#And price is 37????? fuck off

[shadow0-1]

old man

[libbyfandom]

Let’s take a look inside Modern!Mizu’s Camera Roll! Featuring Reader and BES Characters (Companion Piece)

Screenshot of an undercut with long hair.

Screenshot of a wolf cut.

Picture of her tv screen showing her new high score at a video game. (To rub it in Taigen’s face that she beat his)

Her hand cupping the back of a pretty neck covered in hickeys.

Akemi death-gripping a trash can with her face buried into it as she hurls. The rollercoaster Mizu forced her on is in the background.

Selfie of her and her adoptive father at a baseball game. (She couldn’t get him to smile. He only hummed, which made her laugh)

Video of you asleep on her, your head on her shoulder and your hand curled up on her chest. Her fingers are gently brushing the side of your face for a minute, before your eyebrows pinch in sleep. You make a soft, stressed noise unconsciously. Her lips press to your temple for a long moment. “Shh shh shh.” Your expression relaxes again, and she goes back to gently stroking your cheek.

The full moon.

A video of Ringo coming up silently behind you and Akemi while you're standing in line at a coffee shop. You two turn around and nearly jumps out of your skin when you sees him. (He's always so silent)

Screenshot of a quote “How do we forgive ourselves for all the things we did not become? -Doc Lubel”.

Her torn up jeans and bloodied outer thigh as she sits in the grass along the road, her crashed motorcycle in the background.

A video of her holding your wrists down in bed, oh so slowly pressing kisses all over your chest where she yanked your top up to your collarbone. Every once in a while she bites into your skin without warning, gripping your wrists tighter when your body arches and tries to twitch away with broken whines. She waits each time for you to stop moving, staring intensely up at you with your skin between her teeth, before she licks at the bite to soothe it away and restarts the cycle.

Video of her sitting on her bed practicing knife flipping.

Her hand holding a book titled "Waiting by the Front Door: Children of Parents with Addiction".

A close up of the price tag of the book "Waiting by the Front Door: Children of Parents with Addiction".

Saved selfie Ringo sent of the two of them on a hike.

Screenshot of a dinner reservation confirmation for two at a new restaurant downtown.

Video of Akemi in the middle of some rant in Mizu and Ringo’s living room. The darkness outside the window suggests it’s very late into the night. She gestures wildly at something off camera. “-and Taigen pees in the fucking shower-!” Taigen’s voice comes from somewhere off camera, loud and offended. “I aim for the drain!” You sit in the background behind Akemi, looking disturbed and distressed.

Screenshot of piercings. (For the wish list people are asking for)

A gif of a character going “Some god damn peace and quiet”. (For the wish list people are asking for)

The ocean.

Saved video Ringo sent of you two at the beach bonfire. You’re cuddled up into each other while sitting against a log, your legs overlapping hers. You’re both staring into the fire, absentmindedly playing with each others fingers where you’re holding hands on your lap. She’s never looked more relaxed.

You and Akemi in the backseat asleep on the drive back from the beach.

Saved photo you sent her of her and her adoptive father playing chess. Her brows are furrowed as she thinks over her next move, sitting properly with her hands in her lap. This is instead of how she usually plays with one leg propped up on her chair and elbow leaning on her knee when she plays with Akemi.

The one nice photo of just her and Taigen, posing in a big mirror at a dark, more upscale restaurant wearing suits.

Screenshot of receipt for two concert tickets on your birthday.

Ringo laying head down on a pile of finals notes in defeat at the library.

Screenshot of a text you sent of a grocery list.

A video in her “Hidden” folder that is 37 minutes long and requires a password that only she and you know.

Screenshot of the word “Bitch” in Barbie pink font.

You curled up on the couch fast asleep, wearing Mizu’s oversized college sweatshirt.

Saved photo Ringo sent of Mizu standing in the bathtub making a peace sign with one gloved hand as the other holds Akemi’s newly dyed and wet burgundy hair while Akemi is seen leaning over the tub so Mizu can rinse out the excess dye.

A picture of her hand holding an engagement ring nestled inside a green velvet box. She wanted Akemi’s opinion. So she’ll stop having an anxiety attack over what she picked.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I have an odd request… perhaps a captain price fic where the reader is much younger and edgy- likeee covered in tats and stuff,, and price isn’t rly used to that but finds it hot as hell… idk maybe they work together ?? Smut ensues …

IDK I have tatts and wonder what he’d think of that 👹👹

Just an idea 💡❤️😫

Fire it Up (John Price x F!Reader)

Word count: 7.8 k

Tags/warnings: Smut 🔞 mutual pining, flirting, swearing, older man/younger woman dynamic, forbidden love, smoking & drinking, voice kink, a tiny brat taming kink squeezed itself in here too. Reader has tattoos and works as a coder at the base. Rough ~10yrs age gap described, reader is of age I hope to god it goes without saying (Price is canonically 37) Also: no use of 'daddy' in this fic

A/N: I'm so glad for this request anon and I hope you like what I made! Also people please be gentle, this is my first Price fic 🥹 God I wish I could attach the fat scent of cigar here to give you the full experience. 

You don't know what caught your attention first.

The cigar, perhaps. Or the beard? Might be his hips, the ass that tells you this man can fuck a woman for hours.

Or maybe it's the fact that he's too old for you.

No, not too old…

Just older than you. A decade, perhaps, if you were being gentle with him and lenient with yourself.

He certainly isn't old enough to be your father, but he wasn't the type of man your eyes usually drifted on either.

He looks like someone who's supposed to be fishing in Alaska, sucking that fat cigar while taking in the view of mountains while trying to catch wild fish in some wide, free stream. 

He's supposed to come home to a remote cabin: to his little wife who pours him a scotch after he has shown her what he caught today. Make sweet love to her while stars shoot and speckle the indigo night.

He looks like someone who makes love to women.

You, on the other hand, want to ride with him to the sunset on the back of a Harley, clutch his jacket as he drives you to some bizarre highway motel. You want to watch him drink that scotch from your navel. 

You'd do all kinds of crazy shit with him, keep his head between your legs with both hands, grind all over that mustache, and see how wet it gets. You want him to pound you with those narrow hips, take you from behind while you look back with parted, swollen lips and relish the sight of what must be a grown man's hardened body, covered with hair and scars and–

"The bug's still there."

You return to reality, look at the code on your screen, and then at your colleague, a 20-something bloke who looks at you with the lethargic stare that only belongs to techies. You've just been caught daydreaming your eyes off in the middle of a lazy afternoon. Coffee doesn't do shit after 2 PM…

"Yeah I know. I'm working on it," you say. But when the dude leaves, you decide it's time for a creative break. You tell yourself it's only because the code jumps on the screen, not because you hope to catch a certain someone smoking outside. 

The leather jacket is a little too much these days, but you throw it on out of pure habit. You realize the weight of your mistake when you go outside from the ventilated building and notice the sweltering heat. Spring has finally turned into summer.

Coffee doesn’t do shit, but it’s time for another kind of wakey-wakey. And butterflies are a funny term for something that mainly feels like it’s eating your insides out of pure excitement. 

Because he's here too.

Jonathan Price, although no one calls him Jonathan. Few call him John, either. 

Mostly, he goes by the title Captain.

He's stressed; you can tell. But his eyes soften immediately when they fall on you, a brief look to the side, just to know who else comes out to have a breath of fresh air or a smoke. He looks like he's been expecting you, but that might only be a silly girl's daydream. You two share a vice, and you've never been more grateful for your bad habit before this place and him.

And you wouldn't call it necessarily a bad habit. It's simply stress relief if you do it once or twice every few weeks. It's not like you smoke two packs a day. It's not like you even smoke one cig per day. 

Although ever since you started this odd little job in this odd little place, you've smoked one or two nearly every day… And it's not because of the stress.

It's because of Price. 

John. You’d like to see his reaction to you moaning that word in his ear…

"How long have you been here?"

His eyes are still on you, mouth covered by a hand as he makes love to his cigar. And that bedroom voice always gets you. It's better than the upcoming slow drag of nicotine. You're not here for tobacco at all.

"Two weeks." You reach for your excuse and try to prevent your hands from trembling as you light the cig. Usually, you're not this shy with people. Not with men, anyway. But with him, your wits and words disappear. 

You blow the smoke through the air with a quick, lively wisp where he lets it roll out his tongue in a heavy cloud. He's still watching you as if to weigh what kind of woman you are exactly.

"How about you?" You continue the small talk with nervous ease.

He chuckles; the little smile even shows a flash of teeth as he steals a look at the clouds, calculating years with those surprisingly lively eyebrows curled up toward the sky.

"Ages."

He's not that old. Perhaps well over his thirties, might be knocking his forties. The statement is merely an underline of his stress today. You can only wonder what kind of pressure the captain of Task Force 141 is under when you get sleepless nights from a stupid source code. There are a few wrinkles around his eyes, but they only tell you that this man smiles a lot. He might be the only one in this compound who smiles a lot.

"Have you ever tried a cigar?"

There's a glint in his eyes as he offers the thick roll of tobacco to you. It's suddenly difficult to breathe, difficult to even keep your thoughts together.

"No," you shake your head as if your answer wasn't enough to tell him he's the first person ever to offer you such a thing. Then you realize the word does not precisely deliver your eagerness to try that stout cigar.

"Would love to," you hurry to add with a soft smile. "Can I have a taste?"

He walks to you slowly, and your eyes drop to those hips, which sway like he's purposely trying to seduce you.

Fu–ck…

Then your eyes sink even lower, between his legs, to his fucking junk, and it's too fucking late–

Jesus–get your shit together…

You force your eyes back to his and see the little glimmer in them gain a surprised spark – you're totally caught red-handed on checking him out.

Fuck. How can you be so stu–

"Gently then, kid."

You swallow your heart and thoughts down and take the offered cigar; of course, your first thought is how thick and heavy it is. And somehow, you decide right then and there that you will no longer be the nervous, hot-cheeked woman on the corner.

It's time to make him flustered.

So you take a hollow-cheeked, slow suck on the fat cigar. A chaste, savory taste, more like, but there's nothing chaste in the way you raise your eyes to his, putting every ounce of soft seduction in that stare.

He draws breath slowly – his face is full of expression for an allegedly cold-hearted elite soldier. You don't know how often women flirt with this hunk of a man, but he sure looks taken aback by your sudden play. Probably thinks you're too young for him – and you curse the second time you put that jacket on. You want to see his reaction to your sleeves.

"Mm. It's thicker than I thought," you weigh the cigar between your fingertips and let the smoke roll out your mouth. The man switches his weight from one foot to another, speechless, and you suppress a big beam of a smile.

"The taste," you emphasize as if innocent, as if you didn't see that shocked little shift. "Round, and… god, it's almost sweet."

You smile as you give it back, and he chuffs an approving laugh through his nose – those eyes are bear-warm playful now, his mouth curves into an easy smile.

"Nice," you look him up and down as if you're talking about the man and not the cigar.

"Beats those little sticks." 

His voice drops down a few notes; it's almost a husky growl. You barely make out the words he's saying. The tension in the air could form little balls of lightning around you, the flirt is over the roof, and there's even no roof because you're outside – and you take your jacket off, slowly, to make it clear it's summer and not spring.

His eyes fall on the ink immediately, and he blinks a few times, draws some more breath – you tweet your thanks accompanied by another smile and go back inside.

You know he's checking your ass in those black jeans as you walk away.

….....

It doesn't end there.

You see him again and again and again, and at some point you realize he has to walk almost 100 meters from the other end of the base to get to the little corner where the two of you smoke. 

He's intrigued but decent. Holds a distance, never says anything that could be taken in the wrong way – or even in the right way. But he's fucking you with his eyes. 

No… making love to you.

And it drives you crazy.

You don't want that. You don't need that. To be that little wife in the cabin. Pouring him a drink, climbing in his lap, ghosting a finger down the stubble on his chin, see how wide and proud it makes him smile to hold you like you're his and his alone...

God. When did it come to this?

You suck on his fat cigar every now and then. Look him in the eyes while you do it. Once, it makes his tongue dart out, it wets his bottom lip, and then he does that thing with his mouth... the thing where he kind of purses his lips and it makes the mustache dip, and you realize, you learn it's a sign that he's restless, he's flustered.

You make the big, burly captain of Task Force 141 flustered.

And he doesn't smell like the people inside smell. Of stale coder sweat and Joy Division and soft drinks and mommy's home-cooked meals. He smells of rich forest and fine bourbon and half-burnt gasoline. Maybe Saxon on vinyl. Definitely beats those little sticks that are your nerdy co-workers at the hacker department, as you call it.

He may have a flask somewhere; perhaps he takes a sip or two every now and then, whether at work or not. And you don't blame him. Even with those laugh lines and that brown bear benevolence, you can tell he's seen things. 

You wonder what he's like out there in the field. Brutal? Or just efficient?

He never asks about your tattoos, but he eyes them often. There's a certain admiring esteem in his stare. He's checking you out, scratches his chin, and rips his eyes off when they start to drift down. He forces his eyes to stay above your neckline no matter the cost. You mourn that you got rid of the septum a few years ago: you're pretty sure he would've liked that, too. After all, it's a piercing that screams 'warrior' the most. Break after break, you return to your desk, aroused and giddy and surrounded by the rich, masculine aroma of his cigar.

One night, he drives by when you're walking home after what was supposed to be one or two pints.

The car is a big, black pick-up, and when it slows down and starts to inch by your side, your first reaction is a silent curse of why the fuck don't you carry some pepper spray in your pocket.

"Hey, you ok?"

Your head rises from the asphalt the second you recognize that smooth, pleasant voice of a man you had compared every guy to at the pub that evening. The whole man is brimming with burnt sienna, he's hard alcohol with no ice…

You stop and turn, a little wobbly from the pint turned to two or three. Or four.

"Yeah. Had a little girl's night out."

The car rumbles softly, not two meters away, and the sound reminds you of his voice. A soft purr that can turn into a growl, even a roar if he wants to. 

He looks like he's going fishing, even without the boonie hat. The dark hair is cut short, so you won't have anything to tug if he ever ends up between your legs. But you don't really mourn that fact, because he looks so damn good.

He looks you up and down, and you notice the briefest blob of his Adam's apple before he gives you another offer.

"Want me to give you a ride?"

Would love a ride.

Would fucking love to ride you.

"Sure. That's kind of you." 

Your eyes must be sparkling like the fucking stars.

"No problem at all," he leans his elbow on the open window and waits while you round the car and get in. You try to tone down your drunken state, but your moves are a little too brash for a calm and collected coder lady this man has usually caught leaning against the wall of the workplace you two share.

"Did you have fun?"

He sounds like a dad picking up his girl from a school disco, and you purse your lips in slight distaste and amusement.

"Yeah. You know how it is when someone asks you for a pint."

He gives a short laugh and starts to drive. "That never ends well."

You smile and turn to look at him.

"Mm… This one kinda did."

You enjoy the brief look out the window, the sight of someone so formidable and robust and experienced trying to find his way out by feigning something caught his attention in the black, empty distance of a quiet city.

"Glad I could be of service," he brushes off your flirt like it's nothing more than a speckle of dust on his coat.

The rest of the ride is silent, too silent. He turns the music off in case it "bothers you," and it turns into an awkward, overly polite fight about whether to keep it on or not. 

It's a minor shock to notice he was listening to some classical. Not 80's rock, not country, not even BBC. He was just soothing his nerves.

You can't put your finger on what makes you feel so sheepish around this man – usually, you put men on a leash with a few dry jokes and a hearty laugh or two. Now, your flirting is shy and does nothing: there's a wall built up, and from behind that wall, only a few stolen looks…

The pick-up is humming, the engine is running at idle next to your place far too soon, and it's time you get off the car – but you have vehemently decided you will knock down that fucking wall even if you have to drag him to your bed. 

"You wanna come up and have a nightcap?"

Another look out the window as he raises his hand over his mouth, fiddles with his mustache, and avoids the rising heat between you two.

"Thanks, kid. But you need to sleep."

Your heart is pumping, and you feel like a harasser as you place your hand on his thigh.

He doesn't move, but you can hear the audible swallow this time. He doesn't move a single finger even when you slide your palm down that leg, then drag it over to the inner thigh, and start to drift back up slowly, slowly, to give him the time and space to stop you before you reach….

….the visible bulge between those legs, the absolutely gorgeous, ample bump pulling at those pants, something so delicious that you must fight tooth and nail not to race your hand up there and give it a fond grope.

His hand falls over yours just before you reach it.

"Kid. Let's leave it here and call it a night."

His voice is strained and tight, and he's still looking out the window. You don't move your hand away because he doesn't move it away. His warmth stays there, keeping you against him, and you feel like shit for thinking it's not a no… That it's a yes when he seems to hold your hand as a prisoner, wanting to feel your dainty little palm against him.

Your fingers curl slightly, a hopeful gesture to imagine how it would feel to curl and claw at his hips and that ass while he's fucking you.

"Listen. You're a nice girl. A very nice–"

You give a heavy, demonstrative sigh and finally draw your hand away.

"Come on Cap… You're seriously going to give me the "you're a nice girl" talk?"

Finally, he turns. His nostrils quiver as he tries to keep his breaths calm. Your lips part like it's a whole caress he just gave you – and his gaze drops to your mouth instantly. You start to see where the problem is.

You're too young. 

You're forbidden.

"I offered you a nightcap," you tilt your head slightly. "You can come up or you can go home."

You wet your lips, give the bottom lip a tiny little bite, and offer him the last, inviting, soft smile. It must hold an equal amount of sorrow because you can't drown the bitter feeling of rejection, no matter how many drinks you've had that night. No matter how much he seems to want you, it doesn't change the fact that he's apparently decided to stay strong and keep his hands off the cookie jar.

You turn and get out of the car, lean on the door for the final fucking time...

"Didn't know I'd only get to suck your cigar... You're all smoke and no fire, Price."

The door flies closed with a louder slam than you originally meant. 

Now that was a little bit passive-aggressive, you have to admit. But you're drunk, and he's being a pain in the ass, calling you a kid, looking at you like that, having a fucking hard-on and giving you nothing.

…But it does the trick. 

You smile like an idiot when you walk to your place and hear the purr of the engine stop. Another car door opens, then closes, wide footsteps follow you…

A nightcap it is, then.

He looks even bigger when inside a place with walls and a roof. He stands inside your apartment tall and wide as if he's waiting to call attention. Those large hands are over his crotch, concealing the swell of erection you already saw in the car. 

You know the tank top you wear reveals even more skin covered in tats as you throw your jacket away and go get him that drink. The glasses glide on your table, slide nearly to the floor, and the bottle of Jim Beam meets the counter with a devastating clank. You look at the excuse to get him into your place and sigh. 

"You know what… Fuck this."

Offering cheap bourbon to someone like him seems a bit ridiculous. So you offer him something he might actually like. Something he actually came here for. 

You walk to him and throw your hands around him – he stiffens from the middle but looks down at you with a heated glimmer in those eyes. You could've sworn they were charred brown, the same color as his cigar, but up close you see they're actually molten iron. Mercurial.

"You sure about this?" He asks softly.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

He unclasps those hands from over his groin, and the warmest weight falls to rest on your waist, even steals a caress to your hip. You want to hurl yourself at him, press yourself against his crotch and grind until you bleed from just that tiny touch he finally gives you.

"You've had one too many, love."

Love…

Shit.

The warmth spreads from his eyes, from that hand, from the word that rolls out of his mouth like a beautiful puff of smoke. It unfurls inside your heart, swells inside your throat, plummets to your groin, and you switch the weight to your other leg to feel how that hand gains more weight as it gets pressed more firmly against you.

"Doesn't change the fact that I want you."

Your voice is nothing short of a purr. When have you ever purred like that to a man? You sound like a housecat, tame and adoring, waiting for a gourmet meal.

"You really want an old man?"

He still has that reserve in his eyes, decent and distant, but underneath, you sense a terrible heat, like the glow of a cigar lit in darkness, an adamant smolder that never dies out.

"You're not that old." 

Your purr turns into a deprived meow. You dangle from his neck, and the smoke, the fire that surrounds him, blends into the gentle scent of a man, the musk of a mature beast. You know he's hairy under those clothes; he fucking has to be. The vision of how his cock must look, surrounded by untame, coarse fur, has tormented you night after night.

And now he's finally here. In your apartment.

You skate your hands over his chest while slowly dropping into a squat, then languidly kneeling in front of his crotch.

He doesn't stop you, not even when you open his belt and the zipper and crawl your fingers down the waistband of his underwear. You have to stifle a delighted gasp upon seeing how his cock springs free and stands proud in front of you in all its glory. And fuck yes he's hairy – the hairiest man you've ever had. 

Cigars feel like tiny little sticks when you wrap one hand around him and lick the weeping slit like it's your favorite ice cream. The groan that follows is a husky eruption above you and gets stuck in his throat as you take him in your mouth.

"Fucking hell, kid…"

He's thick, broad, and the musk fills your nostrils, but what he just said makes you pull back and whisper on the bulbous tip–

"Don't call me a kid," you breathe on his cock, swirl your tongue around him, and his thighs bunch. "Old man."

You finally manage to push some buttons.

The back of his hand brushes your cheek, then slides over to your throat. He's gentle but firm as he forces a thumb under your chin, curls fingers around your neck as if you're a cat who's about to be force-fed some medicine that's only good for her.

"Is that how you wanna play it?"

His thumb brushes down the ridge of your throat. Tentative, promising.

"Perhaps," your lips quiver with anticipation as you smile; your voice is a pitched vibrato before it drops, just to give him a reason to put you in your place... "Old gum–"

The hand pulls up, the grip tightens just enough to guide you back to your feet and up to meet his face.

"Didn't know you asked me here to tame a brat."

Fuck…

You almost moan. 

The hand doesn't choke you; it makes love to you. Claims you as his. 

"Really…?" You sigh. Flash him a filthy, guiltless smile.

The fire surges forth and nearly buckles your knees. His eyes flash in rhythm with your grin, like a sudden flicker of a campfire in the middle of a dark, parched forest.

"This what you want? Hmm?"

The rumble reminds you of the engine of a Harley roaring to life. His throat is burned from the fire of his cigars, the hand on your throat is used to squeezing dead metal and pulling pins from frigid grenades. But even they can't stand a chance against his woodland fire and sycamore smoke. He could bring a cold, inanimate rock back to life with all that fire.

"Yes. I want it. John."

His name on your tongue is a cat's meow. It has the exact effect you hoped for.

"Let's get the brat tamed, then."

"Hah," you finally moan. "Promises, prom–"

The fingers around your throat pull you to his mouth with a python strength. His lips spread yours with soft devouring as he coats you in fire. The coarse beard smells of sweet tobacco – nothing like a pungent cigarette. It's like an old memory: safe and sturdy and strong. Male.

You moan in his mouth – god, what will it be like when he's inside you? – and he capes both arms around you and crushes you against him. Broad shoulders envelop you like a shroud of thick smoke, the cock gets trapped between you like a hot spear, and you mewl like a slut.

Your pussy clenches, just from his warm mouth, the rich velvet of his lips. He takes everything with that kiss, and you're weak in his arms as he bends and molds you against him just the way he wants, opens your mouth with his own and breathes you, samples you like those puffs of smoke he sucks from his cigar.

Your brain short-circuits, you barely notice how your top slides up as his hands go under it. It's dragged up, up, over your breasts and then over your head as he detaches just enough to rip that piece of clothing away. 

You look at him like he's Christmas, then reach for your bra while he opens his pants more to get them down. Your jeans are accursedly tight, and he's breathless, too: the whole room is dark and filled with heavy breathing and rustle of clothes as you claw your socks off, slide your strings down and away, watch him get out of his shirt and throw it on the floor too, all propriety gone.

And then…

Jesusfuck–

He picks you up, lifts you from the ground like you're nothing but a leaf, and strides with you in his lap until your back meets a wall.

The barrel-like chest presses the air out of your lungs while your back travels up – you don't know if his arms or chest do the lifting, but you're being positioned for his cock to enter. Your hands try to grasp something solid before it's too late – his back and neck – your legs wrap around him, feet hooking over his ass as the thick of his tip pokes your soaked folds, and after a few seconds of probing, slides in. 

"F–uck…" you gasp, sounding so needy that it could be a voiceline from a bad porno movie. His lips find the place between your ear and neck immediately.

"Be good for me now," he gruffs, dark and round like the sweetest bourbon, although you know he's the finest single malt in the world. "Be good…"

"Ah–John…"

I'll be good… 

Just for you, I'll be so, so good.

He pants heavy on your neck, grunts as he starts to fuck you against that wall. You knew he might be intense, but apparently, you had no idea. The man is needy as fuck, and has concealed it up until this point. 

You could cry, scream from joy from the thickness that spreads you, fills you with every fat glide of a thrust. The sex borders on rough but is so incredibly tender too, so needy it makes your heart collapse, compress into a taut knot in your chest. It's the softest rocking, the gentlest fucking as he retreats, then ruts into you again and again with sharp, rusty moans. You're in a slow but steady rodeo with this man, your breasts pressed against a solid chest covered with hair, and it tickles, even if his pecs threaten to crush your ribcage.

"You're one hell of a girl," he gruffs in your ear, beard grazing up and down your neck. "Taking me so– Fucking hell, look at you…"

His eyes are embers as they sweep over you: your abundant ink, the helpless, adoring look in your eyes, the little mouth that opens with a gasp, the trickle of sweat that forms between your breasts and meets the hair on his chest. 

He doesn't have to look down to see how greedy your cunt is for him. He can feel it.

"This is what you wanted the whole time? Huh?"

He's all smoke. All fire.

"Yes…"

"Wanted me to take you against a fucking wall? Eh?"

"Yes…just, just take me," you moan and purr some more, giving him everything he wants. "Fuh–fuck me good…"

"Ahh shit..."

You know you're a drug to certain decent men. But to him, you're a forbidden fruit in all its aspects. 

A calm, collected captain who enjoys wide respect, eyeing an edgy, younger woman from the tech department? That's not how this was supposed to go. Thirsting for someone who did what they wanted, looked just the way they wanted, walked this earth like a dark fairy – that's not his usual go, surely. He was supposed to settle down with a proper lady. If he were to settle down at all.

"I've dreamed of this," you whisper in his ear, lips moving just enough to deliver your secret to him.

"Yeah..? Me too," he gives your throat more love with a velvet growl. "Know I shouldn't, but–"

"Shh. Don't–don't…" You grip him tighter, taste the spruce and salt as you breathe his neck. "It's good. It's all good."

He rumbles in approval. Your skin is raw from his beard; even the coarse hair dusting his thighs feels too rough on your skin. And your skin is used to being needled, shot full of ink right inside the dermis. But this… This is branding.

You're silk in his rough embrace, and plundered with no remorse. You sigh and moan, hug him... And then he dares to stop, panting and throbbing inside you.

"Darlin'. Where's the bed?"

The soft question makes you panic. If you go to bed and let him push inside you while you're lying on your back, if you brave a look into those eyes while he takes you, you'll develop more than just a horrid lust for this man. If he collapses on top of you, spent and spoiled while you're at your most vulnerable, you'll tie a string from your heart to his, and you can't, you just can't allow that to happen.

Because he's untamed too. He's not a man who settles down, he's not up for domestication; he's a wandering fire.

"No–no bed," you pant on his muscles, the shoulder that keeps you safely pinned on the wall. "John…? Please."

He's breathing wild too, disguises his surprise well.

"Alright."

He sounds disappointed, and it's not because he doesn't have the strength to maul you against that wall. The rejection stings him too. It makes you want to offer a truce, a little something. When he rocks you again, you graze your fingers up the back of his neck, knowing he will feel ripples across his scalp from your caress.

"We can smoke a cigar after," you propose, not knowing why your voice still comes out as an airy whisper. "Together. I'll pour you that drink…"

His chest swells with a deep breath, he huffs fire on the hollow trench between your collarbones.

"Fuck, woman…" 

It's dense syrup that surrounds you much like those shoulders and arms, that coarse hair, that bold male want.

"And after that I want you to…" You catch your breath and sound like a mouse with your next shy question. "Would you go down on me, John?"

It's like you're under a bear attack, but he stills; his head tilts a little to the side and meets your temple. 

"You wouldn't tease a man like this," he says. A soft warning, brimstone coated in velour, but the core of it is despair. So much need, so much forbidden, distant want… 

"Right? No more teasing."

He's still thinking that you're teasing him… That it's some kind of a joke that you want him.

"I'm serious... I want your mouth on me. I need your–"

"I'll put my mouth on you as soon as we're done here, love."

You have to bite your lips, suck them between your teeth to prevent another deprived moan from escaping.

"Want you to fuck me all night," you continue to whisper on his neck. You should shut the fuck up because it doesn't take a bed to tie that string from your heart to his. After all, they're right there, beating against each other through bone and skin and chest.

"Yeah? That's what you want?"

"Want you to… F-fuck me slow and good from behind and–"

You sniff. Whimper.

You should be ashamed: mewling for more when he's already buried inside you. What kind of a brat are you, wrapping your thighs around that narrow waist like you never want him to pull out?

And you're not crying. 

It's just that the cock inside you is throbbing against your walls as if he's making a home there, his hands dig into your ass cheeks like you're his already, the breath upon your sweat and skin feels far too affectionate. When exactly did a raw wall-fuck turn into such an affectionate, gentle taste of love?

And it's not enough. You want to climb on top of him every morning, ride him slowly and watch him unravel as the sun climbs the sky and coats that fur in gold.

"Could you do that? Please… John, please," you whimper and whine, beg like you're tame already. 

"I'll fuck you all night if that's what you want. Fill this pretty, tight cunt up every way you like."

It's coarse smoke. It caresses you until your legs start to shake. He adjusts his grip, drags the pull-outs like he drags those pulls from his tobacco. Keeps you nicely in place for him to drive back in–

"I'll fuck you 'till you cry, love. Yeah?"

He punctuates that promise with another good, fat thrust. You moan all tame now – a rippling stream, laughing and crying in his molten hold.

His cock fills you while your thighs quiver and tremble in his hands. Your pussy throbs; it sucks him already, the orgasm is seconds away, and your fingertips search for support but only slip over sweaty, hard muscle.

John. John.

"Fuh-…"

He spreads you a little. Those arms are pure iron as they mold you for him to plow. You know he can feel the waves, the way your cunt grips him with longer, deeper pulls as you start to sound downright pathetic.

"Just like that, just like… hah…"

"M-hm. Yeah," he bends the vowels, daubs them with smoke. "That's it. You're doing good. Doing so well my love."

He huffs between the thrusts that have turned into slow, intense love-making. He's making love to you – god, why does he have to be like this…

"Cum for me. Nice and pretty, yeah? Come on."

He encourages you with words, but you can't hear them anymore.

Heat coils in the pit of your core just before you burst with a heady scream.

The spasm is so sudden you almost hit your head on the wall. He's at your throat the minute it's exposed, and your scream turns into a weak wail when his tongue grazes your skin. It's blazing, and dips into the hollow between your collarbones like it's a shot glass full of scotch. Next thing you feel is fire, even some teeth on your neck.

And you thought Price might, just might be intense…

Your head drops as the blunt of the orgasm leaves you. Your feet unclasp, and next up would be some soft waves, but the man continues to fuck your shattered cunt and marshmallow soul with a good, intense pace. The words that pour out of your mouth are those of a brainless person.

"Ah–hah, God–"

"Where's that cheek now, mm..? Pretty little thing."

"John–h…"

The thrusts rub you against that wall like he wants to staple you there.

"So nice and good for me now, ain't ya? Cummin' on command…" An amused chuff right on your poor, chafed skin… "Begging for my mouth and cock."

You travel up and down in a limp heap, trying to hold on to him with weak limbs as he drives into you with a tight series of half-thrusts. Your legs hang loosely on the side, but he has no trouble carrying the full weight of you.

"Slow–slowly, Cap…" 

"Ahh fuck–"

He swears on your ink, right on the trotting pulse on your neck. Through the vapor of man sweat and rich smoke and a whiff of cedar trees bending in the wind, you feel him tense and thicken.

"The fucking things you do to me…" he pants with a low growl, hushed but intense. Your pussy answers with a good, demanding pull. 

"Fuck… fuck–!"

You're a limp doll between him and the wall when he comes. Pressed between a rock and a hard place, literally. His chest being the rock, an entire boulder that whips the oxygen from your lungs as he drives deep, his balls giving a few taut pulls against your ass as he empties himself into you with a satisfied, dry moan. A dark, ripe blossom, shooting straight to your core while you're sealed tight around him.

The world goes still after that; the only thing that moves is your breath and his, a refreshing hot breeze coursing through the stale air. The darkness of the room isn't half as snug as the safety of his arms.

Your fingers find his neck, the short-cut hair and the skin pounding with a rush of blood. He lets you go reluctantly, bends a little to set your feet back to the solid ground. He doesn't pull out, keeps huffing all over you even when you're returned back to the earth. 

And you never want to come back. Your cunt still throbs around him and cries a tiny, thick stream down your thigh. His upper body still pins you against that wall, his breaths still mist your skin, caress the red burns of his beard.

He feels so good. Too good…

When he pulls out, he does so with intense care. He gives you some space to catch your breath, and you finally notice he has fucked your legs into splinters.

"I'm…" You break the hush of heavy breathing with a soft laugh. More viscous load pushes out of you with it. "I don't think I can stand."

"Yeah? Tried to take you to bed," he muses softly, sounding annoyingly content with his achievements.

"Gotta admit it was a good idea."

"As was the nightcap," he rasps, voice drenched in soft smoke.

"We'll get there eventually."

"I have no doubt about that."

You give him a soft, warm chuckle as you cast your eyes between the crest of his pecs. Rough, tight muscle meets your soft breasts with heaving breaths, and teases your nipples to taut little points. The wet hair on his chest looks good paired with your inked, smooth skin… You two look so goddamn fine together.

"I hope I didn't make you deaf with that scream."

He stands at his full height, but tilts his head down and slightly to the side as if you were a new, interesting species he's just found on his travels.

"Wouldn't complain, love," he says. More wet syrup, just for you. He weighs you with his stare, curious and appeased, and you feel shy. For fuck's sake, you still feel shy even though this man was inside you just a moment ago. 

"The bed. Now be a good girl and tell me where it is."

"Down the…hallway." 

A delicate little whisper, again.

It's laughable, how the veteran of Task Force 141 turns you into something so dainty and meek. Captain John Price takes you against a wall like you're nothing but a doll, makes you purr and beg, reassembles you into a weak-willed woman who gets carried to bed. 

This is not how it was supposed to go...

He lifts you back in his lap while you continue to hold onto him like he's your prince Charming. A laugh spills on your lips when he tries to lay you gently on the bed and you manage to pull him down with you. You end up tumbling there in a sweaty, messy heap. 

"Knew you were trouble," he's smiling too as he settles beside you. You curl and wrap yourself around him, your bodies mold and curve together like they're made for each other.

He's so solid, so warm, the kind of man you'd love to fall asleep on every night. No more cold sides of the pillow, no more tossing and turning and trying to get the code out of your head. Just… this chest, those ember eyes burning in the night. Some soft breathing, a roaring engine standing still, waiting for you, just for you…

"I hope this wasn't a one time only occasion," you test the waters.

"No." He shifts a little, disentangles from you slightly. "Unless you–"

"No."

You bend in his arms like a young willow, cut his doubts off with a kiss. It's passionate, and so sloppy it threatens to make the same sounds as your cunt and his cock a while ago.

The hand on your hip tows you closer, then steals its way down your leg. You hike your thigh up, perfectly willing. You're a sticky mess, but so is he: his rock-hard thigh meets your still soaked pussy like these two have always belonged together. And this man's full fire has escaped you until now. There are so many hidden, wild things in him too. 

He would look so good on a Harley… He would look good on a motel bed after riding for days and days with you attached to him like an eloped dark bride. The nights would be smeared with hot sex and cinder and smoke, a dash of scotch on top, he could drink it from your lips. You would serve it to him from your mouth, round the taste a bit so that it wouldn't burn so much…

"Have you ever been to Alaska?" 

The liquor is leaving you, but you don't feel any more sober. The lava in your veins has only been replaced by another kind of fire.

"No."

"Would you like to go?"

"What'ya mean," he murmurs on your tongue, and you know he's hard again just from the thick lust coating his voice. "What kind of question is that?"

"I was just thinking."

"What were you thinkin', kid..?"

"Don't… call me that," you laugh. In truth, you're growing quite fond of it. It reminds you of old movies. "Here's looking at you, kid" and all that.

His laugh is a charred roll in his chest. To him, you're a brat – an unruly kitten – no matter what you say. 

"Kid. Why Alaska?"

He's curious. Borderline hooked. You steal a peek into those vulcan eyes. 

"You'd look good in Alaska. Old man."

"Really," he rumbles a soft purr against your heart. 

Another soft kiss follows. Affectionate… He plays time, but he's also a probing, scanning. You bloom in his embrace, unfurl on his lips like he just wrenched you wide. He could haul you to the cabin right now and you would only cook him dinner.

It's too late, even if you try to shift after such a kiss. Escape to press your cheek against that place between his pecs, the spot where the hair is darkest and thickest. You want to lick that valley where his heart meets his musk. That scent must be born from a good, stout heart.

"Would you take me with you…? If you ever decide to go."

It's a fragile question. A baring of the heart. It holds so much more than an inquiry about whether he would whisk you away on a secret leave. It's strings, pulling from your heart to his, taking root.

"Sure. But you're quite a handful, love."

"Is that so…?" 

You crawl over him as gracefully as you can. He allows you to straddle him, and of course he does. You're no threat; you're only a one woman show. The only thing he's probably missing right now is a glass of scotch and a thick roll of tobacco. 

He takes in the view with hunger: not satiated by that pent-up fuck, just like you're not... 

But then his hands come to rest on your thighs to check if they're still shaking. The touch bleeds possessiveness: it's a thoroughly absent-minded, instinctual attempt to reach for you. It tells you you're exactly where you belong. 

"You seem like the kind of woman who's not for the faint of heart," he says like you didn't just mewl in his arms like the tamest fucking housecat.

And perhaps that's what intrigues him. Contrasts. And even more than that, the odd place where black fuses into white, the gray area where everything is possible. The split-second moment when the skin accepts the ink and traps it in. 

Everyone always says you get buried with your tattoos. That you should think twice before staining your skin with such permanent hookups.

But the thing is, you get addicted to it. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff before a bungee jump. You know you'll never be the same person after you jump, and you know you can't leave that cliff without jumping. It's a stalemate until you clear your mind of doubt and just plunge.

And you don't want to leave this earth without getting stained and sweaty, without dipping your soul into the full experience. You're supposed to get a little dirty. This is Earth, after all.

Your fingers disappear somewhere in his slick fur. Sunrise is hours away, but his eyes spark aflame. They're always, always smoldering like the butt of his cigar. He's a man who causes wildfires at the end of the world – he's a reckoning, a flicker in the dark forest, roaring into a bonfire as soon as the wind passes through the trees.

And you've always loved fire. Wild, and free. The only thing that competes with such freedom is a wide, wild stream. 

"But you can handle me. Right?" Your fingers curl softly around the hair surrounding his navel. "Tame me and everything?" 

It's an offering that causes even fire to tilt its head in curiosity. In the end, you're not sure who tamed who.

"Someone has to," he grabs your hips with rich promise. 

You'll pour him that drink. Light him a cigar after his mouth is full of your taste, see how well it pairs with fire and smoke. You'll toast to the Harley, the crazy motel… 

And Alaska. 

[chaosandmarigolds]

Among The Bullets

Chapter One, Part 2.

Summary: You're a transfer mechanic for a task force which you know nothing about, and while trying to figure out your standing with each of the members you begin to realize you may be over your head. (Evental romance, bear with me. Simon doesn’t know how to flirt but he’s trying ok??)

On your schedule, which you were fully planning on ditching once you got your footing, you had a meeting with the Captain of the team before dinner. Made sense in your mind, however, what didn’t make sense was how it didn’t tell you where to meet him- you assumed his office? Did he have an office? How would find said office within the labyrinth of rooms?  So, once again you found yourself very awkwardly standing alone within the bustling crowd, head bowed you looked over the tablet for any missing information. 

You still hadn’t eaten, your eyes were pleading for a moment of closure and your muscles ached for something other than a caffeine-dense drink; yet, there were things that needed to get done and once those things were done would be able to go on with your life. So, you ignored the lightheaded feeling, the grumbling of your stomach, and the throbbing headache, and was snapped back into reality by someone nudging your boot- in all fairness you knew it was innocent but you, with the past forty or so hours being a blur, were already high strung so with a spin on the heel you turned to face the person, fully prepared to bite their head off and tell them to watch where they were going. 

“For fucks sake man, can’t you’ fuckin-” Your words died on your tongue as you saw another one of the team members (who you weren’t technically supposed to know who they were, but twenty minutes alone in a military room full of computers and a lot of old guys with generic passwords of their wives names seemed too easy) if you remembered correctly this ones name was John or something, as was the Captains, but you made a mental note because this one had a nickname you found hilarious: Soap. A sergeant, above you nonetheless, only taller than you by two or so inches, but could throw your weight around. 

Well. If this was rock bottom then you would certainly take the chance to start crawling up, so you nod hello and once again hold out for him to take, this time (unlike the very mean Lieutant Riley) he took it. A firm grip as you spoke, introducing yourself, and then you clear your throat as you pull your hand away. He seemed nice, seeming to just read you while you began to ramble, “I’m a consult for the next assignment, from the engineering and mechanics…department or…something, sorry-um, I am looking for a Captain John Price, do you happen-”

“Oi, the Cap’n of’ic is-” 

“Oh my God.” The words just spilled from your mouth and if you had zero self-control you would've slapped your hand over your mouth to shut yourself up, but you did so you then began to explain your sudden interruption as he stared at you, “I- You- your voice-I just-I, I wasn’t expect-” His eyes were wide as you went on and you gulp down your embarrassment and motion to him,  “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry- You, you were saying?”

The soldier seemed to be debating if he wanted to be offended or not but he ultimately let out a laugh, “Funny, ‘er funny, bonnie. Cm’on ‘ll take ya.” 

Funny? Well, you would take funny over having another military man out for your blood, so with a small nod you follow beside him, the silence between you both seemed to be deafening until he then spoke, a small nudge to your arm (it almost sent you to the ground but you’re praying that he didn’t notice that part). 

“Gotta be nice to th’ ol’ man, got-chit?” 

You blink a few times to let the words soak in and with a sharp breath you laugh briefly, “I…he’s thirty 37? I highly doubt that’s old, well if he’s old I’m middle-aged-.” 

John gave you a look and then spoke, “Ho’ you know tha?” 

Oh, again with the information…. “Educated guess?” 

“Off what?” 

“The..” can’t say pictures, definitely can’t see you saw all of their medical files during your twenty-minute deep dive, it would be a lie to see you’ve met the man before so you just motion around vaguely, “Vibes. Mmhm, the vibes, just…I knew. From….” He was just watching you, it made your stomach turn and somehow you couldn’t keep your mouth shut, “The vibes.”

John nodded and then knocked on the door, shoving his hands in his pockets and when the door opened he looked to the Captain, “You foun’ us a witch.”

“No-” You try to correct the sergeant but he turns and begins to walk away from you, leaving you with what was going to be your death because now you have a Lieutenant who just hated your guts for no reason and now you have a sergeant who thinks you're a witch. Oh the stories you would be going home with, so you take a breath and straighten your posture, looking at the captain. 

From what you read up on Captain John Price you knew about two things: one, he got his rank for a good reason, and two: he likes smoking (his medical files said so) However, when you looked up at him and held out your hand for him to shake he looked bit too nice for your liking, he gave the impression of an older brother, someone nice, as nice as any person can be within the military- which would be a staggering change of pace from the other people you’ve met thus far, so with a shining smile and shake of the hand your introduce yourself and follow him into the office. 

“Forgive Johnny,” Price begins and motions for you to sit down in one of the not-so-comfortable-looking chairs across from his desk, “He’s…well, you see. He means well.” 

“Ah,” You fake understanding and nod as you obey and sit down, hands neatly placed in your lap and your eyes quickly scan the area around you,  “No, yeah, Sergeant MacTavish seem-” 

“Mmm?” 

Your gaze snaps back to the Captain, panic rushing your bloodstream as you realize you did it again, the third time in the past two hours. So you choose to play dumb, pulling your lips together in a line and tiling your head, praying that your doe eyes were believable (they were, just not to him, and certainly not at that moment)  “Yes, sir?” 

There seemed to be a moment of silence before Price motioned to the tablet that sat in your grasp, “Basic information you’ll need will be downloaded at 22 hundred, no need to break any laws for names.” 

A small gulp and you look down at the tablet which you had spent the last ten minutes fiddling with, the edges of the leather cover already frayed, “I see, is there-” 

“The mechanic on base was killed a few days back, which is why you were picked up early. You’ll also receive his daily tasks and his reports, work is a bit clogged so I suggest you geta jump onit..”

As much as you tried to keep your expression unfazed by the news that the person who used to have your job is now dead, the way your eyes went slightly wide was a good indicator and you cleared your throat a sound coming from you being more like a nervous laugh, “Th…The head mechanic? How many-” 

“Just you.” 

What. There had to be at least a hundred trucks in that garage and then the planes upon that, the helicopters, all on one person? You had to hold back an audible laugh as you tried to read his expression because that had to be a joke. It had to be a joke. Sure, you were the best of your trade that even the military wanted to trade you for other things to help other world militaries and yeah you were good at what you did but you…a sum of 178 vehicles? That would be a stretch, and that was only if it was basic maintenance- not war-run vehicles that were sure to have a plethora of things wrong with them. 

When you realize he was dead serious your face falls from the polite half-smile you had and into one of mild annoyance, scoffing, “You do realize I’m not a superhero right? Can’t multiply myself?”

Price seemed entertained by your snippy words returning with a stern nod and his words harsher, he knew you didn’t understand ranks or anything along that besides a very basic ‘be polite’ standpoint, after all, you essitantally worked for yourself for the majority of your life and any person who held a higher rank most like respected you so…he might as well go a bit easy on you, yet it didn’t stop his tone being bitter, “Be respectful, and I assumed so.”

Okay, you didn’t mean to be disrespectful, so that was on you You direct your gaze to your lap and let out a huff of air, “I apologize, sir. However, I am just one person there is no earthly way I can complete what I assume to be a list of daily tasks on over seven hundred vehicles within a twenty-four-hour frame, if I had a second pair then perhaps, I am fully aware of my limits and this is beyond them. I can maybe complete a third of what you expect me to do within a twenty-four-hour window, much less if you expect me to keep to a twelve-hour shift…sir.” 

A stiff silence followed by a gruff laugh, nudging a sheet of paper over to you, and by the look on his face he could tell the memory attached to it was less than pleasant, “Good communicator, they had that underlined in your file. Along with that they had your mission from Snezhihnsk. You were able to reverse engineer twenty-four foreign trucks within ten minutes, and from what the General said is true…those things were no more than scrap metal.”  

It would be a lie if you didn’t remember that day, it would be a lie if you wished you could forget it as well. Barely twenty, new to the field, new to everything- you were still in college, yet you had been picked up from your dorm and shipped to Russia, being told that you would go with these soldiers and that your own job was to take a piece of a machine they needed to be demolished. Needless to say, that mission went sideways, found some insane laboratory, and saved the inmates, or that's what you like to believe…After you fixed the trucks there was a bombing and everything else was a blur. You preferred to not think about that day, and you hope he would catch onto that. 

“Adrenaline makes the body do some pretty insane things, sir.”

“Then I suggest you find a way to get a dose of it, the list of tasks and maintenance requests are already on the tablet.” He watched you nod and move to stand up however, he preferred to end the meeting with you note being salty about everything so he chose to speak again, “How do you like the barracks, don’t mind sharin do ya?”

Your breath catches in your throat and you look to the captain, confused by the words, you had been given your own room, well more like an office, but it had a sofa bed. So you tilt your head, “Lieutenant Riley took me to a room, said that’s where I would be staying.” 

Price processed the words for a moment, “37A?”

You falter for a moment as you try and remember the room number as you move to stand facing him, “Yes, sir.” 

“I see, my mistake then,” It wasn’t, he knew what the room used to be and more importantly who it was. “Thought it was still used as office.” 

A small pause and then you nod your head, “I better go get started.” 

“Dismissed.”

; 

“And…why haven’t I seen her? I wanna see her.” Kyle questioned Johnny as he followed him as they walked to the table, nice and tucked away in the corner of the mess hall. Of course, he was the last one who heard of the new consult, and it being a female piqued his interest all the more, it was a rare day when they would see female soldiers on this base, so he was especially interested in seeing how a civilian would fit in. However, Johnny was giving him vague words like ‘she’s nice’ or ‘I like her jus’ fine’ meanwhile Simon seemed to just be staring at the door, waiting for something. 

Johnny flashes Kyle a beaming smile and sits down, looking over the tray of food which he didn’t truly find appealing but it would be alright he supposed, “An’ you will, L.T said she’ gunna join us for dinner.” 

To that news Kyle frowned even more and grabbed his cup, “Ghost met her to? How is that fair?”

“Eh!” Johnny snipped back at his buddy, “I foun’ her lookin loss as a pup, L.T was ‘er welcome, maybe if ya did ‘er job ‘stead of holin up ya woulda gotten ta’ see ‘er.” 

Kyle looked at Simon and then back to Johnny, waiting for one of them to say that was a joke and it was actually the other way around because if Simon welcomed the consult then it would be reasonable to assume they wouldn’t actually have a consult and that the person had run away, he would have. Well…no, he would’ve stayed to spite him, either way, he wouldn’t be shocked if the next morning they would have some other mechanic wandering the halls. So, after a few moments of silence and neither of them broke into laughter over the joke he let his mouth go agape, “You’re fuckin with me, Ghost was the welcome wagon. Scared shitless is what she was!” 

Among other things they were pretending didn’t happen Kyle added that he pretended to not notice Simon’s glare over to him on the remark and then sat up straight. Simon looks down at his watch and then makes a mental note that you must just be late to everything, because it was twenty after what he had told you- or rather your schedule- to be there for dinner, and he wasn’t exactly in the mood to wait around. Well, either you were late for everything or you had aptly passed out as soon as he left you- yet that would go along with Johnny’s claim that he had found you standing in some obscure spot, making fun of his accent, and then following him to Price’s office. So maybe you went to sleep after that? 

Either way, he wanted to be angry with you for that, it was unprofessional and bluntly very rude, but you did loot tried when he saw you get off the carrier, and you seemed worn slick just by the way you held yourself, eyes with dark circles and your body moved with each breath. You needed rest, so a small part of him seemed to be content with that notion, if not pleased- purely because the mission needed your undivided attention and he did not have time to catch you up on briefings and help you in more ways than what he has to do. No other reason. 

Conversation seemed to die down as minutes wore on and after about fifteen more Simon had resigned to his original assumption, you had fallen asleep and so that meant he would have to go to his-your room and wake you up. So without a word being spoken to Johnny or Kyle he stands up and walks to the room, which was only about two or so minutes, and it would’ve been less if some stupid idiot of a rookie had gotten out of his way in a timely manner. So, when he did reach the room he knocked on the door, waited for a few moments, and then tried again, this time being greeted by you peeking out from behind the door and then flashing a smile up at him. 

“Lieutenant Riley! I’m sorry about dinner, I had to come back here after my meeting with the captain and I needed to change into-” Your words falter off as you open the door more and vaguely motion to the ruined pair of cargos and black teeshirt (black so no one would see the mess of stains on it),  in your hand you held a five-hour energy shot and in the other an energy drink you found within a vending machine somewhere, “This. Is…Is there something you need help with?” 

It took him a millionth of a second to realize what you were doing, and he shakes his head, “You ‘ere late.” That wasn’t enough because you just nodded and then picked up a small tote bag, filled with what he assumed to be tools judging by the sound- which raised the question of why you didn’t have toolbox but he was going to leave that be for the moment and he…for some reason, found himself speaking again, stepping aside so you can walk out of the room as he did, “Ya met Johnny.” 

With a bite of the tongue, you look up at the Lieutenant as you walk down the hallway and to the garage, tablet sprayed across your hand and the list pulled up for a refresher, so as you walk you nod, “Yessir, he seems very nice.” Simon narrowed his gaze on the ground for a moment as he thought about what you said, which did align to some degree with what he knew about Johnny but not quite right, so he looked at you, “Is that so?” 

“Oh, no, he’s…very pleasant.” You mutter out, eyes going across the hangar to spot what you assumed to be the mechanic's workbench, tucked away in a neat corner, and an assortment of tools and places for things to be placed, as well as the control panel for the garage doors, so you pick up your speed. Finishing off the remainder of the energy drink and tossing it in the trash can as you set your bag down. Staring at the list that shined up at you the cursed tablet as you ran your hands down your face, stretching the skin with a grumble. 

For the time you started at the list, you seemed to forget the Lieutenant was nearby, and when you did finally remember you spun around, leaning against the bench and crossing your arms, blinking the fatigue away from your eyes and plastering a faux smile on your lips, “Again, Lieutenant Riley, what can I do for you?’ 

“What do ya on ‘yer hands?” 

“Checkups.” You chirp, and then to his eyes narrowing from the hidden holes of the mask you go on, “Routine maintenance, plus some since the last is…dead.” 

“Mm, Rusty, poor fellow.”

A stifled laugh and then you bring your hand to your mouth to keep yourself from laughing, it wasn’t that funny it wasn’t funny at all actually and you felt like a horrible human for even chuckling, but you were exhausted and- “Rusty?” You take a deep breath to keep your laughter at bay and you gulp down, “Your mechanic's name was ‘Rusty’??” 

“It was Robert actually.” 

You did your best to stop laughing and gulp down the remainder of the giggles that threatened to interrupt your words and you cross your arms tightly over your chest again, “Mmmm, poor Robert.” 

“Quite. Well, ‘ll leave ya to it.” 

Odd man, you mentally quipped to yourself and then watched him walk off, not waiting too long before turning back to the workbench, within the next forty-eight hours you had to perform eighty-nine maintenance checkups, seven of which as ‘odd sounds’ coming from them and sixteen others who had ‘severe shell damage which affects the ability to steer’. Then you had to get working on the jets- less of your forte but you knew enough to handle yourself and then the helicopters, which again was less than you commonplace but you were able to get the job done.It was going to be a very long time. 

However, you then spent two hours figuring out where everything was, how to get the trucks there for you to work on and then how on earth this Rusty man had his files and tools organized, it was all like a hen house, everything everywhere. So, at the moment when the sun began to set you were pushing a crate across the garage, it was filled with parts, and for some reason, the idiot thought it was a good idea for it to be where all of the plane tools were when they were car parts but… You were trying to refrain from mentally scolding a dead man. 

The crate has at least two hundred pounds of metal so when you got it to the spot you wanted you slumped to the ground heaving for air and leaning your head against the wooden box, waiting for a long moment before you let yourself close your eyes for a moment, and it was truly only a moment because you opened them when you heard someone stands in front of you. With a small breath you crane your neck up to see the person, another solider, another person on the team, so you push yourself up to stand as you introduce yourself, once again, “Hi, I’m sorry, resting my eyes- can I help you S-” 

No, don’t make the same mistake again so you end up clearing your throat, the man giving you a sweet smile,  as he let your hand,  “Gaz.” 

That’s not his name, his nickname, yes so you had to bite back your urge to correct him on his own name, so with a clear of the throat you straightened your posture, “Nice to meet you, can I do anything for you?”

“No, no, just wanted to make an’ introduction.” Kyle spoke as he took a short step away and then motioned to the newly reorganized space, “Nesting?”

With a glare, you stifle a laugh and shrug your shoulders, “No. Just…if you do a job, do it to the best of your abilities, you know?” 

Kyle nods as if not believing a word you said, “Gotcha. Well, I wanted to say hi and make sure you weren’t too shaken up by Ghost.” 

It took you a moment of dumbly staring at an obscure tool as you tried to figure out who he was talking about when it clicked, you looked to the sergeant, “Liuetant Riley! Uh,” you laugh and run a hand through your hair, leaving it on the nape of your neck for a moment, “He…he’s a little scary sure, but he seems kind.” A lie through the skin of your teeth, the Lieutenant somewhat terrified you, and he did not seem kind if anything he seemed beyond condescending to everything you did thus far.

“Mmm,” Kyle seemed to not believe your words again and then patted your shoulder, “Well, goodnight, girly.” 

That triggered something, and it made you a bit sick that it did but blood ran hot for a second. You quickly bite back by saying your name, full name and everything, not leaving out the middle and making sure the last held a nice dose of venom to it, making the sergeant turn around to face you with a confused look on his expression. So you say your name again, “That’s my name, not ‘girly’ not ‘miss’, not ‘kiddo’ not ‘lass’ not ‘bonnie’ or whatever the fuck he called me, my name.” 

There was a stiff silence and you let out a huff of air, sighing, drooping your shoulders, “Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m sorry- I’m tired, I…shouldn’t have snapped at you, you…you’ve been nothing but kind, I-” 

Kyle says your name to tell you to shush up, “I apologize, you have a name, I’ll be sure to use it.”

A small smile appears on your lips and you nod, “Thank you, sir.” 

“Don’t…no, don’t call me that, Gaz, call me Gaz.” 

You laugh at his return and put your hands in your pockets, “Kay, you call me by my name and I call you by yours, that sounds like a pretty fair deal to me.” With a smile still on your expression you say your goodnights and then stand still for a moment, looking down at your boots as you think, this Gaz character was actually pleasant, he seemed nice to where you wouldn’t have to lie when asked about him. 

After a few minutes you turn around and walk back to the workbench, everything as you put it, tablet turned off but leaning against an out-of-use carburetor and everything seems just so. To the sight you were content, because that meant you could get started on the mountain of tasks you had lined up, and you looked over the scene again, grabbing your gloves but faltering when you saw the flipphone that had been sitting beneath it. 

They had made such a point to take your phone, ensuring no outside contact.

So you look around the hangar again, yet, because of the time there is close to no one there, you even peek out the door into the darkness of the airfield. Yet again, nothing. 

You stare at the piece of technology for a moment and it then begins to buzz, but only twice, indicating you got a message- well not you, but the phone did.

Hesitantly you reach to grab it, flipping it open, being met with a simple message- 

Awaiting orders, prepared to receive? 

Another look around the hangar and you quickly type a response.

Yes.

(Comments and feedback make my day! Thank you for reading!)

[abigail-pent]

Thoughts on HTN Act Four on my ??th reread:

- Harrow says "You cannot build in the River. It is a dimension of perpetual flux. Defined space is nonsense here. You might as well try to wall off Time with bricks and mortar." Which hits VERY DIFFERENT after Nona when we physically see a Tower rising from the River - this is way more like bricks and mortar than Pal's bubble even! IS THIS A CHEEKY LITTLE FORESHADOW OF WHAT THE TOWER IS???

- I think it's so fucking funny that Harrow tells her lobotomized self to silence Judith, like she knew Judith was going to speak her inconvenient mind no matter what

- There are 24 total letters. One for Harrow, one for Ianthe, one for Ianthe to give to Gideon Nav if met, one for Cam, one in case Harrow met Judith, one in case Harrow met Corona .... so like most of the letters went unopened. What happened to them? They went into the River but did anyone pick them up?

- Teacher says: "When the work was done, when I was finished and so were they, and the new Lyctors found out the price, they bade him kill the saltwater creature before she could do them harm." This still makes no sense.

We know (from Chapter 37) that "the price" is one of a set of John's lies - that the RBs would chase them and destroy them for the indelible sin of Lyctorhood. But that only explains why they thought Alecto would harm them if they knew Alecto was an RB (truth), and they thought RBs hunt Lyctors (lie). Throughout HTN, Augustine and Mercy both appear to know a lot more about John's motives than John tells Harrow, but we don't actually know if they learned this, or the history of the ten billion, from John or from BoE. When they had Alecto locked into the Tomb, they certainly didn't know that Alecto is John's cavalier, or else the big reveal about Alecto's and John's eyes would not have been such a big deal ten thousand years later. What did John tell them at the time? "Oh hey RBs kill Lyctors and we've been hanging out with one this whole time?" I don't think so! Did they just randomly guess there was an RB in their midst? Seems unlikely! So why did they suddenly turn on Alecto?

- When Augustine says Harrow's call sign is H, just H - is that him taking pity on her (knowing what her cavalier's name should be and choosing not to use the initial G), or him condescending to her because she is not a complete Lyctor?

- When Alecto learns that Varun is coming and she's astonished that it's happening... this is very interesting. She shouldn't be surprised if she already knows the RBs are chasing her and trying to get to her, but her astonishment makes it seem like she doesn't actually know this.

- the way Harrow prays that Ianthe isn't the traitor.... hmmmmmmm

- Cytherea tried to bodily go to the surface of an RB and failed, having gone "mad for weeks"

- Cyrus died before Ulysses and Cassiopeia. When he drove the corpus into a black hole, Ulysses drove the brain through the stoma and Cassy dropped the body into the River alongside the brain; which means Cyrus was the first to go. (Though obviously Cassy's death was faked.)

- The way Mercy describes the RBs: #2 sounds like Mercury (quicksilver), #6 sounds like Uranus (sphincters), #4 sounds like Venus (a humanoid creature with a beautiful face) #1 sounds like ... I don't know, maybe Mars (looked to Mercy like a great and incoherent machine, with a great tail and a thousand broken pillars on its back; looked to Cassy like a mechanical monster with swords for wings and great horns, tesselated over with graves; both of these say "war machine" to me), #8 sounds like either Jupiter or Neptune (a giant head, finned like a fish, teeth protruding from its own skull - fish suggests ocean/Neptune; red with a big green eye - eye suggests Jupiter), #7 looks like Neptune because it's blue but I think it's actually Saturn (who is classed as a Varunian god, who ate his children, and of course we know from NTN that #7 is named Varun the Eater), whatever number Alecto is is Earth, and that leaves Pluto and either Jupiter or Neptune unnumbered and undescribed. I'd guess Alecto is #9, which leaves #3 and #5.

- Augustine says Mercy's House "suckles at the stoma like a damned teat." We know the Second House drains thanergy to turn it into thalergy and the Eighth House is the opposite of the Second in that way; so it drains - or sucks - thalergy. Which is hella fucking curious because it suggests that the power on the other side of the stoma may actually be **thalergy**. But when you think about it, that actually starts to make sense. John says that the other side of the stoma is "a genuinely chaotic space," "a portal to the place I cannot touch, somewhere I don't fully comprehend, where my power and my authority are utterly meaningless," and that "no ghosts venture deeper than the bathyrhoic layer." What could be more chaotic than a fount of pure life energy - afterlife energy, even? What could take the wind out of John's sails more, or contradict his power more, than a source of actual, eternal life? We know from GTN that death has to connect to life, and life to death; death can't be linked up to death like that, the opposites call to one another. And we know for certain that the force on the other side of the stoma calls to John, who is a great conduit of thanergy, and the Resurrection Beasts, who are massive, planet sized pools of thanergy. I think the stoma opens for them because they're Big Thanergy and the stoma is the gate to Big Thalergy.

Also: we don't actually know that no ghosts get all the way down to the bottom of the River except if they're like really evil, which is what John posits. We know we do not see ghosts at the bottom of the River. It doesn't follow that ghosts just choose not to go there. This fact could also be explained if the Big Thalergy on the other side of the stoma is pulling all the nearby ghosts through. Classic causal inference fail - John has the direction of the causal relationship backwards.

- John can't project his soul into the River and enter the "senseless state" because then Alecto would come to the fore and take over his body.

- Harrowhark has never had a father figure - or a figure who wanted to be her father - except he tried to kill her.

- Harrow saying she's not a person because she's a chimera or a war crime... ohh... 😭😭😭

- John says he designed the Tomb *with* Anastasia and never wanted it opened from either end, yet at the end of NTN we find Anastasia's body in there with Alecto... so either the Tomb was always openable by Anastasia or John knew she would die in there.

[gnomewithalaptop]

Transcendence AU Dash Simulator GO!!!

31 notes

🌟 lesbianstellaconifer Follow

okay but actually block me if you ship mizcor -- 'hurr durr but we age stella up' -- SHUT UPPP she's literally a minor and alcor's canonically over a million years old so how about you stop being a freak

🎩 woodsmans-left-nipple Follow

Babe I hate to break this to you but Mizcor's literally one of the most famous relationships in all of post-transcendental literature

🌟 lesbianstellaconifer Follow

I could not have more obviously been talking about Mizar the Magnificent but you know what? Yeah classic Mizcor supporters can fuck off too actually.

Everybody likes to whip out Twin Souls like some kind of gotcha but have you even actually read it??? Like it's literally supporting demon worship and pedophilia -- both of which are EXTREMELY ILLEGAL btw. So yeah if I see any of my followers reblogging that shit I'm reporting you to the Occult Defense Agency idc if we're mutuals

🐟 demonologyturnedmegay Follow

*looks at my Alcorian Literature PhD* guess we better stock up on prison shivs buddy

🍃 haveyouseenmylibrary Follow

okay I'm sorry but

and Mizar the Magnificent isn't????

5k notes

📷 nature-pics-daily

Los Angeles 🏝️

#sunken city of los angeles #new california #travel #ocean #photography #lmao i almost got eaten by a kelpie trying to take this pic pls reblog it

98 notes

🧁 definitely-mizar Follow

Hey guys! Just wanted to let you know that The Scepter of Vanquished Souls, the newest book in the Wanderlust Trilogy, is now available for pre order on Glamazon!

Purchasers of the hard-cover edition will also receive never-before-seen content, including a deleted scene between Princess Samia and the Shadow King!

🤷‍♂️ not-not-ian-beale Follow

Boosting because I honestly cannot recommend this book enough. Truly one of Mira's best (and I'm not just saying that because she married me!)

25k notes

⚠️ alv Follow

CONGRATULATIONS!!!

You are the 6 billionth user to log into Jumblr today!! This means you are eligible to win a FREE WACBOOK PRO!!!! Click here to claim your prize and win BIG BIG REWARDS!!

#twin souls #mizar #alcor #mizcor #twin souls: reawakened #twin souls: breaking circles #twin souls: newest moon #twinner #twincon3015 #not a scam

Based on your likes!

0 notes

🌞 azarath-metrion-zinthirst Follow

So. I had a day.

📖 stanley-pines-memorial-library Follow

Okay, but consider

🌞 azarath-metrion-zinthirst Follow

I don't remember my older brother's wedding

📖 stanley-pines-memorial-library Follow

A small price to pay for no middle school trauma

🐧 selkiebael Follow

Okay so I just read the url and--

Asfdksfjk go off you funky lil intern

📖 stanley-pines-memorial-library Follow

I'm actually the senior librarian. But thanks!

🐈 alcorphabetical Follow

Posts that have 10k notes. To me

15k notes

🔮 demonoftheday Follow

Today's demon of the day is Nxlar the Antithetical! Responsible for the Florida Springs Massacre of 3007, the body count for this purveyor of madness is estimated to be over 400 (source).

🐸 that-one-half-elf-bitch

I could fix her

41 notes

🍑 lookingformygnomequeen Follow

literally screaming crying throwing up rn I've turned off 'Based on your likes' like eight times @staff can't you just get rid of him already

2.5k notes

🎤 rosaslittleredboots Follow

#i accidentally set my alchemy textbook on fire today and i don't even care AAAAAA this is going to be amazing #northwest mansion mystery #pacifica northwest #rosa darling #im about to be so insufferable about this just you wait

616 notes

👹 sexiestdemon3015bracket Follow

🐸 that-one-half-elf-bitch

Nxlar SWEEEEEP!!!

#if you love me at all you'll vote for my lady love #LISTEN i could bring her to the light i nkow i could

37 notes

👻 sweetthingsaremadeofdeeznuts

Lmao so Nxlar the Antithetical totally turned my apartment complex into a pile of sentient sludge yesterday. I'm fine -- I was at work when it all went down, but uh... yeah, my situation obviously just became super not-great. I hate to ask, but I don't get paid til the 15th, so if some of y'all could float me some cash just so I can get a motel room for a couple nights, I'll fr owe you a life debt

Goal: 0/250

FundFriend

LenMo

#fuck demons fr #like seriously what'd i ever do to them 😭😭😭 #mutual aid #pls boost #don't tag as donation

17 notes

🏳️‍⚧️ gliesssse Follow

Important PSA

So idk if y'all have been reading the news lately, but the alcor virus has been making the rounds on the interwebs again. I feel like I shouldn't have to say this but PLEASE don't click any random links rn, ESPECIALLY if they're tagged with twin souls.

I know we twinners love to joke about it, but the alcor virus is legitimately dangerous and has been known to seriously ruin people's lives. Idk. Just like be smart and practice basic caution I guess? Jumblr's pretty much dead these days, so he might skip over us, but it's always better to be safe than sorry

⚠️ alv Follow

This is a good point! It is always better to be safe than sorry! That's why if you're smart, you'll click here for a list of ways to virus-proof your computer. Stay safe out there everybody!

Based on your likes!

4k notes

🌲 discogirl99 Follow

Anyone else just randomly crave connective tissue sometimes

🧁 sparkle-glitter-sideblog

no actually i think that might just be a you thing

#also i heard screaming on the other line when i called you earlier there better not be a mess when i get home #beloved demon brother tag

2 notes

👑 sameeya

Okay guys I might be crazy but what if the Shadow King was actually telling the truth when he said Princess Samia's brother is still alive??? Like, if you think about it, there's a tonnnn of foreshadowing in Crown of Ghosts and the author tweeted that there was gonna be a surprise twist in the new book sooo 👀👀

#i've connected the dots -- YOU DIDN'T CONNECT SHIT -- i've connected them #wanderlust trilogy #mira ramachandran #crown of ghosts #scepter of vanquished souls #princess samia #samia of cleves #shadow king #ahmed of cleves #bookblr

25 notes

🪨 professionalnatural-deactivated30141227

Reminder that you are beautiful exactly as you are and there are thousands who would sell their souls to imitate what you do naturally <3

👠 mizarsfrillypetticoat Follow

I actually really needed this today 💗

🦇 plsbytemevladdyzaddy Follow

Yo quit reblogging this op is a blatant human supremacist

🪨 professionalnatural-deactivated30141227

And? No one cares lmao

⚠️ alv Follow

Enjoy deactivation. Lmao.

🪓 wenda-was-a-lesbian-confirmed Follow

🕵🏻‍♂️ alcor-in-the-tardis Follow

#I sent screenshots of that one centaur post to her boss too #give you two guesses what species his wife is (tags by @alv)

Holy shit. Am I actually rooting for the alcor virus rn?

🍄 warioxreader Follow

maybe the real virus was the friends we made along the way <3

⚠️ alv Follow

No, the real virus is me. Don't take credit for my accomplishments.

🐲 retiredbus Follow

Heritage post

62k notes

🐔 old-friends-senior-griffin-sanctuary Follow

I just want to get dicked down again =/

[manmuncher777]

Mornings|John Price Smut

a/n - once again i want to say a huge thankyou for all of the love on my posts. it means a lot. i’m surprised i’ve been able to produce so much work at the moment, and it might slow down within the coming days. but PLEASE feel free to send me ideas. i love writing someone else’s thoughts.

Warnings - smut, oral fem receiving, pet names, v light overstimulation, fem reader

You hated mornings, you honestly couldn't stand them, if it were possible you would sleep all day and be awake at night. Mornings always made you feel shit, that was until you met John Price, to say he made them a little bit better would be an understatement.

So there he was. 8:37 in the morning, eating you out like a starved man. Head under your white linnen covers as he gets to work. His tongue twisted and turned through your folds as your hands had a grip on his short tufts of hair. His huge hands on either sides of your hips, keeping you still in the position of his liking so he could really get his job done. See John didn't mind mornings, he didn't see anything wrong with them, his time the military always caused him to be awake super early and he didn't always sleep easy, he would often find himself staring at you in the morining, admiring you for hours while you slept, he would watch your chest raise and fall with every breath, always checking you were real, and that you were ok.

soemtimes he didn't want to take his eyes off of you incase you might dissapear and leave his grasp forver

He knew how much you hated mornings, so sometimes John liked to give you something nice to wake up to. The fact that he enjoyed it as well was just a bonus.

"John, Fuck!" you moaned out as your back arched off of the bed, your voice strained as it was the first time it was being used that morning. The goosebumps rising on your skin caused you whole body to shiver, the pleasure tingling all the way up your spine

he was completely under the covers, his hands on either sides of your hips using them as anchors to pull himself further into your pussy, his nose bumping your clit with each movement. Everything was so intense, feeling all of this at once as soon as you had woken up had tears already springing in your eyes.

John had you sprawled out on the bed, legs draped over his shoulders as your hair is all over place and your hands searching for something to grip, the bedding beside your head wasn’t cutting it. That was the only negative of John being under the s was that could couldn’t pull on his hair, something you enjoyed. And so did he.

You also didn’t get to have his gorgeous eyes staring up at you while he ate you like he was your last meal, it made the moment that much better

You take all your concentration into sitting up far enough to push the covers onto the floor, deciding you much preferred it when you would actually see your husband.

“happy to see me sweetheart?” he mocks, smirking as you feel relieved to be able to see his face

He didn’t even give you a second to respond before diving straight back in, his tongue eagerly lapping at your folds, before moving slightly further down the fuck your with his tongue and let his nose do the work on your clit, after all he knew how much you liked that. John knew everything that just made your body tick in the right way, he knew you inside out.

Your hands now happy with their new found home tugged in his dark hair causing him to groan into you, the vibrations only making the feeling more intense.

“oh God”

“not God, just John sweetheart”

If he wasn’t making you feel like your body was on fire in the best way possible, you would’ve slapped him on the back of the head for being a smart ass. But seeing as the only thing you could say was his name and a string of curses, you weren’t exactly in a position to be talking back

Your hips were grinding into his face as you could feel yourself getting closer to that point of release and he could tell too. his focussed on your clit, his tongue flicking over the bundle of never as he sucked on it. he knew it was working but the squeals you were letting out

”John- i’m so close’

“i know, i know sweetheart. cmon now, give it to me”

he needed it, he needed it just as much as you did. that thought sent you over the edge

the only thing coming from you mouth was John’s name as you sung his praise. only he could make you feel this good.

he didn’t stop, he helped you ride out your high, he wasn’t finished until he had drunk you all in and you were pushing his head from overstimulation.

“well good morning to you too” you said, after finally catching your breath

[cybercore-creations]

Little bit of a preview for an upcoming one-shot

Pencil Pusher/Retired!Ghost x Younger partner! Reader

Ghost would love to say he liked his job but that'd be a right lie. After being discharged, Captain Price said he'd get him a job that allows him to still work with them. He thought the job Price offered would be something like drill instructor or a mission strategist. Not a fuckin pencil pusher. Yeah at least he was still working on base. In the familiar enviorment but his primary job was paperwork. Reading over mission reports, responding to important emails from higher ups, making sure all the data was correct for the next mission. He bloody hated it, but it paid well. REALLY well so he sucked it up. Well there was another perk besides the money. He got to spend more time with his partner. He never thought he'd be the type to be in love, figured he was going to stick to hook ups until he got bored but the second he met them, they were already under his skin in all the best ways.

He knew most people would find the relationship between them...Unconventional. Buying them whatever they want, the large age gap, calling him *Daddy*, but God forbid you call him a sugar daddy because he will knock you on your ass. That was his biggest pet peeve. Can't an older guy just have a younger partner and spoil them without being sterotyped? No apparently because even his mates take this piss out of him. Not that he really cares anymore. He loves them and they love him. Maybe he's getting soft in his old age. (Though they kept arguing that 37 wasn't old and he's being dramatic)

Well it's Friday, and Friday usually meant they dump a fuck load of extra projects on him that they want done Monday since he'll 'Have more time' over the weekend. Yeah, he was a known Loner who didn't like social situations but that didn't mean he had no life outside of work. Some times it at the pub with the lads, working out at the gym or taking Iris shopping. He was 5 seconds away from slamming his face on his desk if he had to do one more FUCKIN SPREADSHEET. He wiped his hand down his bare face. At home when it was just him and Iris was the only time he ever tool off his balaclava, they were one of 3 people he actually trusted to see he him without it.

On the cusp of punching a hole through his monitor or simply quitting there was one thing (That wasn't getting piss drunk) that would help him. Iris cuddled up in his lap. "Lovie, can you come to my office please" He called out, hoping to catch their attention from across the house in the living room from his home office.

[sessswifey]

Drippin- K. Nanami

Summary :

It was his birthday & after a long day, Kento just wanted to get a break from all of his worries and some stress relief. As if the gods above heard him his lovely wife came to give him a visit

(Unfinished)LMAO AND CRINGEE..

Day: July 3rd 6:37 pm

Kento had just got done killing a semi-Grade 1 and was tired after another long day of being a sorcerer.

He had just sat down in his chair when the other Grade 1 sorcerer Mei Mei stopped by

"Hello, Nanami" she said in a low and seductive voice. "I see your..hm..'Stressed'" She said with a shit eating grin forming on her face "You know for the price of ¥10,000-"" No thank you, I don't need any of your 'Services' nor do i need an extra problem" He replied coldly staring at his desk

"Ok. Suit yourself but i could've helped out a little." She said smirking. Nanami didn't even give her a glance.

He had spent another hour sitting at his desk sighing as he was forced to go to work on His special day

Your P.O.V

You had baked a Mini cake just for Nanami to eat at his desk. As your put on a red dress fixed your hair and put on your heels, You make your way to the office where nanami was at the moment.

You grabbed your keys and Headed to the car with his cake in hand. As you were making your way to the office you thought of his face when you arrived. You hoped out of your car and headed to his room. Making your way upstairs you fix your hair and dress. As your walking down the hallway you heels clank against the floor eyes turn towards you and trail down your body all the way down to your thighs. You make your way into his office and close the door as he looks up at you

"Hey Ken~” He smiled at the nickname. "Afternoon Princess~" He says looking at you with loving eyes“Is that all for me?” He questions at your outfit and cake. "Yes all for the birthday boy" You smile at him as you get closer to him. As you open the cake box Nanami watches closely looking slowly at your chest

"Mhm looks yummy" He says licking his lips at her chest "Here you go Ken" You say smiling while feeding him a piece of cake.

As he eats the cake he palms your ass softly before slapping it harshly "Both cakes are delicious baby" He said still palming you ass softly before slapping it again "K-ken.." "What is it princess?" He says smiling at you "Can't take a couple slaps? Am I Hurtin' you?" He smiles and chuckles lowly

You moan softly at the pain which was quickly turning into pleasure "K-ken what if some one comes in?" You say whining at the thought

"Let them." He responds smiling "Let them see how good I fuck my wife"

He said as he pulled you onto his lap, gliding his hands to your thighs, laughing softly at how you squeezed them shut. Pulling your legs apart and putting his fingers into your mouth to get them soaked, making you yelp at the sudden fingers in your mouth.

"wait ken!" She yelped.

"No can do angel. I don't like waiting, you know this." He whispered in Her ear with that voice of his. taking the fingers he had in her mouth out and pressing them against her wet cunt and sinking them in, making her let out a wet gasp.

"Ken please.." She whined "Shh and take it princess" He replied adding another finger into your cunt as it drips on his hand. "Mmh so wet" He groans when you clench on his fingers

"Hmm so sweet" He says as his licks your chest "Could be sweeter" He started to look for something sweet then he laid his eyes on the cake you made. He grabbed a big chunk of it, He smeared the birthday cake over her chest area. He continued to finger her pussy while eating the sweet sugary tasting cake off her folds. Making her let out oh such a sweet little moan, her legs shaking and quivering as he pushed his fingers in deeper.

"Fuck" he said as you came on his fingers "You ready baby?" He asks pumping his cock in his hand.

He towered over her with his strong build, grinding his knee against her cunt as she let out a breathless moan, bucking her hips against his knee to create more friction against her dripping cunt. "Just a little more.."

grinding his fingers against her labia making her squirt as put his fingers in his mouth, bringing them back down to her sloppy, gummy walls "Now your ready, is my princess ready f'me?" He says in a husky voice

[wyrmarchives]

Main | Navigation | COD Writing | Send a Request

Tag List! Google Form, doesn’t collect emails

Celebrations Prelude

Series: On The Side

Triggers: Age Gap (Price: 37, reader in early 20s), Cheating, lying, fighting (verbal, and shoving)

MDNI

Now Playing: She’s All I Wanna Be by Tate McRae

I hate her. I really hate her. Platinum blonde, blue eyes, those crow feet to match. A perfect smile. She smiles so sweetly, and you close your eyes when you laugh. Lips pulled to the side and head turned down. She’s not even that funny. Voice shrill like the mean girl on a telly.

I watch when you remove your ring in a bar. How you hold your chin up. Cocky smirk. You know how to pull one in. Tell Ghost it’s just like fishing. Tell me it’s just a joke, that you respect women. You respect Laswell well enough, then turn around and snap my bra strap through my uniform if I hesitate to your beck and call.

I hate her so much. A civilian. She’s tall. You treat her right other than your deployment ventures. She’s your equal right?

I hate her.

She dances well. Pretty white dress. Finally got the bigger rock on her hand. The one you’ve been flaunting around to the guys saying “soon enough.”

I could tell her. Watch your black suit stain red with the wine in her hand. Maybe watch your cheek turn red when she slaps you.

I considered myself a “girl’s girl” until you. Now look at this…

Fucked up.

I’ll lie when you ask too. Say I’m happy for you and your missus. Like you’re a good man.

Maybe the wine’s a bit too helpful to waste on your suit or her dress…

“Rookie, you good?”

“I’m not a rookie anymore, Sarge.” I grumble back taking a sip from the glass. It’s an acquired taste, but when in Rome… God, she drinks red wine. I thought you liked whiskey, John?

“You still are to me.” Kyle banters back, taking a seat at the table. “You’ve been staring.”

“Just foreign is all.” I reply with a small shrug. Nonchalant with a quick commenting frown to pair. “Odd seeing Cap’ acting… Not grumpy. Or bitchy.”

It earns a scoffed laugh. “Right that is. Cap’s always got a bad habit of picking on you, doesn’t he?”

“Let’s see,” I begin to list on my fingers, “first there was pulling my bun down, then there was swapping his hat for mine, then there was stealing my boot laces-“

“You know he was trying to be friendly, right? We’ve been a tight knit group for a while now. Welcoming you was difficult for us, hell, Price most of all more than likely. We’ve worked with women before, but accepting one onto the team? That’s a bit different.”

I roll my eyes. Landing on the love birds of the night. John practically holding her up and sliding her across the floor as she tip toes about. Maybe she doesn’t dance as well as I thought. Is she difficult to lead? I scoff. Adorable.

“It’s the truth, lass. Best not take to heart. Honest, the Scouser’s chuffed about you. Thinks you’re a right addition.” His glass raised to toast singularly as John glances at us. “Tell me, lass, you think our Captain actually wanted this big show?” His finger taps his glass.

My head snaps. Brows furrowed with careful thought. “But that’s his wife.” I nod to the pair.

Kyle looks at me. His signature bitch face. A brilliant treat. “Right, she is. A right ponce in my opinion…” He trails off. “Maybe the drink is a tad much.” He downs his glass and stands. “Give me a bell if you need. Don’t let him get to you.”

“Plastered, mate?”

“Not yet, Rookie.” The snicker is quick as he walks away to talk with the single guests. He’s definitely up for it tonight.

Celebration. That’s the point of weddings.

Looking down the bottom of my glass isn’t too far. Maybe I’ll find my celebration there… or along the dotted lines of my transfer papers…

I look back up. Maybe it’s the liquor courage, or the fact that none of it matters so much to me anymore. A toast would do some good.

I rise. A knife sounds my glass. Sharp but classy tink ringing through the air. My glass raised high with rosy cheeks and warm smile.

“To the bride. She’s got everything that I don’t have. She’s all I wanna be so bad. Perfect smile and personality inside and out to match.” I bite down the truth. “To the beautiful Heather. A woman with a heart of gold to love a man like John. May he treat you right, and your marriage be a happy one. Cheers!”

John crosses his arms, shrugging with his snarky smirk. I wanna wipe it off his face. “Orders.”

“You know, I could report you for abuse of power.” I challenge.

“You could. You won’t.”

“Why do you do this? What’s the point? You could have me removed from the team, Captain.”

“Just a bit of fun-“

“Bullshit.” I cut off. “Don’t give me that shit. You don’t treat anyone else like this.”

“Other people aren’t on my team, Rookie-“

“Lance Corporal.” I correct. “I get I’m new, but how the fuck am I supposed to be anything if I don’t get a chance? I worked hard. I graduated top of my class. I got a chance to be apart of the ‘big leagues’. I try my fucking hardest, Sir. Where the hell do you get off on harassing me? Just taking the piss, are you? Fucking bullshit-“

“You know you have a mouth on you, Lance Corporal.” He steps up. Towering over me in the small office. “You should learn to shut it.”

I straighten myself. “Yes, Captain.”

He scoffs, rounding his desk and plopping into the seat. It’s silent for a few moments. I, waiting for orders, and him, waiting to sort through his thoughts. “Were you going to tell her?”

“Sir?”

“The wedding toast.”

A beat. “No. I just thought that the red wine would look proper on your tux. Would’ve been a waste of money.”

“Good. Don’t forget, you’re convenient. I won’t leave her for you. You’re on the side.”

Star border by @cafekitsune | Border link: here

Music Divider by @thecutestgrotto | Divider link: here

[eldritchboop]

I am Angry at The Lost Book Project so please enjoy this curated list of ebooks

TL;DR: A company is trying to resell books from the Internet Archive at a markup. Here are roundups to all the free links instead.

Please donate to the Internet Archive if you find this post valuable.

42 Ancient Medicinal Plant Remedies

7 Lost Books and Texts on Meditation

The Witchcraft and Magic Collection (51 books)

11 Secret Books for Spiritual Seekers

11 Classic Numerology Books

The Lost Entrepreneurs Handbooks

21 Rare Books on Sacred Sexuality and Magick

16 Seminal Books on Law of Attraction and Manifestation

The Ancient Greece Collection - 36 Rare Books

The Ancient Key to The Tarot - 21 Books

The Definitive Demonology Book Collection

33 Rare Hidden Books on Freemasonry

The Manly P. Hall Collection

45 Rare Supernatural Books - Ghost Stories and Mysteries

37 Ancient Lost Texts on Buddhism

20 Books On Astrology, Zodiac and Horoscopes

The Lost Book of Spells - Spellbooks and Rituals

37 Lost Books on Ancient Mesopotamia

18 Lost Alchemy and Occult Science Books Works Of Sir George Ripley

The Vikings & Norse Mythology Book Collection

My angry rant as to why I am willing to do this in my spare time is below the break.

So I received a target Facebook ad for a website called the Lost Book Project (I refuse to link to them) advertising a collection of herbal books for a nice low price. Problem - the first book I saw them selling was Culpepper's Herbal from the 1600s, meaning it's well outside copyright. I own a digital copy for this reason!

So logically, I decided to check if the other books on the list, most of which are outside copyright, were also available on Archive.org. Sure enough, the whole list is available there.

Now, for starters, this makes me INCREDIBLY angry. It's not illegal to sell out-of-copyright books, but the Internet Archive is my favorite place for old books, and like Wikipedia they operate entirely on donations. Their average donation is $17 - just about the cost of this collection.

Websites that are making money off of a free service by locking them behind a paywall are anathema to everything that the Internet Archive stands for. Furthermore, if you're in the US or UK (where most of these books are sourced from), your tax dollars have already paid for these books to be stored and digitized.

EDIT: I have also noticed that two many books are still in publication and under copyright! I have sent notices to their publishers.

Things like this activate my sense of fairness to the nth degree. I hate scammers. I hate people who sell things without adding value. And I really hate it when they're taking money from good institutions that need it. Imagine if half of the people who paid for these books donated instead!?

So please help yourself to the links on each roundup. I'll continue to do the work needed to link all of the books they offer to their proper sources.

And fuck companies exploiting the work of others for their own profit.

[abiiors]

secret santa 🎄 // ross macdonald x reader (pt 1 of 2)

twelve days of christmas - day 1

a/n: back in my posting fic era?? this could either be so so good or so horrendous! i am undecided. ps: the band mentioned in this fic is made up cw: very slight angst but that's about it wc: 2k

need to pick secret santa names pls!!!!!!!!!!

that’s matty’s annual reminder text that pings through your phone; every 25th of november at 9 am like clockwork (almost like he schedules it). the exclamation points are generous, excessive even. but you smile and text him back. 

and almost like clockwork, everyone is at his house on the 1st. 

the hang out is like usual—everyone is loud and chaotic and happy. ross makes everyone drinks and he’s generous with the whiskey. matty swears he’s so cold, his fingers are going to fall off. george and charli shoo him away when he tries to cuddle with them and you ultimately take pity on him and share your blanket. 

you laugh till your stomach hurts and giggle at john dancing with polly and take a thousand selfies. and everyone cheers once the jar with everyone’s names is brought out. 

matty stands on the sofa with the blanket wrapped around him like a cape and announces the “commencing of the annual secret santa”. he’s dramatic, he always is, and everyone revels in it. 

you watch him shake the jar and then toss its contents on the coffee table. the folded pieces of paper fall down one by one like falling snowflakes and everyone scrambles for one; one of george’s rings scratches your hand and you accidentally end up stealing a paper from adam but no one cares amidst childlike excitement. everyone holds their chits close to their chest, throws long secretive glances at each other and the room fills with sounds of paper rustling as everyone opens them all at once. 

you don’t. you watch the look on everyone’s face. 

carly smiles wide (so she has adam) and adam frowns slightly (so he does not have carly). george groans but it has an undertone of fondness (matty), charli smirks (either ross or you, reading her is hard) and ross simply shrugs (probably george) before anyone can notice, you unfold the paper and stop the moment the first letter comes into view. 

r… 

one by one the other letters join in and you try and fail to contain your smile. ross! exactly who you wanted, exactly who you were hoping for! 

you spend two whole days tracking it down, the coveted last record of divine connection. you follow every rumour diligently, every single piece of information anyone gives you online until you come across someone who seems trustworthy. someone who knows what they’re talking about. 

it’s important that you get this—the last ever unreleased album from the band that shaped your and ross’ early friendship memories, provided the soundtrack to all those stolen joyrides, all the inside jokes and references that linger between you like a secret language.

it’s important for you to have this, for him to have this—a silent acknowledgement of all the feelings you’ll never confess out loud.

so you stay vigilant. you ask them how they managed to get a copy (they know a guy, who knows a guy, who knows a guy who ran the recording studio where it was recorded) the anonymous seller even agrees to let you listen to the first two songs as a sample. the negotiation takes hours! in the end, you relent. it’s for ross, you don’t care what the price is, you only daydream about the look of utter fucking joy on his face. 

one week later, ross texts in the group chat. 

can we do the draw again? please! there’s someone i want to introduce you to.

jealousy is not in your blood, or so you thought until you see her on his lap, smiling the most radiant smile you’ve ever seen. 

olivia (or liv, which is what she insists everyone calls her) is fucking perfect. there’s no denying it. she’s been here exactly 37 minutes and she’s already won matty over who was previously grumpy about having to redo the draw. and now you sit on one end of the sofa, watching them all laugh at the jokes you laugh at and retell her anecdotes that are supposed to be inside jokes.

a sour taste settles on your tongue like you’ve just sucked on a particularly nasty lime wedge. 

olivia laughs sweetly. 

“thanks for being so nice to me,” she says to everyone, you included, “for including me in the secret santa. i told ross you didn’t have to!”

he waves the comment away like it’s nothing, pecks her cheek even, and the anger in you drains away into a tired sadness. 

liv is his type. not you, never you. you’re the best friend! he’s even said so multiple times. and when her smile lights up his entire face, you can’t help but feel like a bitter cunt. 

“no worries darling! the more the merrier.” you almost scowl at george at that but hide it with a cough at the last minute. 

your phone practically burns in your pocket—a message in particular, the one from the seller, telling you they’re ready to ship it as soon as you confirm payment. it’s unanswered because the fate of it currently hangs in the balance as the minutes tick by. 

for the second time that week, matty brings out the jar of names, and this time they scatter on the coffee table like hail, dumped all at once. you don’t scramble to pick a chit with childlike glee. you don’t bother deciphering the looks on people’s faces. all but two that is! it’s impossible to look away from him when he smiles so sweetly—eyes crinkling and dimples on display. fondness is painfully clear on his face and you know what that paper says. 

next to him, liv’s entire face brightens. 

do you want it or not? i’ve got other buyers lined up mate.

you can feel the sender’s annoyance through the screen. it’s justified though, you’ve practically ghosted them for three days. 

the real question is do you even want it anymore?

you adore matty, the new name on your paper but he has no connection to the band. that’s solely a thing between you and ross, not something you’d be willing to share with matty even tho he’s an occasional listener. logically you know he’d appreciate it solely as a collector. but the thought of anyone else having it apart from ross, even if that someone is matty, burns a hole in your chest. 

and so you text back. 

i still want it. 

and then you send them the money.

the record sits at the bottom of your drawer, taunting you every time you open it to take out a new pair of socks (quite often considering it’s december). and you try to cover it with the book you got for matty (a first edition classic that has faint pencil annotations rumoured to be from the author himself) but your heart quickens at the prospect of any damage to the vinyl—an item currently more valuable than every single thing in your house. 

so that’s how it sits, nestled carefully between thick wollen socks, collecting dust until you decide what to do with it. maybe it’ll make a good birthday present for him. and yet it feels oddly personal now that he has liv in his life. 

it’s a foreign feeling, you realise, strangely hollow and ache-y, to feel like you’re being too personal, too intimate with a man you consider your best friend (perhaps even more so than he’s aware of). 

it’s especially difficult when his invitation sits in your phone unanswered. 

come see the practice show for the uk leg with us.

you want to. so so badly! to watch him be excited and involved and happy with what he’s doing. you especially love the spark in his eyes when he has a new idea, a new trick up his sleeve. to sit there the whole time and watch him in his element might just be the best thing ever. 

so you weigh the pros and cons—it will be like the old times again! liv might be there… but she might not! and even if she is, you can live with it, you can do it. 

and so you text him back and promise to meet up with him in an hour. 

turns out liv is there. 

not only is she there, she’s also involved herself in the process—lending out small ideas here and there, praising someone when she loves a particular detail. you want to be mad at them all for betraying you like this; for becoming so enamoured with her so quickly, despite knowing how childish it sounds. 

it’s not their fault you buried your feelings in so deep that they never even had the chance to guess. 

still, polly’s gaze lingers on you every once in a while, particularly when ross and liv kiss (although you chalk it up to coincidence even when she makes an effort to involve you in the conversation)

“you put so much thought into it!” she compliments while flicking through the selection of dvds that will go into the house eventually. you want to tell her it’s your job, to look throught the films. how you and ross always make a movie night out of it but of course she catches you staring at the stack. 

“wait, ross told me the two of you always end up watching half the films from the stack instead of picking them out!” she giggles slightly and you jolt at the surprise of being addressed so directly out of nowhere. 

“yeah… yeah i guess. it just kind of happens!”

she hums in response. “a friend movie date, that adorable!”

this time ross smiles with her. yeah. a friend movie date. what a fucking oxymoron. and yet you paste a smile onto your face and nod like a malfunctioning robot. 

“it’s really fun, yeah!”

“you should join us next time, babe,” ross chimes in and a pit forms in your stomach. of course he’d want that, for his girlfriend to be there. but the silence that settles over the room is an odd one. and no one speaks of the movies after that. 

liv approaches you when you’re alone, sneaking a tiny cig by the window. 

she tries small talk and it fizzles out within minutes, then she tries empty compliments but it’s clear she’s here with a motive. she’s here to ask you something and so you decide to be direct. 

“can i help you with anything, liv?”

she smiles a sheepish little smile and wrings her hands together. “well… yeah, you guessed it. i’m uh… i need your help.”

that piques your curiosity. what could you possibly help her with? until she glances behind her and vaguely in ross’ direction where he’s busy chatting with jordan and then back at you. 

“don’t tell ross but…i’ve got him for secret santa and i really want to give him something special, you know? i really like him and i don’t just want to give him something super generic just because we’re still getting to know each other. and i thought you’d know since you guys are really close, so i thought…” she takes a deep breath and puffs out her cheeks. “i thought i’d ask you!”

the next time she smiles, it’s a brilliant little thing directed entirely at you and maybe for the first time you really see what ross might like about her. even when you want to laugh at the fucking irony. 

here’s his girlfirend, struggling to find the perfect gift and then here you are, letting the perfect gift collect dust in your sock drawer. 

you look behind her and at ross who quickly averts his gaze from the two of you and back to jordan. his shoulders tense for a split second, followed by an imperceptible shake of his head. this is it, you think. your chance to do something selfless for once. so you smile back at her and make sure it’s at least half genuine this time.  

“you know what, liv? i think i have exactly what you need…”

lemme know what you think <33

taglist: @scooby-doodoo @partoftheairforce @justgoatsbreakinghearts0855 @beachesgetpeaches @you-muppet @mcabister @alexmarie29 @at-her-very-foreign @hfkait @squishysoupy @sierraeslaprincesa @harrie-fic-center @alien-girl-violet @thereisaplaceintheheart @kennedy-brooke @lolidontknowanymore @theoriginalwhatsername @celestcies @sugarkane1001 @ari-turner @thewaywewereinsaigon @daphnesutton @beliefandsayingsomething @ros3chu @nothingrevealedeverythingdenied @zzzhealy @mattymybeloved @fck-off @indiaamars @sofaritsalrightt @k4tie75 @wondersecret @humptyhoran @indierockgirrl @hanbiior @moreyoulove-moreyouknow @rossgirly @if-my-heart-bleeds @little-lovely-darling @abriefnirvana

add yourself to the taglist

[nczaversnick]

Emergency(ish?) Commissions

Okay the formatting on this is minimal because I’m only just now coming off a breakdown and I’m rushing to do this before my intense imposter syndrome kicks in. Sorry if that’s too personal, I’m really fucking raw right now

Anyway! Due to the government or the Department of Education or who the fuck ever, I lost my Pell Grant eligibility for the 24-25 school year. I’m told that it’s because I am too young to be considered an independent student regardless of the fact that I do not live with my family anymore. So now my student loans don’t give enough to cover my tuition, or half my living expenses.

So I’m going to offer art commissions. I base the price on how many hours I spend on a piece at a rate of 15$/hr (which is the same rate I get at my actual job). I specialize in character art and design. I can (and honestly love) drawing/designing other people’s TTRPG characters. There are a couple I’ve done before in the samples below.

I don’t do animals, mechs or graphic nsfw (I can get away with a little) or anything political or otherwise derogatory towards a specific group of people. You’d think I wouldn’t have to say that but it’s happened before.

I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone.

I take payment is USD over Venmo, PayPal or Cashapp

I will also accept donations

Message me or comment below if interested

Please reblog if you can’t otherwise help

Here are some samples:

9 hours 135$

22 hours 330$

10 hours 150$

2.5 hours 37$

8.5 hours 127$

2 hours 30$

4 hours 60$

3 hours 45$

1 hour 15$

Adding my tag list to boost:

@honeybewrites @wyked-ao3 @kittrrrr @zackprincebooks @theverumproject @the-letterbox-archives @the-golden-comet @fractured-shield @poppycat-writes @illarian-rambling @finickyfelix @kuebiko-writing @yourpenpaldee @willtheweaver @moltenwrites @davycoquette @drchenquill @marlowethelibrarian @mr-orion @ath3alin @athenadire @the-ellia-west

[sappymix1]

Okay writing prompt -> office au dnf where George is the front desk worker and Dream is in sales and they meetup in the break room and always flirt

hi anon so funny thing it did not occur to me that you meant office au as in the show the office until I turned on the tv earlier today and it was there lmao. but anyway here is 1.3k words of dnfies working for a company that supplies textbooks to high schools lmao

[12:14] 🐈‍⬛: Dream

[12:16] 🐈‍⬛: Hellooooooooo

[12:16] 🐈‍⬛: This is so messed up why are you ignoring me

[12:19] 🐈‍⬛: Dreeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaam

[12:21] 🐈‍⬛: Stop ignoring me, idiot

[12:25] 🐈‍⬛: I’m so bored. I haven’t had to do anything all day. This is so boring.

[12:27] 🐈‍⬛: And now you won’t even text me back. You hate me. 

[12:31] 🐈‍⬛: You should come talk to me so I don’t die of boredom. 

[12:34] 🐈‍⬛: This is me because of you

[12:34] 🐈‍⬛: Ignore the caption

[12:37] 🐈‍⬛: I’m going to start texting Foolish instead of you. I’ll find his number in my computer.

[12:38] 🐈‍⬛: I’m doing it. I’m going to do it. I’m going to find his number and text him asking if he can show me his muscles

-

“Thank you, Ms. French; I’ll make sure that gets worked out for you. Have a good day.” Dream hung up his phone, posture immediately worsening as he screwed his eyes shut, trying to force down the headache that had been brewing since about the third question about the difference in price between the fourth and fifth editions of the biology textbook some forgettable high school in Vermont was attempting to purchase before the new school year began. 

Dream was pretty good at his job, mostly because he was pretty good with the people. He thought he had a good voice, one that made him good at dealing with people over the phone because it prepped them to like him by that alone. He was a bit more awkward in person, yeah – a bit too tall, not quite sure what to do with his arms or his feet – but clients were already endeared to him enough that at that point his slight awkwardness just ended up being charming. That wasn’t the point though; the point was that he was ordinarily really good at phone sales, customer service, that sort of thing. This particular call had just been a bit exhausting. He had barely even passed his own high school biology class; he definitely did not know which text book was the better option even though he had to at least sound like he did. 

Dream glanced over across the office, over to the desk up by the door. His vantage point, unfortunately, wasn’t that great these days. His boss had gotten it into his head that some change of scenery would make everyone more productive as they got deeper into the hot months of summer and, as a result, Dream had traded his desk conveniently within eyeshot of the front desk for one much farther away, and all he could see over, of all things, the fucking broken printer was a little bit of curly dark hair that drifted back and forth in a way that made it obvious that its owner was rocking back and forth in the swivel chair. 

Dream wasn’t quite sure that this rearranging was having the effect on productivity his boss had desired. He reached into his pocket, and he slid out his phone.

His lock screen was covered in a long chain of texts, all coming from a contact saved simply as a familiar emoji. Dream scrolled through them, automatically smiling as his stomach buzzed with strawberries and oranges. Apparently, he was not the only person struggling to focus.

[12:47] me: get better bait. you would text foolish telling him to die before you asked to see him shirtless.

[12:47] me: besides, you’d never do that to tina

Dream went to flip his phone over, not wanting to risk someone noticing that he was off task, but immediately, his phone buzzed with a response. 

[12:48] 🐈‍⬛: What are you doing?

[12:48] me: i was on the phone. 

[12:49] me: lunch?

This time, he didn’t bother putting his phone down, just watched the three little dots indicating someone typing on the other side of their conversation. He realized quickly that he was holding his breath, and he forced himself to let the lingering air leave his lungs. Don’t be stupid. 

When the text came, it was much shorter than the time spent typing it would have implied. Dream could imagine him going back and forth and back and forth, fingers freezing on the same anxiety that both worried and excited Dream. 

[12:50] 🐈‍⬛: Yes

Dream got up from his desk, heading to the break room to get his lunch. Once the door fell shut behind him, cutting off the low buzz of the lights and computers and air conditioning of the main office with a tight thud, he went to the fridge and pulled out the container of sliced up mango and half a sandwich in a baggie. A green sticky note with a smiley face adorned both of them, identifying them as his. He was in the middle of trying to crack the seal on the lid of his drink when he heard the door swing again and quickly felt arms encircle his waist.

“You’re so, like, needy, today,” he said without turning around. “What’s wrong?” Half teasing. Half so sincere that it made both of them squirm a little bit. Dream had always been good at that – caring about people. Especially certain ones. 

“Nothing.” George – the receptionist, the cute British guy in the office, the most important person in Dream’s phone – pressed his face against the back of Dream’s shirt, muffling his voice. “I’m bored. You were ignoring me.” 

Dream scoffed. He set his lunch down on the counter and turned around to face George. George was looking up at him, lips pressed together like he was trying and failing to keep himself from smiling. Failing, both because George wasn’t particularly good at hiding his happiness and because Dream could read his emotions from a single movement of his rich dark eyes. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was working. I spent, like, half an hour stuck on the phone talking about biology textbooks.”

“Wow, poor Dream,” George teased, reaching to open the fridge and find his own lunch – left over chicken nuggets, apparently, as well as a plastic bag filled with apple slices – before settling across from Dream at the table. “Forced to spend all day on the phone, while I’m dying at my desk.” 

A bite of his sandwich. “Dying? Of what?” 

“Boredom and neglect,” George said, sounding extremely put upon. “It’s so messed up that you’re letting your stupid job get in the way of our relationship. Just so that you can, like, have money or whatever.” 

“I can’t believe you’d let Patches go hungry like that.” Dream reached over to steal a sip of George’s peach ice tea, and George just grinned at him before sighing. 

“I guess that’s a good enough reason.” They were both quiet for a few seconds, ankles brushing under the table as George chewed on his apple slices and Dream picked at his mango with a plastic fork from home. It was comfortable, or at least as comfortable as lunch at a tiny breakroom table that was so short that Dream banged his knees against it every time he sat down could be.  It was, arguably, one of the least remarkable days of Dream’s life. Tomorrow, he would put back on his scratchy work clothes and the shoes that pinched his toes, make a million more phone calls to talk about textbooks he couldn’t care less about, and eat another dry sandwich in the shitty breakroom. The same mundanity that he had found, despite the big dreams that he had had growing up, to be his life these days. And, just like he eventually did today, before they threw out their trash and tried to leave the breakroom far enough apart to make it inconspicuous, George would ask if he could come over after work, and everything would feel a little bit more special.

[suzy-queued]

A Gallavich tale, told 100 words at a time.

**This story is now complete!**

-------------------

A man jumped into the back seat of Ian’s car.

“You a driver?” Dark hair, one small piece of luggage.

“Yeah, only if you’re registered on the app.”

“Screw the app. Take me to Nashville.”

Ian choked on his Gatorade. “That’s eight hours from here.”

“So?”

“You gotta plan these things out. Get matched with the right driver.”

“It’s not like I knew that my fucking boyfriend was gonna run off to fucking Yee-Haw Land to elope with my sworn enemy.”

Ian checked the rearview and saw pain behind those angry blue eyes. He switched his app status to OCCUPIED.

---

Ian took the entrance ramp onto I-90. They should arrive in Nashville around … oh, 3:37 AM.

“I have an emergency kit.” Ian nodded with his chin. “Under the seat. A few comforts in case you need ’em.”

The passenger shuffled through the insulated bag. “Boxed juice. Granola bars. Fucking gummy bears, man? This is childhood stuff. You got any Jack Daniels?”

Ian felt a spark of disobedience. “I’ve got a few joints in the glove box.” This was definitely off-book behavior, but it felt right. “They come with a price.”

“What’s that, Jeeves?”

“You’ve gotta tell me your whole story.”

---

The dark-haired passenger scoffed. “You don’t look like you’ve got the stomach to get caught up on my bullshit.”

“Try me.”

“Whatever. Fuckin’ sadist.” He settled into his seat. “You ain’t wearing a wire, right?”

“Not today.”

“All right, so, you ever heard of Berry Buds?”

“Those stuffed animals in the shape of fruit? Don’t people use those to smuggle coke?”

The guy raised an eyebrow. “You too delicate to hear about crime, pumpkin? There’s murder, too. Betrayal. And a pair of pink flamingos.”

“Wait, back up. You forgot the most important part. What’s your name?”

The passenger only smiled.

---

Man, this passenger could talk. Ian heard an hour’s worth of Milkovich family crimes.

Milkovich.

Ian didn’t know the guy’s first name. Only how passionate he was, the excitement in his voice.

“So Iggy launched the box of M-80s into the river, right, and this long-legged yahoo waltzes up.” Milkovich paused. “Wait, did you just yawn? If it’s such a chore to listen, I can fuckin’ stop.”

Ian made eye contact in the rearview mirror. “I was promised murder. A boyfriend.”

Milkovich slunk in his seat. “Keith.” All his passion faded to pain. “Yeah … guess I can talk about him.”

---

“Keith is …” Milkovich seeped with defeat and anger. “He’s the first person who saw me as more than a thug. We met at the liquor store. Been together seventeen months. I thought we were long-term, you know? Then he starts spending time at clubs. Digging into the scene. I don’t give a fuck if he does coke to let off steam. But he keeps getting it from the same guy. Real tall motherfucker. White-blond hair. Wears sweater vests.”

“Northside prick.”

“Oh, you know this guy?”

Ian had seen plenty of club action. He hardened in solidarity. “I know the type.”

---

“Anyways, that’s how I realized my piece-of-shit boyfriend is marrying fancy-pants Logan Covington, the motherfucker who snipes our business and has led the biggest anti-Milkovich smear campaign this side of Michigan.” The passenger let out a sigh. He slowed for the first time in an hour. “Shoulda known by that haircut. He came home looking like a walking Ken doll.”

“So, wait.” Ian sorted through the complicated story threads. “Are you going to kill your boyfriend?”

“No, man, keep up. I want to get him back.” He leaned forward, laying his hand on Ian’s shoulder. “And you’re gonna help me.”

---

Ian scoffed. “Don’t rope me into your drama.”

“Come on, man. We show up at the chapel, tell Keith I’m dating you now, let the jealousy unfold.”

Unbelievable. Ian shouldn’t even consider the offer. He had a ton to do this weekend. But Milkovich was obviously hurting.

Ian scratched his chin. “And I’d be on the clock the whole time?”

“What, you scared to do it? You a homophobe or something?”

“I’m gay.”

Milkovich stared, hard. He looked Ian up and down. “You never mentioned that.” He gave a coy smirk.

Ian felt a shot of electricity. “You never asked.”

---

The Silver Diner in Lafayette, Indiana bustled with activity.

Milkovich talked over the sizzling grill. “Still don’t know why we stopped here.”

“Can’t think on an empty stomach.” Ian flagged the waitress.

Jolene smiled, leaned into the booth. “Order’s coming right up, sugarpot.” She touched Ian’s arm as she left.

Milkovich frowned. “That shit happen to you a lot?”

“What?”

“Chicks waving their boobs in your face.”

“I don’t really notice.” But Milkovich noticed. Interesting.

“It’s good, actually. We can use it in our plan. People find you attractive.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

He rolled his eyes. “Didn’t say me.”

---

Milkovich rolled a coin across the diner table. “You see that? Table's tilted by a degree-and-a-half. Cheap off-balance pedestal leg. I’d have used a trestle instead.”

Huh. This guy’s shoulders relaxed when he talked about normal stuff.

“The key with builds like this…” The guy was smart. Layered. Funny. And his eyes twinkled when he geeked out about construction, apparently.

Ian was finding new ways to be awed each minute.

“…at least shim the motherfucker because…”

Ian interrupted. “I’m in.”

“Huh?”

“Your plan? I guess can pretend to like you.”

Ian’s stomach swooped. Pretend might not be the right word.

---

“Seriously, you’ll do it?” Milkovich raised an eyebrow. “Okay, lay it on me. Tell me everything about you.”

Ian enjoyed sharing his details. “I’m one of six kids. Two sisters, three brothers. Wait, you’re not writing this down? You’re gonna memorize all this shit?”

The guy leaned forward, intense, piercing. He traced his finger around Ian’s wrist. “We’re chained now. I’ll remember everything about you.”

This was absurd, but the guy seemed dead serious.

Ian felt goosebumps. He took charge and matched the guy’s intensity. “Then tell me your first name.”

A quick tongue flick. The guy nodded. “It’s Mickey.”

---

Turns out, scheming and joking with Mickey was easier than breathing. Ian drummed on the table. “Okay, how’d we meet? I gave you a ride somewhere?”

“And then I rode you.” Mickey laughed. “Simple enough. How about second date?”

Ian’s inner romantic spun into action. “A rooftop picnic. You brought snacks and whiskey.”

“Hm. Doesn’t sound like me.”

“I brought a tire iron and gun because I didn’t trust you.”

Mickey smirked, like these lies were becoming reality in his head. “Wise man.”

Ian swelled. His weekend suddenly had purpose. He’d be the best fake boyfriend in the goddamn world.

---

They hit the john before they got back on the road. Pissed in outdated urinals, washed their hands.

Ian watched Mickey closely. Every turn, every strut, every smirk. That’s how he noticed that Mickey flinched when the hand dryer shot to life.

“Mickey Milkovich.” Ian laughed. “You can dump a mob boss in the Chicago River but you’re afraid of a little hot air?”

“It’s fucking startling.”

Mickey paused in the doorway. Tilted his head. Looked up at Ian. “Keith … he never noticed that about me.”

Ian elbowed him, defusing his sadness. “I’m going to learn all your secrets, boyfriend.”

---

Around midnight, the rhythm of repeating street lights on Interstate 65 lulled Ian toward sleep.

“Can I ask you a question?” Mickey looked damn relaxed, too. Seat leaned back. Legs stretched out. Talking in a low voice. “Let’s say I blew this.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Say I end up alone. Do I deserve that?”

Ian could certainly judge. He’d heard about Mickey’s crimes, his family, his dating history.

He wanted to hold Mickey’s hand. He wanted to find the right words to remedy this hurt.

“Mickey, you are the most –”

A bang. A crash. Ian’s face smashed into the airbag.

---

Ian took inventory. He was conscious. Neck pain. Bleeding nose.

He scrambled to unfasten his seatbelt. To wave away the airbag dust.

He pawed at Mickey’s leg, arm, chest. “Are you okay?”

“I’m scraped up.” Mickey coughed. “What happened?”

“Someone clipped our bumper. We spun out. Hit the guardrail. I was out of control.”

“Why are you pulling on my eye?”

Ian lowered his hand. “Checking for a concussion.” He tried to steady his breath, calm his panic. “I’m sorry. I let you down.”

Mickey set his injured hand on Ian’s, offering shaky reassurance. “Better than being worm food, man.”

---

The cops had come and gone. Reality settled in. Ian’s car was undriveable. They were stranded.

Mickey’s anxiety spiked. “How the hell am I getting to the wedding now?” He paced along the shoulder, pointing at Ian. “Who drives for a fucking living and doesn’t have roadside assistance?”

Ian spoke via speakerphone to a random tow company they’d Googled. “It’s a silver Camry. Near exit 130.”

Mickey yelled into the phone. “Just look for the goddamn ring of fire lighting up I-65.”

Ian prayed for strength. “Ignore him. There’s no fire.” Unless you counted the flames rising from Mickey’s nostrils.

---

Ian talked to Mickey in the crammed cab of the tow truck. “I told you I’d get you there. I’ll think of something.”

The mechanic pulled into a repair shop. “Car can stay here. Hank opens at 7:00 tomorrow.”

Mickey exploded. “It’s not open 24 hours?”

“This is Indianapolis, not L.A.”

“How are we supposed—"

Ian held up a hand to stop him. He could feel Mickey’s desperation, his impatience and heartbreak. “Is there a hotel nearby?”

The mechanic pointed across the street. To a run-down motel called King Richard’s Royal Inn.

Mickey glared. “Well, long live the fuckin’ king.”

---

Josie at the front desk didn’t even look at her computer. “I’m sorry. It’s race week. We don’t have room for more guests.”

Mickey glared at Ian. “Come on, Gingerbread. You’re taking me to the Motel 6.”

Josie snorted. “You’ll be lucky to find a campground in this town with a vacancy.”

“Guess I’m sleeping in your fucking lobby, then.”

As if Ian didn’t feel bad enough about this situation.

A chime sounded on the computer.

“Hey, now.” Josie smiled. “We’ve just had a cancellation.” She looked between them. “It’s a single. One full-sized bed.”

Mickey didn’t hesitate. “We’ll take it.”

---

“Door’s flimsy enough to kick open.” Ian unlocked the motel room.

Mickey groaned. “No TV. No closet. They better have hot water.”

“Jesus, the bed’s small.” Ian’s neck ached. This was officially hell.

“You gonna be all right, Red? We’ve got to get used to touching each other.”

Ian grabbed him and pulled him close, roughly. “Think we’ll be able to fool Keith?”

And, damn, Mickey’s face was right fucking there, looking tired. Cranky. Kissable. “We should do it bareback in the middle of the chapel just to piss him off.”

Oof.

Ian was not going to survive this night.

---

Mickey cracked the bathroom door as he showered, fogging up the motel room.

Ian sat on the bed, still for the first time tonight. He felt warmth. Pain. Adrenaline let-down.

Mickey’s silhouette moved behind the curtain. A hint. A tease. An invitation.

What if … Ian pulled the curtain back?

He could feel those sturdy shoulders, that smooth skin. Trace his tongue along the water droplets. Grab that thick … hair.

What if Mickey dropped his guy and took Ian on? Then what?

Would Mickey get tired of him?

Desire. Curiosity. Potential. Ian’s thoughts swirled like water.

… then the shower clicked off.

---

“Jesus!” Mickey pulled the curtain back. “Damn water turned to ice.” He jumped from the shower, lunging for a towel.

And of course Ian had been staring and saw everything. Mickey’s dripping body. The toned muscles in his legs. His stomach. A quick flash of his anatomy.

Ian turned away.

“Fucking freezing, man.” Mickey’s wet feet slapped on the floor. “This is on you, Gallagher.”

Ian peeked. The towel did nothing to hide the curve of Mickey’s ass.

God, Ian had to tamp down his infatuation. Maybe cockiness would work instead. “I hear skin-to-skin contact gets you warm the fastest.”

---

Mickey huffed at Ian’s joke. “You tryin’ to see me naked?”

“It’s for science. Research.”

Mickey shrugged and reached for the knot of his towel. The world moved in slow motion now, a tattooed hand tugging white cotton.

The fabric fell away, sliding down his leg. Dark hairs matted against skin. Body with the right balance of definition and softness.

Ian’s heart beat fast. He felt it getting stronger and stronger and stronger.

He glanced up and fell into Mickey’s eyes.

One touch could overcome the silence. One touch could reveal Ian’s crush.

Mickey smiled, all confidence. “Your turn, Loverboy.”

---

In this game of chicken, Mickey was winning.

Ian gulped. It was only fair, right? Mickey needed to see his body for their boyfriend charade to work.

Ian peeled off his jeans. His t-shirt, going slow and begging all his parts to stay chill.

Mickey never broke eye contact.

Ian slid his boxers down, breathless.

“Patriot tattoo. Boobs tattoo.” Mickey nodded. “Carpet matches the drapes. Uh-huh.”

How could Mickey stay so calm when he was tearing Ian’s nerves to pieces?

Mickey stepped within touching distance. “Only one more question, hot shot.”

“What’s that?”

“How good of an actor are you?”

---

Ian held his ground. “I’m a great actor.”

“Could you kiss me right now?” Mickey’s gaze raked down Ian’s body. “Kiss me and not get hard?” Mickey spoke oh-so-slowly. “We’re together, right? So we supposedly kiss all the time. Can you control yourself?”

A song burst through the tension. A silly cartoon voice repeating, You are my cute-cumber. You are my cute-cumber.

Mickey’s eyes widened. “Fuck, my phone.”

He scrambled, but the sound went silent before he got there.

Ian laughed. “Seriously? That’s the cheesiest alert.”

“You don’t understand.” Mickey looked up with pain in his eyes. “That’s Keith’s ringtone.”

---

Keith’s call shifted Mickey's vibe from flirty to flustered.

Ian slid on his boxers and jeans. Being naked suddenly seemed wrong.

“Why the fuck was he calling?” Mickey threw the towel over his lap. “He didn’t leave a voicemail. Is he having second thoughts about the wedding? Should I call back?”

Ian had no clue how to help. “Just take a minute. Breathe.”

“My brain’s turning to mush here, Gallagher. I’m exhausted. I’m confused. We haven’t eaten in hours. And now this? Tell me what the fuck to do.”

Ian didn’t think. He yanked Mickey’s head back and kissed him.

---

The kiss was overwhelming. Tinged with panic. Wonderful. Scary. Exciting. Over too soon.

Mickey touched his own lips. “That’s good. I … needed that.”

“This trip’ll be stressful enough without you freaking out. When the anxiety ratchets up in that head of yours, I’ll take care of you, all right?”

Mickey nodded. Took a second. Smirked. “Knew you couldn’t do it.”

“What?”

“Knew you couldn’t kiss me without getting hard.”

“You’re an asshole.”

But the intensity on Mickey’s face told Ian not to push. The bright blue eyes. The absolute relief at being taken care of.

Ian let the moment simmer.

---

Ian needed to be supportive. A bodyguard. A wingman, offering safety pins and pep talks.

He pulled two joints from his pocket. “You weren’t meant to face this weekend sober.”

“Fuck, man, you always know what I need.”

“Snagged ’em from my glove box after the crash.” Ian lit up and offered one to Mickey. “I know everything seems fuckin’ hopeless, like your life is wrecked. You ain’t wrong.”

“This supposed to make me feel better?”

“The point is, it’s okay to be who you are.”

“What’s that, big guy?”

Ian threaded their fingers together. “A loser, just like me.”

---

The wee hours passed in a purple haze of weed and exhaustion.

They didn’t sleep. They lay beside each other in that tiny bed, clothes on, joking and mumbling.

They bumped elbows, knocked knees, held hands.

Ian ached for more touch. For a kiss that meant more than comfort.

Mickey’s icy blue eyes held him at bay. I can’t face that yet. Please let me hover outside of reality a little longer.

In the orange glow of sunrise, Ian gathered his nerve. He asked the question he’d been pondering all night. “You still want to go to this wedding, Milkovich?”

---

Mickey sat too far away on the motel bed. “Why wouldn’t I go? Keith is my boyfriend. We live together.”

“How’s that gonna work out once the newlyweds get home?”

“I still want to go.”

This wasn’t right, goddammit. In the movies, a kiss leads to a romantic finale, not this stubborn insistence to stay on course.

Ian grasped at one last hope. “To win Keith back?”

Mickey inched closer. He held Ian’s chin. Broke into a smile. “To show him what a big mistake he made.”

This time, the kiss was only about the two of them. Fuckin’ finally.

--- * --- * --- * --- * ---

Hey. Is this thing on?

Gallagher’s been doing an okay job telling this story, but now it’s my turn. And none of that past-tense, passive bullshit. I’ll tell you everything the moment it happens, okay?

You’re gonna witness every mile, every pit stop, every tacky decision my ex makes for this wedding. His abysmal choice in groom. Some godawful silver balloon arch. Those lime-flavored vodka Jell-o squares he loves so much.

Damn, I can’t wait to see the scowl on Keith’s face when Ian and I start playing tonsil hockey on the dance floor.

We’re gonna fuck some shit up.

---

It’s seven AM. I’m camped outside Hank’s Body Shop drinking coffee-colored swill.

Ian’s beside me, giving me bedroom eyes, running his fingers up my arm. He’s tempting as fuck.

Hank unlocks the door and lets us in. “Knew you’d be waitin’.”

I spot Ian’s car, nod toward it. “What’s the damage?”

“Her bones are good, but you’re looking at three grand in parts and labor. I have an opening on October first.”

“October? That’s six weeks from now.”

Hank shrugs. “You can tow her somewhere else. No skin off my teeth.”

Ian eyes darken, and not in a sexy way.  

---

Look, I’ve learned a lot about Gallagher in the past day. If he says he’s gonna do something, he will.

We’re definitely getting to Nashville.

He’s got about eighty tabs up on his phone. “Ubering is ridiculously expensive. A rental car’ll surcharge me because I’m not twenty-five.”

“You’re not?”

“Not until next May.” Ian doesn’t even look up. “Greyhound leaves at 11:30. What time’s the wedding?”

“Six.”

“Guess we’re taking the bus.”

I fucking hate this idea. Ian can tell. He grabs me by the waist. “We can cuddle the whole way there.”

Okay, maybe I fucking love this idea.

---

We leave the car behind. Leave the body shop behind. Check out of the motel, leave it behind.

All I’ve been doing lately is letting things go. Releasing the goddamn trapeze wire and falling without a net.

My ex is the hardest fucking thing to let go.

Ian and I sit in the back seat of a cab, on our way to the bus station. He holds my hand, simply. “This is the first time I’ve seen your shoulders relax.”

He's a six-foot-high, freckly-armed godsend. It's easier to let go when a motherfucker like that is waiting to catch you.

---

The bus trip passes in a blur. I’m lost in a tangle of Gallagher limbs. He touches my forehead, cups my cheek, kisses me every minute on the minute.

After all the shit we’ve gone through, the ride feels too easy. Roadblocks are easy to rally against. But when the path is clear, doubt creeps in.

We pull into Nashville Station at four o’clock. It’s sunny. The air smells like Keith.

He’s probably putting on his tux and double-checking the flowers right now.

I’ve been obsessed. I haven’t taken a moment to breathe.

Fuck.

Am I doing the right thing?

---

I shove down my hesitation, because fuck Keith. If I want to crash his party, I’ll do it with a wrecking ball.

Ian and I step out of an Uber, bleary-eyed. The white chapel sits in a commercial strip, bathed in neon.

There’s two pink birds dressed in tuxedos mounted out front. I rip one from the grass. “Goddamn flamingos, man. That was supposed to be our thing.”

A man greets guests at the chapel steps. “Thank you for coming, thank you ah-very much.” Rhinestones. Bell bottoms. Sunglasses.

I can’t handle this shit. “He’s having fucking Elvis officiate his wedding?!”

---

I’m ready to find out what kinda froufrou shindig my ex is throwing. I’m gonna bust in his skull the second he vows himself to that prick Logan Covington.  

Only … I haven’t moved yet.

Ian sets his hand on my neck. He touches a muscle that calms my whole goddamn body. “Hey, there’s a pizza place around the block. You up for it?”

I blink. “Bustin’ this up isn’t going to help anything, is it?”

He shakes his head.

Fuck. That voice of reason finally takes hold. “Pizza it is, then.”

The moment we turn, I hear a voice. “Mickey?”

---

Keith’s tux is perfect. His hair is perfect. “What’re you doing here? H-how are you?”

“Me? I don’t have a care in the goddamn world.”

He’s got candles in one hand and hideous flowers in the other. He pauses, like there’s no fucking sense hiding what’s going on. “I’m dying to know what you’re thinking.”

Well, fuck, I am, too. Because I didn’t plan this far. This whole trip’s been fueled by spitfire and rage. Now here we stand, face-to-face, and I’m torn between revenge and the strong freckled hands of my Uber driver.

I open my mouth to speak.

---

I can’t find the right words. My mouth works on autopilot. I turn my head and lay the biggest goddamn kiss on Ian. His body tenses, then he melts into it like we’ve been doing this shit for years.

I forget that Keith’s there. Elvis fades away. The chords of the practicing organist fade away.

I pull back slowly, staring at Ian.

“Um, hello?” Keith waves.

“Ian and I are gonna grab some grub. Maybe check out that haunted Nashville tour. Have fun with whatever bullshit you’re doing today.”

I don’t care how petty I sound.

I’m finally fuckin’ free.

---

I hear Keith stammering behind me. I don’t care what he has to say or what a clusterfuck this’ll be after the dust settles and we return home.

Ian and I shuffle down the sidewalk arm-in-arm.

The pizza ain’t Chicago style, but it tastes amazing. The hotel Ian picks for us ain’t fancy, but the sheets are clean.

We kiss against the wall. He peels off my clothes.

25 hours. 475 miles. One motherfucking Elvis. One round of drowsy sex.

I’m comfortable tangled in Ian’s gangly arms.

We do the thing I’ve been dying to do for an eternity … sleep.

---

Ian hands our key to the hotel clerk. “My friend and I enjoyed our stay.”

I nudge Ian as we walk outside. “Why’d you call me that?”

“Because you’re my friend.”

I pinch my eyes. I need more.

Ian slinks against me. “You’re my… lover.” Now he’s getting it. “Wanna bite you. Wanna nibble on you the whole way home.”

Better, but I still need more. “When we get back, will you be my—”

“Yes.” For Ian, it’s as simple as that.

We got no car. No plan. We only have each other.

And that’s all I fuckin’ need.

---*---*---*---*---

ONE YEAR LATER

Ian threw a receipt onto the kitchen table. “Finally paid the last toll. Got all the Camry repairs done.”

Mickey smirked. “We never got to show off our fake dating skills on that trip.”

“There’s one last souvenir I gotta deal with.” Ian got down on one knee, holding a small black box. “You’re in this house – this home – all the time. Might as well make it official.”

“You sayin’ you wanna get hitched?”

“You up for it? No flamingoes, I promise.”

Mickey pulled him into a kiss. “Pretty wise choice, hopping in your car that day.”

[captain-mj]

Any chance we can get something building on your graves shepherd TikTok?! I'll offer you some ribs for it?

Just the 141 coming to work with the shadows and Graves and the shadows keep trying to ask the 141 to tell their boss to stop creeping on their commander. It's creepy and in their opinion Graves deserves better.

I am so willing to do that!!

Price had noticed something was... off. All of the Shadows glared at Shepherd every time he walked in and they grouped around Graves whenever he was around too. Once he started paying attention, he noticed a few things.

Shepherd made a comment about their uniforms, specifically saying it really suited someone of Graves's body type. He openly stared at Graves's ass and put his hand right on the small of his back. It was extremely uncomfortable to watch. Shepherd also stood a lot closer to Graves when give the opportunity, to a noticeable degree.

3-1, who Price was fairly certain was named Jason, ended up finding him and cornering him later. "Can you please tell your creepy ass boss to back off my commander?" He crossed his arms, glaring.

Price paused. "Talking about Shepherd?"

"Yes. We've all noticed his behavior around Graves. We don't fucking like it." 3-1 looked embarrassed but determined. He had a lot of nerve to talk to Price and he respected that.

"What exactly is he doing?" Price had of course noticed it, but he wanted to see what Jason would say.

"He's been sending him weird messages and making comments about him. He asked me yesterday if he was a Barracks Bunny." He hissed it out.

Price blinked. Oh that was a lot worse than he had thought. "I see."

"So tell your gross ass boss to leave my boss alone. He deserves better than that old, bald fuck." Jason turned around and walked off quickly.

Price blinked, not entirely sure what he could do about it. He supposed he could call Laswell.

Laswell grimaced and told him she'd keep an eye on it. She was working on base at the moment so it was perfect timing.

Price started putting himself next to Graves when he could, usually positioning himself between Graves and Shepherd. Graves mirrored him, always getting a bit a closer. He noticed his eyes seemed to linger on Price more and he took it for gratitude.

Another one, 2-2 he was pretty sure, asked Price if they had an HR.

"Uh... Kinda. Why?"

"I'm pretty sure your boss's actions fall under sexual harassment. I think you guys need sensitivity training or something." She huffed at him, narrowing her eyes.

"Ah... Um... Yeah, about that. I've been watching and I've reported into Laswell."

She nodded. "Good. You'd think as old as he is he'd learn. I mean... you've learned by your age."

"My mum raised a gentleman and I'm not that old."

"Really?" She started to laugh.

"I'm 37!"

"Oh, I don't doubt that. I meant british people really say mum like that? You say it like the flower. Chrysanthemums." She laughed harder.

"This is why no likes you guys."

"Eh. We don't like you guys either. Well... most of us don't." She looked him up and down but left before he could respond. Talk about sexual harassment. This was becoming a very unsafe work environment. At least, that's what he told Simon who laughed and said she was probably flirting.

Then it happened. The biggest incident.

It was a very small meeting. Alejandro, Price, Graves, Shepherd and Laswell. Just the top leaders of each group with the addition of Laswell since she worked adjacent to Price. Shepherd was still at the base and Price was pretty sure he was pushing it off for this reason.

They talked with Price barely paying attention. He kept making eye contact with Graves who sat right next to him, Shepherd on the other side. Their hands ended up brushing under the table and Graves went a bit rigid, quickly putting his hands in his lap and glaring at him like Price had been trying to hold his hand.

The other two left and Price got up. He grabbed a cup of the coffee they had nearby. It wasn't his favorite but with the missiles and everything, he hadn't really been sleeping.

Graves backhanded Shepherd. Price missed the inciting action but that sounded painful.

Shepherd stared at him and Graves stomped out with Price on his heels.

"You okay?"

"He grabbed my ass. He'll learn not to do that again." Graves snapped, glaring at Price like he was also a culprit.

"Okay. Got it. But are you okay?"

Graves sighed. "I'm... fine. Just... I thought when I quit the army to be a mercenary, I wouldn't have to deal with people like that." He sounded angrier than anything.

Price pat his shoulder like he would for his team. "I'm sorry. I was working with Laswell."

"I'm aware. Laswell asked me a ton of questions and I got a call from who I'm assuming was a very tired HR person. Or whatever the fuck you guys have as an equivalent." Graves smiled at him. He looked pretty when he smiled.

Price immediately scolded himself. "I'll make sure he isn't alone with you anymore."

"Good." Graves hit his shoulder rather hard. "I'll hit him again if I need to. I'm sure he'll learn eventually."

"Old dogs, new tricks."

"don't believe that. Any dog can learn. With this one, I just have to beat it enough."