#and then i just ended up with a different crop because THEY MAKE NO SENSE

[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

[unsolvedjarin]

just you wait sunshine.

pairing: (sebastian vettel x driver! reader)

summary: sebastian’s retirement has led him to reminisce his past life and mistakes, including you. little does he know, the universe is about to give him a second chance via a small bookstore in switzerland.

note: this went on WAYYY longer than i wanted it to be and it didn’t really go the direction i wanted either, but we move

content warning: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, more sebastian centric than reader centric tbh (sorry i just love him so much)

word count: 3.7k

Retirement had been good to Sebastian.

He’d finally been able to spend time in his farm house, plant some trees, grow a garden, and along with all that, still have time to drive cars whenever an event needed him to. It was like his entire life schedule magically cleared up in front of him.

He missed racing of course, he won’t pretend that he didn’t. After all, he spent 15 years in the sport, it was his pride and joy for quite a long time. But that time of his life is over, he’s accepted that. He wanted to enjoy the other things in life instead, be able to see and experience things that the busy life of being a driver didn’t let him experience.

Sitting on a chair in his porch watching the sun set, he reflects on what he could have done differently. Who he could have treated differently. And when only one name enters his mind, the same one that’s haunted him for the past 5 years, he sighs reluctantly and heads back inside to prepare his dinner.

—

2012

“What do you wanna do when you grow up?”

The question takes you by surprise as you take another swig of your beer. The moon shone brightly on the porch of whatever airbnb your team had set you up at, and the stars were sparkling like they had never before.

“What kind of question is that, Sebby?” you giggle. “Isn’t this what we’re gonna do for eternity? Racing?”

Sebastian shrugs, looking up at the sky on his foldable chair that you had brought on the trip. “Yeah but after that, you know? I’ve always thought about what my life will be like after retirement.”

“Okay old man, because you’re sooo close to retiring,” you tease. He gives you a playful light shove for that, smiling as he does. The air feels freer and lighter than it ever has before.

“But seriously,” Sebastian chuckled. “Have you ever thought about it?”

You ponder for a second before replying, “No, not really. I mean my career’s just starting, I haven’t really thought about the end. But when I do retire, I think I’d like to be a writer.”

“Like those egotistical types to make a biographical book about themselves?” Sebastian asks, earning a laugh from you. The sound made him feel things that he’d only ever felt before with you.

“God no,” you laugh out. “I don’t wanna be like those old blokes who get obsessed with themselves after they retire. I just wanna write fictional books, maybe under a pen name. Just a simple life; me, my theoretical dog, and my theoretical book.”

Sebastian nods with an understanding look in his eye. He wants that life too. A simple one, away from the public. Even now at his young age, the paparazzis and press were getting annoying quickly.

“I want to live in a house far away from the city,” he says. “Maybe the suburbs— no that’s too near…a farm! I’ll live in a farmhouse.”

You smile at the thought of Sebastian Vettel, two time Formula 1 world champion, just lounging about in a farm tending to his animals and crops.

“Wouldn’t it get boring? Or lonely? Milking your cows alone?”

He answers you with no delay, “Well I’d want you to be with me of course.”

You thanked whatever higher power was listening at that time that he couldn’t see how your blush formed over the darkness of the night. Regaining your sense of self, you reply, “What makes you think I’d want to go with you?”

“Wouldn’t you?” he asks genuinely. “You could write your books inside while I…I don’t know what type of farm I’ll make, exactly. But I’ll be tending to that and you can write your books with your theoretical dog.”

“It’ll be our theoretical dog, then.”

Sebastian replied with a soft smile, “Ours, then.”

—

He had settled on bees. Having a bee farmhouse. It wasn’t easy work, it was definitely more complicated than milking a cow like you had said, but it made him happy, and it made him content.

Well, as content as he could be.

You had your first kiss that night, Sebastian recalled. He remembers because even though you didn’t think it, he could see the red blush dusted lightly on your cheeks, a sign he made the right choice leaning in and making his move.

Preparing his dinner for one in his cozy yet lonely farm house, he realizes he could have had this all with you. If he had just been more kind and if you had forgiven him, you could have had all of this together. A life that both of you had always wanted.

—

2018

“Sebastian, I’m not asking you to retire or something, I’m just asking you to take a break, please,” you beg. He remembers your exasperated voice as clear as day.

“I can’t take a break, Y/N, you don't understand. If I don’t get at least podium in this race, that's it, my career is basically over.”

Scoffing, you replied, “Your career isn’t over just like that, you’ve still got another year with Ferrari for christ’s sake.”

“You wouldn’t get it,” he mumbled, opting to turn away from you and put on his racing gear instead.

He’d been distant the whole season, the tension between the two of you increasing and increasing that finally it just snapped this race weekend. He’d been icing you out, acting like you didn’t exist because he was ‘practicing for the races ahead.’

At first you understood, you were a driver too. You recognized the difficulty of always losing race after race, how after a while it took a toll on your mental wellbeing. So you gave him space.

Then, when that didn’t work, you tried reaching out, helping him. It was the worst mistake of your life. Every time you tried to talk to him, to ask him what was wrong so you could help, he kept pushing you further and further away, acting like you were getting in the way of his work, sometimes even getting angry.

That went on for the whole season, until finally today, on qualifying morning, you snapped and demanded he talk to you.

“What the hell do you mean ‘I wouldn’t get it’? I have the exact same job as you,” you accused. You’d been patient for months and his vagueness was starting to get on your nerves.

Whipping his head around angrily to face you he replied, “You don’t have to reach the same standard as I do. I have to constantly prove I’m the best, and you constantly prove to be a midfielder.”

Oh.

Oh.

That was a low blow, even Sebastian knew that. Your relationship had been teetering on the edge for the past year, but this was a make or break moment, and he knew exactly which one of the two it was going to be.

“So it’s like that,” you decided with a tone of finality. Sebastian wanted to ask for your forgiveness right then and there, to apologize, to make up for the last few months of being an asshole, to beg you not to throw away your years together just like that.

But he knew he was in the wrong, and he was too stubborn and egotistical to apologize.

Sensing the silence from him, you nod with teary eyes you tried so desperately to stop from flowing freely. Sebastian wanted nothing more to wipe them away, to hold you in his arms, but he never could do it.

“This is how you want it to end?” You asked him. It was a genuine question. You were giving him one last choice, one last chance to make up for how he’d been treating you the past year.

He stayed silent.

“Enjoy your fucking career, Vettel.”

—

He won that race. It was his first win of the season, but he felt like he had lost the championship itself as he stood on that podium, eyes looking for you in the crowd like he usually did, finding you absolutely nowhere.

After your argument he tried to talk to you in the paddocks but you constantly avoided him, the act not being hard when he wasn’t allowed inside your team’s hospitality building nor paddock. That fight was the last sensible conversation with each other you ever had.

You retired the year after that. You moved out quietly from your shared home, and he heard you stayed with Jenson for quite a while. He couldn’t blame you, Jenson had always been kind to you— Sebastian had no place to be jealous.

Hearing the beeping of his oven, Sebastian snaps out of his trip down memory lane to grab his dinner. It was a tray of lasagna, one he was sure he would be eating again tomorrow lunch because of the size of it.

He thinks about how he wouldn’t have to place the excess in a container for tomorrow if he just had someone to share it with. If he could share it with you.

Going through his grocery list at 10 in the morning, Sebastian notices a new store out of the corner of his eye. He’s been to this street countless times to do his grocery down the road— they had a brand of milk that no other nearby grocery had— but he had never seen that store before.

It was a bookshop. A small one compared to the large shops that surrounded it, but it stood out enough to be noticed yet cozy enough to feel inviting. It was a cold morning in Switzerland, and the heater inside just invited him further in until he found himself standing at the doorway, taking in the smell of books and the absolutely gorgeous decor.

He will admit, he hasn’t seen a bookshop like this in quite a while. The second he stepped foot inside he felt the love radiate through it, as if he knew the owner personally and how they had a passion for their store.

All Sebastian could think about, however, was how much you would love this. How you would adore running your fingers through the spine of a second hand book, or how you would pick a fresh new one for him to read and he would do the same for you, just like you both did back then.

He won’t pretend that he never looked for your book when you retired. He knew you weren’t joking about publishing one, he just didn’t know what pen name you chose so he never could find it.

“Looking for something specific?” A voice makes him turn his head around to see the woman behind the register looking at him inquisitively. He realizes that he was just standing in an aisle not really reading or picking up a book.

Sebastian shakes his head, “Not really, just browsing. I was thinking about how a friend of mine would have liked to see this store, it’s right up their alley.”

“Why don’t you invite them then?” A different voice speaks.

…It can’t be.

That voice.

That voice.

No, he was hallucinating, dreaming maybe. Yes, this was a dream. That would be the only explanation why from behind him he heard a voice he missed so dreadfully, one he tried imagining talk to him again some nights, one he watched old videos for, one he—

“Sebastian?”

It was you. He would recognize your voice anywhere. He turns around, and the world seems to slow down as if it suddenly focused on just the both of you. The background blurs and everything is hazy and distorted but you were there. Standing in front of him, actually real. Older than he remembers but not in a negative way, just more mature. More peaceful. More you.

Staring at you in the middle of a bookshop in Switzerland after 5 years, Sebastian couldn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say. What would be right? Would there be words he could tell you that would make you ever forgive him?

“I-” “You-”

You both start at the same time, making you laugh at each other. It was the first time he’s seen you smile since 2016. He used to say he would burn cities to see you smile, and he’s glad he knows now that that feeling hasn’t changed.

“You first,” he says. He wants to hear what you’ll say so he can choose his words better.

“I, uh,” you laugh awkwardly. It was still a beautiful sound to Sebastian. “I was actually slightly expecting to see you here.”

Oh. Well he didn’t expect that. You…you were expecting to see him? Like purposely thinking about him? The thought boggled Sebastian.

Noticing his visible silence, you speak up again. “I co-own this bookstore,” you smile. “I knew you lived around the area so I expected I’d bump into you eventually. It’s not the main thing that I do, but my Swiss friend you just talked to behind the counter wanted to make a bookstore but was low on funds so I decided to help a friend out, you know?”

Oh he knows. You were always so kind when it came to your friends. He remembers, he used to be one of them.

“That’s really nice of you,” Sebastian says. He slaps himself internally for the dumb reply he gives. “You uh, you look great.” Way to fucking go Sebastian. What a great conversation saver.

“Not in a weird way, of course. I mean I would never try to make you feel uncomfortable by saying that. Did you feel uncomfortable? Was it weird? It probably was. I mean I haven’t seen you in so long and that’s the first thing I say it’s so stupid and I could have said something of significance but—”

You stop Sebastian before he rambles on any longer. Holding his fidgeting hand, you chuckle at the sight of the nervous German in front of you. “Relax, Seb. I’m not mad. I’ve moved on.”

Oh.

“You have?” He asks, not thinking before he speaks because he knows he hasn’t. How could he move on from the best thing that ever happened to him and the biggest mistake he ever made?

The question takes you aback, pulling your hand away from his. For a second Sebastian thinks he’s messed up all over again, but you simply reply, “I meant from racing. But I know what you think I mean.”

“Can we catch up? I’ve missed you.” Sebastian hears himself say it before he even realizes the implications of his words.

“Oh.” you say with a pause. It makes Sebastian’s heart sink. Maybe you really have moved on, but in a way that you didn’t want him in your life anymore. He gets that. It looks like you’ve built a nice life for yourself outside of racing. Even if he never gets to be in it. He’s proud of you for being able to move on. “How about we sit down for some coffee first? I know a place near here.”

Oh thank god. Sebastian wasn’t ready to be deprived of you again so quickly.

Walking to the cafe, the air was thick with the tension between the two of you. While your accidental meeting in the library had gone well, the spark of the moment had faded and the reality of the situation had settled in. This was someone Sebastian had deeply wronged, someone he still deeply loved, and there were too many words unsaid there about both.

Sitting down at the window seats— he remembers how you loved sitting there so you could watch the people outside— you flag down a waiter to take both your orders.

“I’ll take a macchiato and— Seb do you still take your coffee black?”

Nodding, he looks out the window with a light blush on his cheeks. The fact that you remembered his— albeit simple— order made him happy and he had to catch himself otherwise he would be smiling like a teenage boy again. It was truly the little things.

“So,” he speaks up, straightening up and looking at you.

“So,” you mimic. “I go first or you go first?”

“My life has been pretty televised before I retired, there’s nothing really surprising in it. You go first.”

You spend the next 30 minutes filling him in on your life, how you avoided the media for the past few years, how you live in a cozy home with your dog, how you still exchange presents with some of the older grid during Christmas (Sebastian admits he got jealous here).

But the most important part was when he heard how you finally wrote that book you always talked about.

“Really? You finally published it?” Sebastian asks. He could see how the smile on your face was genuine, unlike the many times he saw you put on a fake one for the press or the media. It made him happy.

“Yeah, I finally found time after I retired to start it. Surprisingly it’s actually much harder and less peaceful than I thought it’d be.”

“At least it’s not a biographical book,” Seb jokes. The throwback makes you giggle, but it also makes you both acknowledge the elephant in the room. There were still so many things left unsaid, you both didn’t know where to start.

“Y/N back when I said those things, you know the ones, I didn’t mean them.”

Giving him a sad smile you reply, “I know, Seb. But it doesn’t take them back. Besides, that silly argument was just the straw that broke the camel's back, we were on the edge of our relationship for so long, you knew that too.”

“I know, but that was my fault it was on the edge too. I kept pushing you away because of Ferrari and how disappointed I was in my career. I didn’t realize at the time how much it was hurting you until I finally lost you. I know it makes no sense to say it this late when all is said and done, but I am sorry.”

Sebastian’s words stunned you to silence. You knew he never meant pushing you away, despite your last fight he was never intentionally that unkind, it was just racing that pushed him to be like that back then. But hearing the words coming from him hit differently, the way he said the two words you’ve been yearning for for years. I’m Sorry.

It couldn’t make you forget, but it could make you forgive.

“I know you are, Sebby,” you say. The old nickname brings a nostalgic smile on his face. “I’ve forgiven you years ago, just after I retired. I figured I should let go of my ghosts and that’s what I did. Though I won’t lie, your ghost did put up quite a fight giving me tears at night,” you joked. Sebastian could sense the hint of sadness in it.

He wishes he could make it all go away, to fix it just like he used to be able to. But he knows it’s not that easy. Not when the years have separated you both. It’ll be hard getting your trust back to let him into your heart even just as a friend, but goddamn if he wasn’t going to try and fix it.

“Will you ever show me the book?”

The question catches you slightly off guard. “I doubt it. It’s not up your alley anway, historical fiction.”

“Anything you write is up my alley. Maybe you can come over sometime and show it to me,” he says, not realizing the underlying meaning to it.

“Careful, Sebastian,” you say. “Forgiving is easy when you’re given time, but forgetting is harder. Let’s take baby steps.”

Baby steps. He could live with that. To Sebastian it doesn’t matter if it takes days or years to get you back in his life, he’ll let you take your time. You deserve it. And if you choose in the end to walk out of his life again, well, then he deserves it.

You hug each other goodbye when you leave, the hug lasting longer than it should have. He knows he promised baby steps, but when you buried your head into the crook of his neck and tightened your grip around him softly, he couldn’t resist pulling you closer to him and holding you there for a few seconds. He misses this, the closeness of it.

He sends you his address if ever you were in the area again, and you notice how the profile picture he has for you on your number was still the one of you when you were both rookies. It made you happy.

Sebastian didn’t expect anything more to happen, he spent that night contemplating what good deed he must’ve done to bring you back into his life again. Whatever it was, he was grateful he had done it.

The next afternoon as he was reheating the Lasagna— that he ultimately forgot yesterday— in the oven for lunch, he heard his doorbell ring. Opening his door he spots a package on the floor, one that was wrapped with a cute bee themed wrapping paper. It made him chuckle. He expected that whoever or whatever was at the door was you, but this was the next best thing.

Sitting down on his porch chair, he opens the package delicately as if it were fragile. He can feel the outline already, it was a book. Moreover, it was your book. Sebastian couldn’t believe it.

There was a note attached that read, ‘Forgot to tell you yesterday. I missed you too.’

The few words were almost enough to bring him to tears, but he continued and opened the book to scan its contents. The typing Published 2020 stands out, making him realize how long he’s missed out on this.

But what truly catches his attention is the dedication. Smack right in the middle, the words to be seen by everyone, read; For my Sunshine, the amount of words left unsaid will never match the amount of love I still have for you in my heart.

He may not be able to fix his mistake just like that, but Sebastian would wait however long it took for you to love him again, as a friend or as another. As long as his sunshine was in his life again.

#sebastian vettel #sebastian vettel x reader #sebastian vettel x you #sebastian vettel imagine #formula one #formula 1 #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #formula 1 imagine #fanfic #writing #f1 fanfic #f1blr #f1 x reader #fluff #angst #angst with a happy ending

[skyahri]

Soul |Ryomen Sukuna X Reader| HC

Pairing: Ryomen Sukuna X Fem!Reader

Summary: Sukuna meets the reincarnation of the only person he's ever loved.

Warnings: Implications of sex? Reincarnation. Fear and anxiety.

- - - - -

"Rin..."

It came out like word vomit before Yuuji could even process what he was saying.

You looked at him, confused. Your name wasn't Rin and you'd never met this man before. Who did he think you were?

He slapped a hand over his mouth. Sukuna had forced his way to the surface just to ramble out a name? In all these years as his vessel, he'd never done something so trivial.

Sensing the flicker of cursed energy, Gojo, Megumi, and Nobara prepared themselves. It'd been a while since Sukuna had tried anything. Some sort of pact he'd formed with Yuuji kept him mostly content, although they weren't sure what it entailed.

It happened in the blink of an eye; Sukuna had taken over and stood directly in front of you, one hand flat on your chest and the other on your face.

"Rin... I could never forget the feel of your soul."

Your heartbeat fastened. An overwhelming feeling of fear fell onto you, rendering you unable to move.

What would you be able to do anyway? He's a God, and you had no abilities outside of actually seeing the damn things.

You had no idea what he was talking about. Your name isn't Rin and you'd never had any kind of encounter with either men until just now.

Megumi tried to move forward, but Gojo stuck an arm out in front of him. Something was off about the way Sukuna was acting, and he didn't think it was threatening.

It would be best to see how this played out instead of possibly starting a war that was never meant to begin in the first place.

"What are you doing? We can't let her-"

"Hold on."

They watched as Sukuna looked you up and down, inspecting your robes, hair, and face with a certain softness. His face was still hard and his movements still confident, but there was just that feeling.

"You look so different, but thats to be expected. Are you fairing well?"

You swallowed hard. His delicate touch did nothing to soothe your nerves. If anything, it only confused you more. He was tucking your hair behind your ear, giving you some sort of smile, and yet you feared he was going to rip your heart right out of your body.

"Um..."

Really, how were you supposed to respond? What sort of answer was he expecting? What were the consequences if you were to answer incorrectly?

Were you meant to comment on how you supposedly looked different? Was it your features? Your clothes? Your haircut?

"I'm scared."

Sukuna paused. You were horrified to have answered wrong, and now you could only hope he wouldn't kill you.

But he did something unexpected; he laughed. A thick, hardy chuckle that made your blood run cold.

Was this the end? How pitiful. Slain on a random Tuesday afternoon all because you wanted to meet up with an old friend. That's not a proper death.

"A thousand years and countless reincarnations, yet you still know how to make me laugh."

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to your forehead. You only had a moment to panic before a lifetime of memories filled your mind.

You remember the time before modern civilization when you relied on hunting in the woods and crops from the neighbor's farm.

You remembered your parents, siblings, friends, and other villagers. You remember your home on the outskirts of town just against the forest line.

But most importantly, you remember Sukuna.

You remember meeting him as a human, and then several years later as a curse. You faced off against him, and although you couldn't beat him in the end, you'd come close enough to earn his respect.

He stood above you, two arms crossed, one on his hip, and the other outstretched to offer you a hand up.

Who were you to refuse such a gesture from the king of curses?

He allowed you to join his temple alongside other followers of his with the condition you devoted yourself to him entirely. The offer was presented as a choice, but the alternative was death, so any reservations you had were null.

You wanted to go with him anyway, but that's beside the point.

From the very beginning of your journey with him, it was made clear to everyone that you were 'special' and not to be bothered.

This fact didn't hold up too well with some of the others, but what were they to do about it? Argue with Sukuna? Tell him they were more deserving of his attention? How pathetic.

He allowed you privileges that would only ever be known to you, like dining with him or joining him on trips. These small pleasantries became grand ones, like sharing his bed and allowing him to claim you.

Your relationship was equal from then on. You were not just a follower of his anymore. He was just as devoted to you as you are to him, and he ensured you knew it.

He'd always make sure to tell you how special you were, that he was taking his time with you and granting you pleasure. How you were his favorite, and no one else could even compare. How others had not been so lucky in the past.

He'd escort you to and from the hot springs, have humans bring you flowers and jewelry, and allow you to see the most vulnerable aspects of him.

He promised his love for you would never die, and here he is a millennia later proving true to his words.

Once the unrelenting onslaught of memories subsided, your hands met his- one still on your chest feeling your heartbeat, and the other slid partway into your hair- and all you could do was appreciate his presence.

You stared up at him. His face was different, but that intense look in his eyes was all the proof you needed that he was still the same man from all those years ago.

Tears beaded up in your eyes and quickly dripped down your cheeks. Crying had never been your thing in the past, but you didn't care to stuff the feelings down. Such a reunion was an occasion enough.

"My love," you whispered.

He leaned his forehead down to meet yours.

"My Queen."

#sukuna x reader #jjk x reader #jjk #jujutsu sukuna #jujutsu kaisen #sukuna fluff #sukuna ryomen #ryomen sukuna #jjk headcanons #jjk hcs

[hero-israel]

sorry if this is a dumb question and i understand if you don't want to answer but do you have links to posts explaining why israel isn't an apartheid state? i swear i read posts like that on your blog before but i don't know how to refind them

Israeli Arabs have legal equality with Jews. Same restaurants, same pools, same seats on the bus, same voting rights. I would favorably compare the treatment of Israeli Arabs with that of any minority group in any country on Earth.

The West Bank has a military occupation, with (pretty fast) checkpoints and no right to vote about the government running that military. Military occupations are bad and some of us have been against this particular one for decades. The anti-occupation movement hasn't gotten anywhere, they've just been stuck. Being stuck in a military occupation for X more years doesn't make it apartheid, just like being stuck in a bad marriage for X more years doesn't make you divorced. Meanwhile, the 2020 Abraham Accords showed that multiple Arab states were willing to accept this unchanging status quo and deal with Israel as it is. Those two factors - the stagnant, unchanging nature of the occupation, and the clear loss of interest in the Palestinian cause - combined to have the latest crop of awareness-raising college interns at some shifty NGOs try to force change by abracadabra'ing together a new concept of "apartheid" that exists solely for Israel. And it is working, just like "Christ-killer" and "stabbed Germany in the back" worked.

In 2010, Human Rights Watch published an extremely critical report on Israel's occupation of the West Bank. Dragged them up one wall and down the other. Yet there was no accusation of "apartheid" there. In the report, page 33, they cited a lawsuit by the Association for Civil Rights in Israel that had said it was apartheid for the West Bank military occupation authorities to ban Palestinians from driving on Highway 443 after repeated firebombings / shootings against Israelis. The Israeli High Court ruled that it was inappropriate to ban Palestinians from the road, and it re-established their equal driving access - they have had it ever since. The court also said that the accusation of apartheid behind that now-ended ban was dishonest, because the security concerns were not based on race; there were and are no "Jewish-only" roads anywhere, even when WB Palestinians were denied road access, Israeli Arabs could and did drive there. The HRW 2010 report included a long summary of that finding, without challenge. As bad as they saw Israel, they agreed it wasn't apartheid.

Then in 2020 came the Abraham Accords, so while nothing at all had changed in the administration of the West Bank, in 2021 HRW said it actually was apartheid. It really is that simple. The most famous legal convention banning apartheid specifies that it is race-based. HRW instead went with a different legal convention on apartheid, one that says it could be based on national origin if it involves discrimination among citizens of the same country.... and then they up and added their own twist to that, saying they will consider it apartheid if there is discrimination based on national origin AMONG PEOPLE WHO AREN'T CITIZENS OF THE SAME COUNTRY. In a very real sense, HRW declared Mexico is an apartheid state because Americans can't vote in its elections.

In 2022, Amnesty International followed with their own report, saying that not only was the military occupation now "apartheid," but that Israel itself had been an apartheid state ever since it was established in 1948. This moral perversion had the effect of saying Israel literally INVENTED apartheid since in May 1948 it didn't even exist in South Africa yet. It also said that Amnesty International - founded 1961 - had been looking at an apartheid the whole time but never recognized it. To make things even more dishonest, Amnesty said they "are not claiming Israeli conditions are analogous to South Africa," meaning anything that shows how Israel is different from South Africa doesn't count. They're using the South African word for the South African policy but it's actually not like South Africa at all so be quiet, neener neener no backsies.

I shouldn't have to take that seriously. Neither should anyone. Palestinians and their advocates should be ashamed to have to lean on such an obvious bad-faith lie.

Nelson Mandela, who died in 2013, never once accused Israel of apartheid, and instead repeatedly said he supported Zionism and a 2-state solution. Mandela's lawyer, still alive, says the accusation is a lie. Mansour Abbas, leader of the Arab Islamist party that joined Israel's governing coalition in 2021, says the accusation is a lie. And if people want to bandy around NGO business cards, here is the International Committee of the Red Cross in 2017:

“The Red Cross was very familiar with the regime that prevailed in South Africa during the apartheid period, and we are responding to all those who raise their claim of apartheid against Israel: No, there is no apartheid here, no regime of superiority of race, of denial of basic human rights to a group of people because of their alleged racial inferiority. There is a bloody national conflict, whose most prominent and tragic characteristic is its continuation over the years, decades-long, and there is a state of occupation. Not apartheid.”

There's a lot more you can see about the shifty terminology, unreliable sourcing, and longstanding culture of antisemitism and racism within Amnesty International. People who can cite chapter and verse of why the Salvation Army, Autism Speaks, Chik-Fil-A and Harry Potter are problematic should not be shocked.

#israel #palestine #amnesty international #apartheid #antisemitism #leftist antisemitism #false accusations #european antisemitism #jumblr #human rights watch

[meangirls-imagines]

Could I request a Leighton x reader one shot where Leighton just recently came out and is new to the whole lesbian flirting thing so she tries to find out if reader is gay with the help of questionable internet advice?

Gaydar Issues

Description: Leighton is new to the Essex queer community and unlike her confident persona, she has no idea how to flirt. She meets Reader and develops a crush on her. She should not have gone to her roommates for help.

WARNINGS: fluffy as fuck, leighton being a gay baby, her roommates being dumb, leighton gay panicking.

Okay.

In hindsight, Leighton knew she shouldn't have gone to her roommates for queer flirting advice.

She had no other options.

Let's recap.

Ever since Leighton came out, she had found it difficult to talk to women in person and not behind a screen. She was two different people.

One had a seductive aura, luring her hookups in with a single smirk and making them see stars by the end of the night.

The other was a shy, nervous girl who had no idea how to flirt.

Leighton was struggling. She had tried to talk to Nico about it but him being a guy, gave her flirting tips that he does, which were gross. She tried to talk to Willow about it but the girl was no help. She flirted with athletes, who she had something in common with.

That was it! Leighton just needed to find someone who had something in common with her! Easy peasy.

Plot twist: it's not so easy peasy.

Leighton had decided to scout out her math class to see if she had any hot female students in there with her. She had one, and she had already hooked up with her and didn't really feel anything with her.

It had gotten to a point where Leighton was starting to give up, but as she walked out of class, she saw the most gorgeous girl talking to Bela, of all people.

Leighton froze as she looked at the girl. She was stunning, the smile she was giving Bela was melting Leighton's heart. The girl had on some black skinny jeans, white converse, a white crop top and a jean jacket on.

Leighton could tell she had great fashion sense, even if the outfit was casual. She could hear her laugh from where she stood and it became her favorite sound in the world. Before she could go over and introduce herself, the girl hugged Bela and walked the other direction.

Bela began walking towards Leighton as the blonde fell in step behind her.

"Hey Bela! How are you today?"

Bela looked at Leighton confused but played along. "I'm...fine. Leighton, are you okay? You never ask about my day." The blonde smiled at her. "What are you talking about? I always ask about your day. I had a question."

Bela laughed, "There it is." Leighton rolled her eyes. "That girl you were talking to, who was she?"

Bela smirked. "That's Y/N. I'm trying to get her to join my comedy club. Girl is hilarious." Leighton nodded. "Yeah. Could you introduce me?"

Bela smiled. "Ooh does someone have a crush?" Leighton blushed hard. "Bela! Just because I'm a lesbian doesn't mean I have a crush on every girl!." Bela smirked again. "Yeah, yeah. I'll introduce you."

The next day, Leighton was walking across the campus courtyard when her name was yelled. She turned to see Bela and Y/N walking towards her. She instantly got nervous as the duo approached her. She straightened herself up and smiled at the two.

"Hey Bela!" The duo reached her as Bela held out an arm. "Y/N, this is Leighton. Leighton, this is Y/N, the newest member of my comedy club!" Y/N stuck her hand out for Leighton to shake. The blonde shook it, thinking about how soft her hands were before snapping back.

"Congrats! Bela was telling me how funny you are!" Y/N blushed. "Thank you! It's so nice to finally meet you! Bela has told me a lot about you, though she didn't mention how pretty you are."

Leighton's jaw dropped. A blush took over her features as she stuttered on her words. Y/N smirked and looked at Bela. "I'll see you later okay? Bye guys!" She walked off as Bela stared at Leighton shocked.

"Leighton. Are you blushing?" Leighton shook herself off and glared at Bela. "I am not!" She stomped off as Bela smirked. She pulled her phone out and texted Whitney and Kimberly.

"Leighton needs an intervention."

Leighton didn't know what to expect when she got back to her dorm, but it wasn't her roommates staring at her. It scared the shit out of her. "What the hell are you guys doing?" Kimberly gestured to the couch. "Please sit."

Leighton sat and looked at them confused. "What is happening?" Whitney sighed. "Leighton, it's come to our attention that you don't know how to talk to girls. We are here to help you."

Leighton's jaw dropped as she slowly turned to glare at Bela. "You told?!" Bela sighed. "I'm sorry! But you need help. Y/N is so into you!" Leighton glared at Bela. "Do you know if she's even gay?" Bela sat silently for a few seconds. "Uhh...no?"

Leighton pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed.

Whitney decided to save Bela. "She told us Y/N called you pretty! That's a sign, right?" Leighton directed her glare to Whitney now. "Girls call each other pretty all the time Whitney!"

Kimberly, ever the voice of reason, finally spoke. "Leighton, I think for now, talk to her, get to know her, and then maybe if she's comfortable, she'll tell you. But don't just outright ask her. So that way, if she isn't, you can remain friends."

The room was silent for a moment before Whitney and Bela voiced their disagreement of the plan and began to bicker about how Leighton should handle it.

Leighton was stuck on Kimberly's words. "Talk to her." "Get to know her"

That's what Leighton was going to do.

She spotted Y/N the next day walking out of the library and quickened her pace to catch up. "Y/N!" The girl turned and saw Leighton. A bright smile came across her face as she waved. "Hi Leighton! How are you?" Leighton fell into step with Y/N. "I'm good! I actually wanted to ask you something."

Y/N nodded. "Ask away." Leighton took a deep breath and asked the question. "Do you maybe wanna hang out, later? We can study together in the library. If you want!" Y/N blushed and nodded. "Yeah, sure! Can I get your number?"

Leighton felt her heart rate increase. She handed her phone over to Y/N, who put her number in quickly before handing it back. "Text me when you wanna meet up later." Leighton nodded before the girl smiled at the blonde and walked off.

Leighton fought the urge to do a happy dance.

Step one, done.

After a few weeks of hanging out with Y/N, Leighton discovered she was down badly for this girl. The more they hung out, the more Leighon's crush grew. Her roommates tried to hype her up to ask the girl out, but she didn't want to embarrass herself.

It all came to a head one day at lunch, the day that the roommates deemed, "their baby gay grew up".

Leighton was sitting at the table with her roommates eating lunch when Y/N approached. "Hey guys!" The girls greeted Y/N, not so subtly looking at Leighton, who blushed.

"Hi Leighton." The blonde smiled and quietly said hi back. Y/N cleared her throat. "If you weren't doing anything tonight, would you maybe wanna go to dinner and a movie tonight? I know this really good burger place a few miles from school."

Leighton blushed. Her brain was unable to function and she stuttered on her words once again.

Kimberly answered for her. "She would love to! She doesn't have any plans tonight!" Y/N smiled and looked at the girl. "Great! I'll pick you up at say 6:30? Dress casual." Leighton nodded as the girl walked off.

Her roommates squealed as the girl blushed harder. "We told you she was gay! You got a date!" Leighton smiled at how happy her girls were for her, joining in on the squealing, not noticing Y/N watching with a wide grin.

When Leighton came home later that night, hearts in her eyes and swollen lips, the roommates squealed again, sitting her down and making her give them the details.

Their baby gay really had grown up.

#leighton murray x reader #leighton murray imagine #leighton murray

[pinguwrites]

Kinktober 2023 | Day Two — Cillian Murphy + spanking, authority kink

Pairing -> dom!cillian murphy x stepdaughter!reader

Warnings -> kinda dark and sick, stepcest, mentions of masturbation, use of the word daddy (not really sure if it counts as kinky or not, but it's in there), huge age gap (implied Cillian and reader knew each other before reader was fourteen but no relationship), slut shaming, spanking

KINKTOBER 2023 MLIST

Disclaimer: This is not a reflection of Cillian Murphy's actual life. This is completely separate and is not intended to harm him or his family in any way. DNI if you're a Yvonne hater. This is only fanfiction and this is just for fun.

Your stepfather, Cillian, laughed. A dry laugh, his fingers touching his lips for a moment. You were sitting on his bed, hands interlocked, waiting patiently for him to say something. 

You knew you fucked up. When you decided to wear that pink mini-skirt — the type that showed a scrape of your bottom — with a crop top that accentuated the curve of your breasts, you knew you were asking for trouble. 

Your intention hadn’t been to make him upset. Just a little pissed off, enough for him to sweep you away to some corner and work his magic on you, but you had ended up making him angry. Angry enough to call off the entire night and bring you back home.

What was I expecting? He was still your dad. Sure, you had sex, but in some fucked up way or another, he still saw you as that little girl he met all those years ago, the one that needed to be cared for and protected and disciplined.

Cillian sat down on the bed beside you, thinking for a moment. Then, “Get over my knees.”

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. He hadn’t spanked you since you were fourteen. 

“What?” The thought of him punishing you like that, now that you saw him in a different light, was both humiliating and arousing. 

“Get over my knees,” he repeated, with that soft Irish accent you loved. “You need to learn a lesson.”

Not wanting to make it easy for him, you complained. “It was only a dress! Why—”

Cillian cupped your face in his hand, forcing you to look at him.

“I’m doing this because I love you,” he said earnestly. “It’s either my knees or against the wall.”

The thought of standing while he spanked  you made you shudder. Your knees would probably buckle and you would collapse into his arms, which didn’t sound like a bad idea, but you would rather be laying down while he did it — to avoid the embarrassment. 

You nodded, and laid over his knees, feeling a sense of excitement rush through your body. “What if Mom finds out—” you tried to say, but he didn’t let you finish. He pulled up your skirt and pushed your underwear between your cheeks, giving you a nice, hard slap on your ass.

You yelped. “Mr. Murphy—”

“—Be quiet!”

He slapped you again, this time on the other cheek. You made another sound, the pain stinging like a burn. He wasn’t being gentle. Behind each slap was intent and fury.

“How dare you behave like that in public?” he said, his voice low. “How dare you flirt with other boys like a desperate slut?”

“I was just — oww — I was just tryna get your attention!” 

“Yeah?” He spanked you again, this time much harder. The force of it made your ass jiggle. You forgot how much this hurt.

“And you couldn’t have just asked me politely? You know I would give you anything you want — anything.”

Another spank. 

“M’sorry!”

Cillian shook his head. “That’s not enough. Do you understand how painful it is for me, to see you act like that? When I see you wearing these things in public.” He tugged at your dress. “I mean, what even is this? A bikini? Some type of lingerie?”

“It’s just a skirt,” you whined, noticing a familiar bump on your thigh. He was hard. Your dad was getting hard hitting you. 

Fuck, you thought, feeling a pool of wetness form between your legs. 

Another slap. You cried out.

“It’s my job to watch out for you. Is that not something you want?”

“I do want it,” you said earnestly, feeling tears well up in your eyes. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

You knew calling him that did something to him. Everytime you used that word he would always give into your wants or give you extra affection. 

Cillian’s eyes softened. “I know you are.” 

He gave your sore bum a rub, kneading the flesh. “Come on, sit on my lap.”

You did as he asked. It still hurt a little, but you managed.

He gave you a kiss, a gentle one, long and tender. Lips locked, you ran your hand down his body to the bulge in his pants, but he stopped your hand. “I’m not going to please you tonight. And you are not going to touch yourself.”

You groaned, frustrated. You were aching for him, that’s the whole reason you decided to tease him in public in the first place. What was all this spanking for if he wasn’t going to fuck you at the end of the day? “Why not? I said sorry!”

“I told you that’s not enough. Now, go finish your homework.” He lifted you off his lap and placed you on the floor. “If I catch you masturbating,” he added, his voice low, “you’re not getting anything at all this entire week, okay?”

He said this almost condescending tone, which made you infuriated.

“Fine,” you grumbled, leaving the room.

He won’t find out.

Taglist:

@rainyforest777

@thatwitchybitch420

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy x you #cillian murphy x y/n #fanfiction #kinktober masterlist #kinktober 2023 #pinguwrites #kinktober

[gh0st-t0wn3]

I finally had time to make proper designs for the Trio!

Redson: Ver 1

Ver 2

I couldn't decide on if I liked it better with the braids or not so I just posted both, but anyways!

I gotta admit, I used to not like the idea of redson having Bull features (except for a small pair of horn maybe) but the concept really grew on me and now I really love it and wanted to try making my own design and I'm really proud with how it turned out.

I would've added more scars, since Guanyins throne pierced his entire body, but there came a point where it just looked like there was too much going on so I had to get rid of a few scars to tone it down, so we're just gonna say they faded over time, okay? Okay.

I also made him Miao (one of the largest ethnic minorities in southwest China) on PIF's side, and Mongolian on DBK's.

The Miao ethnicity of China has a long history, rich culture, and an ancient folk religion. Adorned in beautiful traditional clothes, possessing natural talent for singing and dancing, they live in uniquely designed indigenous architecture, which I think fits perfectly with how I imagined Princess Iron Fan and with her; Redson.

As for DBK being Mongolian, I saw someone else talking about this headcanon and I just liked it so I decided to use it, I don't really have a specific reason for it, I just thought it fit, not sure why though, it's just one of those things that makes sense even if you don't know why, you know?

Mei:

I made her taller and gave her a long dragon tail (like really long, it drags along the floor if she's not holding it up), though her scales are pretty much everywhere across her body they're most noticeable on her shoulders, thighs, and face (they're a bit hard to see in this photo because they're kinda hidden behind her hair, but I did give her scales beside her eyes)

I also gave her horns these little spiral designs around them, gave her sharper nails, and designed her ears to look like coral, since she's a water dragon and I thought they looked cool.

Honestly idk what else to say about her design, I didn't have anything specific in mind when designing her, I kinda just had to wing it, but I'm happy with how it turned out :)

(I also made her Bengali, on her dad's side, but it's not really important or has any reason behind it, just a headcanon I've had for a while, don't know where it came from though)

MK:

Alot of people have speculated that the monkey form we see during the fight against Azure in season 4 isn't MK's full form yet, that we're just seeing a fraction of what he's yet to become, based on the fact that while he has the weird side burns, the tail and the face marking, he also lacks a natural skin tone, they didn't give him a proper nose etc, so I wanted to play with the idea.

I decided to make him this strange mix between human and monkey, leaving him pretty much human with the addition of his tail(s), and weird li'l monkey feet.

(I was also gonna give MK more arm/leg hair, it was in my first sketch, but I forgot to add them when I was doing the line art and didn't realize until after I saved it as a jpeg, so that's my bad, but I'm gonna add it in to any other art I make)

It's also a bit hard to see in this, but I designed his staff with more details, specifically adding dragon-esque imagery to the Golden ends, this is because (for anyone who's new to the fandom/hasn't read JTTW) Wukong's staff was originally one of the several pillars that held up the sea in the dragon palace, until he stole it and shrunk it down to use as his weapon.

I also did MK's clones :)

Porty MK:

I gave him stripes of coloured hair and gave his tails all different colours, though I don't think he would actually dye it, instead I like to think that he would use that really crappy dollar store spray in hair dye (or hair chalk). I kept the fishnet clothes that I added in my originally design of him for my headcanons post, and decided to give him striped elbow length fingerless gloves.

I also gave him a cropped shirt, ripped shorts and these weird fingerless glove-esque shoes for convenience, since regular shows seem like they would be uncomfortable.

Edit: my dumbass forgot Porty's stupid print jacket 😭

Artist MK:

For Artist MK I gave him overalls and a jacket over it, which he wears specifically for when he's doing paintings so he doesn't ruin too many of his actual clothes (I know I said that this was inspod by Circusapple, which it still is, but this is almost exactly what I wear when I'm painting too, just in different colours).

I also gave him those gloves that digital artists wear so they're hands don't accidently trigger something on the screen because everyone knows that every artist just walks around with their art glove on even when it's not necessary.

Delivery MK:

I have to admit, I was never a big fan of MK's work uniform just being his regular clothes with a work jacket thrown over it so I wanted to try and make him look a little more professional and decided to instead give him a chef coat (similar to the one Pigsy wears on the show as well), with a logo for the restaurant on the chest, along with it I gave him plain black pants, since casual red jeans didn't seem very professional (I know he's just a delivery person, but if you were to look at pretty much any food corporation, even people who do deliveries have to wear uniform, so it's always been kinda strange to me that he's just in regular clothes). 

The shoes were harder to make professional given the whole "half-monkey" thing so I opted to give him the same strange fingerless glove-esque shoes for comfort and convenience, but made them plain black as well.

#lego monkie kid #fanart #lego monkie kid red son #monkie kid red son #lego monkey kid fanart #red son #lego monkie kid mk #lmk spicynoodles #lmk mk #hong hai'er #lmk mei #lego monkie kid mei #monkie kid mei #long xiaojiao #qi xiaotian

[vainvenus]

⌲;꒰ Hypnotic. ꒱ ⌲;꒰ Pt. 1 ꒱

Pairing - Peacekeeper! Sejanus x Fem!Reader

Synopsis - Sejanus is swooned by one of Lucy Gray's friends.

Includings - Covey member!reader, Sejanus being absolutely smitten, toxic ex, unwanted touch and nicknames, bar fights!, little ooc!Sejanus, reader patches Sejanus up, mostly fluff

An - This is mostly Sejanus's POV with him js being so in love

I'll probably write a pt.2 if wanted!

It was like any other night at the covey, it was a little bit crowded and a bit hot but Sejanus had tagged along with Coriolanus because he loved coming to see Lucy Gray preform.

She ended her song, claps and yells of praises following after she was finished and she grabbed the microphone with a bright smile on her face.

"Y'all have just been a wonderful crowd!" Lucy Gray hummed as she shimmied her shoulders. "Better keep that energy up for [Y/nnn]! Or should I say [N/n]?" She said the name in a sing-song tone as if she were teasing the girl that walked up onto the stage.

Sejanus had felt like the world slowed down for a moment, his eyes never leaving her body as she walked. She wore a dark cropped tank-top with a long white skirt and a white laced cardigan, the lace having some sort of flower pattern to it and brown boots. She had a violin case hanging from her shoulder.

She looked so relaxed and comfortable to Sejanus, like she hadn't a care in the world and was simply living in the moment.

"Oh c'mon Luce you know I hate that nickname." She rolled her eyes, playfully waving her hand to shoo the brunette from the stage and she playfully stuck out her tongue at her.

The [h/c] haired girl grabbed the microphone, adjusting it for her height. She tapped on it as her eyes scanned around the crowd for a second before she spoke; "Y'all miss me?"

The crowd erupted in short cheers and the Sejanus didn't think that her smile could get any bigger until she laughed at the reaction and Sejanus couldn't help but smile from it, like it was contagious.

"I know, I know. Y'all must have missed me soo much." She hummed, raising her brows as someone held out a bottle towards her and she generously took it.

"For me? Oh you shouldn't have, y'all know I stopped drinking...never." She giggled, taking a long swing of whatever was in the bottle, her face scrunching up at the strong taste.

There was no doubt that her and Lucy Gray were friends, a similar sense of fashion along with their free spirits and speaking whatever came to mind and being able to control the energy of an entire room..it was endearing.

Even the way she played the violin, her voice soft enough to hear above the violin strings but not loud enough to make her singing feel out of place. The way she swayed side to side slightly as she preformed it was all hypnotizing.

She had her eyes closed most of the time while she played, allowing Sejanus to take in her beauty under the spotlight. He never missed how her smile grew softer when she finished a note she seemed impressed with.

It was different from Lucy Gray, while they both had the energy to make the crowd go wild Lucy Gray kept that energy with her music a lot of the time, making people stomp around and move their bodies in a fast and excitable fashion.

But [Y/n]?

It was soothing, it felt like music he would hear if he were dragged to one of those boring parties his father would be hosting but she gave the music life with her voice as it carried through the covey. Couples swinging with each other side to side on the dance floor or cuddled up with each other with soft smiles.

"[Y/n]! [Y/n], baby!"

The violinist opened her eyes, narrowing as they landed on a ginger. She has decided to ignore him, continuing to play as she sang softly although a few of her notes seem to be getting off-key from being side tracked.

"[Y/n], c'mon you can't ignore me forever. I said I was sorry, that I wouldn't do it again." He moped, getting closer to the stage and [Y/n]'s eyes flashed a look of fear as she stepped back.

"Rusty, you better stop right there." Lucy Gray had warned, stepping up on the stage as [Y/n]'s playing slowly coming to a stop at the distraction.

Rusty hadn't listened though, attempting to walk up the stairs until one of the peacekeepers had pulled him back by his sleeve and he yanked his arm back, elbowing them in the nose.

[Y/n] frowned, her brows drawn up in worry as her eyes darted between the two. "Yall, please, I don't want a rumble in here tonight-"

This caused the Peacekeeper to stumble back into somebody else who pushed him and that caused that person to get grabbed and before you knew it somebody broke glass over someone's head followed by a scream and that's when the fighting started.

"Cmon y'all, calm down! Please!" [Y/n] had pleaded through the microphone although her voice was drowned out by the chaos happening in front of the stage.

Sejanus stood up, seeing the ginger haired boy crawl his way to the stage. He grabbed at the bottom of her skirt, slurring nonsense as she clenched onto her instrument with Lucy Gray and [Y/n] both screaming at him.

"Stop! Stop it! Get off of me right now or-"

But before she could finish her plea he was practically yanked off of her and her eyes looked over to the male and it was like Sejanus wasn't even thinking as he pulled his fist back and let it connect.

He didn't even know how many times her had punched Rusty before he was being pulled away– dragged off of the boy and he heard Coriolanus scolding him under his breath as they were rushing through the crowd, following shortly behind [Y/n] and Lucy Gray.

The two peacekeepers were led to a room that wasn't too far from the main area. It seemed like a little room for the Covey performers to get ready when needed with the amount of makeup, hairbrushes, guitar picks and other things laying around. Sejanus sat down next to Coriolanus, letting out a small huff as he had finally caught his breath.

"Never a dull day at the covey." Coriolanus commented once he had caught his breath.

"I'm so sorry y'all had to get dragged into that." [Y/n] had apologized while she set her instrument down. She went to grab a white box and a small bottle of something from one of the counters as she walked back over to the group.

"It's not your fault, hun. You shouldn't be the one apologizing." Lucy Gray scoffed, shaking her head.

[Y/n] shrugged her shoulders as she made her way over to Sejanus, taking a seat beside him as she set the things down. "I still feel sour, so much for first impressions."

"I still think you made a good first impression." Sejanus said, meeting her eyes as she opened the first-aid-kit and he saw that contagious smile again.

"Oh c'mon, you're just saying that." She hummed, pouring a bit of alcohol onto a cotton pad as she held out her hand for his and he willingly placed his hand in hers.

"No, I'm serious. He doesn't change the fact that your performance was beautiful, it was hypnotizing."

[Y/n] playful narrowed her eyes at him, as if she were trying to sense if he was lying or not. As she saw that he was pretty serious she hummed, looking down at his bruised knuckles.

"You liked it that much?" She asked as she carefully dabbed at his knuckles and Sejanus sucked on his teeth before giving a nod.

"It was pretty, where did you learn to play like that?" He asked, trying to ignore the small burn every time she dabbed the cotton swab on his knuckles.

"My ma' taught me." She giggled a little bit. "It's funny cus' I absolutely hated it when I was younger. Thought violins were the root of all evil." She said as she was trying to finish cleaning his hands as quickly as she could without rushing and Sejanus nodded along.

"But I'm glad I didn't quit, it's such a beautiful instrument. Maybe even better than a guitar" She teased, glancing over at Lucy Gray who was making sure Coriolanus hadn't any bruises and she shook her head.

"Oh you wish." She replied, taking a seat on one of the counters and letting her feet swing back and forth.

"I'm glad you didn't quit." Sejanus piped up as [Y/n] grabbed the bandages and began wrapping them around his knuckles, grabbing a piece of tape to keep it still.

"Me too, probably wouldn't have started performing at the covey or met Lucy Gray then I wouldn't have met you two." She pulled away from Coriolanus, giggling under her breath as she put things away.

"Funny how one screechy instrument could've stopped us from meeting, hm?"

"I'm glad it didn't." Sejanus softly replied as he leaned back in his seat with a sigh, he hoped that this wouldn't report back and get him into some sort of trouble.

"Maybe we could see each other tomorrow to make up for all this mess?" [Y/n] asked the group as she put the First-Aid-Kit back. "Something more peaceful like this was supposed to be."

Lucy Gray clapped her hands, smiling wide. "The lake!"

[Y/n] gasped, almost like an excited kid who had got a present they had been begging for. "Oh my god, the lake!"

"The lake?" The two boys repeated, brows furrowed as they gave each other a look still not completely familiar with District 12.

"It's a beautiful little lake a bit of a walk from here. It's far away from people so no one should bother us." [Y/n] said and Sejanus nodded.

"I'd- we'd love that." Sejanus smile and Coriolanus glanced over at him from the corner of his eye before back at the two girls.

"Great, we can meet here around noon to walk together."

#the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #Sejanus Plinth #sejanus plinth x reader #sejanus x reader

[whoify]

photopea gif tutorial!

i recently started learning the craft of gifmaking with the free software photopea. when i first started, i had to piece together several different tutorials as well as extrapolate from some photoshop tutorials because-- no one uses photopea.

but they should! it's free! it can run in your browser! it can do most everything photoshop can do and you don't have to deal with adobe or torrenting. so i'm making a tutorial of my photopea gifmaking process because that's what i needed a couple months ago, and i hope it can be of use to some others. let's go!

1: PREPARING

source the scene you want to gif. it's best to download your video when you can, but screen recording can work in a pinch. this is the video downloader software i use.

once the source video is downloaded, i like to pick out the specific moments i'm going to gif and save them as their own files-- this makes future steps easier. an individual gif shouldn't be more than 4ish seconds, so limit your selections to about that. name your files in a way that makes sense to you:

2: CONVERTING TO .JPG

i like to convert my video clips to .jpg format. it is possible to load video clips directly into photopea, but unless it is a very short <30fps clip, it is likely to freeze or crash in my experience. i use this website as it downloads a higher framerate (~25fps) than others i've used.

convert your video files and download the .zip folder containing your frames. make sure to unzip them and name them something helpful if you need to.

3: OPENING YOUR FRAMES IN PHOTOPEA

photopea looks like this when you open it:

select "open from computer" and select only the first frame of your first gif:

your environment should look like this (ignore the other projects i have open, you should just have 0001.psd or similar):

go to file> open and place, and select ALL of the rest of the frames from your first clip:

they'll load in one by one, and your environment should look like this:

notice how all the frames have a little square in the corner? that means they are smart objects, and we need them to not be for our purposes. select all of your frames, right click, and choose rasterize:

in order to make the series of jpgs move as a gif upon download, select all of your frames and go to layer> animation> make frames:

all your layer names should now start with _a_. you can really do this at any point in the process so it's not a big deal if you forget at the beginning.

finally, you want to limit the frames in individual gifs to around 50 or less. if you find you have more, delete some frames off of the beginning or end by right clicking and selecting delete.

4: CROPPING AND RESIZING

select the crop tool on the left hand panel:

at the top bar, select fixed size:

gifs on tumblr are limited to 540px wide for single column gifs, 268px for two columns, and 178px for three columns. the height is up to you; i like to use 350px height with the 540px width.

enter your values into the W and H fields and do not press enter yet. drag the cropped area to where you want it to be-- try to line up the top and bottom edges so as not to lose too much of your image. once you're satisfied with the selection, press enter. your gif is now cropped and resized to tumblr standards.

5: SHARPENING

(if you are working with low-qual video, check out this tutorial by @hellboys before sharpening. basically filter> filter gallery > grain, select soft and play with the settings. then proceed!)

still making sure all of your layers are selected, navigate to filter> sharpen > smart sharpen:

you should see this dialog box:

these are the settings i like to use, but you can play around to see what you like. here's the before and after of my sharpening settings:

the difference will be more noticeable once we complete the next step-- brightening and coloring.

6: BRIGHTENING & COLORING

navigate to layer > new adjustment layer:

at any time, you can edit your adjustment layers by clicking this button in the right hand panel:

for each edit you make to your gif, you will add a new adjustment layer. always make sure they're at the top of your layer stack. i like to start with adjusting the brightness and exposure, which are both pretty straightforward.

additionally ,you can select a curves adjustment layer, choose the RGB channel, and drag the curve just slightly upwards to further brighten your gif, like so:

here's a before and after:

now for coloring-- i mostly use the saturation/vibrance, curves, color balance, and selective color adjustment layers. just play around with all of these until you find a style you like. i like my gifs to look really bright and colorful, so i push the saturation and try to draw out warmer tones in the color balance:

7: CAPTIONS

the font i like to use for captions is arial bold italic. you can download it (or any font of your choosing) from pretty much any free font website. if you choose to download a font not in photopea, go to file> open and select your font; it will now show up in the list of fonts.

navigate to the text button in the left hand panel:

and type in the captions for your gif. i make the font size 20 for 540px gifs.

next, while only your text layer is selected, navigate to layer> layer style > blending options:

click on drop shadow, and play around with the settings until you get something you like. here's mine:

next, click on stroke and do the same thing:

when you're done, make sure your text is your top-most layer.

8: EXPORTING

you're done! head to file> export as> GIF. you'll be prompted with a dialog that looks like this, with your gif playing (you can also do these steps without saving if you want a preview of your gif during editing):

the only thing you should need to adjust is speed. this is the main difference between photopea and photoshop. the only way to specifically adjust the delay in photopea is to manually enter "_05" (or whatever amount of delay) at the end of every layer name. if you're like me you'll agree that is simply too much and settle for the speed slider.

i don't really know what logic governs the speed slider. it doesn't seem to be consistent across gifs, so play with it until it looks right. i've had it on 200% lately which seems insane but looks visually normal.

once the speed is adjusted, hit save and you're done! here's a final before and after of all the work:

BONUS: SAVING .PSD PRESETS

did you think manually creating and editing all those adjustment layers was a lot of work? here's how to streamline it for next time.

at the very bottom of your screen, below your layers, select the icon that looks like a folder (third from the right).

it will create another layer called folder 1. drag your adjustment layers into this folder, making sure they stay in the same order. your layers should look like this when you're done:

ONLY ONCE YOU HAVE SAVED YOUR GIF, delete all other layers that are not in the folder. then select file> save as PSD. save it somewhere convenient.

next time you're making gifs, after you've cropped and sharpened your frames, select file > open and choose your .psd file. it will open as another project. select the layer that says folder 1, and drag it to whatever project you're working on at the top bar. voila! your adjustment layers are applied to your new gif!

i still like to play with the settings, as coloring and brightness needs will differ from gif to gif.

thanks for reading! here's the gifset i made while making this tutorial :-)

#milk post #gif tutorial #doctor who #photopea #i can't tell if i went too detailed or not enough lol. tag me if you use this i want to see ppl's gifs!!

[naushtheaspiringauthor]

You know how there are those fics where a runaway noble reader ends up on Sturmhonds ship and she doesn't know who he is but he knows who she is and shenanigans ensue

Picture this: both Nikolai and Reader ended up doing the whole "tailor myself and sailing the seas" thing but Reader figured out who Sturmhond is while Nikolai has no clue. Because there's no way two people had the exact same idea. Basically a reversal of the trope. Now let the shenanigans ensue

The one left behind - Nikolai Lantsov x reader

A/N- I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it😽😽 Tysm for sending this request!!

Summary- When a rather intriguing girl joins Sturmhond's crew, he finds himself quite drawn to her. However, he still reminisces about the one he'd left behind.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, allowing the cool breeze to wash over your skin. It was comfort, a sense of hope and most importantly, your freedom. 

You'd finally gotten out of your wrecked household that withheld a father who wished for you to be dead only because you'd refused to abide by his terms. 

You were the daughter of a noble, one who had esteemed relations with the royal family, with you having become friends with the youngest prince. Who was however long since left the country and even though you missed him with all your heart, had no way of reaching him. 

From education to numerous life skills, your parents had provided you with all. However they both had different paths chosen for you to tread upon. 

Your mother had wished for you to acquire a position in Ravka's council. 

Your father however, had wished for you to go to Fjerda and work as a spy for your country. 

 Though no one had ever bothered to ask you what you wished for. 

When your mother had passed, your father had been forcing you to leave for Fjerda.

When you'd opposed, he'd only wished to get rid of you in whatever way possible. 

So you had ran, from a life that was none less than a prison, from a father who no longer wanted you because you opposed to living your life his way. 

….......................................

You took in your new features in the scroungy mirror at the small boarding house you'd been living in. 

You'd gotten a tailor to alter your face so that you wouldn't be recognized as your father had organized a search party for you. 

Your hair was still the long black locks, but your nose was now far sharper than it'd been, and y/e/c eyes were now a light blue, rather tacky for your taste but it was necessary.

The tailor had told you that she'd put in her best efforts to make it last as long as possible, but you'd still need to get it fixed up occasionally. 

 ……............................... 

The next morning, you set out to meet with some crew member of the infamous Volkvolny, a ship commanded by some young pirate as you'd heard. 

You sat at one of the tables of the inn you were supposed to meet at. However, the girl hadn't even shown up yet. 

Just when you were about to leave, you noticed a girl with close cropped hair entering. She had two axes slung around her back and her features stated that she was Shu. 

However, you observed that she hadn’t come alone. She had some red-haired boy wearing a teal coat by her side.

“You’re the Tamar I was to talk to?” You asked, raising an eyebrow as she and the boy sat across you.

“Yes. Sorry for the delay. The captain wished to talk to you himself” She responded, glancing at the boy

You eyed him with your eyebrow still raised. Few strands of his red hair fell near his eyes. His hazel eyes gleamed in the light, and his nose was slightly crooked. He appeared no older than twenty, too young to be a captain.

“You’re the captain?” you asked, giving him a rather judging look.

“I believe I am,” he spoke with a proud grin. His voice sounding familiar to you for some reason. “I happen to be the infamous Sturmhond” he continued to grin

You glanced at him for a moment. There was something familiar about his eyes, but you just couldn’t place it. Perhaps you’d just started feeling so homesick that you’d begun to imagine things now.

“Novak, Evanna Novak” you finally respond, clearly not returning his expression

“Well’ he cleared his throat. “Miss Novak, to have you as a member of my crew, I must ask you what skills do you happen to possess?” he asked

“I’m an engineer, can help in fixing up your ship but I’ve also got training in combat” you spoke

The boy leaned back and finally spoke after a short moment, “Well, I believe we do happen to need an engineer aboard the Volkvolny. Name your price”

“I just need enough to fulfill all my requirements, no more no less. But there's another” you responded

“What's that?”

“I get to keep my freedom” you lifted up your chin, you'd come all this way for one thing only and you weren't going to let it slip away again. 

“Well, I believe we have a deal then” the boy responded. He clasped his hands in front of him as he stood up, “We leave at sunrise, meet us at the docks”.

He walked out of the inn with Tamar by his side. Though there was something strange about him that you couldn't quite place. 

.......…............................ 

“I have an idea” Nikolai sprang up from his chair

“What's that?” you asked, not even bothering to look up from your book. 

“Someday, I can get a ship that I'll be captain of and then we can sail the seas together” he spoke with great zeal. 

You set down your book and met his gaze. “Do you really think my parents would let me?” 

“We'll be adults by then, you could make your own decisions” 

You chuckled slightly, “No one cares about what I want, Nikolai. They'd still take all the decisions of my life”

“I do, I care about what you want” he responded, giving you his innocent look that would make you agree to whatever he'd say. 

..........................…..................... 

You reached the docks at the exact time you'd been given. You hadn't exactly slept the whole night. Whether it was thrill, fear or something entirely different, you didn't know, you no longer cared. You only wished to be free. 

You stepped on the sleek schooner that was the Volkvolny. The ship was quite a marvel and you were intrigued by the fact that the young captain had somehow managed to acquire it. 

You were introduced to the crew by Tamar and her twin brother Tolya who perfectly resembled the structure of a massive tree and had the habit of reciting random verses of poetry mid conversation. 

Sturmhond too, had greeted you as you'd come. And seeing him shouting orders to his crew and grinning along with them made you wonder how he'd managed to do it all. 

......…...............................… 

“I don't like these parties in the slightest” you grumbled, leaning against the railing of the balcony. 

The queen had thrown yet another ball for some reason and the only reason you'd come was because you'd get to see Nikolai. Though your immense hatred for the event hadn't deteriorated in the slightest. 

And what made you even furious was how perfectly Nikolai managed to do it all. Making small talk with the guests, occasionally annoying his brother Vasily and being the center of attention. 

He was far cheery and great at conversing for a sixteen year old boy. 

“Me neither, these people are so fake it's maddening. Nothing coming out of their mouths might be true” Nikolai agreed with you

“But you do it all so perfectly, it's very annoying” you rolled your eyes

“Well, for being a royal, learning to charm people with words is a necessity. Even if it's not true in the slightest” He shrugged. 

You grimaced at his words and turned to look at the starry sky, without the slightest hint of his gaze on you. 

He was mesmerized by how beautiful you looked. You were majestic to him at all times, but there was something entirely different about you tonight. 

Your long flaunty dress that you'd been forced to wear, hung perfectly at your shoulders. A few loose strands of your hair fell near your eyes and he had to fight the urge to tuck them behind your ear. 

Your eyes gleamed in the moonlight. 

You were majestic. 

He slowly slid his hand near yours on the railing and gently placed it on top of yours, making your gaze turn to him. 

You gazed in his perfect hazel eyes, fully unaware of how red your cheeks had become. 

“You look marvelous” he spoke, his voice a mere whisper. “And I'm not only making it up to charm you” he added with a grin. 

“Like you ever could “ you rolled your eyes, a smirk playing over your lips

…..........................................… 

You'd been aboard the Volkvolny for about a week now. And you'd already become quite popular amongst the crew for not only your work but your quick wits and splendid sparring skills. 

Sturmhond would always attempt to make small talk with you and charm you with his idiotic grin. 

You helped him with his designs of a flying ship he was attempting to make along with his other erratic inventions, whilst he tried his best to learn more about you. 

“So, why did you really choose to have this life?” he asked, abandoning his work as he turned towards you

“Well, I simply wished to live a life free from all kinds of burdens” you responded, not willing to share your entire life history. “I believed I could live my life by my own rules here, at the sea”

“I have to admit I agree. It's one of the reasons I'm here as well. Though I do think of all I've left behind” he glanced at a far corner of his desk. 

For a moment, he appeared as a lost prince stuck in another fantasy. 

That was when you noticed the massive deep green gem fixed on his ring. 

You'd seen the ring before, but you hadn't really looked at it. 

The Lantsov Emerald

Very similar to the one Nikolai had on him. 

How had he gotten it? Perhaps he had stolen it from him? What had happened to Nikolai? Was he even alive? A thousand questions filled your head. 

But you brushed them off, quickly regaining your composure. 

Nikolai had stopped writing to you a long while ago, there was no point in thinking of him anymore. 

He no longer cared for you.

…....................................… 

You'd tried your best to keep your composure intact when he'd told you. 

When you'd found out that he was leaving to attend the university at Ketterdam. 

It was best for him of course, you'd known. But it still hurt you to part from him. The boy you'd been with since you were children. 

The boy you'd known as every line from your favorite book. 

You sat alone in the garden, the moon gleaming above you. Nikolai was to leave the following day, but you needed to be strong for him. 

You couldn't make a fool of yourself in front of him. 

You suddenly heard the shuffling of footsteps behind you. “You know you aren't as stern as you show yourself to be. You can be quite emotional” you turned around to see Nikolai. 

He was dressed in a white shirt with the sleeves folded up. 

He looked marvelous. 

“I am not” you rolled your eyes. 

“Come on, you've got to admit that you'll miss me” he grinned as he sat beside you. 

“Well, I guess I might miss hearing your annoying chatter all the time” you shrugged

“See? Acceptance isn’t so bad” he grinned 

You rolled your eyes, “Whatever”

You looked down at your feet. You were going to miss him, you knew it. And you had no idea when you might see him again.

You wished to speak up, to tell him how much he meant to you, how much you cared for him. 

You wished to let him know how much you’d come to like him, even though you never showed it.

You wished to let him know how much you loved him.

But you couldn’t, you couldn’t muster up the courage to do it. And you believed it was for the better. Perhaps he wouldn’t even care once he’s gone. You hated the thought of it.

You reached your hands over to your neck and took off your pendant. You held it out in your palm, “Keep it with you, it’ll remind of you of someone waiting for you to come back”

He glanced at you before nodding. “I wouldn’t even dream of forgetting you” he smiled, taking it from your palm

You smiled, a slight tilt of your lips, perfectly displaying your melancholic feelings. 

He brought his palm forward, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. He then held your hand in his as he gazed deep in your y/e/c eyes. 

“Promise me that you’ll write to me. That you won’t slip away” you spoke, your voice a mere whisper

“I promise. No matter where I am, I’ll never stop thinking of you”.

You gazed at him, your eyes speaking the words your mouth never could.

...………………………………..

After several weeks on board, you woke up one morning and noticed the change in your features in the mirror. 

The effects of the tailoring were wearing off.

You’d gone to Tolya and had him tailor it back. You’d explained to him and Tamar about your need for it and they’d promised to keep your secret safe.

Later during the afternoon, you’d went to Sturmhond’s cabin to retrieve the designs of your latest project from him, only to find that he hadn't been there.

As you thought to leave, you noticed the very document you’d come for was on his desk. However, as you picked it up, you heard a sharp clatter.

As you bent down to pick up whatever had fallen down, you truly realized what it’d been

You felt as if your heart had stopped beating. You couldn't fathom the sights in front of you. 

It was your pendant. 

The one you'd given to Nikolai as a parting gift. 

The Lantsov Emerald and now, your pendant? You couldn't formulate a plausible explanation for all of it. 

Sturmhond, the captain with a terribly made up name. The Captain who was too young to be one. The boy who had far too polite manners to be a Pirate- Privateer as he'd say. 

The boy with the too familiar eyes and voice.  

Was it truly him? 

Was it truly, Nikolai? 

..…....................................... 

Nikolai had never been this conflicted in his entire life. 

He couldn't stop himself from glancing at a certain new member of his crew whenever she'd be working. 

He couldn't stop himself from attempting to strike a conversation with her at any given opportunity. 

He couldn't stop himself from falling in love with her. 

But he still thought of her, the one he'd left back home. He still yearned for the sight of her, the gleam of her eyes in the moonlight, her rare but marvelous smile, he still yearned for her. 

Though he knew he'd abandoned her. He had stopped sending her letters when he'd left the university and had decided to be at the sea. 

Part of him believed that she'd forgotten him, that she'd have moved on, no matter how much he despised the thought. 

He wished he would have spoken when he had the chance. He wished he'd told her how much he loved her, how much it broke his heart to leave her, how much she meant to him. 

But he hadn't, and he despised himself for it. 

...........................................… 

You noticed the effects of Tolya's tailoring were wearing off. However, you chose to leave them be for a while. 

You needed the real you for the moment. 

You saw Sturmhond standing by himself near the railing.

You noticed the moonlight making something in his palm gleam. 

The pendant, you realized. 

He had it in his hand. 

You stepped closer to him as you spoke, “Captain's having trouble sleeping?” you asked. 

He hastily put the pendant away in the pocket of his overcoat. He regained his composure before speaking, “Yeah. Could ask you the same though” he shifted his gaze towards the sea again

“Well, I was going to, but then I happened to see a certain melancholic boy. Something on your mind?” you asked, furrowing your brows. 

“No, not really” he shrugged as he looked down

You raised an eyebrow, clearly not fooled by his lie. 

He wasn't okay, you knew it. 

You'd seen it. 

And perhaps, it was time you'd told him the truth. But you first needed to know what was on his mind. 

“You can talk to me, you know? Something's off with you, and you aren't very good at hiding it” you rested your hands on the railing

He sighed, as he lifted his head up. 

“I- When I decided to leave home, I left a lot behind. There's a lot I don't really miss, but one” He took out the pendant from his pocket. “I yearn for her. And- and I don't even know if she even thinks of me anymore” his voice trembled as he continued

Your heart stopped. 

He believed you'd forgotten him. He thought you no longer cared. If only he knew how much you'd missed him, how he'd never left your mind. How you'd always thought of him during the sleepless nights. 

“I, I don't think she would've forgotten that easy” you attempted to keep your voice steady

“I abandoned her” his voice trembled, he sounded immensely hurt. “I stopped writing to her, I- I never saw her once. Maybe it's for the best. Maybe, she's moved on, she has a better life, she is happy. That's all that matters to me” tears began to well up in his eyes. 

His state, his words, shattered your heart. You weren't happy, you didn't have a better life until you'd come here, you couldn't be happy without him.

You couldn't take it any longer. 

You took a deep breath before speaking, “She isn't happy, not without you, Nikolai” 

He stilled. 

He turned his head towards you in a haste. “Wha-” he looked utterly perplexed

“I know it's you” your gaze softened

“Wait,” His eyes widened as he finally realized. “It's not you, it cannot be” he turned away his gaze. 

You gently held your hand in his, “Nikolai, look at me” you said. 

He slowly shifted his gaze to you and looked, really looked at you. 

The effects of Tolya's tailoring were now fully gone. Your true features had returned.

He let out a breath as he took your name. “Is it truly you?” he asked, his voice a mere whisper

You nodded, gently smiling. 

“How? What are you doing here?” he asked

“It's a long story. It was either I went off to Fjerda or die. So I chose none of those” you shrugged

“What!?” he asked in pure shock

You sighed, “My mother passed away, Nik. I- my father, he wished for me to become a spy, go to Fjerda. I refused, so he wanted nothing more than for me to die. So I ran. That's why I needed the tailoring” you explained.

 “I had my doubts but I wasn't sure if it was really you, not until I saw that” you glanced at the pendant. 

His gaze softened as he realized the whole thing. 

“You still have it” you grinned slightly

“Of course I do, it's the only thing I have that reminds me of you” He smiled with teary eyes. 

“I, I'm sorry, for not writing to you. But you never left my mind, I never stopped thinking of you” he spoke after a short moment. 

“I believed you no longer cared” your voice shook as you glanced down. 

“I would never stop caring for you, love” he said. 

He gently cupped your face in his hands, making your gaze turn to his. “I would never stop loving you” his voice grew lower.

Your eyes widened at his words. 

You'd loved him. You had loved him all your life, more than one could ever think of. But you'd never anticipated him to ever feel the same. 

You felt as if time had stopped at that very moment. There was none other but you and him, two hearts beating as one. 

“I love you, I always have” he said, his teary eyes gleaming

Your gaze softened. 

Your face broke into a soft, relieved grin as you spoke, “I love you too Nik, I always will”.

You gazed deep in his bright hazel eyes before pulling closer to him. 

You gently pressed your lips to his, the action making a part of you heal that'd been broken too long. 

You pulled away from him in a short moment. You met his gaze before he pulled you in, kissing you in the way he'd always longed for. 

You smiled as you pulled away from him. 

“I have to admit I had no idea it was you” he spoke with a beatific grin

His expression grew somber. “You've changed,” he said.

“Time and experiences change all of us” you responded, glancing down. 

“Not you though, you're still the same annoying blabbermouth you were” you joked, regaining your composure in a haste. 

“Oh admit it, you love it” he grinned, teasing you. 

“I believe I do,” you smiled.

“Promise you'll remain by my side from now?” he asked after a short moment

“Only if I get a promotion” you shrugged, grinning. 

“Alright then” he chuckled, and took your hand in his. 

Your fate had brought you back to the life you'd once been stripped of. It had brought you back to him, and you were entirely grateful for it. 

please lets just pretend he had the lantsov emerald before when his mother gave it to him in ruin and rising it was necessary for the plot okayy

anyways i hope i wasnt the only one giggling by the end

#nikolai lanstov x reader #nikolai lantsov x reader #nikolai lantsov fanfiction

[dnp-pet-rectangle]

WAD reflection from the perspective of a theatre director

Inspired by @/calvinahobbes who did an amazing job breaking down the show’s metaphors & using her English degree in this post, I wanted to share my perspective on it (even a month later) & get use out of my theatre degree lol. Also, warning, this will be very much a long, long essay with run-ons. I have ADHD & I love when my frequent hyperfixations intersect 🤪 There are major spoilers.

My Background:

I am a semi-professional theatre director, but more broadly, a theatremaker. I have a theatre degree from New York University’s Tisch School on the Arts (NYU Tisch), where I did a conservatory program with one of their studios which focused basically on those who wanted to do a little bit of everything and create new works & was the only studio training directors & playwrights. I originally went into the program as a performer. I did not mean to end up concentrating on being mainly a producer & a director, but that’s a whole other story. I also through that program had to take theatre/performance studies courses, which I loved for the most part & is an interesting interdisciplinary field. But I will try to define terms just in case since anybody reading this may not know any or all the specific terminology I might use. In short, I have a fancy degree that apparently should cost $300k 🤡 & I’m gonna actually use it with doing this lol

--

Setting the Tone:

While Dan might call this a comedy special or comedy show, and thereby comparing it to other comedians, I actually think he is doing himself and We’re All Doomed (WAD) a disservice. I saw folks compare him a lot to Bo Burnham in the chat (who was actually was accepted and almost went to NYU Tisch for a different studio that focused on solely experimental work), which makes sense considering the theatrical nature of both of them. However, Dan actually goes further into the realm of theatre because of how he utilizes his crowd work (I’ll go into that later). I recognize traditional comedy specials/standup as having jokes or stories, when doing you know like late night talk show interviews, that can be made outside of the context of the show & slip into a conversation. Or with Burnham’s Inside Out, the songs & other parts can be done or understood mainly out of context, as seen through Bo uploading them to his YouTube channel. Comedy specials have the sections of their comedy stand-up thread together, but what Dan has done is weave his sections together. The length along with the intermission/interval being a part of WAD, adds to my point that he is not treating this as different material he tested out at different comedy clubs, but as something cohesive storytelling pieces. I think in terms of testing, Phil was the main sufferer audience member of the initial materials being created.

Anyway, you cannot as easily remove it from the context at certain points, because the transitions & the order of these different sections are treated as equally important, rather than a means to move on to the next section, with some possible space for improv.

Basically, I’m bi. Sorry, my brain started thinking about BIG when I started writing “basically” at the start of that sentence. Actually, what I am trying to say is that I would classify We’re All Doomed as a one-man performance piece/show, so I will be treating it as such in my review/reflection/breakdown. The comedy of it is important and there, but I don’t think it captures what WAD entirely is.

Also, unfortunately due to where I was at mentally at the time & the location it was being performed at, I never saw this live. To be honest, how it got framed marketing-wise did not help me feel connected with the actual purpose of the show, with hope being a key element. So while this was filmed, I am as much as possible trying to remove the cinematography as an element of my analysis. However, some things might be clearer on film, as with theatrical directing, you cannot add a zoom or crop & instead are trying to ensure moments are clear to an audience by what they see and hear through drawing their attention to it. With theatre being mainly about the live output by performers and intake by the audience, at the end of the day, what my job as a director is is to direct not only how the performers share the story, but also direct the audience on what is important to catch for understanding.

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Breakdown of Thoughts

Originally, I wanted to rewatch the show again, and started to, but considering I ended up writing about a whole page worth of things for each minute of the show & I was sleepy by the time I was like 5-10 minutes in, I decided to be nice to myself & stay up all night in my comfortable bed instead of staying up all night at my desk trying to take in-depth notes 🙃

I’m gonna breakdown this analysis/reflection into further sections, just to give myself some anchors & break up the blocks of text. Also as a way to just be that pretentious, maybe with an academic flair, as is fitting to be for something about Dan Howell (said affectionately 💕)

The Script/Writing

When considering the text of the show itself, two things came to mind for me:

(1) This is definitely what I would call intertext. Intertext is a piece of writing that relates to another or more other writings through allusions. WAD is an intertext which alludes mainly to other works of Dan’s on his YouTube channel. The ability to get the true impact of the show relies on you knowing Dan (as his internet persona) on some level. And as a theatre maker & longtime fan, I love that it is, it’s what the piece needed to be. As a theatre producer, the hiatus from engaging with his audience and the limited runway given to reactivate interest in him and his creative work I think made it difficult to get that audience in some venues, along with some other funkiness (mainly with promo) I am less knowledgeable on. But I think Dan has already learned/continues to learn from that, which I think may have been valuable for him. (sidenote: I need the tea on all that because I love knowing how presenting venues work with performers, as well as the lack of understanding they have of internet culture as it relates to venue leadership.)

(2) This was a work he made for himself. He mentions this both in the show & in reference to WAD multiple times. But I think what truly came to mind for me was that it is still powerful for him to write for himself. He is writing for what he needs to be hearing or wants to be processing creatively.

I think why it is powerful is that Dan has discussed before how much stress he put on himself regarding danisnotonfire, and later Daniel Howell, videos, focusing on the audience, and how he was presenting a specific style/quality of video to them. Add in the layer of being closeted & actively fighting internalized homophobia, and the anxiety he built up makes sense. And I might personally attribute that more to his need to pass as straight & catering I believe at one point to an audience of cishet men, whether actual or perceived by him. Not all videos, especially the most impactful ones in my opinion, rely on this, but it was a key piece of what he made during his rise in popularity on the platform. This catering slowly decreased with the amount of uploads he was doing, along with a more tangible understanding of his audience thanks to the tours he did with Phil. Basically I’m Gay I think was the true shift where he gave himself permission to write work that had a main audience of himself. That’s where his best work has come from, and I think since then, he’s been able to have the space to process things creatively through his writing.

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The Relationship Between Performer & Audience

When I was in theatre school, my directing teacher would constantly talk about not just considering the relationship of the performers on “stage” (I did a lot of more immersive work & we only had black box theatres, which is literally a room that is floor to ceiling black) but also the relationship of the performers & the story with the audience. By Dan knowing mainly who his audience would be, the show can now play with that understanding in mind.

This leads to my point that, overall, Dan does not use the fourth wall, and I think that is what makes We’re All Doomed work. It may also be why he called it a comedy show, idk.

For those who don’t know what the fourth wall is, it is a term from theatre originally that is about the way in which a traditional theatre stage (called a proscenium) has three physical walls around it, while there is no 4th physical wall, so the audience can see the performance. If does exist physically, it is only the curtain that acts as the 4th “wall”. So, in order to keep it as a separation between the performers and the audience, the actors treat the side where the audience is as a fourth wall. When someone breaks the 4th wall, this is when they speak to audience directly, rather than to another character. Examples from English-speaking pop culture would be the asides from Hamlet or Ferris Bueller in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. But when you are the only person on stage, the only way to have a fourth wall is when you don’t reference that you know there’s an audience there. Hence, a monologue where the character is talking to themselves or an entity that is not the audience directly (or assigned to be the audience by the director), it is the closest you can have a fourth wall when alone.

Dan in his videos and in his previous tours with Phil never were without direct engagement of the audience (obvious with the naming of Interactive Introverts). It was never not a variation on him speaking with the audience in any type of dialogue, even if done parasocially.

Some of that is not new to theatre, but I would say is that it has become more of a trend within new theatre starting in the early 2010s to have more interactivity and a more authentic, explicit message that no performance will be the exact same. I definitely saw that in the shows I saw both Off-Broadway (which sidenote, all that means is that there’s fewer seats in that theatre, not about quality of the work or how worth it is to engage with) and larger settings like Broadway and the West End. That’s what I love about theatre, and why my own work is more about immersion and direct audience engagement.

Now Dan’s creative works have never been skit only or interested in telling a story outside of the realm of connecting with an audience as a variation of himself, so again, him not using the fourth wall overall is appropriate and fits in with what I mentioned about intertext. The piece does however start with a fourth wall for the music number, which I will walk through fully sharing why I am saying that about the song & dance opening after establishing some other concepts to help build understanding.

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Design Can Work With You or Against You

I just want to say out the gate that the design was done really well, and I immediately felt a need to emphasize it after watching the first 10 minutes again.

First, let’s talk about the orange & black aesthetic of the show. Dan may have simply said that the orange just looked cool, but I think I would attribute more meaning to that color. Orange brings to my mind at first instance both a bright happiness/warmth and a sense of caution and warning, like road signs (at least those in America). The themes of the show reflect these two ideas and plays with the tension between them. I don’t know if he or the team meant to have that be a conscious choice, but there’s a joke I’ve had with other directors of when they get complimented on something unexpected, they just nod and say “yes, that was a choice”, even though it was just a random thing that happened or was something that you just thought would be cool to do. Orange runs through the show’s designs and it becomes clear that it is a tool for contrast and emphasis for the points Dan & the director want to make.

Now with the design team of costumes, lights, sound, and media, I can see a clear cohesion. Good theatrical design has the designs act as a character or highlighter in the story. Bad theatrical design can take away/distract from the core intensions of the show. It was so clear to me that the design was a character. And seeing that there were two media designers make complete sense considering the labor lift of both creating the projections displayed, but also creating/filming pieces of the media itself. The music/sound and lighting work well to articulate the manic feelings it means to instill in the audience and seeing it as a director, I assume part of the creative discussion was about parts of the media played they wanted to make sure were heard, and the lights help catch attentions in service of those pulled out moments. For costumes, I think Calvina did well in her post at articulating the elements of the costume and the progression it goes throughout the show. I’d rather not take up space to say the same thing truthfully.

With all the design elements, I think three characters could be defined (not including the audience), two as main characters, and one as a supporting character. I would name the main characters as “the Circle” (the looming set piece throughout hosting the projections used throughout) and “Dan On Stage/Dan performing” (the one in the physical space) with the “voiceover Dan/inner voice Dan” as a supporting character. The voiceover only exists in the beginning, and it is only shared with us to demonstrate the way in which the Dan On Stage singing is not really that aggressively optimistic and wholeheartedly believes the words he is singing. He is not the Dan we know from the Internet, so we can cathartically laugh at the attempt to pretend everything is fine. The voiceover only has one role, and it is to force Dan to confront this breakdown has an audience.

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Staging an Opening Sequence: Our First Stage Character is the Circle

In directing classes, often what you focus on is called stage pictures, which is meant to help you consider what the actual imagery you want to ensure the audience absorbs for their understanding of the piece. The first and last stage moment of each act should tell a basic story of what happened, and therefore, are heavily emphasized as important for directors. The Circle (capitalized for reference purposes) being lit up before the show starts and then again in conjunction with the light flashes and sound establishes the importance of the Circle to the show. When the projection comes into play, showing the speech of a 15-year-old Greta Thunberg before beginning to add more, we are then introduced to the purpose of the Circle to be an output/portal for the overstimulation of messages, in this case, I would claim it being what comes from the Internet.

The music/sound and lighting work well to articulate the manic feelings it means to instill in the audience and seeing it as a director, I assume part of the creative discussion was about parts of the media played they wanted to make sure were heard, and the lights help catch attentions in service of those pulled out moments. The Circle also through some of the lighting moments, mimic that of a clock, which again adds to the doomsday, the "end is near" type energy. To have the end of the opening sequence build to an explosion which then shows solid orange at the end while Dan is in silhouette begins the introduction to the orange emphasis & proposes a sort of prophet-like version of him after the apocalyptic imagery disappears as he rises to be seen. What we have opened with is setting the tone to how we should view these two characters of the Circle & the Dan on Stage.

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Song Time!

Dan is such a theatre kid & I love that for him. His dramatic side shows through the moment he used a rise to start his show at the top of the stairs, first in a place of seriousness with the sharp lighting and smoke to then bring in a very happy music number. The contrast & switching of expectations is a key of comedic works, and shows through most of the phandom who did not know WAD started with that, as it is indeed funnier if it comes as a shock. The movement & music mimic what folks attribute to as musical theatre, which is campy, happy singing. Knowing he was the one who suggested the song for TATINOF, I am loving Dan clearly wanting to have that opening number of a musical moment, even if it is dripping in irony. The Circle & the lights in this acts as a supporter to the message of it being sunshine and rainbows, with literal rainbow lights included. (Sidenote: I am 99% sure the pigeon coo is Phil, so if anything, I’m disappointed he was not credited as Pigeon sound effect AND remote crisis manager. Idk why I could tell, but both times now, it’s what I immediately thought when hearing that part)

I think of the musical number as the only place where he does have a fourth wall, because the number does not directly reference the audience at the start. It’s a one-man moment and it is about the performance not the audience engagement. It starts falling away when he starts pointing out the “and you”s, but the voiceover is the real break in our understanding of the world. It is emphasized by the color inversion of the sun & sky media of the Circle. The director is saying, this is important to how you now interpret what you’ve seen & will see, this is another shift from what was established of this world.

I should mention “world” is the terminology used to name what the environment the story is being told in with consideration, especially in theatre, of how much of a need there is for suspension of disbelief. I believe this term is also referenced a lot when discussing the fantasy and sci-fi genres, since those also requires some distancing from reality for the audience. This ties into a phrase I will probably end up using a lot of “rules of the space”. When establishing this world for the show you are presenting to an audience, there is a type of logic that must be established in order to understand what is the baseline for what the audience will be engaging with over the span of the show. But the voiceover immediately changes the rules of the space, because it messes with the Dan on stage, and messes with the messaging of the Circle. It adds a new context to the Dan On Stage, as while a fan will know that this song is not in alignment of our knowledge of Dan Howell, we get confirmation that this indeed ironic and outside of the branding that Dan has boxed himself into over his time on YouTube.

But the voiceover is also not in alignment with that “branding”. It expresses concerns related to the Dan On Stage’s mental wellbeing. There is no irony or subtext in that voice, it is the most direct in speaking to Dan On Stage, because it is being said by a variation of Dan in voiceover to himself. These could be seen as questions he knows to ask himself, but as someone who advocates for mental health & shares now about being openly gay, I interpret that he may feel he cannot express that outside of his mind for fear of undermining his advocacy points. The discussion of the “wonders” of the Internet also continue building in the tension that exists throughout WAD of how Dan feels about that space. The voiceover then proposes at first a type of equal extreme, which only sees the Doom, and as someone with clinical Depression myself, I think is only a furtherance of the breakdown, rather than the reality check it started off being. Not that what is listed is wrong by any means, but the barrage of it is meant to expand the drowning feeling, not act as call to action or consideration of the intricacies for engaging in the world. With the Circle’s sun imagery & the music having been inverted and shifted to something more sinister, Dan’s movement up the stairs fits a type of circular moment from the first entry of him, where the image of the prophetic figure is questioned on how he alone will solve the climate emergency. The slap & break of character for the Dan on Stage serves to confirm our understanding of the voiceover as the voice in Dan’s head & indeed there are not two Dans.

Also, the sparklers 🎇 showing up really make the key change for the song, but my producer brain is going, “girl, of course you lost money on this show, was that so VERY NECESSARY?” But the dramatic Gemini theatre bitch in me would 100% want this too. I just don’t have a capita£ester working to get sponsorship money in my life, so I have to be reasonable 😔 Also, the confetti with the high note is peak theatre gay so I again, love that for him. And of course, the confetti is orange.

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Hints of Orange

When the song reaches its end & the Circle starts showing squares of orange, rather than a full background, this acts as a seed for the breakdown and waterfall of cubes, which Calvina speaks to the orange cube hint at the beginning in her post. The sudden cut-out with Dan simply lit replicates a moment the Circle is not present. The Internet is not present. To crawl to a microphone, the message is not “hey this guy needs two mics”, because we see one on his face, but that the wired mic (which I will now label as “The Microphone”) is a metaphor. It’s a crawl towards sharing out, not suppression. Only when the voiceover of himself points out the audience does he does a full fourth wall break. The suppression did not work, and neither he nor the audience can believe that it was the Truth.

The wire of the Microphone being orange showcases that it was meant to be seen. I don’t think it even in play in terms of the sound, like it might not even be on, considering the feedback nightmare it would likely cause. And no standard microphone used on stages has orange wires, because that would pull the audience’s eyes to it. But that’s the point here.

The rules of the space are now this: the Circle is not always active, the Microphone has significance, the Dan On Stage knows there is an audience. None of these were true before, even the Circle was on before the start. This draws the audience to know there has been a shift & to have the first words said into the Microphone be “We’re All Doomed” solidifies the song moment was a blip, that this is really where we start at. As an example, in the social media section, Dan does a deliberate wrapping of the wire on his hand at the same time the Circle scrolls to the social media icon. It is how the director & Dan are ensuring that we understand “what he is saying and what is been shown on the screen are in tandem”, so if you’re paying attention to that wire, it signals you should look up too.

Every other prop, except I believe the gavel and wig, is also orange. The bubble gun is mainly what comes to mind for me, since the cubes are not as activated as props necessarily. But if an item is to enter the stage, what I interpret it as is that it must be orange, there must be high contrast, nothing in the physical world on the stage can become blurred, only screens have that privilege(?) to have things blend together.

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The Power Struggle Between Dan & the Circle

Once Dan has begun directly conversing with the audience, the rules of the space are:

(1) Dan On Stage acts, the design elements react (not including the Circle)

(2) The Circle and Dan have a symbiotic relationship, as neither have complete control over the other & react to what each other are doing

(3) The icons are our guides in understanding the sectioning done throughout the show

(4) Having “One Good Night” is the goal to reach at the end of the piece

As a person, as well as discussed throughout the show, we know that Dan has a contentious relationship with the Internet. It is what has given him his living but has also caused some of his worst moments mentally (2012? I don’t know her). It is the space in which lets him have an audience who have mainly showed him support, but also the space that has fed the cynicism that fuels his clinical depression. There lies in the way in which the Circle exists on the stage & looms over Dan in the background. It’s a necessary evil of what appears on the screen.

Why do I then say that the design elements are reacting? Well, if we remove the Circle from the equation, the lights, sounds effects, and props are all cued off of something Dan does like the clown honk. However, the Circle sometimes cues off what Dan does, but sometimes instigates what Dan speaks to. That especially is evident when video clips play that invoke what media Dan has been contending with on the Internet and the consequences of those things.

The Circle exists throughout both Act One & Act Two, but only becomes passive to the piece when Dan directly shows vulnerability & the removal of protective irony. Calvina spoke to this when discussing the costume choice of him opening the jumpsuit in Act Two to show the orange tank underneath.

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Cubes as Articulators

Oh Creator did I have to dig deep into my brain for this term of articulators. So my directing instructor had some key terms that I think I don’t think are universally used, even by American theatre directors or at least in academic settings. She defined articulators to basically be elements that helped give almost like checkpoints for the progression of a throughline in a show. For WAD, that is easily those orange cubes.

When static is displayed on the Circle’s screen each time we transition to a new section, it is not the typical emulation of TV static, it is that sea of orange squares. It is an articulation of those fear, issues, concerns, all those pinpoints Dan speaks to why he says “We’re All Doomed”.

That’s why there is the culmination of the orange cubes falling on him, when he reaches the top of the stairs at the end of Act One. When he circles back to the same stage picture of him at the top, it can been considered a repetition of the prophetic imagery I pointed out from the opening sequence. What changes is that the orange squares enter the physical world, falling onto Dan. He can no longer say they live in his head. They are here and stay in the space until the end of the show. In Act One, they are the looming issues that signal the Apocalypse. In Act Two, they are the rubble that must be sorted through.

Calvina was the one who named it rubble and the cubes as representations of Dan’s problems. To have the audience actually able to take a cube home, she argued, would be symbolic of the audience helping carry that weight. While I’d love that, I mentioned in my tags on her post that I think mentally, that rubble would still be at his feet, even with taking home that visual metaphor. This is Dan we’re talking about, and with personal responsibility being a topic of the show, while it’s not his burden to bear alone, he does have to recognize it exists.

I think the repetition of the prophetic imagery comes to its climax when in the aftermath found in Act 2, voting who to fire into space can and does end up with him being sent by the audience. It represents an understanding of where he exists now from where he did at 18 in terms of social, political, and economic access and the possibilities of his influence. There is a responsibility there that ties to how he can move in the world now publicly, so why wouldn’t he have an existential crisis?

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It is a Comedy Though, Right?

This is hundred percent comedy, and obvious dark humor at that. As a director, I love comedy, especially this type, because when an audience gets to laugh, the armor gets stripped away. They have no built-up resistance that let’s any uncomfortable point be heard effectively. It’s why the end’s vulnerability is effective, because we have already joked and laughed about our pains and our desire for escapism. Now we are able to move on into a place of reflection.

To underline why I say this is not stand-up comedy is that Dan has made it a stage show, just one that has comedy as a vehicle for telling this “story”. His interactions with his audience, through both quips based on audience reactions or “heckling” as well as explicitly asking for input into who to shot to space or what to add as a mad lib (generic brand for law purposes), are about being blended into the loose narrative constructed already, not actually to be reactionary like most crowd work I associate with stand-up comedy.

If anything, I could argue that it could be considered a comedy special that “Dan On Stage” is trying to make, but there is actually conflict being introduced that disrupts his set (both the comedy one and the physical one). There is clearly a showing of meta, as Dan makes sure to share thoughts on the creation of the show, the reactions from his overall show branding & imagery, the use of the lift because it was expensive to have. Dan’s comedy style can never be told without reference to behind the scenes, because if this is a creative means to process feelings, there are things about the show & its making that impact what needs to be processed too. It is also related to how his work is strengthened by acknowledging the two-way street of being in a parasocial relationship with his audience.

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Can We Have One Good Night?

Another term central to what my directing teacher spoke of was the “Core”, usually a question, though not always, that motivated what was being explored over the course of a theatre piece. At the top, as Dan on Stage exaggerates that love doesn’t exist (which Dan refutes as being an actual belief of his during the afterparty) and other sardonic phrases, he also states he wants to give his audience one good night, because he recognizes the escapism his audience finds in his solo and joint content. We’re All Doomed’s Core is “can we just have one good night, even in the midst of the horrors we have outside of these theatre doors?”. But I would also say that in terms of where his writing was at the time of WAD’s inception and the naming of his mental health book as You Will Get Through This Night, it feels more like Dan himself has been grappling with a Core of “can I have one good night? Or a full 24 hours where I feel mainly happy when all I am bombarded with about the world is suffering?” I think night can be both literal, since we know he has had sleep issues, and metaphorical, as the night can represent this depressive episode he was writing himself out of.

When the mood tracker gets discussed in the last portion of WAD, to see a sea of neutral or uninterested emojis demonstrates when he took the time to do it, the answer that night was “no, not really” 😕. The main one mentioned is the ritual of “Fry Day” he has with Phil (sidenote: why are these British men not calling it “Chip Day”, since this ritual falls on a Saturday?), which is a rare smiley face. The question he likely has then is “can I ever have a good night again?”

So for him to then turn to his own videos during one of those nights, to a video where he states his famous “embrace the void and have the courage to exist,” that showcases what I mentioned of his best work being written for himself, in this case, a future version of himself.

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Ending Sequence: Where Do We Land?

When the Circle does not display any media, it again shows the orange square motif, but after mentioning his own video, he turns to his audience for glimpses of what joy exists even in the face of Doom. The Circle changes into a display of different submitted clips showcasing this joy and hope that Dan was clearly looking for throughout this piece. He walks towards the top of the stairs to witness these clips. I cannot for my life at this point having now been separate from it for about a month, but I believe before the submitted media sequence, he states the famous line again of “Embrace the Void and Have the Courage to Exist”. With this last thing spoken, it gives that emphasis needed to take in the message emotionally and then witness what the Void (in this case the Circle) can offer.

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A Good Director Should Go Unnoticed

When someone is not versed in theatrical directing, if the audience cannot tell what was a choice by the director or even consider the director themselves, this is weirdly a good sign. It means that it feels natural to what they are witnessing and to the messages that are meant to be communicated to the audience. As someone who also works in government, it feels very similar, as only bad work is evident to the general public. Obviously that is not true for everyone, but is an overall trait I think impacts both an understanding of public service and directing.

I am not familiar with any of the work of Ed Stambollouian, who through research, looks like he has done work with comedians like Joe Lycett (who I am also not familiar with) and directed TATINOF, but also more stripped down, exploratory theatre. Through a quick review of his portfolio, one, I am not shocked that Dan tapped him to assist with directing since there is a familiarity and two, his background tells me he knows how to direct for writer-performers, which is what comedians really are at the end of the day.

To direct for those who are doing one-person shows that they both wrote and performed, it is especially tricky to have the artist hand the reins over to the director. The director in this case acts as the artist’s eyes, because an artist cannot clone themselves. It is impossible for them to wear multiple hats at once, where they can give quality, objective feedback to themselves while also doing a full out performance. For Ed to be someone Dan has worked with before, there is already an established understanding of each other’s work styles, and a trust that otherwise would have to be built up before the work can truly begin to finalize the piece.

In short, Ed Stambollouian and the creative team on We’re All Doomed did an incredible job bringing what I understand Dan intended when he started writing this down in isolation. And @danielhowell you whole-heartedly deserve to call this your magnum opus. What can I say (sorry I can't help lovingly poking fun at you), your artistry shines throughout the show. I hope this too can be something your future self can turn back to.

🧡

(bonus) Thoughts on Orange Carpet & the Phil element

I didn’t fully rewatch the orange carpet, just to keep myself on task & not bring Phil too much into the main reflection without explicit reference in the show, but hearing Dan go “I’m alive in 3, 2…” made me laugh both times. He understands that we just want to know he has a pulse, ya know? Also them pretending it totally was live, when those fools (affectionate) cannot run a real live broadcast from their home for their lives. It just ran too smoothly, esp. in the transitions, for it to be anything but some very, very light editing on one improvised take they did. But I always support them in their acting, no matter how bad, like with DITL Australia’s opener or pretending there were not two apartments or that Google Feud being back was unplanned or Dil being pregnant with a statistically rare alien child or Phil living in a tiled, cramped bedroom or...

Also, Dan’s little laugh at the end of Phil’s sign-off is so fond it hurts. It also hurt that the VOD was hard to scrub through, so another deduction for the Kiswe platform.

Anyway, I’m glad that Dan was able to find space outside of the Dan & Phil branding of the 2010s as well as the image he was forced to manufacture for his YouTube presence, but also realize that with having a core audience that wants him to simply be happy, he can recognize that Phil is part of the things that make him happy. And can do so openly.

He is his own person, but it has been clearly emphasized now that Dan has no interest in not acknowledging that Phil always is and will be part of his present and future. He has made work like WAD & "Gay and Not Proud" to explore his way of thinking without the support of Phil present in the filmed/performed aspect. Dan acknowledges this intention, which is evident with him shooing away Phil at the beginning of “Gay and Not Proud” to process it alone.

It is also evident with the ending of “Daniel & Depression” and the WAD end credit of remote crisis manager showcasing the caretaking role Phil often plays in Dan’s life. But we know that caretaking is reciprocal, considering Phil's tactics with glue as well as his continuing health issues and anxieties. Dan has seen who he is without Phil by his side everyday in the public eye & has no interest in maintaining that Phil is absent for public projections.

I obviously do not know Dan Howell, or anything about him outside what exists on the internet. But in performance studies, there is a foundational understanding that there is no way to not be performing in some way during your day-to-day. Performing is not inherently a bad thing, as there are different roles you take on in your life, where how I engage at work is different from how I am hanging out with friends. This also has basis in gender studies, such as ideas that you can perform your gender "wrong". What has been so interesting to me in this phandom renaissance is the way Dan and Phil each perform as themselves in front of the camera now. What they share out and the layers they include--or choose to not remove--have been stated by them explicitly to be the most authentic they have ever been, without obviously removing their right to privacy. During the height of the glass closet that was their 2018 content, I remember thinking that it was going to be the most they would show us in the vain of "if you know, you know, and we know who will know". After the coming out videos of 2019, obviously that's not true, but the return of dapg has signaled a message of "we know you know, if you've been in the know" while veiled in a way that is not immediately perceivable by those who are casually engaging with their content. It is an authentic portrayal of themselves without filter, while also providing themselves space to not have to announce everything to the world. When you are in the know, it definitely targeted and causes psychic damage, but I am ready for anything and everything they throw our way.

#we’re all doomed #wad spoilers #daniel howell #danisnotonfire #dnp #dan and phil #dan howell #theatre analysis #performance studies #theatre director

[kali-chaotic-neutral]

Advice

Pick a cat and get some much needed advice

This will include:

~Advice you might need ~Something you have to hear ~Insight on something

Disclaimer: this is just for entertainment purposes, and as a pick-a-card reading it may not resonate for everyone. Take what you resonate with, leave what you don't.

Please do not hesitate to suggest a few PAC reading topics as I am struggling with these type of posts.

Cat 1:

I feel as though you may be in a sort of identity crisis. Maybe you're going through a time of major change, and it is causing some crisis of sorts. You're worldview has been shaken and you're brain chemistry has been altered dramatically. Additionally, this could be some drastic change in your spirituality or maybe you're leaving a religion for another or just leaving religion entirely and being hounded by your community for doing so. I know it's stressful, I know you're probably extremely critical of yourself, picking and panicking over every little mistake you make. I want you to take a deep breath and know that this isn't the end of the world. Take the energy you use to criticise yourself to maybe journal, do some shadow work or gratitude journalling. You don't have to write paragraphs after paragraphs. Even one bullet point can make a difference. Let out your thoughts on paper so you don't end up blowing up on someone. and regretting it. Let it out, clear your head and do some damage control before evaluating what steps you have to take to get yourself out of this pit.

Try to reconnect with your inner child, let that child within you have their moment. Do something simple and childish, colour a book, draw. Do something you've always wanted to do, surround yourself with people you love and your friends, let them help you. Trust that those who care about you have your back. Do not let this temporary setback make you lose sight of what you want. This stressful and dark time you are going through is coming to an end. The only reason this moment seems endless to you, is because it is YOU that is unintentionally dragging this moment. Maybe you're stretching on an argument, or clinging onto a grudge, or just simply holding onto bad habits. You are hurting yourself at this point, and there is no one else to blame but yourself. Accept this pain, let go of this grudge or actually try to stop repeating bad habits. And it's not easy. I have a smoking habit myself, but I am taking steps. I haven't smoked for a month now and it has taken too many failed attempts for me to get here. Do not prolong this situation, because when you fall it will hurt even more. Try stepping out of your comfort zone, baby steps is perfectly fine. For me, getting out of my comfort zone meant wearing more form fitting outfits. I started with crop tops and a jacket over, then moved onto just crop tops and jeans. Then only recently have I gotten the confidence to get out of the house in flared leggings. Very simple, yet so effective in telling you: "Hey, it's okay. See, You're fine. You look so beautiful when you're confidently wearing what you want.". Everyone's journey is different, take your time, but taking the steps is what matters.

Cat 2:

There is someone (or was someone) in your life that absolutely changed your life for the best, someone that was there for you in your hardest time. You might be feeling a bit guilty in the sense that they are always there for you, that whatever you give them (or want to give them) seems inadequate, or maybe this person is not in your life anymore and you feel guilt for not expressing your gratitude while they were there. The guilt is weighing you down, and might be leading to insecurities as well. Just know that even a simple acknowledgement and thanks is a gift, while not the most extravagant, it does hold meaning. Open your heart, let them know how grateful you are. And if you struggle with this, a small simple, meaningful gift will always send the message. A gift is a gift, it's the thought that matters. Let this person know, that you appreciate them for more than the comfort they bring you. And if they aren't in your life anymore and it feels like it's too late, it can be as simple as a journal entry addressed to this person. Pour out your heart and write the letter as though you would send it to them if they were present. Or maybe you went through a rocky split up (romantic, platonic) and you want to reach out but you're unsure whether or not you should. Give it a shot. If the other person doesn't respond or responds very harshly, let it go. At least you tried. Or maybe things just fell apart. Me and a few of my high school friends went to different colleges and just stopped chatting with each other. And even now, it's so awkward to try and chat with them, but also so awkward to unfollow them.

Take some time off if you can, maybe during a special occasion. If you're celebrating something with this person, let it be more intimate. Maybe with close friends/family or even just you and this person. Make time for this person, like they do for you. Or maybe it's a day that reminds you of them, honour them by doing something they enjoyed. One thing my grandmother enjoyed doing when she was alive was travelling to sacred, religious places where I live. Every year, my family and I go to these places, pray for her and have fun because she would have wanted that for us. If you've had a split up with this person with so many unsaid things, reach out. Get your closure, clear the air of misunderstandings if there are. If it's with someone you've gradually lost touch with and the awkwardness has stopped you from reaching out. Don't. Reply to their story, send them messages or posts online. let them know that you want to rekindle the friendship. Let them know, that you are also wanting to have this relationship (platonic, romantic). I've said to try and rekindle the relationships/reach out so many times and here I am saying it again: MEND THE RELATIONSHIP!!! BUILD BACK THE FUCKING BRIDGE! Forgive them, but also most importantly, forgive YOURSELF!! It's normal being hard on yourself. This however, what you're saying/doing to yourself is not it bbg. You need love right now, sweet summer child, not criticism. Put your inner critic on the back seat, let your inner healer take control. Do some self care. Face masks, spa, massage, manicure/pedicure. Take care of yourself.

Cat 3:

You're in a crisis. You have conflicting emotions that are fluctuating so fast it's giving you whiplash. Maybe you're facing a choice where you have to leave what you have known. Maybe you're home for further studies or maybe you're planning on moving homes or cutting off contact with family or friends you've known for a long time. It's difficult, because you are potentially leaving what you've always known, what your comfortable with/or people who you've known for a long time. There will always be people who will not support your decision, especially if you're cutting off contact with close family members or friends who you used to always be with. This crisis/conflicting emotions are more so due to you not wanting to deal with criticism from people you've grown up with and less to do with whether you want to do it or not. Because you do. You know it is what you want, but the potential of people's reaction is what's stopping you. If you always walk on eggshells when making decisions, to appease the people around you, you won't make it far. Stop caring about the opinion of people who don't have your best interests at heart.

Maybe what you are pursuing (If it is further studies/a job) is something that you've always wanted to pursue but have been discouraged to do so because it: "Won't put a roof over your hear head and feed you". A creative job/study. Art, music, dance, literally anything that requires creativity. Don't let these people have you give up on your dreams and instead have you slave away at a stressful office job/"prestigious" job. Don't be afraid to splurge on yourself once in a while. Treat yourself to a nice dinner in a fancy restaurant, or buy yourself something you've always wanted. Or even simpler, take a self care day. Take your time bathing, put on a face mask, dress yourself up (even if it is just to go get groceries) If you want to see change, you must initiate it. Don't be a sheep that follows people around mindlessly, take control/the reins if you have to. Assert yourself. Let your opinions stand out, true and strong.

Cat 4:

You're stretching out something tense, maybe an argument, maybe something that really angered you. And i'm not saying that you're anger is not justified. It is, what's not justified is how you're dragging this out. Blowing this situation out of proportion, making a mountain out a molehill. You are getting on the defensive, feeling the strong urge to prove that you are correct or that you didn't do something (or perhaps did) But at this point you're arguing at the wall honey. Know when to stop your battles, get yourself in check before the universe slaps you in the face. The other party has already dropped out, not wanting to spend their time arguing an age old issue. Come to terms with what happened, and try to calmly speak your mind. If you can't, journal it. let it go.

This conflict has you shaken and feeling unsure. What I'm getting is to make sure you're not biased, make sure to listen to the other person's side as well. Just listen and make your decision then. Because if you make a decision right now, it will only be more chaotic. Don't make a decision yet, wait, give yourself some space to clear your head because you're mind is not in the right space to make important decisions right now. Maybe this conflict is between you and a friend or a sibling/family member. I'm feeling that this conflict could be solved if you were to communicate, but there is such a clear lack of it that I am quite speechless. Talk things out, calmly and clearly, let them know how they hurt you and let them apologize/talk as well. Forgive if you can. Enforce boundaries with this person, maybe they overstepped despite your warnings and it was what caused this conflict. Remember, forgiving is good but it's not necessary to heal. If this person has been constantly overstepping your boundaries, firmly set them and cut off contact if you must. Or just be very firm and strict with your boundaries, you might have a habit of caving in to this person walking all over you. Not anymore.

#pac tarot #tarot pac #free tarot #free tarot reading #tarot community #tarot spreads #tarot cards #tarot reading #tarotblr #witchy #pac reading #pick a photo #pagan witch #witchblr #baby witch #witchy vibes #witchcraft

[mllemaenad]

The thing about Fallout is ... I don't actually think Bethesda really broke the concept until Fallout 76. I have seen people wring their hands over the Nuclear Option quest in Fallout 4 being incompatible with Fallout's themes, but I don't really agree with that.

There's that tired, defeated sounding voice over at the start of every game, after all: "War, war never changes". And I remember: I remember having to blow up both the Mariposa Base and the Cathedral in the original Fallout; I remember destroying the Enclave oil rig in Fallout 2. That's three whole buildings with people in them, just like the Institute.

While they are role playing games with a lot of choice and consequence built in, the Fallout series does consistently railroad the player in one sense: you are inserted into the narrative at a point where the situation has escalated to the point where you have to go to war. There are many side quests that give you the opportunity to find alternative, peaceful solutions to conflicts – you can fix broken machinery and forge alliances or just shout at people until they calm down, and that all works – but in the main quest, the fight is inevitable.

And that makes sense. The ghost that haunts the narrative of every Fallout game is the morning of the 23rd of October, 2077, when everybody fired on everybody else at once. You ask yourself – "How could they do that?" The scale of the destruction, the sheer number of deaths, the absolute no-win scenario that created for every nation in the world makes it sound utterly unthinkable. But they did it.

You get a lot of historical backstory on how they got there, of course: the over reliance on fossil fuels, culminating in a last minute switch to nuclear power; the collapsing economies and failing institutions; the extreme ideologies embraced by the world's super powers; the horrifying disregard for human life that spread everywhere well before anyone launched those missiles. You see all the off ramps that weren't taken along the way.

But more importantly, you live it, every time. You never set out to fight a war or blow anything up. You're trying to find a damn water chip, a GECK, your father, the guy who fucking shot you, your son. But at the end of the day, you always find yourself recruited, and you always have to destroy something. Then you can see for yourself how it happens. The world had passed its point of no return the day you arrived in it, and you just have to deal with it. War never changes.

But with Fallout 76 ... I mean, it's the problem of a single player narrative in a multiplayer game. The premise is that you are one of many vault dwellers emerging into the world to rebuild, but in practice you are The Chosen One, all over again. The Vault Dweller, singular. If you imagine it as a single player scenario it's not that bad, although it is retreading old ground: the Enclave has another one of their delightful genocidal plans, and in the end you have to turn their weapons on their plague-ridden creations to stop the nightmare from spreading. It's a tragedy, because you are risking this little patch of unpolluted land, where crops can still grow and people can still live – but you're alone with only the resources you've been able to scrape together from the detritus of this fallen society, so what choice do you have?

Except. Well. You are not alone. Not even a little bit. In theory you should have a vault full of fellow geniuses to collaborate with. And unlike other games in the series, your fundamental issue is not that you are dealing with multiple groups of people with such different ideologies that they will never agree. Those people existed, but they are now dead or fled (At least originally; I am aware that expansions have since changed the situation). In theory you are now accompanied by a group of people who should, like you, be focused on doing everything they can not to destroy their new homeland.

And worst of all, because it's a multiplayer game everybody gets a bloody turn. You don't launch your weapons, battle the scorchbeast queen and then fade into a montage describing the literal fallout of what you have done. No, you do the whole thing over again for the XP and the loot. So now you are basically using nuclear weapons for post-apocalyptic big game hunting, and it drives me up the wall.

War never changes. Let's launch the nukes for fun.

#fallout

[gothhabiba]

[ID: Anonymous ask reading "israel's policy of displacing arab muslims by settling in lands they used to live in (note that arab muslims being in said lands is itself the result of arabo-muslim conquests, so no i dont feel that teary eyed about it) is in solid part a ploy to destabilize europe by sending muslims there (the ummah in its great generosity refuses to take in the palestinians as a whole, they dont want refugees in general) who" message cuts off. End ID]

the rest of this message is complete virulent fanatical racism that’s not worth publishing, and of course this part of it is senseless racist blather as well, but this "arabo-muslim conquest" idea comes up often enough that I can almost convince myself it’s worth responding to.

first of all, this doesn’t matter at all in this context. like I said, genocide is just simply wrong no matter what. if you feel no sympathy as people are trapped in an open-air prison by the millions, trapped in actual prisons by the thousands with no charge trial or conviction, unable to have basic autonomy or freedom of movement, forbidden from harvesting food they need to live, subjected to racist discrimination and hate crimes even if they are among the Palestinians who are citizens of Israel, bombed and murdered by the thousands with nowhere to flee to, purposely disabled by armed soldiers and denied the means to support their families, raped (men women and children) with impunity by settlers and settler soldiers (men and women), shot at by soldiers as they try to work their own land, living in constant fear not knowing if they or their families will wake up to-morrow, not knowing if the crops they’re consuming have been made unsafe for consumption due to repeated bombardment by chemical weapons, having their children shot and killed with impunity while playing, having their deaths by bombing watched as entertainment, having their nonviolent resistance regarded as terrorism, their violent resistance regarded as barbarism, being expected to basically lie down and die, having the entire western media establishment cast them as the aggressors and the perpretators of their genocide as the victims of their resistance, having even people who are ostensibly sympathetic to them basically believe that they shouldn’t resist and are only sympathetic as long as they lie down and die—

if you can regard all of that without feeling any sympathy for the victims of it because of who you believe them to have been descended from over a thousand years ago, then no, you are not allocating sympathy based on any objective or enlightened rationale, you are just casting about at random for reasons to be racist until you believe you've lighted on one that makes sense.

second of all, it isn't even true that the modern population of Palestine (or the rest of southwest Asia, or North Africa) is descended from ethnic Arabs who replaced the indigenous population that had existed before the Islamic conquests beginning in the 700s A.D. I'm not sure what people who claim this is the case believe happened to the indigenous populations (where did they go? did they flee elsewhere? were they all killed? how could such a wholesale replacement have happened without being recorded in any account of history?). I'm not sure either why the idea that this happened is so remarkably persistent in so many different contexts amongst so many different people, if not out-and-out racialism that believes "Muslim" is basically a "race" and thus it's impossible for a population to be converted? I'm also not sure what people who believe this do with the fact that there are Christians, Jews, followers of indigenous religions, and other smaller religious groups in these regions. nevertheless, the Arabisation and Islamicisation of these regions (two different processes!) were cultural and political conquests that did not largely replace the preexisting population. again, not that this even matters.

thirdly, there is no reason whatever to believe that Israel seeks to "destabilize" Europe. that is fantasy talk with no correspondence with any events that have occurred in the last century and more. I suspect that you're conflating Israel with Judaism, and that this conspiracy theory is simply that old antisemitic canard that Jews have some secret plot to overtake the white races dressed up in new, bizarre clothing (shocker! that anti-Arab racism and antisemitism would go hand in hand! /s). Israel is a creation of Europe, its strongest diplomatic ties are with Europe and the U.S., it has no power of its own that it doesn't maintain because it is convenient for the colonising and imperialist powers of the world. what on earth would it possibly gain from this plan you've invented.

fourthly, the vast majority of Palestinian refugees (other than those who were internally displaced) live in Jordan, Lebanon, and Syria. millions of them. Europe, Canada, and the U.S. have collectively accepted about 1% of that number. what on earth are you talking about.

#Anonymous #long post / #Palestine #rape m /

[yuurivoice]

I was wondering, are all of the Finn variants like, their own conscious people? Or are they all just avatars of Source! Finn?

Would they have existed in their respective worlds if Source! Finn didn't exist? If Source! died, what would happen to them?

And in a fight to the death, hand to hand, no magic/weapons, who do you reckon would win?

I'd love to answer that!

Only problem is, I chose to answer those questions in the form of a massive fuck you sized narrative rather than in a random Tumblr ask at 8am on a Tuesday. 😂

You are asking the right questions, so I'll give you a consolation prize.

A couple of years ago I decided I wanted to give some reason for the various AUs that had cropped up. Not all of them, because some are genuinely just for shits and giggles, but in particular Finn.

I am pretty sick of standard multiverse nonsense, and I had an idea for a bit of a twist on how you could end up with variants without just saying "oh it's me in another universe". I'm sure that the bones of the idea aren't entirely unique, but it's different enough that I feel comfortable and excited with my approach.

There's an actual name for the variants and it already has a reference that'll make a whole lot of sense once the ball starts rolling. So that's fun.

And I can't wait to stop calling Yandere Finn "Yandere Finn" lol that's probably the best damn part of the whole thing. Making the distinction between the two characters is going to be nice because I think a segment of the audience thinks that he's literally also a mad man, but the nice boy at the flower shop has never been that guy, just as he's never been a literal rabbit man. Most people instinctively assume that to be the case but I think there are some people who purely dislike Finn because of the yandere content and can't separate the two because there wasn't a big enough distinction.

So I'll be fixing that, and that's fun.