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#but John!!!! it makes no goddamn sense!!!

definitelynotarabbit · 7 months

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I don't think we talk enough about how Stargate's wraith aka space vampires had one of the most outside the box vampire powers to ever grace TV. Like kudos to whoever said "hey fuck it we're gonna take one of the most one dimensional villain races we've ever made which can very accurately be described as space vampires and just completely blow that idea out of the water with a single scene showing that they have miles more depth than you could ever guess".

I mean come on why am I not seeing more vampire fanfic where the vamp can give life in the same manner that they can take it?! It's such a groundbreaking idea in a trope that short of this the most recent big change of pace was glitter.

That single scene where it looks like Todd just killed John but then he turns around and gives him back more years than he took? Mwah chefs kiss. Possibly the most efficient story telling I've seen.

Anyway I support queer agenda that episode suggested and am eternally devastated that Todd didn't become a Teal'c level character but with extra gay because telepathy.

#its 3am so this probably makes no sense but goddamn i have thoughts about this 10000 year old shithead #todd the wraith #sga #stargate #stargate atlantis #john sheppard #if you made it this far and am wondering wtf im on about #this is your sign to go watch stargate #all of it #except maybe sgu that kinda sucked #oh also #vampires #i suppose

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unfortunate-arrow · 9 months

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Sophie Beckett is four years old and doesn’t understand why everyone gives her dirty looks when she sings the songs that Grandmama had. She doesn’t understand the grumbles of “papist” by the occasional servant. She doesn’t know that Ireland is revolting… again. What she does know, though, (or, at least hopes) is that maybe if she stops speaking like Grandmama, then the earl will pay more attention to her. And so, she stops using the tongue of her grandmother.

Sophie Beckett is nine-years-old and has forgotten much of her life before the earl. She doesn’t remember any of her second language. She might be fluent in French, but technically, it’s her third language. Sophie is nine and understands more. She understands that this latest Ireland rebellion is a blip, only important to those on the isle who are revolting. The earl doesn’t care and pulls the paper away from her, remarking that she shouldn’t worry herself with the goings on of an isle across the sea.

Sophie Beckett is twenty-three and standing over the man she dreamed of. He’s sickly and pale and all she can think to murmur as he twists and turns is a soft string of words that her grandmama had used. It’s a hazy memory, and the words come out with little effort, even as they sound foreign to her own ears and she’s not quite sure what exactly they translate to. Little by little, more hazy memories of language appears and she starts to piece together the words’ meanings, but there’s almost always an uncertainty to them. She whispers “I love you” in their quiet lulls in the tongue of her grandmother, even when other people are around, even when they look at her funny.

Sophie is twenty-three and married to the man that she dreamed of. He’s not perfect, but he’s hers and that’s what matters. (Plus, she’s not perfect either. God knows she’s made her own share of mistakes.) He asks, one night when they’re tangled together, what all those words she says mean and where they come from. She explains “I love you,” but that she’s not sure what everything else means or where exactly they come from, aside from Grandmama.

Sophie Beckett is fifty-four-years-old when she learns that those words are Irish from her newest daughter-in-law, who easily translates each word with the precision of someone whose first language was Irish Gaelic. She’s left reeling, suddenly understanding a lot of different reactions to her as a child. Coupled with the delivery of a rosary and a simple letter from the current Penwood earl, she’s left with a lot more answers than she would have ever expected.

Sophie Beckett is fifty-five-years-old and standing on the island where her grandmother and mother came from. Her husband wraps an arm around her shoulders, kisses the side of her head, and whispers “I love you” in Irish, echoing her own productions. It’s purely by accident that she discovers where her family had come from.

Sophie Bridgerton is fifty-five-years-old and staring at a gravestone with the name “Liam Beckett” carved into it. An older woman approaches, and tells her the short, sad story of a man who died young and penniless and alone. The old woman tells her that Liam Beckett urged his wife, Mary, to take their daughter, Bridget, and go as he was dying and refused to let them waste their money or time on a dying man. The last the woman had heard, Mary and Bridget Beckett had gone to England for work. Sophie knows, for sure, then that this man was her grandfather and as she returns to the inn where she and Benedict are staying, she learns that the name Liam is an Irish short form of William… which just so happened to be the name of her youngest son. Perhaps the world just has a funny way of working.

#sophie beckett #benophie #benedict x sophie #my writing #just a stream of consciousness about irish!sophie (with also the implication of catholic!becketts)#an updated version of my previous one this time with the addition that with irish!sophie her grandfather was liam (or uilliam)#both of which are irish versions of the name william which is benophie’s youngest son’s name #(and goddamn you can pry benophie’s three boys from my hands… they don’t get enough love especially in terms of benedict adoring them too)#but an irish heroine would be such a fascinating addition to the show! and sophie’s the only remaining love interest that it makes sense fo #michael & john are scottish; gareth is lady danbury’s grandson (& god i would love to see him show up earlier on the show)#penelope & phillip have already appeared and lucy doesn’t have the vibe for it #also mary & bridget are just really common names in ireland which is why i used them for her mother & grandmother

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makoodles · 5 months

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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

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nerdpoe · 1 year

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hmmmm tiny prompt idea i lied it's kinda big

For whatever mystical reason, Batman, John Constantine, and three other Justice Leaguers go to Amity to assess the ghost issue.

While there they talk to the Fentons, and meet their starstruck son, who has a very similar name to Phantom, the obvious vigilante that refuses to ask for help, and his face is pretty much exactly the same.

Oh, Phantom is dead and this kid is alive? Well lots of Batman's kids have pulled that same shit. Weirder things have happened.

Cameras don't work right around the kid, recording equipment shorts out with static, and he keeps slipping up and using his powers. It...really isn't hard to find out Danny Fenton is THE Phantom.

So, since it's so obvious, they kinda assume everyone Knows but isn't saying it to make the kid feel like he's doing a good job at being secretive.

Then they learn about the Anti-Ecto acts, and they're like.

"Oh, that makes sense, obviously the town would ban together to pretend this kid isn't Phantom if literal torture is what awaits him. BTW, let's go ahead and take steps to get that shit removed how did this even get through?"

But then shit get's weirder?

The Fentons sit the supers down and rant and rave about how Phantom is a Kill On Sight threat, and force their son, their bright cheerful son who wants to be an astronaut and talked about space with Batman for literally forty minutes, to fucking listen in.

They're talking about how they've shot him, stabbed him, beat him with blunt instruments, how they measure the effectiveness of their weapons against ghosts using him as a template, and detail how they intend to dissect him and study him while he is sitting right there, looking like he wants to vomit.

And now it isn't so cute, because the Justice League members think that this whole town has banded together to punish this small child for existing. This same small child who has been limping and keeps giving different excuses for it, and when said kid notices their side glances musters up a shaky smile, clearly trying to Not Acknowledge the rant by his own goddamn parents.

Meanwhile Danny's parents are like, super proud that their very squeamish son is listening to their science presentation and putting on a brave front for the superheroes.

So like, who would snap first? Constantine, or Batman? Or one of the other Justice Leaguers? One of the Batkids listening in through the coms?

Idk it's a long explanation but like yeah, that's the prompt.

#dp x dc #batman #batfam #john constantine #danny phantom #danny fenton #jack fenton #maddie fenton #amity park #story prompt

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fangirl-writes · 2 months

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And It’s a Goddamn Tragedy

JJ Maybank x Routledge!Reader; John B. Routledge x Sister!Reader

Warning(s): guns, gunshot wound, blood, hospital. Angst.

Notes: Could be in the same universe as my Nightmares imagine but can be read on its own as it makes no references to that fic. Also I have never been shot, but I did do a little research on the feeling, however most of the reaction is purely fictional.

Summary: JJ and John B. know their lives are a tragedy, but goddamnit, why do you have to pay the price?

The gun let out a loud bang as it fired, everything falling into slow motion. Engulfing your senses with nothing but a high pitched ringing and the slow movement of the gun in Rafe’s hand.

You saw a sharp look of regret pass over Rafe’s features before being swallowed by seriousness again. And then you could feel something wet start to blossom on your t-shirt.

Your face paled as you turned to the pogues, feeling the heat rushing from your face, mouth open but no sound coming out.

You could see the horror in their eyes, see John B. and JJ’s mouths moving, but you couldn’t make out what they were saying. It was like there was cotton in your ears, and the ringing persisted, louder with every second.

You felt yourself start to become lightheaded, the world starting to become blurry.

Feeling sick, you dropped to your knees, everything still slow and disorienting until your body hit JJ’s.

“Hey, hey, Y/N, come on, stay awake," he said,

It was an overload on your head, everything rushing back to full speed quickly, and instead of pain, there was a burning, aggravating sensation in your stomach area, growing outward from where the bullet struck you. Intense and hot.

John B. was next to you in a second, holding your head with one hand and pressing his other against your wound. “Listen to JJ, Y/N, stay awake.”

You let out a loud cry, the burn overwhelming and tears swelling in your eyes.

Pope, Kiara, and Sarah stood above you, shouting incomprehensible things you couldn’t focus on.

“Hospital, John B, we’ve got to get her to a hospital!”

Hospital? Would you make it to a hospital?

Your brother peeled off his button up, wrapping it around your middle to try to stop the bleeding.

“Call 911!”

God, you couldn’t afford an ambulance. Just put you in the Twinkie and let you go. John B. would get over the blood stains. Like that thing had never been bled on before.

“Fuck it! JJ carry her to the van, I’ll drive.”

You felt your body move, being lifted into JJ’s arms. You looked up at his face, it was the only thing in focus. He looked worried, scared even.

“Hold on, Y/N, we’re gonna get you there. You’ll be okay," he said.

You smiled lightly. If you didn’t feel like passing out, you might’ve kissed him. That always calmed him down.

Pope threw open the door of the van, and JJ hopped in, sitting down and cradling you carefully in his arms.

Sarah was next to you then, pulling off her tank top and pressing it hard against your stomach.

You let out a cry and JJ looked like he was going to murder her.

“What are you doing!”

“Trying to put pressure on it! John B.’s shirt isn’t going to hold it enough.”

You groaned, not feeling up to arguing with anyone, just dropping your head into JJ’s shoulder and letting Sarah press against your wound.

Pope and Kiara jumped in last, barely getting the door shut before John B. was speeding down the road toward the hospital.

JJ kept whispering reassurances. You weren’t sure if they were for you or him. Maybe both.

You could hear the loud honking of horns as John B. tore through town.

Your eyes fluttered closed.

“No, no, no, Y/N, you have to stay awake. Open your eyes,” JJ urged.

You let out a soft whine. All you wanted was to sleep and let the pain go away.

“I know, baby, I know,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against yours. “We’re almost there, okay? Almost there.”

Before long, the vans door was being thrown open again and you were jolted around as JJ ran into the hospital, John B. close on his heels.

“Help! Help, she’s been shot!”

Your body was laid down on a gurney and the staff started rolling you away.

Your hand slipped out of JJ’s as a nurse stopped him from coming along. The pain and sorrow in his eyes were the last of him you saw.

“Y/N?” One of the nurses above you said. “Can you hear me?”

“Y-yes…” you said before your eyes closed, relieving you from enduring the pain any longer.

JJ watched with tears rolling down his cheeks as you were carted away from him.

“Why don’t you go get cleaned up. We’ll let you know what’s happening as it happens, okay?”

JJ nodded once, but didn’t take his eyes off of you until you passed through a set of doors and he couldn’t see you anymore.

He let himself look down at his body. His hands and shirt were covered in your blood and he felt sick to his stomach.

Pope gripped his shoulder, snapping him out of his daze and ushering him to a bathroom.

John B. and JJ entered the hospital restroom, walking to separate sinks and washing the blood off their hands.

JJ couldn’t quite fathom what happened yet. It started to settle in as he watched the water turn crimson.

He looked over at John B. who was doing the same as him, his stare harsh and unmoving as he washed his hands.

There was a swipe of blood on his cheek.

Suddenly, his best friend choked out a sob. He gripped the side of the sink and cried.

“I can’t lose her too.” John B. said through tears. “I can’t lose her too.”

JJ moved over to him, wrapping him in a hug that was quickly reciprocated.

“She’s gonna be okay, man,” he whispered into John B.’s shoulder. “She’s gotta be. She wouldn’t let punk ass Rafe be the one to do her in.”

John B. let out a watery laugh, squeezing him tighter.

Neither boy moved to break away from the hug, the both of them needing the comfort for a little longer.

“Why’s she always the one that gets hurt because we’re stupid?” John B. asked, quietly. “Why’s she gotta pay the price?”

“I don’t know...” JJ replied, just as quiet.

It was true that you always seemed to be the one getting hurt.

When JJ stole money from Barry, you were the one who got the shotgun pointed at your head. When John B. was spiraling from the loss of their dad, you were the one who picked up the pieces. When Topper almost drowned John B., you were the one who tackled Topper before JJ got the gun out.

You were the one left alone after John B. and Sarah got lost in the storm.

And now, you were the one that got shot with the bullet meant for John B.

Well, that’s what he assumed anyway. Why would Rafe want to shoot anyone but him?

“Hey, she’s out of surgery,” Pope said, opening the bathroom door where JJ and John B. were smoking a joint by the window.

“Fucking finally,” JJ said, putting the blunt out on the windowsill.

The doctor was talking with Kiara and Sarah when the boys approached.

“She’s stable. And lucky,” the doctor said. “We’ve got her on an IV and will prescribe her some pain medication once she’s discharged, but we’d like to keep her overnight.”

“I’ll stay with her,” John B. and JJ said at the same time.

The doctor chuckled. “I think there’s room for both of you, though you should think about shifts so you kids can leave to clean up and get some sleep.”

Both boys knew they wouldn’t be leaving her side all night.

“Someone will let you know when she’s awake.”

With that, the doctor left the group alone.

“You guys really should go shower and change,” Sarah said.

“Nah, no way I’m leaving,” JJ said. “What if she wakes up and I’m not here?”

“She probably won’t be up for a bit,” Pope said. “Most people wake up thirty minutes after the anesthesia.”

“Regardless, I’m not leaving.” John B. said. “This is my fault and I’m not leaving her again.”

“I never left her,” JJ said, crossing his arms.

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” John B. replied, face contorting angrily.

"Hey!" Kiara said, getting in between the two. "Not the time nor the place. You can both stay if you're going to asses about it."

They let it go, backing off and biting their tongues.

"Keys." Kiara said, holding out her hand.

John B. reluctantly dropped them into her palm.

"We'll be back. Text us if she wakes up before then and don't fight."

Dropping into chairs on opposite sides of the waiting room, JJ and John B. watched as the others left and waited for any news.

John B. was doing anything he could to distract himself and was failing miserably.

Nothing on his phone could hold his thoughts and none of the magazines on the table were even worth looking at.

So, he looked at JJ.

JJ's knee was bouncing, nervous. He didn't even look at his phone to pass the time, just stared at a spot on the floor.

John B. thought back to when Sarah got shot and he thought he was going to lose her. That was pain like he'd never felt and he could see by JJ's seemingly emotionless expression that he was feeling that same feeling.

John B. loved his sister. Y/N was the only family he had left, and he'd be lost without her. But the pain of potentially losing someone you love so deeply and so romantically was different.

It was hard for him to wrap his head around at first. That his best friend and his sister were together.

But they were good for each other. They understood each other on a level he never could.

Sometimes, he thinks that makes him a bad friend, a bad brother. But when JJ looks at Y/N like she hangs the moon, he knows he’s just being silly. Because Y/N looks at JJ like she’s never looked at anyone.

Because they’re in love.

"Y/N Routledge?"

John B. and JJ jumped up immediately. "Yes?"

The nurse gestured for them to follow her, and they didn't hesitate.

JJ's heart pounded as they followed. He was almost impatient in his movements; like his feet weren't going fast enough.

He just wanted to see her. To know she was okay.

The nurse pushed open the door, entering the room first. "Y/N? You've got some visitors here."

And then there you are.

You look exhausted, eyes drooping, skin pale. There's an IV in your wrist, and a hospital gown had replaced your bloody clothes.

"Hey, guys," you said, voice scratchy.

"Oh, honey, let me get you some water," the nurse said, putting down her clipboard and leaving the room.

John B. got out his phone to text the other pogues while JJ went to your side immediately.

He sat on the bed next to you, taking your hand.

"Hey, baby," you said, softly, reaching up to run your fingers through his hair.

JJ relished in the contact, closing his eyes for a moment.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Tired," you replied. "But I'm okay."

John B. pocketed his phone and went to your other side. "Hey, butterfly."

You smiled at him. "Hey, birdie."

And suddenly, the tears are back. "I'm so- so sorry."

"Hey, it's not your fault," you said.

John B. didn't reply, just hugged you tightly.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," you whispered, hugging your brother with one hand, squeezing JJ's with the other.

The nurse came back in then and the boys seperate from you so she could give you the water.

"Just hit your call button if you need anything," she said with a smile.

"Thank you," you replied, nodding.

The door closed behind her and the tone in the room shifted slightly.

"I'm gonna make that asshole pay for this," JJ said, the sadness now replaced with anger.

"No, you're not," you say firmly. "If either of you land in jail again, don't think we're bailing you out."

JJ made a noise of protest, but you just glared at him and he shut up.

"We're moving past this, okay? It happened, it's over, I'm alive. We're not letting this lead to more trouble, alright?"

The boys just mumbled agreements, not entirely satisfied by your requirements, but understanding of them all the same.

You'd been through too much for them to break your heart again.

The other pogues came in not long after that, smuggling in your favorite chocolate bar and a change of clothes for both JJ and John B., who took turns showering in the hospital bathroom.

Kiara took the liberty of brushing your hair out and braiding it as much as its length would allow.

Sarah was the one who spoke with the doctor, getting insurance and payment figured out as well as what pain meds they were prescribing you.

Pope took to being a buffer between your boys, making sure they didn't spring into another argument or try anything stupid while you rested.

As if JJ would have moved from your bedside by anything except force.

John B., now knowing you were safe and alive, was more relaxed, speaking in low voices with Sarah about your condition.

The nurse was kind enough to allow them all to stay the rest of the day, but once visiting hours ended and the sun went down she had to ask them all to leave.

"Only relatives are allowed to stay overnight."

JJ deflated at this, squeezing your hand tightly.

"Can he stay?" You asked. "He's my husband."

A bold lie on your part, considering you were in a hospital.

"Fiance, she means," John B. chimed in.

The Routledge siblings in tandem as always.

The nurse seems skeptical but considering you'd just come out of surgery as a result of being shot, she cut you some slack.

"Sure. But just you two."

They thanked her repeatedly but she just waved a hand. "I'll be back in a moment to set you up for overnight."

You said a quick goodbye to the other pogues, getting a hug from each and a kiss on the cheek from Sarah.

"We'll be back in the morning with breakfast."

"Ooh, hashbrown patty?" you asked.

"I think we can swing that," Kiara replied with a smile. "See you tomorrow."

The nurse came back shortly after to change your IV and check your blood pressure, temperature, and pulse. She also brought you a warm blanket and helped you into a pair of pajamas after changing your bandages.

After that she left you a cup of water and the name of the nurse that would be taking over her shift.

And that was that.

JJ wasted no time climbing into bed with you after she was gone, allowing you to curl into him, careful not to brush your bandages.

John B. settled himself into a couple of chairs for the night and closed his eyes.

"You sure you're all right?" he heard JJ whisper.

"I'm good, J, I promise," you replied.

"JB and I kind of had a cry session about you, ya know."

"Really?"

"Yeah, cause we love you and shit."

You laughed quietly. "Well, I'm glad you weren't tearing each other apart again."

"We almost did, but Kie stopped us before we could get started."

"Good. I don't think either of you would've been allowed in here if you'd've brawled in the waiting room."

John B. smiled softly.

"You're probably right," JJ said.

John B. peaked an eye open. You and JJ were facing each other, lying down. You were playing with JJ's fingers, eyes fluttering as sleep threatened to overtake you once again.

"Sleep, pretty girl, it's okay," JJ said, adusting himself so that you could lean against his shoulder.

"Okay..."

John B. closed his eye again, allowing himself to find his own sleep.

Safety may not be their strong suit, but for what they lacked they made up for in love.

And nobody loved you more than JJ and John B.

#outer banks imagine #outer banks x reader #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank x you #jj maybank x routledge!reader

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obessedwithfictionalmen · 1 month

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Run!

John Egan X Pilot! Reader

Summary: Buck, Bucky and Beca (Y/n's nickname) are marching, endlessly, until an escape possibility comes...

Warning: Swearing/ violence/ mention of dying/ use of Y/n/

Word count: 1.02k

They’ve been walking for a lot of time. Buck, Bucky and Beca were angry. Y/n ‘Beca’ Armstrong was a W.A.S.P, she had been transferred to the 100th after Regensburg, but she went down at the same time as Bucky. Her feet were giving up, she was exhausted. ‘’We have to get away, like fucking soon’’ she shivered. They looked at her, even if they couldn’t really see her from the snow, the wind and the fact that they were marching at night. ‘’Yeah, but be patient’’ Buck started. ‘’No, we need to do it now!’’ Bucky exclaimed, like Y/n, he was tired, and couldn’t wait to get the hell out of the Goon’s care. ‘’Hey, 3 B’s stop talking!’’ One of the German soldiers yelled, the 3 B were the nickname they got from the Goons.

Suddenly, they heard a motor sound, it sounded like a plane. ‘’That’s a P-51!’’ One man exclaimed. The soldiers were smiling, but their smile quickly faded when they saw that the plane was coming their way, in a non-friendly way. ‘’Get on the ground!’’ One kraut yelled. As they got on the ground, the P-51 opened fire, Y/n looked at the plane; it was American. Men that didn’t have time to hide were killed, they killed 6 guys. She was fuming, her and other guys already told Germans to stop the marching at night, and now 6 guys died to the fire of their own people. When the plane went away, Y/n practically ran to the German commander, she didn’t care if she was going to get shot, she was furious. She came close to the commander’s face. ‘’What the fuck is wrong with you?! We told you to stop making us march at night! - ‘’ When Bucky and Buck saw Y/n yelling at the commander, they ran to get to her. ‘’ – Now 6 of us died! We’re getting attacked by our own goddamn planes! The fuck is wrong with you!’’ Buck grabbed her left arm and Bucky her right. ‘’Let go of me! 6 OF US DIED!’’ ‘’Calm the fuck down!’’ Bucky exclaimed. Y/n tried to fight the guy’s grip on her, but Bucky grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘’Look at me! Y/n!’’ he said, trying to keep his voice down, but still loud enough to make her come back to her sense. He shook her a little bit. ‘’Beca, we’re in!’’ Buck whispered. The woman calmed down and looked at the men in front of her. ‘’We’re going to try to escape, Alexender said that there was a forest at the next village. That’s our chance to get away’’ Bucky whispered.

When they arrived at the village, Y/n was nervous, but she was determined to escape. She couldn’t take it anymore, she had to get away. Men ran around, creating chaos, the small group of Rebels that formed during the march got together. ‘’Let’s go over that wall’’ Buck suggested. ‘’Let’s go one at the time’’ Y/n said. Two men went first, without any fuss. It was Buck’s turn. ‘’We’re right behind you, go’’ Bucky said. A few seconds after Buck left, Bucky and Beca made their way to the wall, the only thing they didn’t notice was that a young German soldier saw them. ‘’HEY, STOP’’ he ordered, making Y/n and Bucky turn. Buck was in the process of going over the wall, the young boy was about to shoot. ‘’No don’t shoot!’’ Bucky yelled, jumping on the boy to prevent him to shoot. ‘’Buck! GO’’ Y/n exclaimed. ‘’Y/n go with him!’’ Bucky yelled. ‘’I’m not leaving you! I’m staying here!’’ she yelled as she came to help Bucky with the gun. As Buck went over the wall, soldiers arrested the two B remaining, hitting them in the stomach as they did. ‘’What’s going on?’’ Colonel Clark asked as he saw Y/n and Bucky about to get shot. ‘’5 of them tried to escape, 3 succeeded.’’ A German soldier explained. Other P.O.W were gathering up, ready to fight if they hurt them. ‘’Go ahead, shoot us. You’ll have a fucking riot’’ Y/n taunted. ‘’Don’t give them ideas’’ Bucky mumbled. Colonel Clark agreed with the woman. ‘’You really want an uprising’’ he asked the general.

When they entered the new camp, Y/n felt a bad sense of Déjà-vu. P.O.W that were already there gathered around the fences and called out for possible compatriots. But there was non from the 100th. ‘’Yeah, just another fucking day in a prisoner’s camp. Love my life’’ Y/n said sarcastically. ‘’Fuck our life’’ Bucky added. They smiled to each other as they continued to walk until they reached their bungalow. ‘’It’s cozy’’ Y/n did. She couldn’t care less if she was being a bitch, she was tired and didn’t gave a flying fuck if she died. ‘’As cozy as a suit at the Ritz’’ Bucky laughed. Y/n chuckled as she claimed her bed.

‘’Do you think Buck made it back?’’ She whispered; she didn’t want to wake the others. ‘’I think so, it’s Buck! Plus, he has to get married’’ Buck whispered back. ‘’Yeah, with Marge’’ they both said her name, with a teasing tone. They chuckle. ‘’Why didn’t you go over the wall?’’ Bucky asks. Y/n turned to look at him, taking a deep breath before answering. ‘’Because I couldn’t leave you alone, not again. I care about you too much’’ she whispered, tearing up a little bit. When they both got shot down, they were separated and only got reunited at the first camp, she went through the process of getting captured, interviewed and transferred alone. They’d promised to each other that they would never be alone, but they got separated. Bucky sighed; it was painful for him to think about the horrible time when they weren’t together. He took her hand, kissing the top of it. ‘’I care about you too’’ he breathed out.

They care about the other too much. They were both ready to die for each other, step in front of a German gun and take a bullet for the other. They were in love, they just didn’t realised it yet.

#callum turner #callum turner x reader #callum turner imagine #master of the air #john egan x reader #master of the air imagine #major john egan #john egan

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presleyanswrites · 9 days

Note

Hey I got a request for jj

That jj is a single dad to a baby girl and he is to scared to hold because he will think he will drop her and John b everyday will try and get jj to hold her then one day jj was holding her on his chest then he takes her everywhere With him hope that make sense

Koala Care

dad!jj x fem!reader x daughter

a/n ahh this is so cutie! thank you for the request anon, love you bunches!

desc JJ holds his baby girl for the first time

wc 1.2k

warnings cursing, grammar, fluff

"Peaches?" JJ comes in through the back door of the chateau, carefully shutting it behind him as he walks through the kitchen to set down a box full of baby supplies.

The usual. Diapers, baby food, her favorite yogurt melts, more of his old band & surf t-shirts to wrap her up in.

He notices Aria crying her eyes out behind him in between the white rails of her bed. he must have forgotten to change her when he left. He also noticed it was pissing off John B who was trying to work on something probably useless and he caught the hint that he's been listening to her cry for at least an hour.

"Shit," he mutters, messing with his backwards hat as he turns his attention away from Aria for a split second to glance at John B. Turns out he was fixing a cooler for the boat.

"Bro." he goes over to him, kicking him in the leg slightly, "You seen Y/n? I really need her help knowing what measurements of tit milk I'm supposed to feed mini me."

John B rolls his eyes to the ceiling as he screws in the side of the cooler handle.

"First of all," he says through a gritted tone from a bolt in between his teeth.

"You gotta stop with the teenage boy, language wording shit."

He spits out the bolt and screws another nail into the bottom.

"You're like a dad now. Its your dick and your daughter, buddy. You really want your kid to go around saying, tit milk?"

JJ tuts. "Bro she cant even talk yet. Plus, I don't remember half the shit i said as a fucking baby. Maybe thats cause my dad probably beat the shit out of me where I like- lost half my cells, but i ain't changing. Plus, daddy will raise her to be the best hooker of man kind. Shes a Pogue, shes not gonna be a goody two shoes if my life depends on it."

John B turns his head around and gives him a look.

"Jesus Christ JJ, did anything click when your girlfriend popped a living thing out of her ass?" He purses his lips.

JJ points his lips downwards and shrugs.

"Or are you always gonna be known as the dad who raised a stripper?" John B rolls his eyes again, taking a weird clear plate out of his box, "Y/n is a doctor for fucks sake, she's the only hope for raising her I swear to God."

John B shakes his head, "I've told you everyday now. You haven't even held her yet."

JJ grips his hat, "Thats because im gonna drop the kid!"

John b slaps his forehead.

"You're litterally her DAD, JJ! Y/n popped a baby out of her kitty sack and you seriously didnt even touch her the day she was born." John B raises his eyebrows. "Do you remember that? Y/n cried in Kie's room FOR AN HOUR thinking you didnt want the kid!"

JJ opens his mouth to respond then stops.

"Whatever. Go back to fixing your cold box and shit," He turns his back to walk away.

John B changes the tip on his screwdriver, "You're gonna have to hold your own ass daughter eventually, dude."

"I hope you screw a nail in your dick!" JJ calls out and tuts again, mumbling under his breath, "teaching me how to handle my own kid..."

"im the one fixing this goddamn cooler so you can drink your shit ass blue moon chilled!" John b yells back, JJ opening the door and slamming it shut to try and find you again.

"y/nnnn," he groans, calling out your name, finding you sitting on the steps outside.

He kneels down and wraps his big arms around you, kissing the side of your head gently.

"Hi baby," he mutters, "How was work?"

you felt your head pulsating before forcing yourself to give a response.

"Hmmm fine. it was busy."

"Yeah?" he strokes your head, "Real quick."

You sigh slightly, "Hmm?"

"how much ti-" He stops, and clears his throat.

"How much milk do I need to feed Ari?" He says in a soft voice, knowing you had a blaring headache from your shift.

You exhale, leaning your arms on your knees.

"theres about 7 oz in the fridge."

He nods, "thank you sweets," he kisses your hair one last time before leaving you in peace to rest your mind.

He goes back inside the chateau, opening the fridge and taking out the bottle, reaching over Aria's crib and putting the tip to her mouth.

"there we are, sweet girl.." he holds the back of her head while she drinks gently, her cries settling down.

After Aria is finished, he stares at her for a moment.

Why was it so hard for him to hold his own daughter? He feels a wave of guilt floods over his spine.

He reaches his hands out, then stops.

"God damnit," He sighs.

"Okay." He stares at Aria one more time. "3, 2.."

"Fuck this."

He picks Aria up gently in his arms, his heart jumping as he does so.

"Holy shit," he breathes. "Oh my God."

He holds her to his chest, making sure to support her back, something he learned in a parenting book he found online as he feels his soul melt in his stomach.

"There we go," he coos softly, rocking her up and down gently.

"Hi love." he holds her up to look in her eyes with the biggest grin on his face.

"You have your mommas eyes, don't you?"

It's like he fell in love with you all over again. Just this time, it was a baby. And it was his baby.

He holds her to him again, hearing you opening the screen door to come back inside the chateau as he looks at you with the stupidest smile on his face.

"JJ.." you breathe, a grin full of your white perfect teeth filling the room as you jog over to him.

You rub his arm gently as you stare at Aria in JJ's arms.

"im so glad." You said, tears slightly filling the bottom of your eyes as your breath catches in your throat.

"She has your eyes," He repeats the observation he made earlier.

You nod with a sniffle, chuckling slightly.

"She has your lips."

JJ presses another soft kiss into the side of your neck.

A few days later, you noticed that JJ dorkily bought one of those baby carrier things to attach to your chest, and you had to admit it was pretty cute seeing Aria giggle with him, taking her everywhere he went.

John B was relieved her finally built up the balls to hold his kid, and if you were honest, you were relieved too.

Kiara bullied him everyday for taking Aria with him everywhere because the baby holder he chose was literally hot pink. Really hot pink.

He was so happy everyday. To be the dad that he never had. The one he had prayed and wished for everyday as a kid.

JJ was such a tough guy, tough face, tough love, tough soul.

but I guess not when it came to you and Aria. You and her were his new world and there was nothing in the entire universe that could take that away from him.

☆ divider & gif credits to @viixcyre @baby-bearie

my navigation ♡

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triptychgardener · 1 month

Note

I swear to actual Gog no nom-transfem outside of Tumblr actually understands June as a character and it will be the death of me. If I see another cavalcade of people turn up at the slightest mention of her name saying "ohhh I don't see it, I don't think it makes sense, tbh it'd just be better if they didn't at this point" I'm going to turn into the Joker. I read further down on that "June would be better as a trans guy imo I'm not transmisogynistic I mean femtransphobic" reddit thread and it made me want to become a nomad wandering the Appalachian peaks

Yeah like I'm gonna be real. I think entering fandom and using characters as nothing more than a source for projection really screws up your actual reading of the text (said as someone who has done that before!) And if you're unwilling to let go of that interpretation, you're going to be operating in a fundamentally different reality than everyone else who bothers to read the text.

June at this point is on the edge of becoming canon. She's been "canon" for years now, the evidence and reading of June as transfem has been thoroughly documented and discussed. She is a thing. That is happening. And while Homestuck often draws in fandom ideas and discussion, it's rarely going off of things that weren't at least partially in the text themselves.

I don't hold all of Homestuck's text as scripture. My distaste for, say, transmasc Roxy, has been growing as I actually began to read and understand more. And if people want good transmasc readings, there are plenty of great options! Jane, Dirk, Aradia and Nepeta are all wonderful examples of strong transmasc readings. I'd say there are, on the whole, maybe fewer than transfem readings, just because Homestuck is a very transfeminine story. It's about trying to escape and defeat the ultimate force of masculinity that pervades and lords over the story, contrasted by the Space aspect, which has some of the most transfeminine goddamn characters in the whole comic (even a basically canonical one in Calliope). It's a story with Vriska Goddamn Serket in it for the love of god!!!!

Also not to get too deep into the weeds but arguments like "well she actually admired her dad a lot and wanted to be like him" seem to forget the Literal Familial Strife he had with his dad every day, or the fact that his dad always seems to be a bit of a sore subject, or maybe, perhaps, John is not always being one hundred percent honest about his feelings about his father who died when he was thirteen. Honestly, even outside of a transfeminine interpretation, it's just a deeply surface-level reading of John.

#like i think people with different hcs for june and john can be fine in theory #ive seen plenty of agender and genderfluid egberts which do read to me #but there's a limit to the text here and these people have reached it and don't wanna come down #asks #anon

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johnwickb1tsch · 3 months

Text

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 13 all chapters

-Later that evening he picks you up near your hostel in a gorgeous wooden water taxi. You’d gotten more than a few odd looks from the scruffy backpackers hanging out in the courtyard, as you’d exited in your chic new dress and heels. You wonder if you look utterly ridiculous, until you see the way John looks at you. There is a heat in his dark eyes that could burn the city down, and you flush all over, knowing the evening hasn’t even begun and you’ve already soaked through your new silk panties.

He waves away the driver, lifting you down by your waist into the boat. It surprises you, and you cling to him, though you never feel for a second that he might drop you. The strength in his arms is unyielding as an oak.

He’s changed into a black suit for the evening, and he’s so fucking handsome you could die. When you’re settled in the bench seat in the back of the boat he lifts his arm for you in invitation, and you nestle in. The night air is a little chilly once the boat gets going, but you are pressed to the long lean length of John’s side, and he keeps you warm. He drives you a little crazy, drawing slow circles with his fingertips on your bare arm.

You go to dinner, and it’s everything you’d hoped and feared. The light is low, the food is delectable, the wine is good, and Mr. Wick is the very picture of dark temptation in the candlelight. He is charming, and sweet, and he touches your fingertips lightly with his from across the table. You always knew he had a wry sense of humor, but loosened up with an aperitivo, he is downright funny, and you find yourself laughing at his comments with purest joy.

You brought that leather-bound notebook from Florence in your new little handbag. When you present it to John he cradles it in his big hands like you have gifted him with something made of pure gold, his dark eyes shining like high-polished mahogany. He looks at you with a tenderness that makes your knees weak, and you are glad you are already sitting down.

“I know it’s not much…” You feel a little sheepish suddenly, thinking about what he spent on you earlier that day.

“I love it,” he assures you adamantly, and tucks it into his inside pocket, where it will rest over his heart. “Thank you.” He reaches for your hands across the table again, and as if you weren’t gone enough already, you feel yourself steadily, inexorably, falling in love with this man.

Afterwards you go for a walk. He smiles down at you, amused when you stumble on a raised cobblestone, steadying you with an arm around your waist.

“I think you are a bit drunk, Miss y/n,” he teases you.

You like wine, but you don’t drink it often. You’d had half a bottle with dinner, plus a negroni aperitivo, and a digestivo of grappa after dessert… Yes. Yes you are, and maybe it will hurt in the morning, but right now it feels wonderful.

“And whose fault is that?” you fire back with an insouciant smile, winning real laughter. The rare sound warms you to the bottom of your soul.

“Guilty.” He’d ordered the drinks, after all.

There is a mischievous sparkle in his jet-black eyes, and you think maybe he’s a bit drunk too. Or maybe it’s just this fucking country, that’s so goddamn romantic. You’re not sure why that annoys you in that moment.

You pause on a bridge, and he reaches up to lightly touch your hair, sweeping it behind your ear, tracing the curve of your neck. It’s almost like he’s petting you, and you cannot help but close your eyes.

Is this man finally going to kiss you?

A small, feral sound escapes you with the thought, and you are too tipsy to be embarrassed about it. It makes him smile knowingly, and now you think he might actually have an inkling of what he’s been doing to you.

You do not know it, but over your shoulder, John sees a suspicious shadow move in an enclave in the distance. He does not like the look of it at all.

“I should probably get you back to your hostel.”

You stick your lips out in a pout, mildly infuriated and currently lacking any healthy inhibitions.

“Are you really going to make me tell you how much I want you, Mr. Wick?” What an effective truth serum a good chianti makes. Your hands find his tie, pulling him closer towards you. He lets you, of course, until your bodies are nearly pressed in a line.

It’s almost enough, but not quite. Never quite, it seems.

He lowers his forehead to rest on the top of your head, and you sense that he is coiled tight as a spring, practically vibrating with the effort of holding himself back. You can feel it in his hands on your sides, as though he can’t decide if he should pull you closer, or push you away.

“Do you?” he asks, his voice gone low.

“As if you don’t already know,” you grouse petulantly. There is a part of you deep down that knows, as you look up at him, that you are pulling the tail of a tiger. You just don’t possess the self-control at the moment to stop.

He narrows his eyes at you. “It’s hard to read you,” he confesses in a rare moment of vulnerability, which you find utterly absurd.

“Hard to read me? Mr. Tall Dark and Broody? Mr. Hot and Cold? Mr. I’ll Take You Out On My Bike For The Ride of Your Life on Your Birthday Then Barely Speak To You?”

Again, he laughs, though this time there is an edge to it. He frames your face in his big hands, and you know he could crush you if he wanted, but you still cannot suppress a sigh. You crave the strength in those hands on you with every fibre of your being.

You’d let him pull you apart, so long as he promises to put you back together again.

“Sweet girl…my love is a curse. I don't want to hurt you—but I don’t think I’m strong enough to let you go.”

It almost sounds like a warning.

You pause at that, listening to your heartbeat pounding in your ears. There is a hint of darkness in that sentiment that would have scared you a little, had you been in your right mind. As it is…you are too far gone, and you are desperate to have it all out at last.

“Are you talking about your wife?” you dare ask, your voice hushed as though she could overhear you. Maybe she can. Maybe her spectre would have the mercy to let this man who still walks among the living go. “John…she got sick, and that is not your fault. You can't blame yourself for that.”

He just shakes his head slowly against you, his long fingers sliding into your hair, tightening at the base of your skull.

“You don't understand.”

He has you firmly in his grasp, and it sends the most delicious thrill down your spine, right to your loins. You can’t help but squirm against him, closing that distance at last. The line of heat between your bodies pressed is maddening, and you marvel that you can think at all.

“I'm trying to.”

“I know.” There’s something in his tone that cracks your heart in two, and you find you are afraid. You’re afraid that he still might backpedal on you after all, after all this, and you’re not sure your heart will survive it.

“Please don’t let me go?”

He tilts your head back, in full control of you. You do not fight him, too entranced by his mouth hovering over yours.

“Remember that you asked.”

You don’t get the chance to formulate a response, because at last his mouth presses to yours, and you forget everything but the feeling of his soft lips and the tantalizing intrusion of his tongue. You would have surged to meet him, but he holds you immobile in his strong hands, taking you just the way he wants you. Yet you are a greedy thing, and your fingers seek the flat planes of his chest, running over the muscled contours beneath his jacket, up the column of his neck to grab fistfuls of his soft hair, the way you’ve craved practically since the first time you laid eyes on him.

You fancy you almost hear it snap, when at last you manage to break this man’s iron-clad self-control.

Or perhaps it is you, your fragile body, that makes an audible pop when he grabs you up in those strong arms, his fingers digging into your waist as he practically lifts you from the ground in the desperation his ardor. You meet the fury of his kiss with a matching passion, with lips and teeth and tongue, so caught up in the whirlwind that you entirely forget where you are, that you’re in public, that you’re probably not alone. The focus of your world narrows to the single pinpoint that is him, and maybe it’s been that way for you for a while now.

It’s over all too soon, when he tears himself away, breathing heavily in the bend of your neck. You make a small sound of protest, needy for more of his delectable mouth, and he nips your shoulder, maybe hard enough to bruise. You jump with surprise, but you don’t exactly mind the feeling of his teeth in your skin, as though you are something sweet he wishes to devour.

In that moment you reckon you would let him eat you whole, and lick the bones clean.

You are aware of it this time, when he lifts his head to look beyond you, his hawkish gaze sweeping the shadows beyond. It seems like he’s worried about something. But you are wrapped up in his arms, tucked perfectly against his larger body like you are puzzle pieces finally found—you feel as though nothing could possibly touch you.

“I should get you back,” he says, his voice pure gravel.

“I don’t want—”

“Don't fight me, y/n.”

He uses a tone of voice you've never heard from him before. It is hard as granite, utterly forbidding, and your blood turns to ice in your veins. Feeling this change in you, he sighs and kisses your forehead in apology. “Come on.”

Slightly comforted, you let him lead you with your hand in his, though you still feel more than a little unbalanced, and not because of the height of your heels on the uneven paving stones, or the tremor in your limbs from that hurricane of a kiss.

This man…

You are not sure what unsettles you more. The whiplash of his mood, or the fact that you’re not sure you wouldn’t follow him to the depths of Hell anyway, so long as he held out his hand to you.

#here it is lovelies <3 #john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #john wick fic #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves #bittersweet john wick imagine #john wick imagine #yandere john wick x you #yandere! john wick #yandere #yandere john wick

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bloodweep · 3 months

Note

JOHN DORY SMUT HCS

I NEED MORREEE 💃💃💃

ESPECIALLY THAT FOREST PLAY SHIT AHSGSYAHDH

Alsooo

BRANCH AS WELL 😭😭

WE LOVE MY BOY BRANCH FRFR

YALL ARE INSANE /POS

I DID A LITTLE MORE ON IT A WHILE AGO BUT GODS I CAN DO MORE

I can

I CAN

Oh my fucking GOD HE DRIVES ME CRAZY I HATE I HATE I HATE OMFG

I swear I swear I’m so normal I am I am

Gods id go insane if JD was real and did this jdjNJXJDJFNFNFNJFJ

Also warning kinda?? Knife/machete play (?) maybe blood play kind of??

Yeah,,, I’m normal don’t you comment on it /jjj

━━━━━━━ ✦❘༻༺❘✦ ━━━━━━━

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Forest Play: John Dory ࿐ྂ

‗ ❍ ugh uses his machete to stab into the ground above your head when he finally caught you, stabbing it in all the way, gripping the handle in a tight grip

‗ ❍ how other hand grasping the back of your neck and pinning you down

‗ ❍ his fangs are running along your shoulder so softly before biting down, sinking his teeth in

‗ ❍ fuck, I know he only fucks in doggy in this mindset

‗ ❍ WILL use that fucking machete to cut your clothes off

‗ ❍ licks any blood off of you if his machete accidentally nicks you

‗ ❍ goddamn I know this man scratches your hips, back, thighs, ass

‗ ❍ loses the ability to speak really, just clamping his teeth around your neck or shoulder

‗ ❍ if you fall forwards, he does too, a hand pushing under and grasping at your neck to you still

‗ ❍ UGH cums in you so much, enjoys watching it leak down your thighs, dragging his claws up to catch the cum to push it back into you

━━━━━━━ ✦❘༻༺❘✦ ━━━━━━━

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Forest Play: Branch ࿐ྂ

‗ ❍ oh this man has a full detailed plan that me makes you go over and over with just in case

‗ ❍ makes sure you know the lay of the land for months before bringing it up

‗ ❍ shows you how to climb things properly, how the hide, things like that

‗ ❍ gives you a head start so he knows it can be somewhat fair - well as much as it can be since he’s pretty used to the forest while you, not so much

‗ ❍ doesn’t speak, make a sound, just hunting you so so easily

‗ ❍ his hearing and sense of smell is a lot more heightened than the average troll because of this

‗ ❍ ugh when he catches you, he tackles you, hands protecting your head so you don’t get hurt before kissing you gently

‗ ❍ ugh ,,, ties your wrists together

‗ ❍ he fucks you so slow but rough, a hand on your chest to keep you pinned, the other gripping and clawing at your thigh

‗ ❍ breeding kink is extremely present during this time

‗ ❍ sometimes will take your tied wrists and pin them down

‗ ❍ bites along your chest and stomach

‗ ❍ tends to hide the bites so only you both could see them

━━━━━━━ ✦❘༻༺❘✦ ━━━━━━━

Dreamy sigh … primal play is just ,,,,,,,,,,,

#trolls #trolls band together #trolls 3 #brozone #john dory #john dory x reader #branch trolls x reader #trolls branch

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dovithedarklord · 3 months

Text

Stucked - Part 3

You're trapped in a game and a new threat is lurking.

..............................................

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x reader, Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader

Tags: Mentions of death, Mentions of blood and gore, Blood and Violence, Sexual Scenes, Alternate Universe, No use of Y/N, Not Beta Read, AFAB Reader

Trigger Warning: Contains mentions of violence. Please, keep that in mind!

⚠️MDNI⚠️

......................................................

Author's Note

I watched too much Netflix on the weekend, so here is the next part! Everything gets even more complicated.

Have fun! :D

Part 1, Part 2

........................................................

"Simon, it's been so long since we met!" Pam squeals, turning to the new man with such enthusiasm as if she really knew him for years, even though you're pretty sure that this strange figure has never paid his respects in the game until now. And the fact that your partner freely allows herself to be pulled into an overly intimate hug makes your stomach turn. Because you get that visceral feeling of a wolf hugging a deer before sinking its teeth into its flesh and tearing it to shreds.

Because you're not so naive as not to know that the newcomer didn't appear here to help you. And all you have to do is look at Johnny and see that cheerful light in his sky-blue eyes, which are too sincere for the stranger to be just a simple side character. No, this man exudes a different kind of menace, and you've died just enough and been in enough pain to recognize the dark cruelty in those warm brown eyes when they look at you.

You take careful steps closer to the porch, and your grip on the strap of your bag tightens almost painfully, as if the poor fabric could save you, whatever might be lurking to pounce on you. Everything has gone through an unsettling change, as if the game has turned into a fleeting mirage, approaching which, instead of the apparent calm, more horrors would await. And you're sure that whatever this goddamn place is up to, it's trying to discourage you from getting out in increasingly evil ways. Why throw in more and more unusual twists otherwise?

And as soon as you step onto the veranda, the wooden planks creak under your shoes, as if the small voice would want to warn you to be on your guard. Although all your senses are sharpened by the stress, and all your muscles are filled with energy ready to flee, you're still unprepared as Johnny hugs you, even though this is the only certain point since the restart, which takes place in the same way as before. But when he pulls you to his broad chest, and his strong arms wrap around you, your heart skips a beat because like a lightning strike, the memories of last night come back to you. His hot breath caresses your neck, and as the sensitive skin begins to tingle wildly, your stomach shrinks to an impossibly small size, because the burning reminder of his touch smolders in each and every pore of yours. As if every inch he touched in the suffocating darkness of the kitchen would be covered in aching flames at the same time, so that you know where he marked you for himself.

And your body acts almost on its own, because as you feel the hardness slowly coming to life in his groin pressing to your stomach, visceral fear rushes through you, and you want nothing more than to run away. Your hands come to life on their own, and you push the man away from you so forcefully that even he himself is surprised. And as you step back and fix your frightened gaze on him, you see the grim glint in his eyes, with which he stares at you for a moment. And the little voice in your head that tells you, that your rejection brought a much harsher distaste to the handsome face than any pain you caused him yesterday…

But what worries you much more than this is how, from this small movement, reality suddenly freezes around you, and all eyes are settled on you with such tense disbelief that it makes the little hairs on your back stand up. An inexpressible tension spreads over the faces of your two companions, their delicate features for a fleeting moment resembling more closely to the plastic mannequins standing lifelessly in store windows. You see a small muscle twitch on Rebecca's face, as her wide, glassy eyes stare at you, the gentle innocence replaced by something quite terrifying. Her fingers are clenched into fists with such force that her knuckles slowly turn white, and small drops of blood emerge from her closed fingers as her nails dig into her palm. You immediately understand that you made a mistake. Because this game won't tolerate you openly defying it. It doesn't like it when you stop the sick charade prematurely, because you spoil the fun. Fuck.

"I'm just… a little tired, sorry." You stammer, immediately letting the first words, which form in your panic-stricken brain, fall to your mouth, and as the force that painfully squeezes Pam's jaw eases a little, you know that you’ll have to be more careful. "I'm going to rest a little." You pull a weak smile on your face and hate how pathetically thin the voice that comes out of you is.

The ominous shadow that had sits there suddenly disappears from Johnny's face, and as if the game had calmed down at the first signs of your desperation, the tense moment dissipates, and the stomach-churning peacefulness, that weaves through this cursed fever dream like a disgusting illness, takes its place again.

"Come on, Bunny, don't worry about it." Johnny reassures you, and although his tone is perfectly relaxed, you still discover the hard promise behind the harmless words. This small opposition will have serious consequences, and you don't even dare to imagine how this stupid mistake of yours will affect the course of the already unusual events. "Go unpack. Ye'll need yer strength for the party." He says lightheartedly, and the smile that escapes to his full lips makes your stomach jump uncomfortably, because even though the mask of innocence is now resting on his face, you can already read his every little twitch all too well. And from the way, despite the cheerfully upward curve of his mouth, the same sparkle that you discovered in the reflection of the window, when you were trapped by him in that blasted kitchen, moves into his eyes, and fear grips your insides in an icy fist almost immediately. Because there's nothing sweet or charming about the way your every nerve admits that you've been thrust into the spotlight of a predator's undivided attention.

Without a word, you head inside, almost sprinting from the stress that is awakening in your body, like a scared little mouse that is about to flee from the cat. The stranger, Simon, lets you storm over the threshold, and if your mind didn't cling to every last crumb of your sanity so bitterly, you might wonder why he's cooperating so willingly. Everything has a price and nothing happens without a reason. Every drop of peace, every grain of kindness is a deceptive trap. But you want to escape too quickly.

Your pulse is pounding in your ears as you run up the stairs, and you automatically make your way to your room, because even if someone would wake you up from a dream, you'd find it, you've wandered through this horrible house so many times. You almost tear open the door as you rush in, and you slam it behind you with such speed that even you get startled by the impact. But nothing happens, no one comes after you, and when you finally calm down and sure that you were able to hide from the prying eyes, you stumble through the friendly little room panting, just to fall on your bed with trembling legs.

Burying your face in your hands, you try to hold back the start of the scream slowly rising in your throat, and between the wooden paneled walls only the gentle rustling of your breathing echoes, as you try to swallow the air in heavy gulps from panic, to see if your lungs will be filled with peace along with the fine particles of dust. And it takes what seems like a thousand years before the frantic beating of your heart finally eases, and you dance back from the panic attack that the last few hours you experienced so enthusiastically drove you towards. Goddamnit.

Everything went so awfully well, you finally started to understand the rules, you navigated yourself through the maze of clues, you really made progress, but now everything seems to be collapsing like a damn house of cards. You've already died twice without having a chance to progress, and if that wasn't horrible enough, Johnny's strange behavior, his increasingly dirty tactics, and the arrival of the newcomer shake this hellish vision-like torture chamber to its foundations. And now you're not even sure how to move forward, because you feel that every single step you take forward is followed by an even more cruel pushback, and with every minute, every hour, every night you spend here, you drift further away from the way out. Although, you want nothing more. For real air caress your skin, the ringing of the laughter of real people in your ears, and to finally not suffer and hurt, again, and again, and again... Enough!

You run your hands through your hair with a frustrated sigh, and you'd like to pull out the strands in clumps, but you know that it won't make the situation any easier or any less complicated. You have to find a solution because whoever or whatever created this game is meant to keep you here. It occurs to you that maybe this damn place feeds on your pain and fear, and if that's the case, then it makes sense that it’ll do everything it can to drag you into even deeper and more complicated problems, where it can watch you writhe in its clutches. But you are stronger than that. The instinct to survive and the desire for freedom is much stronger in you than to let yourself be trampled. You won't let those killers in sheep's clothing, nor the thousands of dangers lurking around you, deter you from your goal.

And when you feel that enough confidence has returned to your limbs, and your legs can safely support you, then although the trembling of terror is still there in your muscles, the fog of alarm has lifted from your brain enough so that you can focus on planning. You can't do anything else but wait to see how the story develops with the new character, and watch in the background to observe what else changes. You need to gather information, because you're almost certain that Simon is another killer who will try to hunt you down. And thus three possible attackers will be panting in your heels. You have to be careful, and you have to move forward now, because you can't waste another night on distractions. Today you have to get behind the locked door. No matter what it takes.

And that suddenly reminds you that maybe it's time to check the key you got. But as your fingers reach into your pocket, they feel nothing but emptiness, and this makes you rummage through all the hidden corners of your jeans, but the miserable little object still doesn't appear. It wouldn't be the first time that some clues don't pop up again where you previously hid them, which is why, even though you have a bad suspicion in the back of your head, you keep your composure and turn towards your bag carelessly thrown on your bed. But no matter how deep you dig among the many clothes and small trinkets, you can’t seem to find what you’re looking for. And then the dreadful feeling claws into your stomach with an iron fist, and like a deadly poison, fear snakes its way into your cells, paralyzing every single nerve.

You grab your bag with hasty movements, and you turn it upside down so hurriedly to violently shake every hidden knick-knack out of it, that the thousand and one personal belongings hidden inside land with a dull thud on the floor. And no matter how you try to scan through the chaos with your eyes, no matter how you search among your clothes scattered on the ground with your hands, there's no sign of the key, as if it had been swallowed by earth. And your mind immediately tries to produce a series of solutions to somewhat alleviate the bitter taste of despair bubbling up in your throat, but each answer that seems likely pushes you further and further towards hysteria. It's possible that the key has returned to its original location and you have to go get it again, but this is a more solvable problem. But if the key has completely disappeared, it means that the game has rearranged the clues and you can start the pursuit all over again, because you have no idea what the path you need to take can be... meanwhile, one more danger is out to get you. This damn, trashy, vile game!

You feel the weight of realization sinking deeper and deeper into you, and with each passing minute, the situation you have fallen into seems increasingly hopeless. And it makes no sense for everything to turn upside down so suddenly, but no matter how hard you try to put together the puzzle that could help you decipher what caused the tiny little moment that started the whole upheaval like an avalanche, you can't figure out what you could have messed up. But you're sure it has something to do with Johnny. His lustful adventure was the catalyst for the whole unimaginable complication, and since then nothing has been the same. And if everything took a dark turn because of him, then it will be worth keeping an eye on him, because he can only bring more trouble to your head.

But as you look around the room with the confusion of a chased animal, your senses, dulled by stress, still find something utterly alien in the false calm of the neat little room. Because you're pretty sure that until now none of the books resting on the bookshelf had an intelligible title, but only a random sequence of letters on them, which always looked more like a gibberish language that appeared in a dream than any real one. But now you're definitely reading meaningful words on the spines of books, and that makes your body charge towards the bookshelf in a minute.

And when you get closer and read the message that appears on them, you're already quite sure that this miserable game wants to contact you. Because even though none of them would make sense individually, as you turn your head and read the titles outlined on the shabby covers one by one, you quickly understand the message:

Let me help you a little, Bunny :) Open me!

This is the first time that the system has given you such an obvious sign, so even though a thousand alarm bells are ringing in your head, your curiosity is much stronger. And you have a fleeting feeling that you’re not in a position to say no.

You reach carefully for the last book, which encourages you to dig in with a hypocritical kindness, as if something terrible could happen at any moment. And you already know this miserable place too well to know, that behind every seemingly innocent thing, something quite horrible can be hidden, like a demon waiting to break your neck when you are unwary.

But, when you pull out the volume, not a single monster jumps out from a secret corner to take your life, and although this eases the gnawing worry in your stomach, it doesn't completely put your suspicion to sleep. But when you open it, you're greeted with blank pages, and you flip through the wretched book in confusion, until finally a short message becomes visible. And although there are only a few short lines, it's enough to plant the seeds of terror in your mind.

I won't bite, don't be afraid,

I just want a playmate,

And if your blood is shed once more by my kin,

Whose mark has already bloomed on your skin,

Then you'll fall into the abyss deeper,

And you'll stay here with me forever :)

And you don't have to be particularly smart to understand what the game is trying to tell you. Because your trembling hand finds the strange mark on your stomach through your clothes, which starts to burn your skin with almost boiling heat. The lines stare mockingly at you, and you can almost feel how this devilish place laughs at you, as despair takes over you. You can't die by the same hand again, because if you do… you'll never get out. And that's enough to push your already worn-out body to the brink of fainting.

The first searing agony of a migraine-like pain rips into your head, because the hundreds of thoughts echoing in your mind strain uncomfortably against your skull. As if the world would start spinning with you, and you weakly let the damned book fall out of your hands. You unconsciously stumble over the traces of disorder lying on the floor, and drag yourself to the bathroom to freshen up a bit. There are too many new stimuli, everything is happening too fast, and you must not fall apart now. Because this new rule has put a rope around your neck, and it only takes one wrong move to strangle yourself. You can't let this happen.

You need all your strength, as Johnny so aptly remarked earlier. Because you feel in your bones, how the sour disappointment settles into them, that from now on everything will be much more difficult, and you'll have to overcome even more obstacles. Like rolling a large rock to the top of a mountain, which at a careless moment can bring you down with it. But you don't give up. You never give up.

In the small bathroom, you stagger to the sink and, still lost in your thoughts, you open the faucet, so as the frosty fingers caress your skin, the chaos raging in your brain begins to ease a little. Collecting a little water with your palms, you sprinkle your face, and as soon as the cold droplets bite into your skin like small needles, then despite the unpleasant feeling, you repeat your movement, as if this could be the solution to how to escape from the corner where the game is slowly driving you.

And although it doesn't completely remove the stress that is slowly turning into exhaustion from your limbs, the cold sobers you up just enough, that when you reach for the towel and bury your face in the soft cotton, the aching tension that settles on you dulls a bit. You need a plan. Because if that's true, then your hours are numbered. The masked killer can't kill you more than once, because that means you're stuck here. At best, you have two more chances to die with impunity, and then you're racing against time and the game's nefarious moves. But how do you stay alive in a horror game long enough? Anything can cause you to lose, and in light of new developments, you can no longer be sure that the same steps will raise death flags as they did until now. What will happen if you survive the night? The next day dawns, and? What's next? A completely unknown storyline will unfold in front of you and the chances of you surviving it are very small.

With a tired huff, you throw the towel back on its holder, and your mind is too busy with your racing doubts to notice in time that you’re not alone. You only break out of your thoughts when you return to the room and are greeted by someone, who appeared there like a ghost. Silently and uninvited.

You knew at first sight that Simon is not an ordinary character, and as he stands in the middle of a room bathed in the light of the setting sun, and the golden rays wrap his tall figure in a warm embrace, you realize that your intuition wasn't wrong. If you hadn't already seen enough horror hidden behind angelic faces thanks to Johnny, you'd let him lull your suspicions. But you see how menacingly the muscles are bulging under his sweater, and you can immediately imagine that those strong hands, which are now calmly lifting a bra from the hurried mess left behind, could snap your neck in an instant. You're not fooled by the nonchalance with which he raises the black-laced underwear in front of him, because you can see the merciless hunger in those dark eyes, that you encounter in his friend's as well. This man is as dangerous as anything else in this nightmare. And despite all the attractive features that peek out from under the black mask, you know that behind the beauty lies a bloodthirsty intention.

"I see you unpacked." He notes without any hint of unease, and his deep voice hits you completely unexpectedly. It's interwoven with a strong accent, which could even make the words that roll off his tongue deceptively attractive, and the pleasant hoarseness makes your stomach flutters in confusion. Not because you are naive enough to allow yourself to be seduced, but because he speaks to you with such an intimate tone that belies your very recent acquaintance. Although as the story stands, you’re not a stranger to him, but he very much is to you.

And at other times, maybe you wouldn't attach any importance to it, and you wouldn't mind him looking through your personal belongings, because nothing is yours. Not the clothes, not the shoes, not the shampoo, not the shower gel. Nothing. Only objects generated by the game, with no emotion attached to them. Now, however, as he stands there among the clothes scattered on the floor and slowly holds the bra to his face, and despite the mask, he inhales its scent with a deep breath, you feel an uncomfortable tension wash over you. Because he doesn't know that you've never worn that little black piece of clothing before, and probably never will, and that's what makes the situation so bizarre... The whole movement, as he closes his eyes and buries his nose in the fine material, creates something quite obscene, which makes the lump that you just managed to remove cling to your throat with renewed force. What the hell is he doing?

"I was just looking for something." You break the silent moment, hoping that whatever he's doing you'll disturb him enough with your little comment so that he finishes it. But as his eyelids open lazily and he glances down at you from under his blond eyelashes, you regret that you drew his attention to you. The darkness that settles in those brown eyes is unmistakable and makes goosebumps prickle instinctively through your body. Because his gaze makes you feel like he's flaying you alive with it, so that he can get to your desperately pounding heart by the shortest route. And you're pretty sure that he can clearly hear your pulse racing between your ribs, because there's no other way to explain why amused wrinkles gather around his eyes.

"Did you find it?" He continues to inquire unperturbed, throwing the underwear back on the ground. And when his gaze almost immediately falls on the book resting on the floor, the snow-white pages of which shine with bleak emptiness between the walls of the room that are slowly enveloped into semi-darkness, then you know that he didn't discover this little thing just now. Because he studies the barren pages as if he knew the secret it revealed to you.

"I think." You reply carefully, and you follow every change in his face with wary eyes, because at this point, every little twitch can be a sign for you. You need to get to know the new source of danger as soon as possible, because from here on there is no room for mistakes, unless you want to be trapped in this temporary hell forever. And you rather force yourself and defy the instinct of flight that awakens in your muscles, because you cannot run away.

But when he leaves his place and advances towards you with comfortable steps, you have to try with every fiber of your being to stay on your feet, because his slow walk may seem harmless to anyone, but you recognize the unspoken threat lurking in his movements.

"You know, I showed Johnny this house." He suddenly changes the subject, and it takes a few seconds for you to realize what he told you. And as the conversation that you have already listened to dozens of times at the dinner table pops up in your mind, shock appears on your face much sooner than your brain can prevent it. "At first he didn't see the potential in it, but he soon understood that we needed it." He explains, as though he just wants to reveal to you a long-cherished secret. And the meaning behind his words tightens your throat, as if his long fingers were already locked around your neck. And from the dryness that settles in your esophagus, it's like you're sending blades into your stomach with every swallow.

"It's a really nice place." You mumble weakly, because it becomes all too clear, as he stops a few narrow steps in front of you, how huge this man is. He looms menacingly over you, and as you raise your head, craning your neck at an uncomfortable angle, to direct your alarmed gaze at him, it becomes painfully obvious that you won't survive the new threat once it tracks you down. Terrible power flows from each sturdy muscle, and the little voice in the back of your mind immediately tells you that whatever he plans to do with you, you would have no chance of resisting. And this powerless feeling seems all too familiar, as if you've stood in the shadow of this horrifying force before.

"It will be." He agrees with your statement, and your heart skips a beat in fright, as one of his huge hands reaches to your face and gently caresses your skin damp from fear, as if he were afraid that you would be crushed by even a stray touch. And your consciousness drifting to the edge of blacking out is close to breaking... But you don't dare to lose sight of him. "Somethin' was missin' from it until now." He continues, and there is something sickly private about the way his thumb finds your quivering lips and strokes them with a feather-light touch. "But we have already found out what the mistake could’ve been." He adds, and his gaze sinks into yours with such a significant weight that you understand what he means without him saying it out loud. But the realization only causes even more chaos in your mind, because you don't like what he's trying to imply with it one bit. And no matter how much you try to calm yourself down by saying that only the story reveals the secret motivations of your attackers to you, but the doubt is restlessly scratching in your brain, which screams that this isn't what it's about... Because as his palm slowly travels to the nape of your neck and pulls you to his strong body without much resistance, as the thick arms wrap around you and the bitter smell of tobacco creeps into your nose with the vileness of a poison, then every part of you becomes paralyzed. A fictional character can't suggest that they've been waiting for you until now, right?

And as his free hand wanders to your waist and begins to draw small circles there with mocking tenderness, then the foreboding takes over you with an impossible force. Because there is nothing comforting in the way he buries his face in your hair, and the way the burning heat of his body crawls through the disgusting legs of a deadly disease into your cells icy with terror. And everyone else could think of this quiet moment as intimate, even romantic, but you know the dirty tricks of this fucking game better than that. You know a wolf hugged you to himself. And you just meekly let him decide when he sinks his teeth into you.

"Don't spoil the game because I don't want to punish you." He grumbles, and although his voice is barely louder than a whisper, your ears can hear the warning perfectly. And you don't like what he’s suggesting with his words. Because you know exactly what kind of pain he promises you if you spoil the fun. But… isn't that too early yet? Shouldn't he be playing the innocent character? After all, monsters only wake up with the appearance of night... "Now you've found your way home." He states simply, with a conviction that is impossible to ignore. And that one sentence is enough to make the air painfully stuck in your lungs, and a metallic taste escape on your tongue, as your teeth sink into the inside of your cheek, before a desperate scream can break out of your throat. Because now you are quite sure that Simon is not a simple character. He knows what's going on here. He knows you don't belong here. And when, with condescending kindness, he smooths a kiss on the trembling line of your lips through his mask, you already know that he has no intention of letting you get out of here.

"Dinner will be ready soon. Don't be late." He walks away as quickly as he appeared, and as he strolls out of the room, you're left alone with the suffocating pressure trapped between the cozy walls, which slowly drags your overburdened body under its weight.

What do you do now?

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avonne-writes · 1 month

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oh my god now that the show and the war is over I NEED domestic buck and bucky fics bonus points if buck is sick and they cuddle all day😅😅

I can’t wait to write this AU, but I have to finish Reverie first, so I hope you’d still like to read to it after 🩷 But until then, here's a snippet I've just written:

It's cold. So cold, that Gale thinks he’s back in Germany for a few seconds, locked in the filthy hopelessness of the stalag, with no end in sight. He’s swimming in sweat but his body trembles nevertheless. Icy pain rolls down his neck in waves. He can’t get any air through his nose so he tries to sleep with his mouth open, but that just makes his throat ache that much more. He wishes he could stop breathing long enough to fall asleep, but no such luck. The duvet doesn’t wrap around him tight enough. Curled up miserably on his side of the bed, he can’t do anything but convalesce. Even his bones hurt.

The front door opens downstairs, but it's too early for John to be home. Robbers? But there’s no sound of clinking china or cabinets being opened, only the jiggle of keys and then familiar, heavy footsteps up the creaking stairs. The bedroom door opens softly, then the world's most annoying voice whispers into the stale air of the room.

"Is our pretty little patient still with us?" When Gale ignores him, Bucky's socked feet thread across the carpet to the bed. His fingers drum on the wooden footboard. If Gale had the strength, he'd kick him. "Or did he become a butterfly?"

"What the goddamn hell are you talking about?" Gale gripes, his voice hoarse as though he was dying. He doesn’t open his eyes. He has no interest in seeing Bucky's mug when he’s getting on Gale's nerves like that.

"Well, you look like a giant caterpillar all coccooned up."

Gale doesn’t deign that worthy of a reply. He pulls the duvet the rest of the way over his head. There’s nothing he wants to see in the room anyway. He just wants to be left alone. Glass thuds on the bedside table.

"Got you some cold syrup."

The cover is pulled back from Gale's face and a pleasantly cool, dry palm presses to his forehead. Bucky sighs. When he speaks again, the joking tone drops from his voice. "That’s gotta be a fever."

He wipes the sweat from Gale's temple with his hand, then the bed dips by Gale's side. He hears clinking and banging, then a large palm slides under his head and pulls to prop it up. He cracks his eyes open to slits only to see Bucky bent over him with a spoonful of vile medicine in his free hand. Gale tries to push it away.

"Don't be a child, Buck, open up."

"Says the one yapping about caterpillars." Gale mumbles, so slow that he thinks Bucky won't let him finish the sentence, but he does. He looks amused, despite the tinges of worry around his eyes.

"Someone ought'a have a sense of humor."

"Wouldn’t bet on us." Gale squints at Bucky again, satisfied to see the flash of his grin.

But still, Bucky doesn’t let up - he holds the spoon in front of Gale's mouth until Gale sighs and swallows the syrup in it. "There."

Gale sinks back into the cushions and turns away from him, rolling closer to Bucky's side of the bed. It’s tempting to steal his pillow but with the clogged nose, Gale wouldn’t be able to smell him anyway. A hand rests on his shoulder, Bucky's thumb stroking.

"Care for some company?" Bucky asks. When Gale remains silent again, he continues filling the quiet. "I phoned my boss, told him I was sick."

"What, we share a body now?" Gale grumbles. "What if you do get sick?"

"Then I didn't lie, did I? If I get sick, I'd have caught it anyway, what with this narrow thing you picked." He pats the bed.

"You gave me the wrong measurements."

"Just admit that you wanna sleep in my arms."

"Did you get something for your head?"

Bucky laughs to himself in low chuckles, then Gale hears the rustle of clothes, the clink of a belt. The duvet pulls away from his back, leaving him freezing where the sweat-soaked pyjama shirt sticks to his skin. But he doesn’t have to suffer for long. The bed dips further, then a warm, naked chest presses to his back. Bucky tucks in the covers around them, them slips his arms around Gale to hold him close. It feels like heaven.

Gale sniffles. "I'm disgusting."

Bucky sighs as though he’s happy. He kisses Gale's overheated neck. "Course you are, you little caterpillar."

Gale grits his teeth. "Go away."

"No can do." He holds Gale tighter to his chest, and the shivers subside. "I'm sick, after all."

Gale decides not to say anything else. He remains irritated for two more minutes, then Bucky's warmth starts seeping into him through his clothes. He breathes out and falls asleep.

#mota #buck x bucky #john egan #gale cleven #my writing #sickfic #post-war domestic husbands

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willyoubemycherryy · 7 days

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❦𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐!! _𝙱𝚎𝚝-. . 𝚢𝚘-𝚞_ 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍-__𝚞𝚜?-. 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕-_𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎?.-. 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢-//?!

𝐼𝑡’𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑎 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤😂💕𝑇𝑜𝑝 𝐵𝑎𝑏𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡: @eymie @b1mb0slvt @luvlydeja @taylormarieee @missusnora @eleanorbaybars

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜❥ 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚝, 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏, 𝙸 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗, 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚘 𝚋𝚘𝚘 𝚎𝚢𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚝, 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗-𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚘, 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏, 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎̨𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚔𝚎𝚢 𝚊 𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝, 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔, 𝚕𝚒𝚕 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗

“𝑰 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅...“

࣪✧. 🜸°. ໒꒱✧. • 𐙚˙⋆.˚.

Don’t let men with recovering orbital fractures finger you in their bed while hospitalized.

If that was ever a rule, spoken or unspoken, boy would they be pissed at you now.

“Wider, bunny. You wanna help me get better right?” Bucky cooed into your ear from where his chest was plastered to your back.

Choking down your moan almost guiltily because you really did want him to feel better, it was one of the things you told him when you’d first seen him after he had finally got back from that awful camp. You had gotten a call (the quickest one of your life) that they had taken him to the hospital immediately, to check the extent of all possible injuries, watch for any possibly contracted diseases, etc.

It was day 3 of him being in there but he’d been misbehaving restless since you’d arrived.

You shouldn’t be too cross with him because he couldn’t help it.

John missed you so much that when he finally got back on familiar ground, what ran through his thoughts was mostly you and then just 2 hours later, you were there. Filling his senses with your sweet scent, filling his hands with the softness of your curves as your lovely voice filled his head. Christ, how he missed you. All of you.

However, his body’s reaction to you after being depraved of you for so long was…intense. To say the least.

While you were worried after his health and overjoyed at having him back, Bucky was on you like a dog on water.

So naturally the second the doctors deemed him well enough to only check up on him every couple hours instead of every 30 minutes, he wasted no time sweet-talking you from your chair into his bed where he currently had 3 of his stupidly thick fingers pumping knuckle deep inside your drenched pussy.

The noise outside reminded you that this was a busy hospital making your arousal spike on edge, the chances of someone opening the door and seeing you with your heaving tits out, pretty dress around your waist, as Bucky made you cry out while your fluttering cunt gaped around his fingers…

“Hnnnggh…I-I’m trying! Y’ hand's just t-too big“, you whine, eyes watering when he thrusts upwards right into the spot that makes your twitching walls gush slick.

“Now now, that’s not it Bunny- this cunt’s just too goddamn small..“ Bucky rasps into your ear, a shiver wracks up your spine.

The only response you could get out was a whine that cut into a watery gasp when he bought his other hand to play with your swollen clit, swirling the wet pulsing nub in firm circles, biting his lip at the gorgeous display you made.

Your ears were beginning to ring with the effort of staying quiet, eyes watering in pleasure and embarrassment when you caught through the haze, just how loud your cunt sounded being thoroughly fucked by John’s big fingers.

The slick in and out of has your eyes mindlessly rolling back, body quivering from how good it feels as you get closer, your pussy practically sucking his fingers in as your walls tighten like a slick fist. John groans in your ear as he looks down, seeing how gone you are with your stretched cunt creaming all over his hand.

“Shhh, so good for me bunny….just like that. Makin’ me feel so much better already.” He whispers in your ear, licking across your jaw before dragging his fingers almost all the way out before sinking them back into your sopping pussy, jaw dropping open in a silent scream with his fat middle finger crooked as he nails your g spot.

Your muscles spasm violently and the original goal of keeping it down, gets further and further in the shadow of your impending orgasm plus Bucky wasn’t helping at all with the pure filth coming out of his mouth. He’d always been a dirty talker, quick witted risqué lines that made you blush even back when he’d first been pursuing you….but this?

“C’mon baby, listen to that..my girls sound so sweet gettin’ a good fucking hm?”

“God I missed you, you’re almost too tight now. Can’t wait til we get home so I can properly break her in.”

“Mhmm bet you feel real good yeah? Yeahhhh you are. Drippin’ everywhere my slutty little bunny.” He hissed into your ear.

Oh dear god.

The moment your hiccuping whines bubbled to desperate moans in your throat, John slapped the hand that had been on your clit over your mouth, muffling your wails as white hot pleasure took you over the edge.

Shudders wrack your body while you cum, clit throbbing in time with your spasming walls while the lack of oxygen and your muffled moans add to the intensity of your orgasm. John’s hand slows a bit as he fucks you through it, almost putting your overstimulated self in a coma, kissing the tear trail down the side of your eyes; cock harder than ever as he waits for you to come down.

“Oooh. That was a good one, wasn’t it baby?”

Hand still over your mouth as you drop your head down in a wrecked “yes”. John hums as he manhandles your limp body around to face him, laying you on his chest and smoothing your dress down right as the door begins to open, uttering one last soaking promise into your ear…

“If you think you felt something now, just wait until we get home…gonna feel how much I missed you when I’m wearing that pussy out.”

godblessamerica???

#callum turner #callum turner x reader #masters of the air #mota #fluff #asks #answered💛🎀#x reader #smut #john egan x reader #john bucky egan x reader #callum turner smut #john egan #john bucky egan

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nickgoesinsane · 9 months

Note

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE WRITE IT INDULDE UR HOMELANDER BRAINROT WE NEED MORE JOHN FICS he's such a freak GOD. Need an awkward, strained, codependent relationship with him- romantic, platonic, familial, idc.

I can imagine reader being like absolutely flabbergasted, just completely dumbfounded that John suddenly started hanging around you, inserting himself into your life. He's all overbearing artificially charismatic, forcing proximity and connection if you want it or not, but like. This is the fucking Homelander, how can you turn down this perfect opportunity???? This is literally what millions dream of.

So over time you grow close, and it's awkward and stunted, but goddamn if you're gonna turn away the literal face of Vought. And it's... strangely comforting, being around him, knowing youre practically untouchable, watching him place you on a pedestal in his mind. He's never been able to experience that familial bond before, and you can see it in him, suprised as you find pity and tenderness seeping it's way into your thoughts of the world's strongest hero. His intrusive questions and stiff-yet-insistent pleasantries turn from offputting to endearing, the sense of stomach-churning dread that surrounds him pushed to the back of your mind as you let him get close, allow him more willingly into your life. You're honestly honored, being able to see a more "true" and "vulnerable" side to him the public isn't granted.

(I'd be a little scared if you disappointed him though, or "betrayed" his idea of how you should act around him/the way your dynamic should work. Good luck lmaooo)

He’s so delusional, it’d be funny if it wasn’t so concerning. He genuinely sees you as his baby— probably more like a younger sibling than his child. Homelander thinks you can do no wrong and that you need to be protected. You thought it was super weird until you found out about his upbringing (a super sad backstory that could be considered hardcore if he’d been an actual hero instead of, uh... that). Then you noticed that little displays of affection like checking up on him, sharing snacks and giving him hugs genuinely make him less prone to violence. He’s like an unpredictable feral cat that’s on the road to being fully domesticated.

Is it healthy for either of you? No, but you can’t afford a therapist that can actually deal with a situation like this so...

#╰┈➤ nick answers !#the daddy and abandonment issues are strong in this one #the boys brainrot #the boys x reader #platonic homelander #homelander x reader #the boys

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