the reflection of the window behind you.

“Bollocks...” he breathed, staring down at his lap in disbelief. 

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“I don’t even know what to say. I mean, who—who would’ve thought they would send a seventeen-year-old to recruit little ole me—”

You saw something click in his brain. He looked up with glazed over irritation. “...you’re... you’re not being serious.”

“Of course, I’m not being serious, Grant. I got here alone and I’m more than capable of getting us back to base. You can save the fangirling for when we finally touch down alright? He’ll meet us there.”

Steven pursed his lips at you. 

Rolling your eyes, you finished your text and locked your phone with a click. “I’m being serious this time.”

Excitement poured into his gaze again. You’re not sure how Marc feels about it, only that after explaining yourself in very, very specific detail, he was open to the discussion. But it must be a mutual decision at this point. You doubt Steven would’ve gotten this far if his counterpart was fighting against it.

“Marc is on board?”

“Absolutely.”

Don’t lie. I’m regretting this more and more each second.

Steven continued. “Should I... should I pack my bags?”

“Yeah, that’d be a good idea,” you agreed nonchalantly.

“... now?”

You tapped your phone and glanced at the time. “If you want to make our flight in less than an hour, I’d say so.”

“Bollocks!” Steven exclaimed, nearly knocking the table over on his mad dash out the door. 

You snickered as he slammed into a lady on his way out. 

—————> the big champs + bucky

you: i’m expecting a promotion when i get back. and for you two to get off my ass already 

redwing’s bitch: I told you it wasn’t going to be too hard. Proud of you, kid

you: 😐

you: thanks i guess... expect a meet and greet when we get there. he’s probably going to be up your ass. steven’s your biggest fan. marc not so much.

you: and don’t worry bucky, they didn’t mention you at all <3

bucky bitchy barnes: fuck off. I have a fanbase. It’s on tweet.

you: wtf is tweet

bucky bitchy barnes: Don’t fuck with me you know what tweet is. 

you: my brother in christ... you mean to say twitter :,)

bucky bitchy barnes: I hate, no DETEST, your generation. 

ha ha

— elle <3

#mgparker #mgparker chats: #moon knight #Steven grant x reader #Marc spector x reader #Steven grant x platonic!reader #platonic!reader #Marc spector x platonic!reader #marc spector x teen!reader #moon knight x teen!reader #teen!reader #steven grant x teen!reader #request #steven grant #marc spector #jake lockley #marvel #captain America #sam wilson x teen!reader #Sam Wilson x platonic!reader #Bucky barnes #bucky barnes x teen!reader #avenger!reader #young avengers

[tactax-art]

i am obsessed w your creature au..... i would kill to read a fic about it it's so good <33

I have good news and bad news.

The good news are that you won't have to kill anyone. The bad news are you might want to kill me for the pace I write at.

But have a snippet :)

---

“He is criatura elemental, no?” Alejandro asks as they sit together in the colonel’s office and go over the day’s reports.

“Yes, a Bomb, Explosive Elemental,” Ghost considers the other for a moment, “Have you ever met one before?”

“No, he’s the first, but- do you have stories of them? In england?”

“Not stories, but there are rumours.”

“It is said they find a cause and then eat themselves up for it. There were two part of the mexican revolution, twins, they didn’t last a year before their fuse ran out, they were completamente loco, not caring who they killed in a fight so long it worked for the revolution, and in the end revolucionarios shot them even though they were two their own. It’s, ah…”

“It worries you. Having him here.”

“Si. He seems good, a very good soldier, but there is something about him, extraño- strange. Las Almas is my home, the destruction just una bomba loca can do is extreme.”

Ghost watches as Alejandro rubs at his stubble, clearly torn about his distrust of Soap but also not able to ignore the disquiet. He doesn’t disagree with Alejandro’s assessment, but Soap? It just… he can’t quite picture it, it doesn’t fit his initial assessment. Of course he could always be wrong, he’s been wrong before, egregiously so, trusted the wrong people and- but that was before. He’s got better insight into people now, the innate ability to sense fear has been a surprising, if disturbing boon thus far.

“My assessment is limited, I’ve only worked with him once before we were sent here, but I don’t think you have to worry about Sergeant MacTavish harming people unnecessary,” Ghost admits, “so far he’s proven to value his colleagues lives highly.”

“Even the odd ones?”

“He doesn’t seem to differenciate, while under threat it’s the same level of fear for all of them. Marines, Los Vaqueros, superiors, subordinates. It’s like…” Ghost frowns at the realisation, “He considers us all equally vulnerable.”

“That is unusual?” Alejandro questions, clearly curious now.

Ghost just nods. It not necessary for Alejandro to know that, now that he thinks about it, he’s never met anyone who truly values people equally. Or if nothing else, fears for them equally, but that amounts to the same thing. It’s normal, of course, it’s natural to fear for the person you know over the one you don’t. Your squadmates over some new arrival. Your sibling over someone else’s sibling.

On the battlefield there is of course also the bias of what beings people think can take more. More damage, more stress, more risks. A creature over a human, a non-humanoid over the humanoids. A thing that remains stone faced over a thing that can cry and bleed.

To Soap it had been all the same. He’d feared for the gargoyle pilot that had survived the crash the same as for his injured human squadmate. The same for the Swan Maiden, the same as the Grizzly Bear Shifter, the same for the (visually) adorable and childlike Cat Sidhe.

The same for him.

People don’t fear for him.

“Can I ask what you are? I don’t know of anything that senses fear with precision. You don’t smell it, no?”

Ghost tilts his head, his version of a smile ever since smiling became an effort, “Your worst nightmare.”

Alejandro laughs at him. Well, Ghost isn’t one to step down from a challenge however unwittingly offered, he’s in need of some proper dinner as is, and he’s not quite ready to stress-test his seargeant quite like that.

#unedited because yes #tactaxtalks #tactax mwii creatures au #cod monster au #bomb!soap #alb!ghost #idk yet what ale is we'll see #i think he might just be a kickass human #cod mw2 #lemme know what you think abt it

[tackytigerfic]

im soo hyped for that wartime fic :O do you have any entire how long in terms of chapters it will be?

Hello Anon, thank you so much for being excited about this. It really is such a kind thing to tell me, esp after I've been writing this fic for so long and having absolutely zero perspective on it anymore.

I am hoping to post it in chapters, as I have never had a fic long enough to do that with before! And it might be my only chance. It's currently nearly 220k with a bit more to write (but not much more!) though I am going to try to cut it back as close to about 150k as I can get it. And then I'm going to try to divide it into about 15 chapters or so, and post a chapter every 2 days for a month. They will be big chunky boys, those chapters! I know a lot of people don't read WIPs and I don't mind if people don't follow along, but I have read along with a handful of WIPs myself and it was such fun that I thought I'd like to try it from the other side. I do also have a smut epilogue planned which I might have to post a bit later, depending on how quickly I get through the editing process.

Here's a little snip from the fic too, just while I'm here, and since it's still WIP Snip Sunday! In this scene, Harry and Draco are no longer friends, after Draco ran off to France. They have just been humiliated to learn (through drinking a charmed drink) that they share the same happiest memory, and it involves a day out they had in London together many years before.

"It’s obviously some sort of error in the charm, like you said.”

“Exactly.” Draco had the steel of conviction in his voice. “But even if it wasn’t… if that really was your happiest memory, I mean. Well, you know I’m not judging you.”

“Well, you’re not exactly in any position to judge me, are you?” Harry said nastily, hating himself a bit for it. “After all, it was your happiest memory too.”

They were quiet then, Harry weighing up Draco’s silence, judging it for what he knew it was; a confession.

“Well,” Draco said, and cleared his throat. “It really was excellent ice-cream.”

“Hermione says we all have some sort of trauma reaction from being at war for so long, and she thinks I’m latching onto anything that isn’t completely terrible in my past.”

“Oh, cheers,” Draco broke in. “Though I suppose not-completely-terrible is a fair assessment.”

Harry wanted to tell him that there was a time when he was pretty much the exact opposite of terrible—the counterpoint to all the shitty things Harry had to worry about, the thing that undercut all the misery and drudgery of the war Harry was locked into. But Harry couldn’t remember feeling the purity of those feelings anymore, not since they’d been all muddied up by Draco leaving, the awful gasping pain of the surprise abandonment, the sick relentless ache of the realisation that Draco really wasn’t coming back.

“I miss London,” he said instead. “Sometimes I even miss Grimmauld Place.”

“That’s another thing he’s ruined,” Draco said, shoving his sweating plastic bags of takeaway onto the small table. “London always felt so safe. It was so big, so anonymous. I could be anyone I wanted there. And now he’s everywhere, like a virus. How often do you get back there?”

“Hardly ever,” Harry said. “When I went to meet you, that was the first time in months. The Council thinks it’s too much of a risk, me going into his territory. His warding system isn’t as sophisticated as ours yet, of course, but he’s working with a lot of innate power there, and it’s concentrated stuff. If I fall into his hands, it would be all over for us.”

“Lots of magic per square foot in London,” Draco agreed. “I do worry about that. If he gets back to his full strength at any point, with all that magical energy behind him…”

“I know,” Harry said. “It’s one of the things that keeps me up at night, to be honest.”

“There are probably quite a few of those,” Draco said, lip curling not unkindly. “Do you— I mean, I always order too much…” He waved his hand at the bags of takeaway. Harry could see a curling bag of brown paper with the corner of a herb-dappled naan poking out, and he felt ravenous again, all of a sudden.

“Yeah, I could eat,” he said. “If you’re sure.”

#tacky's fth #wip snip #drarry #drarry fic #six sentence sunday #six paragraph sunday more like #asked and answered #rowing and chatting #thank you anon most sincerely #i hope you like it when it does post

[starlitquil]

Protego - Sebastian Sallow x F!Reader

Word Count: 3k

Tags: protective sebastian, aka "I will kill him for what he did to you" sebby

CONTENT/TRIGGER WARNINGS: implied assault, blood mentions, leander, leander slander

A secondary trigger warning is placed where certain things begin. Read at your own risk.

-- A/N : Thank you for the love on my first fic! Well okay, first fic posted on tumblr. It means a lot to see my work be appreciated. I love doing subtle x readers, where they're def story driven, like this one, but I have a few in the works that are also purely fluff and more with everyone's favorite Slytherin. Yes the Leander content warning is meant to be slander. I do not like him but can not explain why. I just wanna throttle him. He just? Fills me with unbridled rage?? AnYWAY

Also! I'm going to open my ask box up for requests soon ish, with a post on who I want to write for, and my limitations.

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

You were never one to be late or not make notice that you would be. Sebastian had sat waiting for you near the lake by the castle, where you had planned to meet for a study session and, a more private, lunch together. The man knew you too well. Something was up. If you had to cancel plans, you'd make sure an owl was sent ahead of time.

Sebastian stood from his sitting position on the blanket he had laid out, making quick work of cleaning up everything he had laid out. He ran back to the castle, floo flaming across it's expanse in search of you. Finally, he darted through the clock tower, finding you on unconscious and bloodied, hidden away in a corner. Your robe was discarded and nowhere to be found, your vest and shirt torn open on the back from a clear shot of diffindo. You back was still bleeding, a small pool had formed on the wood beneath you.

Sebastian made hasty but gentle work of flipping you over, gasping and looking away from your unbuttoned vest and shirt. He unbuttoned his own cloak and layed it over your indecent form, gently picking you up bride style. Your body was limp in his arms, and his heart pounded in his chest as he speed walked to the nearest floo flame, and made haste to the hospital wing.

He was so careful with you, watching your face as he trudged into the hospital wing.

"Nurse! Please!" he cried anxiously, tears welling in his eyes. The nurse hurried over, assessing the situation.

"What happened?" she asked, looking between Sebastian and your limp form. "Come, lay her down," she added, gesturing for him to follow.

"I- I don't know! I found her like this. She's hurt, bad." he said, following the nurse. She gestured to an empty bed, and he layed your form down gently, his arm on your back now covered in your blood.

The nurse used a quick spell to flip you over gently, laying you on your stomach. "It's good you got her here when you did, let alone found her when you did. Where was she?" she inquired, looking to the Slytherin.

"Well, she was late to our study session by the lake, and I knew immediately something was wrong," he explained, drawing in a self comforting breath. "She always sends an owl if she'll be late or has to cancel. Anyway, I packed up and searched the whole castle, and found her at the top of the clocktower, hidden away in a private space. She was already like this when I got there, and no trace of anyone else. She was indecent when I flipped her over, so I covered her with my own cloak." Sebastian was speaking quickly, his heart racing from the stress of everything happening.

The nurse gently pushed his shoulders down and towards a chair next to your bed. She handed him a glass of water and a stern look, and he nodded, taking his time to drink the glass.

"I'll need to do some work on her. You can wait here, but I'll be moving privacy screens," said the nurse, who offered him a look of sympathy. She could easily gather that the two of you were close, inseparable even, and knew just how it felt to be in Sebastian's place. "I promise you can stay with her after I'm done. I'll even allow you to be excused from the rest of your classes for today, and send for a fresh shirt," she added, Sebastian looking down at his stained sleeve.

Sebastian drew in a shaky breath, nodding. "Thank you," he said quietly. Other nurses had made their way to the hospital wing, joining the other behind the privacy screens she had levitated in place.

More time passed the Sebastian cared to keep track of, and was startled out of his thoughts when the privacy screens began to move, revealing your cleaned up and stitched backside, his own cloak floating down and covering the injury.

"She will be just fine, but she had to be made more indecent for us to do our work. I hope you don't mind us using your cloak again," she said plainly, mindlessly taking Sebastian's empty glass.

"Y/N could keep it if she so desired," he said, semi absentmindedly. The nurse smiled and placed a gentle hand on the Slytherin's shoulder.

"Stay with her, okay? Call me if she wakes. We need to get to the bottom of what happened." she said, her eyes meeting with Sebastian's. He nodded quickly, returning his gaze to your unconscious form. Your face was at least turned towards him, so he could watch you easier. He gently slipped his hand into yours, sitting and waiting.

Sebastian didn't know how much time passed. He didn't dare look away from you, keeping a firm gaze upon you for any waking movement. What he did know that it was daytime when he brought you here, and a glance at the window nearby suggested sunset was setting in. Your form made a small noise, bringing Sebastian's gaze back to your face.

Your eyes fluttered open, squeezing back the hand that held yours. Your body ached. But you weren't where you could last remember being. You started to shuffle to move, but Sebastian stopped you, as did the searing pain that caused you to cry out.

"Don't move - let me get the nurse," Sebastian said, rubbing a finger down your cheek as he stood. Nurse? Your vision cleared a little and you recognize the walls and privacy screens of the Hogwarts hospital wing. The nurse and Sebastian were quick to return.

"Glad to see you're awake, dear," her voice came, from somewhere to your left. "How're you feeling?" she asked, making her way into your vision.

"Sore." You stated simply. It hurt to even speak, and breathing stretched the wounds on your back in a painful manner. Sebastian sat back where he was before.

"What happened, dear?" the nursed prodded. You clenched your jaw. "You know I have to ask." she added, seeing the look on your face. It wasn't a pleasant expression, you face had contorted into a combination of fear, anxiety, and dread.

"...May I tell you tomorrow..." you said, after a pause. The nurse simply nodded.

"Sebastian, you may stay here with her tonight." the nurse looked to your companion. "Watch over her, you may take the bed nearest her." Sebastian nodded as the nurse headed off, the night shift nurse coming in to take her place. The two nurses exchanged words neither of you could hear.

"Would you tell me who did this?" came Sebastian's quiet, gentle voice. You shook your head.

"Tomorrow, I promise." you answered, implying by his question someone did do this. His brow furrowed. You reached up in a struggle to place a hand on his cheek, offering him a smile. He put his own hand overtop of yours, turning his head to kiss your palm and smile back down at you.

You fell back asleep quickly, Sebastian kissing your forehead as you did. You could barely make out his figure making his way to the bed nearest yours as you drifted off to sleep.

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The next morning you awake to Sebastian's sweet face nearby. He was no longer in the bed he had taken up, but fast asleep in the chair he was in yesterday, head hung as he slept, one of his hands was warm in your own. You squeezed it gently, the freckled man's eyes fluttering open. He smiled at you as he met your eyes, leaning in to plant another warm kiss on your forehead. You felt your face brighten a deep red. Unfortunately for you, you couldn't turn away to hide your blush without pain.

"Good morning, you two," the nurse from yesterday strolled up. "Glad to see you're both awake. Y/N, your wound should be healed enough so that you can flip over and sit up mostly comfortably, if you'd like to try," she mentioned. You nodded quickly. This position was getting uncomfortable, and fast.

"Be a dear and help me Sebastian," she said, hustling over to your other side. The two of them helped you flip over and sit up, with grimaces and gasps of pain. You relaxed into the new position, the pain subsiding for now.

"So," the nurse started, placing her hands on her hips. "Are you going to tell me what happened?" she said, her tone was gentle with a hint of firmness.

"I- I will but... do you have --" your sentence was interrupted by Leander Prewett. Your jaw clenched at the sight of him, the memories from yesterday came flooding back.

"There you are! I'm so glad you're okay!" he said, offering a wide smile. You didn't return the smile, wrapping your arms around your waist. You mustered up all your mental strength not to shake in fear at the sight of the boy, watching him weary eyed as he approached.

He stopped at the foot of your bed, still beaming. You watched his eyes wander to your semi exposed chest, and you made quick work of using Sebastian's cloak to cover yourself.

"I am indecent. Leave me." you said plainly to Leander. Your brow was furrowed in anger, and you eyed him intensely. His smile was quick to fade, your grip on the cloak was so tight your knuckles widened.

"But-"

"I said go!" your voice was raised this time. Sebastian and the nurse shared a look. "You are the last person I want to see," you said harshly, pointing towards the hospital wing entrance.

The nurse wordlessly ushered Leander out, returning to your bedside.

"What did he do to you?" she asked firmly.

"He's the reason I'm here-" you said, your body shaking. Tears burnt at the edge of your vision.

"What!? What did he do?" she pried. "Listen, I know you don't want to open up about it. But as the nurse it is my duty to report all incidents." she said, rubbing your shoulder. You shook your head, shoulders shaking lightly with a sob.

"I have an idea. Stay with her." the nurse looked to Sebastian who only nodded, brow knit close and cold. You knew that face. Sebastian didn't even have to know what Leander did to you. But what he did know is that he would ring his sorry, bastardly neck. You met Sebastian's eyes and reached for him, both arms open to him. He sat down on the edge of your bed and put his arms around you gently, holding you as you cried.

The nurse returned a few minutes later, struggling to carry something that sounded heavy.

"Here. You can show me the memory itself." she said. You pulled away from Sebastian, and a pencieve filled your vision. You nodded quietly, grimacing as you reached for your wand, lifted it to your forehead and drew out a magical strand of energy, tears streaking your cheeks.

"Both of you... please... it's not easy but I need you both to know..." you said, sniffling. You placed the strand of magic in the water, Sebastian standing to walk around the bed and prepare to dip his face into it's depths. The nurse and Sebastian shared a nod, then dipped their heads in.

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[TRIGGER WARNING FOR THE UPCOMING SECTION]

The nurse and Sebastian both had found themselves in a private spot in the clock tower. The vision was of you and Leander, talking.

"Y/N, I-" Leander spoke clearly. "I've got feelings for you. Ever since you beat me at summoner's court."

Sebastian felt his blood boil watching the memory. But he knew there was more. You weren't injured yet.

"Oh! I.." you began to reply, unsure of what to say. "I'm flattered but I-" before you could finish speaking, Leander had pulled you in and spun you around, so that you were against the wall. Your breath escaped your lungs as he crashed his lips onto yours.

Leander's hands worked to unbutton your vest and then your top, his hands brushing against your exposed bare chest, palming your breasts.

Before he could go any further, you mustered up what ancient magic you could, and used it to strengthen your arms and push him away. He stumbled backwards, his facial expression turning cross. He pulled out his wand and cast diffindo. Instinctually you turned to dodge, but instead, your breath left your body once more as the magic he cast sliced into your back, knocking you out almost immediately. You collapsed to the floor, Leander running away in your slowly fading vision.

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Sebastian and the nurse withdrew their faces from the pencieve. The nurse had tears of her own now flowing down her cheeks. "Here, I have a few bottles. Put that same memory in those bottles. The headmasters and the ministry must be made aware." she said, wiping her face and making quick work of gathering the bottles.

Sebastian's face was twisted in a deep anger, his knuckles whitening from his tightening grip on the edge of the pencieve.

"I'll kill him!" he said, voice raised. He was about to turn to leave before you quickly grabbed his hand, wincing at the pain that rippled through your back.

"Sebastian, please." you said quietly, your voice cracking. He stopped in place, not letting go of your hand, his back to you. "I need you hear with me, darling," you said. It was your heartbroken tone that made Sebastian's own heart crack. His shoulders relaxed and he turned back towards you, sitting at the edge of your bed.

"I'm sorry. I'm here." he said, kissing your forehead and cuddling in close to you. The nurse returned with two specially made bottles. You knew just what to do with them. You pulled more strands of magic from your forehead of the memory, bottling it up tight.

"I will ensure the headmasters and ministry both get these as soon as possible. Sebastian, stay with her. The ministry will not let him get away with this, I assure you." she said, patting his shoulder.

Sebastian nodded, resting his head on your shoulder. You rest your head on top of his, kissing the top of his head before doing so.

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Weeks had gone by, and rumor had spread fast. Not about you, about Leander. A few students had seen him being carted off against his will, being drug by the arms by two older wizards in Ministry attire.

The headmasters had made sure someone saw so you would be aware by word of mouth that he was gone for good, but also so that it was purely about him. What he did was up to speculation, but it was honestly quite entertaining to listen to the various things your classmates came up with.

The headmasters had also called you in to speak with you and state they had a cover story for your injuries, and one that was believable. You made sure it was all your classmates knew.

You and Sebastian walked arm in arm out of one of Hogwart's many exits, making your way to the lake, where you had planned to study at a few weeks ago. You had both missed a good portion of time from class, and needed to catch up, and soon.

You winced a little as you helped Sebastian lay out the picnic blanket, and used levioso to place the food and books he had brought with him.

The afternoon had gone by quick, and the work you had caught up on brought you to the beginning of sunset, the sky a beautiful orange tone.

You giggled at a joke Sebastian made, playfully smacking him in the arm. In reply, he told another insufferable joke, and you walloped him again, this time losing your balance landing on top of him, his breath escaping his body as his back met the ground below him. Your back was healing well, but it still ached in pain.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, and you sat up on your elbows on either side of his head. There was a comfortable silence before you broke out laughing, gazes not breaking from each other.

Your face was a bright red, and so was his. Without even thinking, you put your lips to his, a small gasp of surprise coming from the Slytherin below you, his lips moving to kiss you back. You pulled away quietly, face red with heat.

"Sorry I don't know what came over me!" you were quick to speak. He fidgeted with an arm and put a finger on your lips.

"Don't you dare be sorry, darling," he said, gently dragging his finger down to your chin and pulling you into another kiss. You giggling into the kiss, running one hand through his chocolate curls.

You pulled away again, eyes meeting in another comfortable silence.

"Thank you for being there for me." You said, smiling at the man below you. He smiled back at you.

"It is the least I can do for you, Y/N." Sebastian said knowingly. You replied with a knowing nod.

"I love you, Sebastian Sallow," you said your gaze intense. You didn't even realize what you had said until he reciprocated.

"I love you too, Y/N. You have no idea how long I've waited to hear you say that, my darling," he replied, leaning up to kiss your forehead.

Your face burned bright, the gears turning in your head.

"What are we now?" you asked, unsure of what else to say.

"Will it make it easier if I ask you out, my darling?" he asked, his charm slipping through. You simply nodded.

"Y/N, will you do me the honor and pride of being my girlfriend?" he asked, smiling at you cheekily. You smiled back at him.

"Yes I will, Sebastian Sallow, forever and always." what you replied was a promise. What he replied was also a promise.

"I will always protect you,'' he replied, pulling you in for another kiss. Your lips moved in sync, his hands rubbing up and down your body gently.

You pulled apart and finally got off the poor chap, wincing lightly as you lay at his side, head on his chest, arm around his torso. One hand of his was on top of your own, the other wrapped around your shoulders.

You would be okay. With him by your side, you would be okay.

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#sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow fanfic #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy #hogwarst #starlitquill #starlitquill writes #starlitquill masterlist

[greatlydelirious]

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐈 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝

Bo Sinclair x F!Reader

wordcount: 5.5k words

summary: Bo has never been a righteous man, but when he notices your affinity for priests, he makes plans to revisit the church. (Based on the Catholic Religion)

warnings: roleplay, smut, oral fixation, orgasm denial, desecrating a church, power play

“No, I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat. What to like. What to hate. What to rage about. What to listen to. What band to like. What to buy tickets for. What to joke about. What not to joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in. Who to vote for and who to love and how to...tell them. I just think I want someone to tell me how to live my life, Father, because so far, I think I’ve been getting it wrong. And I know that’s why people want someone like you in their lives, because you just tell them how to do it.”

“Kneel.”

With bated breath, you are fixated on the scene unfolding on the television. The one light illuminating the living room was coming from the small screen. A factor that only added to the ambiance of your salacious thoughts. You were so wrapped up you almost forgot about the body next to you. Ambrose was in its usual state of deathly silence when the clock struck midnight. The only sound that could vaguely be heard was the hum of generators and the chirp of crickets. To your relief, the whole day was majorly uneventful.

Deep in your fixation, you don’t feel the pair of eyes assessing you. Bo watched over the rim of his beer bottle as your thighs clenched like they were being tied by an invisible rope. Not only did he notice that but also the way your breaths started to come out in shallow succession, and you pressed closer to him. Tonight, was one of those rare times Bo gave you control of the remote. Usually, this type of show wasn’t his thing, but your reactions were the real entertainment for him. So entertaining in fact that Bo had to shift his legs in his jeans which suddenly felt far too tight.

Your sex life was far from vanilla, but roleplay was uncharted territory. You were certain that Bo would wave it off as you trying to pull a joke on him. Even though he was so good at becoming a completely different person. He had to be to successfully ensnare those who traveled too close to your home.

Sighing inwardly, you attempt to focus back on your show. An attempt that backfires deliciously. The priest slowly morphs into Bo. Instead of the two characters being locked in a flurry of lustful kisses it is the two of you. Having an entanglement in a sacred church had never been on your bucket list, but the more you watched the more enraptured you became. The thrum of tension that came with such a power imbalance seemed intoxicating. The mere idea that a man would risk his position in life, just for a taste of you made you feel hotter than any porno you’ve stumbled across. God worked hard, but the Devil worked harder. Not that you were dwelling on the ramifications of having that mindset. You participated in bigger mortal sins that you would be subject to eternal damnation for anyway. Weren’t rules made to be broken? Although it was the Ten Commandments in this case.

The thought of kneeling in front of Bo and begging for forgiveness enticed you so fiercely that it surprised you. Of course, he dominated you to the fullest extent of the word, but you craved something darker. It would be a lie if you said the savage side of Bo didn’t turn you on. However, you hadn’t had the masochistic pleasure of experiencing the depths of his depravity.

Like Goldilocks preferred, your boyfriend lavished your body just right. Not too sweet, but not so rough that you couldn’t enjoy a “post-afternoon fucking” (Bo’s words not yours). Bo had an insatiable appetite in all aspects of his life. Some would call that greedy, but all you saw was a man who knew what he wanted and how he was going to get it. That’s exactly why you were even sitting here in the first place. Unlike the many others who had the misfortune of stumbling into Ambrose, killing you was the last thing on the Sinclair brother’s mind when he saw you.

Just as the two characters were about to seal the deal, it all comes to an abrupt halt. When the priest pulls away from the woman you almost groan in disappointment. Bo wouldn’t have let you go. He would fuck you against the confessional booth until the structure broke. Even now you could hear the curses he would grunt into your neck and feel how tightly he would hold your body against him. Sometimes you couldn’t even discern where your bodies separated. The relentless pounding of his cock made you drunk on ecstasy. Maybe if you just reached over and-

“Enjoyin’ the show?”

You almost jump at Bo’s raspy voice interrupting your far-from-holy imaginings. Glancing up from where your head rests on his shoulder, his eyes gleamed with dark amusement as they met yours.

“Y-yeah.” Your face heats at your stutter and you clear your throat before answering him again. Thankfully during the second attempt, you sounded less pathetic. Despite all you’ve done together Bo still makes you feel like a shy schoolgirl who is dating for the first time. Chuckling, he leans down to pull you into a chaste kiss. One that left you craving for more. You wouldn’t have to wait long though. Bo had an idea, and nothing innocent ever came from Bo having an idea.

-

It was normal for the spot next to you to be cold by the time you woke up. The Sinclair brothers had early mornings and late nights every day. The town of Ambrose wasn’t going to run itself after all. Rubbing your eyes, you sift through the plethora of dresses in your wardrobe. With how brutal the Louisiana heat could be, the last thing you wanted to do was pull on a pair of jeans. You knew from personal experience that sweat and denim don’t play well together. A floral white sundress that you procured from an abandoned suitcase ends up being the winner. The amount of second-hand clothes you’ve come to own should disturb you, but alas those days were far gone. What was the saying, waste not want not?

After a quick breakfast, you venture outside to see what Bo needs help with. It was easier to assist him rather than risk fucking something up on your own. Additionally, the other two brothers had no real use for you when it wasn’t mealtime. Vincent preferred to keep to himself while working on his masterpieces and the first and last time you went to the roadkill pit with Lester you almost blacked out. Safe to say handing off tools and cooking were more apt for you.

When you reach the garage, you frown at the absence of Bo. No lights were on and the front door which was usually propped open was closed. There were only a small handful of places he could be. Unfortunately, those places were scattered all across town and the last thing you wanted to do was reach your cardio limit by mid-afternoon. As you walk up to the door a note taped to the glass catches your attention,

“If you need me, I’m down by the church.”

Down by the church? Bo was never there unless a group had rolled into town, but your phone hadn’t gone off. The only other reason you could think of was maintenance. Sighing, you start the trek to the holy building. Years had passed since the last time you went to Mass. A fact that went against your whole entire upbringing.

You were meticulously raised to be the perfect Catholic girl. One who followed the teachings of her Lord and Savior and strayed from any possible sins that came her way. And for most of your life that was the case. Only well-mannered words passed your lips and chastity was a virtue you upheld with little difficulty. Instead of your nights as a teenager ending in sneaking out to drink with friends, you read from your Bible and prayed for God to watch over you and your family while you clutched your rosary beads. Although the idea was extremely foreign to you now, that was all you knew back then.

All of this culminated in you being the black sheep in your friend group filled with rowdy extroverts. It was a mystery how you became friends with them in the first place, but college had a way of bringing people from all walks of life together. Never mind the fact that after years of quite literally going by the book, a part of you wanted to venture out there and explore all the things you’ve been depriving yourself of. That’s how you ended up walking on the side of the road in nowhere Louisiana in the middle of a summer night. You could remember the whole situation like it was yesterday.

To self-soothe, you rub your arm up and down anxiously. It was far too dark out. Every time you heard a distant howl you picked up your pace at the back of your group. For some reason, your friends thought taking the backroads was a genius idea since they wanted to get to the concert as quickly as possible. Instead of having the time of your lives, you were left with a flat tire and a long walk to somewhere that could hopefully help you.

By the time you reach the nearest town, everyone is a cacophony of relieved groans. It wasn’t some creepy dark abandoned place, but a real livable town with lights along the roads. Thankfully, you guys come across a gas station connected to a garage that had the lights on inside. For a moment you all stand there to catch your breath and survey everything around you. Despite the normalcy, the group starts to argue about who should go inside. The journey to get here definitely wore thin everyone’s resilience and heightened their paranoia.

One of the boys elbows you forward, “You should be the one to go inside. I’m sure no one could get mad if you asked for help.” When you try to protest, they only push you closer to the garage. Knowing you couldn’t change the majority’s minds; you accept your fate. Oh, the endless woes of being a doormat.

As you step inside you stick close to the wall. A jittery sensation made you feel as though you would have a heart attack at the smallest noise. Despite the lights being on you don’t see anyone behind the counter. Looking over your shoulder to the exit you mentally curse your “friends”. This was not how you expected your summer to go.

“Hello? I could really use some help!”

You jump when a noise comes from under the car to your right. No heart attack, but it was hammering in your chest. A man rolls out and quickly sits up to look at you. He was clad in denim with grease stains to boot, but Lord have mercy on your soul he was attractive. When his eyes met yours a brilliant, crooked smile greets you.

“What can I do for ya darlin?” The warm twang in his voice melted away any thoughts you had.

“My friends and I… well not really me, but they decided to take the backroads to where we were headed, and I told them not to of course. Not that they listen to me any-“

A deep chuckle stops your nonsensical rambling. “If you talk any faster you might hurt yourself.” Now you felt downright embarrassed. Leave it to you to word vomit in front of a guy who had charisma to spare.

“Where are my manners? Name is Bo Sinclair.” Bo wipes his hands on his jeans before stretching out a hand toward you. With only a slight tremble you accept the shake. You couldn’t help but focus on how small your hand looked in his. He was calloused and had thick veins that ran up his arm. The slight shiver that travels down your spine doesn’t go unnoticed. Bo suppresses a smirk as he appraises you in a lingering sweep.

His fingers reach up to toy with the gold chain adorning a cross resting on your chest. “That’s a pretty necklace ya got there…”

Blushing you offer Bo a shy smile while telling him your name. When he places one of his large hands on the small of your back, you’re surprised that you lean into the touch rather than pulling away. Never had a man made your body betray your mind so much. Then again, no man, or boy for that matter, ever engaged with you like this. Calling you nice little pet names and showering you with such soft touches. Man were you touch starved beyond belief.

“Let me guess, your friends popped one of the tires of their car?” At your affirming nod, the digits at your back softly flex. “And where are these friends now sweetheart?” Swallowing thickly, you gaze at the ground.

“Outside. They thought it best if I came inside by myself.” Something you were mad about at first, but now you didn’t mind being alone with the stranger. Perhaps your fight-or-flight instincts were broken.

Bo hums as if considering your answer, “And why’s that?”

Picking at your nails you begrudgingly continue, “Because they said no one would be able to get mad if I was the one asking for help.” You softly gasp when a forefinger and thumb meet your chin and lift your head to become level with Bo’s, “I would say that’s the smartest choice they’ve made.”

The look that was in his eyes made your heart flutter to this day. You play with the same cross necklace you wore that night and every day as you smile to yourself thinking about it. A lamb was thrown into a lion’s den only to not be eaten but protected. Strange things sure did happen in Ambrose.

Thankfully, your musings made your walk feel shorter than usual. You stopped to admire the giant gold cross on the double doors as a pang of nostalgia hit you. How crazy was it that a simple structure held so many memories? Chuckling breathlessly, you finally head inside. What first grabs your attention is the newfound emptiness. Looking around you notice someone cleared out the permanent congregation that usually resided in the church. The same went for the casket that usually sat at the back.

Movement near the side of where you were looking catches your eye. The sight of Bo in priest robes skimming through the Bible on the pulpit instantly made heat pool in your belly. That man looked sexy in just about anything. When the doors close behind you, your presence is finally acknowledged.

“You’re late.” Bo doesn’t even bother to look up.

“I didn’t know you were expecting me.” He knew that, but like any good hunter he set up the perfect trap. And like the good prey you were, you walked right into it. You were so busy admiring that you stayed glued to where you stood.

Patience running thin, Bo sighs loudly. “Come here.” Your feet started moving before the command even processed in your mind. Bo was a man of simple words and strong actions. A trait that made even the smallest sentences full of dominant purpose. You stop before the step leading to the elevated platform. Only then does the man close his book and look at you. Bo’s eyes don’t make haste as they roam over your body. Little was left to the imagination as your dress sat only mid-thigh and the heat made the soft fabric cling to each curve and dip of your body. If temptation was a person, he was staring right at them.

You begin to fidget under his gaze. “Bo-“

“Father.” He quickly corrects. “You may only call me Father, understand?”

Heat blooms under your skin. Oh, so this is what he was up to. The fact that he caught onto your little fantasy made your body light with an undercurrent of anticipation. Swallowing your nerves, you give in to him. “Yes, Father.”

“Good girl.” Bo all but purrs before clasping his hands in front of him. Hands you wished were somewhere else. Clearing his throat, he looks down at you while continuing, “It has come to my attention that you’ve been plagued with impure thoughts.”

An embarrassed laugh leaves you, “What? I-“ Before you can even begin to defend yourself Bo halts you with a raised hand.

“No excuses. Confess the truth darlin’. Only then can I assign ya penance.” May God smite your heart, because Bo as a priest, chastising you in that accent, was rapidly increasing your “impure thoughts”.

Confessions were not a foreign concept to you, but growing up you rarely had to partake in that practice in your religion. Although the irony in this specific instance only added to your desire. A girl in white betraying her purity by confessing to a priest that made her thighs clamp together. Letting out a shaky breath you didn’t even know you were holding you close your eyes, make the sign of the cross, and put your hands together in prayer. You had spent countless weekdays after school and weekends in the church as a child, so the old practices come back too easily.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was years ago and these are my sins.” You take another breath and let your secrets spill onto the red carpet below you.

“I find myself wanting to give into the temptations of the flesh with a man of a higher power.” Swallowing thickly, you stare up at Bo through your lashes, “All I can think about is giving him my body to do what he pleases when he pleases. My days are spent longing for his touch and working to make him crave nothing, but me.” You shift your legs to get any traction between your thighs. If confessionals got you this hot and bothered, you would have done one sooner.

“That is all I remember, Father. I am sorry for these and all my sins.” Bowing your head you conclude your lust-filled confessions by reciting the Act of Contrition. “O my God, I am sorry for my sins because I have offended you. I know I should love you above all things. Help me to do penance, to do better, and to avoid anything that might lead me to sin. Amen.”

A low voice rumbles from above your head, “I cannot be your intercessor if you aren’t truthful in your request for penance.” Biting your lip your need to please jumps to the surface. “What can I do to prove to you my devotion, Father?” Bo’s hand lifts your chin, so you meet his impossibly dark eyes.

“Kneel and show me how much you deserve forgiveness.” Without a moment’s hesitation, you drop before him. Nimble fingers pull the ties holding his clergy ropes together to push away the pesky layer. You’re greeted by his scarcely used black slacks and button-up. You almost moan at how Bo looked even better than before. Something you would appreciate more if it didn’t add to the endless fabric encasing what you were truly craving.

With trembling hands, you manage to pull off his belt with only slight difficulty. Once you free his cock from its confines you softly moan at the weight in your hand. The man was equal parts long and thick; large enough that each time he entered you it felt like you were having sex for the first time.

Leaning forward you kiss along his hard length, reveling in the feel of the velvet skin under your lips. You trace a throbbing vein that starts at the base of his cock all the way to the tip with your tongue. A low groan sounds above you before Bo’s hand moves to fist in your hair, not to force, but to guide your head. At first, the pace is set teasingly languid to let you properly worship him.

“That’s it, relax those pretty little lips around me.” You moan at the simple comment. Praise was something you not only strived for but coveted.

Once you become lax under his touch, he fully takes control. Bo alternates between quick snaps and deep thrusts. One left you breathless while the other left you gagging. Tears begin to accumulate as your hands dig into the fabric at his thighs to create any semblance of composure. An impossible task when his cock was sliding down your throat and his groans sent vibrations straight to your core. You knew better than to try and touch yourself despite the uncomfortable pooling sensation between your legs. Only good girls got rewarded; a statement Bo reminded you time and time again.

You had to widen your jaw to the point of discomfort to accommodate his girth. Every time his cock hit the back of your throat you felt the muscles in his thighs flex under your fingers. Yet another giveaway of his thinly veiled composure. Drool pools out your mouth and drops to the carpeted floor. There was barely enough room to swallow around his cock. A factor that quickly made a mess neither of you was worried about.

A second hand joins the first on your head to push and pull your mouth. Curses push past clench teeth as you suck harder. You close your eyes to savor the feeling of being completely at Bo’s mercy. He controlled your body and all you could feel, smell, and taste was him. The amalgamation of sensations was almost overwhelming. Each strangled moan around him only spurs Bo on more. The constricting of your wet, warm throat almost makes Bo become undone. Despite the desperate twitching of his cock, he wasn’t going to let you off that easily.

Right when his hips being to stutter your head is forcibly yanked back to a point where your neck strains under the pressure. Saliva connects your parted lips as you desperately gasp for air. Before you can question why he stopped, Bo leans down so your faces were mere inches away. Darkness overtook his handsome features. Although it wasn’t the type of darkness you saw while dealing with victims, the intensity made goosebumps prickles across your skin. A calloused thumb brushes the pre-cum that leaked down your chin.

“Open your mouth.” Obliging, you suck his digit in your mouth, swirling your tongue around the rough pad until it presses down to widen your jaw. The angle makes you slightly gurgle and instinctively pull back. The grip on your chin only tightens as Bo starts to tsk.

“Stick out your tongue, I want you to swallow it all.” After maneuvering his cheeks Bo spits into your waiting mouth. He makes you swallow around his finger, so he could feel you obey him. What a perfect submissive you were to him. Always following every command with perfect execution only to then immediately come back to wait for more. You knew that Bo could easily destroy you, but every time he takes you to the edge, he yanks you back just in time. Thankfully, he had more in store for you.

Bo admires you with deep satisfaction. Your lips were swollenly red, your hair was disheveled, and the straps of your dress fell low enough that the top of your breasts was exposed. Simply put, you looked like a fallen angel. One that was about to be completely ravished by the Devil himself.

Strong hands haul you up by your shoulders. Everything blurs until before you knew it, you’re backed up into the nearest pew. Bo makes quick work pulling off your dress and practically ribbing off your undergarments. At the same time, you try to unbutton his shirt only to have your hands brushed away. Carnal need leaves you frustrated. “Bo please-“ A crushing weight cuts off your plead.

“What’d I tell you, huh?” His hand doesn’t move, not truly wanting an answer. Even still, you try to apologize which only amounts to a string of whined muffles. They intensify when Bo grinds his cock between your wet folds.

“Soaked for me already? I reckon a sweet Catholic girl like you has never been properly fucked.” You all but confirm the “priests” statement when you buck your hips in a fruitless attempt for more friction. Bo chuckles at your strained efforts. You flinch when the cool surface of his ring meets your sex. Thick fingers tantalize and tease you as they glide over your pulsing clit. Enough pressure to shoot sparks up your body, but light enough to not fully satisfy.

Only when your legs begin to quiver does Bo release the hold on your mouth. Pure lust clouds your mind and officially slips you into a raw submissive state. All you could focus on was obtaining satisfaction from the only person who could give it to you the way you needed. In deep reverence, you desperately clutch at the opening of Bo’s shirt. You’ve never been above begging.

“I’ll do anything to prove my devotion, Father. Please take what you must.” It was as though you were a sinner beseeching God himself for salvation. A just comparison when you were in fact a sinner and the man above you had a God complex justifiable by his circumstance. By the end of your proclamation, a finger breaches your pussy. Wanton moans echo off the church walls as Bo waste no time warming you up for what was to come. The sound was music to the devilish man’s ears.

His hand was diligent in its pursuit to derive as much pleasure as possible from you. Quickly inserting a second finger he pets you in slow curved strokes while his thumb strums your clit in fast circles. Squelching noises obscene enough to make you blush, despite your desire, emanate from his ministrations.

Bo grunts low in his chest before pulling you into a rough kiss. Teeth clash and whimpers are swallowed. This time when you try to unbutton the shirt crumpled in your grasp, he lets you. You clamor to feel his hot skin against your own. When your nails bite into Bo’s taut muscles he groans and continues to fuck you on his fingers at a brutal pace. The promise of the sweet release of an orgasm whispered across your senses. It was almost too much. Almost.

“Oh God, I’m so close! Please!” Just when you felt you might combust, Bo pulls back. You cry out at the newfound emptiness where you ached the most. Bewildered you stare up at Bo only to see something primal, laced with dark thoughts you couldn’t begin to imagine. He lightly massages the digits wet from your desire on your swollen bottom lip. At the same time, teeth graze your earlobe.

“Your penance is to not cum until I tell you to. Think you can do that?” Words fail as you hold back a huff of disbelief. Penance of that nature seemed near impossible. Torturous at the very least. Pain shooting from the side of your ear makes you gasp. He fucking nipped you. Although Bo didn’t possess any virtues, patience was his least favorite.

“Y-yes, Father.” Your eyes practically roll back into your skull when he penetrates you in one sharp thrust. When the sudden force makes you gasp, Bo takes it as an invitation to slip his fingers into your mouth.

“Fuck, you’re so tight. Love getting all your holes filled by me, huh?” You pathetically moan around him in response. Vulnerability plagues you in your compromising position. Anyone could walk in and see what the two of you were doing. Not that Bo would let them go easily.

“Beautiful,” Bo growls while kissing your sweat-slicked forehead. Mixed with the Louisiana humidity, the heat inside the small church was smoldering. Overstimulation made every bit of pleasure dull into a painful throb.

“I can’t take anymore!” Your muffled plea is thankfully heard as Bo shifts his touch to soothe your legs.

“You can.”

His hands wrapped around your thighs to have you meet him at each thrust. In turn, your nails dig into the wood as your arms struggled to keep you upright. Your bodies moved in tandem to reach the height of pleasure. Bo always marveled at how you felt like you were made for him. Each contraction of your inner walls squeezed him exactly right and the head of his cock perfectly nudged at your cervix.

Incoherent whines escape you from the unrelenting pounding of Bo’s cock. Once again you could feel your release on the precipice. “Can I, oh my god, please cum?” He smiles at you deceptively sweet before leaning down to whisper,

“No.”

Bo pulls out to instead rut against you. He curses at how much you coated his cock with your wetness. It took every ounce of his own control not to immediately bury himself back inside you. Tears of frustration bubble to the surface from his continued denial. When you try to push at his chest he captures your wrists, “I’m not done with you yet.”

Before you can calm down from your ruined orgasm, he flips you on top of him and sheaths himself in you again. You sink even deeper than you were before. With each drop of your hips, you push yourself down slowly on his length. Judging by the tight set of his jaw and his biting grip, it was a toss-up on who was suffering more. And just like all suffering, it stemmed from an insatiable sin, lust.

The aged wooden pew creaks at every fevered movement, adding to the symphony of noises bouncing off the walls. Loudest of them all is the slapping of skin and your pitiful pleas. Strings of “please” mixed with promises of devotion are endlessly moaned. Bo fucks you even harder until you swear you might break.

“Who do you belong to?” He knows you’ll pledge your devout faith and loyalty to him with no further questioning. As God is your witness, you’ll give Bo whatever he commands. Consequences be damned.

Through gasps of breath, you stutter out, “Y-you. Pl-lease!”

“Speak up! Who is the only man you worship?” Ever the possessive lover he wanted you to scream his name like a prayer.  

Racked by longing you practically shout, “Always you, Bo! Please I need-“

“Cum. Cum knowing I’m the one makin’ you fall apart.”

Bo grabs your hips to fuck into you feverishly, finally giving you your prolonged bliss. White hot pleasure overtakes you as you finally are able to give in to your orgasm. You bury your face in the crook of Bo’s neck as you flutter around him. Each wave is prolonged by the continued thrusts. Nails leave crescent moon shapes in your hips under Bo’s iron grip. A flurry of curses slips past his clenched jaw as he drives his release into you.

“That’s it, take it all.” By the time he stops moving, you are a shaking mess. Only when you feel fingers combing through your hair do you realize you’re crying. Wrapping your arms around Bo’s neck you give in to the intense emotions.

“Shh baby, I got ya.” Bo pushed you to your limit, always testing how far you would go for him. For years you boxed yourself in a comfort zone that no one in your life tried to push. Until now. Now the man underneath you forces you to come face to face with your dark side, which you let fester for far too long.

Bo rubs along your back in soft circles. “You were such a good girl confessing your sins like that.” The praise soothes your heart making you finally relax in his hold. After a few minutes, your tears subside and give way to the aftershock of pleasure from your intense orgasm.

“Oh God that was…” You’re left speechless. Bo kisses along the vein throbbing in your neck as you desperately try to catch your breath. Aftercare was the man’s specialty. No matter how intense everything got, he always took the time to make sure you were okay. “Just call me Bo, sweetheart.”

“I thought I was only allowed to call you Father?” You muster a weak chuckle while running your fingers through the loose strands of hair that fell onto his forehead from your joint exertion. Bo intercepts your hand to kiss each knuckle.

“Next time I’ll have you mewling the name Daddy.” The proud smirk on his face only intensifies when he feels you clench around his cock at the promise. Leave it to Bo to do the most unholy things in the holiest place possible.

Any and all interactions are greatly appreciated.

#bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair #house of wax #house of wax x reader #slasher x reader #slashers x reader #bo sinclair x you #delirious masterlist

[incognit0slut]

This is actually crazy. If someone told me in the past that I would have all these people appreciating my silly ideas I would’ve laughed, and technically, I am laughing right now because I still can’t wrap my head around it even though it’s HAPPENING.

Thank you all so, so much. I can’t express how lucky I am to have you reading, liking, sharing my work, and just interacting with me. I love each and every one of you💘💘

As I promised, my next story is dedicated to this milestone celebration so here is a little preview. It’s still a draft and needs a lot of editing, so it might take some time.

Sneak peek under the cut!

...his shoulders stiffened at your words as he finally turned to face you. "You think I don't want to have sex with you?"

"I don't know what to think anymore," you admitted. "You're shutting me out. It's hard not to take it personally."

You both watched each other, the tension between you palpable. Slowly, he began to walk towards you, his gaze never leaving yours. "I'm refusing to have sex with you right now not because I don't want to," he said, his voice dangerously low. “I’m refusing because I'm trying to protect you."

"Protect me from what?" you asked, confusion lacing your words.

"From myself."

You felt a knot tightening in your stomach. "I-I don't understand."

He closed the distance between you, and you could feel the intensity of his gaze boring into yours. "I don't want to risk it. I'm afraid that if we... if we cross that line, I might hurt you."

"Spencer," you whispered. "You would never hurt me."

He shook his head. "You wouldn't be so sure if you knew half of the things running in my head right now."

Your heart raced as his words sank in. Your eyes couldn't help but wander down his body, tracing the lines of his open shirt and the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Your breath caught in your throat as your gaze trailed lower, taking in the way his pants hung low on his hips and the hint of hair leading downwards.

You swallowed hard.

"Then tell me," you challenged, your voice trembling slightly as you met his gaze head-on. "Tell me how you would hurt me."

His studied you, assessing, calculating. "You won't like it," he warned.

"And what if I do?"

His eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of surprise flashing across his features. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"I know what I want."

He regarded you for a long moment, weighing your words carefully. Finally, he stepped closer, his breath warm against your skin as he whispered, "You really want to know what I'd like to do to you?"

You held his gaze as a shiver of anticipation danced down your spine. "Yes," you replied. "Tell me."

His lips curved into a faint, almost rueful smile…

end of sneak peek because what he says next gives out too much :) fingers crossed I have it done by next week

(Also, can you tell I love his happy trail so much ok bye)

#so blessed #ilysm <3 #follower milestone #lou rambles

[singaporesainz]

this will be very long, so fair warning, but, as someone who does pay close attention to mclaren, the idea that so many people are already projecting oscar to completely outperform lando so soon makes me a little wary... not only is it underestimating lando but it's also putting a lot of unnecessary expectation on oscar who will still only be in his second year.

learning things like tyre and race management takes longer than most would think, and some don't ever perfect it despite initial promise (though hopefully oscar does!). they're incredibly complex and not just one singular attribute to learn, but rather a collation of dozens and dozens of conditions with dozens and dozens of outcomes. it's hard, and shouldn't be expected within a year or two!

we also can't forget that lando's only just over a singular year older than oscar; the guy is still so young, and the idea that lando won't also be making year-on-year improvements to his intrinsic performance level is a little silly. neither of them are at their peaks yet, especially when you consider that intrinsic performance improvement usually tends to plateau around age 26/27 for athletes.

another important thing to consider when talking about lando's career specifically so far is he has still never had a car which is even vaguely in line with something that suits his driving style – so you could expect another order of improvement from him when he has a car he feels he can really push and rely on. the mclaren's handling has historically been incredibly odd and unpredictable; not knowing how a car will react from corner to corner, lap to lap will have undoubtedly put a cap on maximum performance and the ability to perform consistently, purely inherently with the car's characteristics, especially when you're pushing 110%.

neither driver has reached their ceiling yet, and to try and predict the outcome in this intra-team rivalry as anything other than just "closer than last year" feels a little presumptuous, and does a disservice to both of them.

i won't touch on the sprint win vs. no wins argument for lando and oscar when only "freak" wins have been available to either of them so far, and doesn't really hold water when really assessing talent in depth in the midst of extremely dominated eras of f1. especially when the strategy department of mclaren is still a bit crap.

but yeah. i imagine lando will remain ahead, but it should be closer just by virtue of oscar now having f1 experience at all of these tracks now, and the combined experience of a year in f1 and the comprehensive f1 testing programme he went through with both mclaren and alpine over 2022-2023.

it'll be interesting to see how lando specifically will develop if he's given a car competitive enough that he doesn't have to compromise his personal aspirations (eg. risks in w2w racing, strategy risks, putting it all on the line for a win) to prioritise the team result. until now mclaren has been prioritising low-risk racing, low-risk strategy and low-damage costs for the sake of what is essentially a midfield wcc each year lando's been there, amidst what has essentially been a money-strapped rebuilding phase.

we've only seen glimpses of how aggressive of a racer lando can be by virtue of him also being a smart racer who knows when it's actually worth risking something. seeing how oscar fits in at the front-end will be fascinating to see as well.

multiple years down the line, once both are fully mature, the lando/oscar argument will be a fun one to have, because we'll have the proper information to evaluate them with; but we don't as of yet. and that's partially why mclaren's lineup is so exciting :)

there isn't anyway i can properly reply to this whole post because i wouldn't know any better BUT i will say that i soo appreciate talks like this. i love talking about the nitty gritty, going deeper than what we see from race to race. im working on really understanding the cars and all that, so it was nice to read this.

thanks for taking the time, truthfully <3

#a-nonnie #hot take hotline #lando norris #oscar piastri #mclaren

[johannestevans]

rewatching Hill House with lewis and god like. thinking about how luke as an addict has NONE of the same fancy treatment that Nellie gets, we don't see anyone delving into the underlying REASONS he is an addict

and not just the poverty compared to his siblings but like

the trauma of hill house. we see nellie seek out a fancy sleep therapist in a sleek beautifully made up office, and separately is in a sleek fancy psychiatrist's office and speaking to him in one on one sessions

because luke is an addict he doesn't get that. because luke is an addict and is automatically blamed for everything BECAUSE he's an addict, bc he's automatically seen as evil and Wrong inside, everything is about what HE'S done wrong, the amends HE needs to make

and of course he's fucking hurt them, but a heroin addiction doesn't come from nowhere - esp bc we see him as a young boy with bad vision who struggles with his letters in a way that his sister doesn't at the same age, who comes off as quite a bit younger than nellie in some ways

yes, he's naïve in a way that nellie isn't as a child (although they obviously swap roles as adults), yes he doesn't do well assessing risk, but like

the thing about that is that. theo has a PhD in behavioural science or whatever

shirley is a mortician, steve is a successful author, nellie is a fucking PHOTOGRAPHER and like

nell is also naïve as an adult but bc she has that creative streak she's able to cobble whatever living together and access fancy care

but luke? steven basically laughs at him when they talk about him being able to write a story and the work being good. no one cares about luke. everyone is frustrated with nell's naivety but she gets a lot of slack that luke doesn't because she's not an addict

and i just think about how. luke doesn't get into art or a fancy career like any of his siblings do. he doesn't find a focus or an obsession. he doesn't develop support or loving connections. he's there, ripped open and traumatised like they are, with nothing to stem the wounds

of course he turns to fucking heroin. what else does he have? and then what little he DOES have goes down the drain as he spirals further and further, he steals from his siblings, he erodes those relationships to nothing, they see him as an inconvenience, they treat him cruelly

like. real talk.

can luke, as an adult, even fucking see very well?

bc baby luke has glasses that are thick as anything, and i KNOW that my man isn't carrying his contact case from alleyway to alleyway and shitty shelter to slightly less shitty clinic

MAYBE he's had corrective eye surgery. maybe he's just given up, because he can't get a job like his siblings anyway so why does it matter? he'd only lose his glasses anyway

but fuck it just. kills me.

like just the blaming luke for everything he's suffering when they're all insane and all traumatised, they're all DESTROYED

but they all acknowledge they're fucked up cos of the house... except luke. it's luke's fault, bc he's an addict

#musings #haunting of hill house #luke crain