ME, MYSELF & I #15
Me: *Spending time with someone interesting*
*After getting to know each other for a long time*
Someone: I think I like you more than friend...
ME: OH, HELL NO *Immediate loss of interest*
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so in an attempt to actually use positive thinking, anytime i fuck up and my brain reacts as if ive cause a minor apocalyptic event, i compare my fuck up to the 4 minute fuck up committed by the crew of the uss william d porter.
and only today, as i was having to explain what happened to my mom when i was explaining the whole comparison thing, did i realise that most people dont know about it and ive decided that needs to change because its objectively hilarious.
...which is a weird thing to say about an event that occured on a warship in 1943, specifically november 14th.
see the uss william d porter was a fletcher-class destroyer but you dont need to know what that means, just that she had guns that went bang bang and that she was escorting another ship, the uss iowa, to cairo.
while they were on their way there, they performed some gun trials like testing the anti-aircraft guns or the torpedos. and while they were running a torpedo drill, the crew of the porter managed to fire a live torpedo straight at the iowa which you know, in terms of a list of things to do while escorting a ship, shooting a torpedo at them is not on that list.
especially if the president of the united states is on board.
yeah so fdr was on board and the gun trials were actually his idea, and part of the trials was that they were conducted under radio silence.
and that means the crew of the porter couldnt just call the iowa to be like "move out the way, we accidentally shot a torpedo at you."
but they did have signal lamps and you know, the signalman on board was trained to signal this exact kind of message.
...and uh never mind, the signalman did manage to successfully tell the iowa that a torpedo was coming toward them but wasnt as successful when it came to the direction the torpedo was coming from.
not all hope is lost though because the signalman could still use the signal lamp to correct his previous mistake and-, never mind, he announced that the porter was reversing, which she wasnt.
yeah so at catastrophic mistake number 3, they broke radio silence to warn the iowa and she managed to turn out of the way just in time which meant no one got hurt. and even though the inquiry into the incident led to chief torpedoman (fantastic job title btw) lawton dawson being sentences to hard labour, fdr intervened and waved away his sentence, saying it was all an accident.
but yeah, so thats my new measure for "how much did i really fuck up?" and when i compared accidentally picking up a pencil case without a tag on it in wilko, turns out it was a very minor fuck-up. yes, the cashier had to ask another worker to grab a duplicate so they could scan the barcode, but i didnt nearly kill the president during wartime via accidental friendly fire
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!! nsfw; poly 141 ; sexting; fem reader
price gets a video, a measly six-second thing, from ghost.
he's used to getting all sorts of messages from his lieutenant, but a video has never been a part of them.
it was always soap who sends them videos upon videos—saved videos of things that make him lose his shit or links that are his new turn-ons. price even gets personal messages from the fella; sometimes it's his sergeant venting in lilted scottish, sent to price's personal number on a drunken whim, and sometimes they're videos of him pleading.
"sir, please... wanna cum."
kyle is still getting used to the dynamic. he's still a little shy, hesitant, although he seemed to be getting more bold in text. more pushy. descriptive.
then there's ghost. he is a whole different beast from the other two because instead of begging, instead of putting price above his own pleasure, he backs the captain into a corner, pushing him close to the edge with little taunts and teases.
price remembers the first time ghost has done it. he sent the captain a picture of a lacey panties hanging off of ghost's jean pockets, the rouge of the soft material drawing price's eyes to the distinct tent in his lieutenant's pants, leaving his throat dry. he remembers fisting his own cock at the image, mind running because of ghost's anecdote—
"you would like her."
john had never cum so fast when masturbating, and yet there he was, twitching on his office chair, chest heaving as ragged rasps of breaths passed through his clenched teeth.
"your girlfriend's got a good taste," price had messaged back.
"and me?" was what ghost replied with.
"you already know," price sent. then, "you always know how to make your captain proud."
that correspondence might have been what pushed ghost to keep sending more messages. more taunts. more teasing images that had price rubbing himself in any smidgen of a private corner he could find because simon was never one to disappoint.
so this video had set john's blood on fire, heat scorching from his spine and pooling towards his twitching cock. hairline fractures fill the sides of his phone's screen, leaving rainbow lines filing his eyes at every reflection of the light.
ghost had always liked to share you to him. price knew for a fact that simon had never sent pictures of you to the others—"need your permission first, sir."—but he also thought that simon had drawn the line there. that while he was eager to share snapshots of your pretty little lingeries or the way you marked up simon's tanned skin with deep punctures of what john knows must be straight teeth, simon was not going to indulge john any more.
and yet.
he feels his lungs burn. trembling fingers reach to play the video.
the sound of your squealed moans bouncing against the walls was what he registers first. ghost has you on your knees, and john traces the way simon's got a chokehold on the back of your neck. john watches as ghost uses it as a leverage, tugging you back to his cock—his pelvis is pressed flush against the fat of your ass, and price feels his gums throb with the need to sink his teeth into your flesh at seeing the ripples of your fat bunch up against the bulk of simon's muscles.
"si! si!" you sobbed, muffled as you have your head burrowed into the pillows. your hands are useless by your sides, limp and incapable of even fisting the sheets.
"s'right," simon's voice echoed from behind the screen. "show cap'n how you love moanin' my name."
simon's mention of john has him jolting, his breaths stuttering once again.
he thought this little thing they have was a secret. a dirty, little, desperate secret that only he and ghost had the privilege of knowing. the immorality of it had always pushed john to his orgasm faster than his every rub, and he thought that it would all change the moment you know.
but this is a better treat.
it's a feast.
because john sees it for what it is—a promise.
the video ends, reminding john how short it really was. but he is addicted, unable to let go now that he's been given a taste of what will be.
the next time he replays the video, he's got his erect cock in his hand.
he snaps a picture of his cum-filled palm and sends it to simon. he writes, "show her what she does to me."
it takes twenty-three seconds for simon's reply to come in. it isn't a message but a voicenote—"am i a good girl, cap'n?"
"yeah," john records himself say. "so, so good f'r us, doll."
—
sorta pt 02
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