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flowerflamestars · 5 months

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I don't know if my continued Rhys Efflorese babble gotten eaten so here it is again. (if I'm repeating myself I'm very very sorry)

Rhysand being so certain that Cassian and Azriel's Illyrian honor and loyalty will keep them on his side without having even a shred of awareness about what Illyrian honor even MEANS much less what it might mean if they feel that HE'S the one who betrayed them first. I'm not sure that Rhysand even has any concept of Illyrians beyond the asshole camp lords that Night put in charge. (Why were they freezing in the mud, huh, Rhys?! WHO PUT THEM THERE?! Why might they not be will to share their whole selves with the Prince of Night, huh Rhys?)

It says a lot about how much faith and respect they had for Shahar (I can't remember how to spell her name right now) that even though she didn't live among them as one of them, they still very much considered her theirs and believed she could (and would) make the future better for them. (This is a thought I had while reading Starlight: the House of the Wind is possessed by the ghost of Rhysand's sister and she's fucking Pissed at him)

Rhysand is very bad a cost-benefit analysis. Particularly because he doesn't seem to have any concept of what a 'cost' actually is, especially when it's someone else who'll be paying it. Or even what a benefit is really. (Dude, you have two business savvy, policially knowledgeable, intelligent humans who are personally invested in keeping Feyre safe. This would be a FANTASTIC opportunity to learn about the state of the human lands and kingdoms and formulate plans based on new information instead of, you know, deciding you already had a perfect plan despite the fact that you haven't talked to a single (not Feyre) human in at least 500 years.(*insert the "no it's the children who are wrong" Simpsons guy meme here*) Or that maybe there's this guy right here with friendly acquaintances all over the place that could be very useful if you weren't, you know, a shithead. But nope, slightly bruised pride too much cost)

Rhysand's desperation for Feyre to only see him in a very specific light is greatly aided by Feyre's equal determination to only see him in that exact light.

Rhysand thinking that, even after learning he fucked off to the continent and got arrested for gambling debts, bringing shit-head papa Archeron into the situation will keep ANYONE in line (kinda love that even though we're all, like, Everyone Gets a Name but then none of us will can shithead papa Archeron anything but shithead papa Archeron)

Rhysand hoping this situation that he doesn't want to deal with implodes while not comprehending that it will implode into A WHOLE NOTHER SITUATION

Do you think he's a bit baffled when Feyre comes to the conclusion that her sisters hate faeries? Like he's perfectly pleased with the situation and happy to roll with it because it'll drive a further wedge between her and her sisters do you think he looks at the perfectly polite chats with Cass and Az despite the glowing siphons and giant bat wings (plus the Shadows in Az's case) and the House Full of Blood Magic/ Lucien FUCKING Venserra situation and think "Whelp, I guess you've got an immortal lifetime to learn some observation skills" (not that she'll learn good observations skills from HIM anytime soon)

Rhysand thinking that Feyre loves and cares about these people and that therefore they are a THREAT to HIM instead of that meaning that he should maybe he should care about, or, a least, try to get along with them.

Elain just keeps smiling a playing the perfect hostess is nearly as infuriating as Nesta snarling in his face. Then she puts Cassian's knife to his throat. That's probably one of them most WTF moments of his life. (someone please tell the Illyrians that Elain held a knife to Rhysand's throat. They deserve knowledge that this tiny human girl was willing to pull a knife on a High Lord for her people (a people they are now part of))

Did he notice that Elain served him some funny tasting tea and just think nothing of it because human food is all shit to him? (Also Cassian had almost zero reaction to Nesta saying that Elain had tried to poison Rhysand, his High Lord/'brother')

(in your Nesta/Eris story, the Valkyrie priestess says something along the lines of "Rhian's sniveling brat son may think the world revolves around him but it doesn't" and "Shahar would be disappointed in him." These statements feel applicable this Rhysand (or all Rhysands really))

Rhysand is about to get a crash course in how loyalty is a two-way street. The Archerons' people (now including a bunch of awestruck Illyrians) are so ride-or-die for them because the Archerons are just as ride-or-die back.

All three of the Bat Boys are in the process of completely loosing their shit in different directions.

Side-note: When Elain offers Cassian tea and calls him sir and Cassian's like "WTF I'm not a sir" and Elain's like "It's a courtesy given to any man with a title" and Cassian's just "naw I don't have a title" and then in her head Elain's like "WTF in what world is General not a title?" It just makes me wonder about Cassian's (and by extension, Azriel's) actual place in the Night Court's (barely existent) court hierarchy.

Side-note the second: While mentioning the Night Court's barely existent government system the thought of Amren having secret peons in place helping keep the court running. It might have started as a bit of a game 'How much functioning government can I make before Rhysand actually notices" however I think it got boring pretty quick through a combination of, 'he barely ever notices anything not shoved directly under his nose' and mild concern that Rhysand might actually notice and stop her and the court will implode even faster than it already is (and she's gotten stupidly attached to some of these colorful insects and would like to keep them around a bit longer) (Side-side note: I'm SO hyped for Amren to meet the rest of the Archerons)

Side-note the third: if there's Archeron ships in Night then there's probably Archeron ships in Summer too right? That could spin the whole Summer-book theft debacle in... interesting ways. (I'm imagining Tarquin talking to Feyre about Archeron ships bringing in supplies to rebuild the city at greatly reduced transpiration fees or something and Feyre's just mentally like "wtf my sisters hate faeries why would they do that" (because she's still operating under that particular delusion) but (because Rhys thinks it's a good idea) she plays along like she knows about it or something and uses it to gain more of Tarquin's trust before, you know, Rhys's whole *brilliant* plan takes place. Imagine how abso-fucking-lutly pissed OFF, Nesta, Elain and Lucien would be. Like, the whole situation would already piss them all off but add in deliberately taking advantage their family's reputation and kindness to do it? Rhysand had better stay well out of stabbing distance. (Side-side-note: Tarquin's, like, less than one hundred right? The dude spent more than HALF is fucking life Under the Mountain. Give him a fucking BREAK.) (Side-side-side-note: Just popped into my head. What if there were babies BORN down there. Like, that's their whole life down there. I just realized that this isn't actually much of a what-if scenario because really we just have to look under Rhysand's OWN fucking mountain to see how that goes.)

I think that's all of the babble for the moment. <3

Oooo so much good stuff here! I'll try to go in order 💜

Rhys is canonically shitty about Illyria and the Illyrians! I almost feel like I'm hitting the bottom of the barrel to give it emotional nuance- Effloresce Rhys has wrapped together all his grief and ego into just. Complete bullshit. Nesta sees this immediately! ( Cassian and Az have. Had to live within this, which I'll get to)

But yeah, that's the center for him in so many ways: he has to The Most Right, Fully in Control, Always in Charge and also does not take responsibility for shit. Ever.

So he belittles it. A warrior culture? Savages. Mor blatantly using Cassian when they were young? Oh that drives Cassian crazy. Azriel is wildly fucked up? No, it's the fault of his childhood not his continued life! Cassian gets close to his literal soulmate? Are you fucking around with Feyre's sister, Cas?

One of my character things for Rhys is that he wants Everything just barely more than he wants nothing. He is SO voraciously is the center of his own world while being so utterly careless with that world. So there is no balance. There's just what Rhys wants.

And he wants Feyre so Feyre is also always right. And just. Canonically does not seem to value her sisters as people so much as auxiliary manifestations of her own self.

They're like her irksome pets Rhys has to deal with.

Cassian's actual rank is going to come back, but I would say that you could easily call Rhysands perspective on the Archeron alliance making 'huh, the dogs AREN'T smart enough to be afraid of bears, and I, a person, find this quaint'

(Elain is going to kill the fuck out of someone over this.)

Poison doesn't matter because Cassian chose a side basically the second he crossed the wall. Even without Nesta. (You could possibly say he has always had a side, and it has always been Nesta.) Further, Lucien absolutely clocked that blood! All these things add together, really.

As for Amren, she's less focused on a functioning government as she is invested in a broad outcome. She keeps her vows. She is, perhaps, playing an elaborate game of wondering what Rhys does and does not know.

Oooo Summer is a stop on the Elucien honeymoon diplomatic carpet bomb, actually. They're not actively trading there, but they're not unknown. Rhys is definitely still hunting the book to use Feyre's Super Specialness.

Tarquin is young and progressive! I know the books utilize this to be like 'oh, he'll give Rhys a chance', without ever clarifying if Tarquin or anyone knows the actual degree of Rhysands willing or unwilling cooperation with Amarantha. It doesn't make a ton of sense. I like to take it in another direction.

#an excellent ramble!#we're clarifying on the Illyrians points in the worst ways soon #kind of funny when I think about it that the books act like Rhys is ever good at strategies #commiting atrocities to spare yourself personal pain is. not that #And! he believes his own hype! all the time!#the crux of Feyre is the more things go wrong #the more she listens to Rhys #(or herself)#stress just heightens the hero complex bullshit #meanwhile Nesta: worked so hard to stay safe in a place that is no longer safe. no reason not to full throttle #not to mention Elain #or Lucien with Ya Know all those friends and allies and POWER waiting to be unleashed #human rules all out

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silverwingborn-moved · 3 months

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@parvum-draconis

“Don’t worry about it, dear. It’s just horny bitches vying for a taste of your father’s “fruit of the loom” without bothering to even say “hello” first.”

#crack rp: flying feathers #parvum draconis #suggestive tw #(per usual people don’t bother to read Crux rp rules and assume they can just fling themselves at Lucifer like a slab of meat)

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ninethousandbees · 1 year

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so Locked Tomb fandom, I’ve been thinking about this and I’m interested in your opinions: do you think Harrow ever told Crux that she opened the Tomb, or did he assume that her parents killed themselves because the guilt from the baby massacre finally got the better of them and she never corrected him?

#tlt #the locked tomb #locked tomb polls #harrowhark nonagesimus #marshal crux #harrow nonagesimus #imo she never told him #he loved her and I think she knew that #but he was also a Ninth house loyalist to the core #and idk how he would have reacted if he found out that she had betrayed the founding rule of their house #I don’t think Harrow would have trusted him enough to test whether love or duty would prevail

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fallingtheseus · 2 years

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“This is the story of becoming a hero the hard way.

And it’s starts with a dragon.”

on this episode of “i add too much detail to one art piece for it to be normal”, featuring httyd au regulus babygirl black

#regulus black #the dragons name is crux #get it #i’m hilarious #how to train your dragon #RAHHH #DRAGONS #man do i love dragons #yes i will be writing this au #no i will not be posting it on ao3 anytime soon #that’s just how life is #the rules of the world babey #marauders #and yes reg is also hiccup #so what?#it’s my au #this was inspired by a person on tiktok #thank you person on tiktok #i appreciate you

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seithr · 3 months

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gpod morning everyone

#i have the kirkegrim/kai mecha au on the mind this morning. theres worms in my brain #you have to treat a car like you treat a woman #don't let pesky things like protocol and respect for chain of command and specialized military equipment get in the way of holding your wif #i need an oc tag #armour clanking #easily convinced disregard for fraternization rules within ranks while being stick-up-her-ass about everything else is the crux of cai atp.#if her wife doesnt count as personnel owing to being recorded in equipment it technically isnt with another officer. not that she'd stop #worm in kai's brain (the grey matter grims is parked in) telling her how to line up her rounds as a sort of aimbot. kai listening 2 the worm #if she listens close enough she can feel her fiancee's hands guiding her. And More. but that is for later. when theyve done their job here

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skhardwarevers1 · 9 months

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Thinking about how the only reason I rewrote an entire plot arc was because I realized that I ACCIDENTALLY made Moon’s star clip have the same shape as Crux’s star eye/symbol thing

#That’s the only fucking reason and I feel a little stupid for not realizing that it was the same fucking shape earlier #But now I get to have them interact in my head so #And it’s extremely funny because Crux probably brings them over a lot so they have to face the dysfunctional dynamic all the gods have #And the Polaris points at the very large “no pets sign” she put up. (/hj it’s probably an unspoken no pets or humans rule)#And then there’s a large argument over “well Epsilon can have her own sanctuary and have humans in there sometimes!”#And then there’s a whole debate over “well to be fair we banished her for billions of years for war crimes and trying to kill all of us”#“So maybe it’s best we let her have that”#And it probably splits them all in two (excluding Procyon who just wants to watch everyone fight)#I didn’t mean to rant in the tags about this WHOOPS—#S.K thinks

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eternxlstar-archive · 2 years

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#{fischl}: prinzessin Der Verurteilung;;#{Raiden Ei} : Eternitys Fate;;#{Beidou}: Captain of the crux;;;#{Dori} : Sumeru's merchant;;#{Kujo Sara}: Commander Kujo;;#{Keqing}:: Electro ruled;;#{Razor}:: wolf raised;;#{Yae Miko} :: Kitsune celestial ;;#{Faruzan} : Madame scholar Faruzan ;;#{Heizou}: The Great Inazuma Detective;;#Almost done!!

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junietuesday · 3 days

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i fucking love my media and society class im sitting here outlining a wyllstarion fanfic that will actually get me CLASS CREDIT

#june speaks #he said on its own like i could write a fanfic as a creative exploration which is insane but ofc its worth more points if i actively tie it #in to class concepts. so since we’re talking abt how media shapes worldview (ex how depictions of violence in the news lead to a perception #of the world as more dangerous than it really is) im writing abt how astarion made that gur ruling that got him killed based on newspaper #fearmongering abt the gur. the crux of this fic being his line after the attempted kidnapping when he says ‘‘no one is good like you’’. but #wyll says that the world is good if you know to look for it. he was the son of a grand duke he saw all the awful shit astarion saw and more.#but he didnt let those stories define his worldview. he works to be good and so do plenty of other people. most people actually.#which astarion can barely accept bc it means deconstructing his whole worldview. that good people are out there they just never saved him.#i think the last scene is going to be astarion and grand duke wyll in baldurs gate and gandrel and his children. astarion being begrudgingly #not a horrible human being to them actually keeping in touch after that letter in the epilogue(? i think this is a thing?)

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mirrorbreaks · 9 months

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the last tag is ‘i love you’

#my room is unbearably hot bc of the radiator #so i was sitting tired and with a splitting headache in my living room #my roommate who i rarely see comes out #and i tell him what’s up #and he says that he just turned his off #???#i feel so stupid i knew you could do this but i just never did #we’re technically not supposed to but idk #the thing I’m getting at here is that this isn’t an isolated incident feeling stupid like this bc of rule following #I’ve been pretty ashamed of it for the past while but that won’t work #this is not the crux of my problems #i want to be kinder to myself before all else #if this changes with that great #if not great I’m still kinder to myself #i need to work in pieces here everything is so overwhelming to me #i have demanded perfection for so long it’s time to accept that #i am not going to be perfect #or even above average #i am severely depressed and show it #i will make small goals in my research and in my life #ones I can meet #the scariest thing here is the research in which my pace affects others #but this is better than quitting #sorry to go from my radiator to this #but things like this have often ruined my day #i don’t want that to happen anymore #but i need reminders of the signified here #my goals are managable and achievable #internal locus of control #i love you

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yeyinde · 4 months

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Brain went brrrrrrrr

Price and the new 141 member getting into an argument. Price is all like if you don't behave ill take you over my knee girl.

She's all like I fucking dare you or you'll have to catch me first or even you don't have the balls.

🫠🫠

i’ve always wanted someone who was super by the book to clash with John “i routinely tell my superiors i’m going to maim/murder/hang them” Price. this gave me the perfect opportunity to do so.

noncon spanking. abuse of authority. power imbalance. size kink. mean, dom!Price. forced submission.

You have this way of getting under his skin.

An impossible itch. No matter how many times he picks and prods at his flesh, you worm beneath the dermis, burrowing deep. Sitting pretty against his goddamn bones. Festering.

Incurable.

He turns to vice to stem the irritation. Cigars. Whiskey. His hand shoved down his trousers like he's a fuckin' boy and not a man on the wrong side of forty.

Thinking of you—of breaking that smart mouth of yours on his cock.

It's the way you saunter around with your head held high, balancing golden eggs on your crown, that irks him something awful. The patronising drawl when you huffily remind him that what he's doing is breaking seven, no, ten, different laws, Price. You can't just do whatever you want, there are rules—

And that's the crux of it.

A difference of ideas. Experience. You still see the world in shades of black and white. Good and bad. Unwilling to acknowledge that the line between is saturated and blurred. A putrid muck that traps all. Bogish.

He knew it was a mistake when they sent him your file, asked if he needed the additional help. Hostage negotiator. He's heard of you. By the fucking book. You recite passages like it's gospel, turning printed words into a knife. A terrible fit for a team that works in the pivotal no man's land you claim doesn't exist.

Yet—

He takes you on. Brings you in. Buries his anger at your fucking gall deep in his chest where it rots. Grows. Swallows down the rage, apoplectic fury, when you undermine him at every opportunity, citing laws and regulations like it's a fucking prayer.

A calamitous decision, he knows. Terrible. But—

Despite it all, you're good at what you do. Brilliant. A budding rose germinating in fecund soil. You'll grow into something wild, won't you? Something untamed.

Under his hands, you'll bloom the prettiest. He knows this deep in his bones. But—

“You're breaking the rules, Captain—”

—pedantic little thing, aren't you?

Obediently following the wrong master.

It irks him. He's been known to step on the toes of his superior officers for less, caustic words hissing foul from between his teeth.

But unlike them, you're worth something. Even as the moral antithesis to his utilitarian dogma, he sees your potential. How you can shape this world dangling on a brittle thread if you lay down your senseless principles and follow him. Listen to him.

But of course, you don't.

And he supposes he ought to have known better. It's dripping gasoline over an open flame. The sequence of events is easily premeditated, seen, when you refuse to listen to what he says (“it's against the law, Price!”), walking away from him, his team, the mission, and take matters into your own, morally righteous hands. Bringing his underhanded methods to the desk of your superior officer, demanding he be investigated for crimes. The result is a loose warning from someone in a suit several sizes too big for them, and your fury when he pulls you back, has you assigned to another mission with the 141, with himself. Preens at your glower when you march back into his office, into his hands.

In the fallout, he has no one to blame but himself, really. Anyone could have seen this coming. But the thing about shirking his morality in favour of a better outcome—above all else—is that he doesn't have to.

And so, he doesn't.

No. He blames you.

(How perfect for him, then, that there's no one on base except you and him.)

“If you think I'm not going to report you again if you do something illegal, Price, you're wrong.”

He scoffs, shaking his head at your fucking audacity.

"Better watch that mouth of yours, Sergeant, or you won't like what happens next."

His palm itches when you look up, offering him a slow, feline blink. Leonine eyes creasing at the corners.

"And what is that, sir? I'm just doing my job—" it's whispered breathlessly, all faux professionalism even as jest leaks down your brow. They pinch, then. Drawing together in a mockery of confusion. "Isn't that what you wanted me to do?"

"What is that, mm?" He mocks, arms folding over his chest. He has to breathe through his nose for a moment. Gather himself together before he does something reckless, something like—

It's the defiant little jut of your chin that does him in. That unravels this fraying knot of control until threads slip through his fingers. Falling too fast for him to clench down on them.

He's threatened his superiors for far less. His kin, teammates. You have no one to blame but yourself for this, really. No one at all when he pulls his hand from where it's tucked under his armpit, curling rough, worn fingers around your wrist. Pulls you close, wrenching you into his chest until your nose bumps the buckle of his vest.

"'m'gonna take you over my fuckin' knee, is what's going to happen."

Your swallow is a gunshot. “You—you wouldn't dare—”

He leans in close, closer still. Breath scorching over your cheek. Preening when you bare your little teeth at him. “Wanna bet on that, Sergeant?”

It's easier than he would have expected to wrangle you over his knee, pinning you down with an arm across your lower back. The height of his chair keeps your front bent, belly pressed against his thigh. Ass seated perfectly in his lap. Precious gem.

He hums low in his throat, teeth sinking into the butt of his cigar as he locks you tight against him. Grabbing your wrist, twisting it up behind your back. Holding steady. A warning.

The dangerous twinge in your bone stills you.

One wrong move and he'd snap it in half.

This has you taking a different approach, legs falling limp over the armrest. Head dropping over the other side. Malleable in his grasp—however artificial it is.

“Price—” you breathe, winded. Panic on a spindle. “What are you—what do you think you're doing—?”

He hums, mouth tense around the cigar. Words muffled, slurred. “What I should have done a long time ago.”

“What—hey!”

Your words pepper off into a choked scream when his other hand falls to the hem of your pants, grabbing the fabric in his fist. The shock fades into indignation. Anger. He tastes it in the air as your hips squirm, legs kicking at nothing. Furious little growls spilling from your lips as you thrash, unconcerned by the ache in your bone.

“Better keep still, love,” he taunts, mouth curling over his teeth as he twists his hand high, higher, up the small of your back until your fingers brush the skin between your shoulder blades. Any more and he'll break it—

“I'm going to fucking—!” It ends on a whine. A whimper. The pain makes you shiver. “Fuck, fuck—stop, stop, ow, stop—!”

“Not a fan of a little pain then, mm?”

Your breath is ragged. Paints the air in a fine mist of defeat. He has you. The only option out of this is breaking your bone, a threshold no one is willing to cross.

Price purses his lips back around the cigar, inhaling once, thrice, before he slips his fingers out of the hem of your trousers, reaching up to take hold of the cigar. It's all so matter-of-fact. So nonchalant when he places it in the ashtray. When he brings his heavy, warm hand back to your ass, curling his fingers beneath the fabric. Pulling. Tugging.

They come off easier than he'd expected. A harsh tug, and the cleft of your ass is revealed. Plush skin curving enticingly as he rips them down to mid-thigh—panties and all.

The shock fades back into indignation. You hiss something foul under your breath that makes him huff out a chuckle.

“Not really in the position for that, are you, love?”

“Shut up—”

He likes the way you sound like this. Feral. Furious. There's ash in your throat. It blots soot around each word, giving them weight. Gone is the woman who barged into his office, sniffing like you smelled something foul. Backing him into a corner. Sputtering in his face about rules. Regulation.

Now you're bare-assed, panting, in his lap. Small little fawn in the maw of a bear. But oh, do you fight back—

Teeth bared, indignation bleeding into embarrassment, blotting pink in the whites of your eyes.

The sight is hewn into his hindbrain.

“Look at you,” he purrs, petting your cheeks. “Been beggin’ to be bent over my knee since you got here, haven't you?”

“Begging? Don't be—ahh!”

He brings his hand down with a small huff, eyes glued to your flesh. Watching it shake under his hand. The width of one swallowing up an entire cheek. So big is he that you're nearly made infinitesimal in his clutch. The thought makes him groan.

You squirm more in shock than discomfort. Head craning over your shoulder, eyes misting over with tears. Glaring at him.

“What the fuck, Price!”

He strokes your skin, feeling the heat of your flesh bleed through his palm. Resilient little thing, aren't you? He huffs again, blood buzzing. Electric. There's a kindling fire in his guts. Embers sparking, catching.

He can't deny how badly he's been wanting to have you like this. Craving your tears, your agony, your submission.

“Count,” he barks out, rough. Abrasive. “You're getting ten. Count ‘em for me, and if you miss one, I'm adding two more.”

“You're crazy, you're—!”

His hand comes down again. The impact shakes the fat of your ass. The strike makes you yowl, thrashing to get away. You don't get very far, still trapped in his hold. The threat of a broken bone keeps you from lashing out too wildly, and all you can really do is sit in his lap, and take it—

The notion has him groaning low in his throat. Something wicked spooling in his veins. Wanting. The sight of you heaving, bare-assed, and begging for mercy unleashes something inside of him. Something primal. Starving.

Price takes a breath to steady himself, head buzzing. Heart pounding. It feels like the euphoria of nicotine—all bliss, sedation. Ease.

Cathartic.

“I said count,” he rasps, words cinder in his chest. Smoke. Dragged up from that burning pyre in his belly. Nocuous, hungry. “That's an order, Sergeant.”

His hand is scorching against your skin. Thoughts turning over themselves as you hiccup in his lap. So pretty, he thinks, eyes flitting over to you. Taking in the sight of your shock, your denial. It tastes like fine wine on his tongue. Heady.

“Here comes one—”

“One?”

“I told you, didn't I?” His nail rakes across your skin, cruel. Mean. Something preens when you gasp. Your pain perfuming the air. “M’addin’ two more if you don't count. Thought your speciality was listenin’?”

You scowl, twisting back to level him with an awful sneer. “Oh, fuck you—!”

His hand comes down again, harder this time. Vicious. The scream is tangled in your throat, gagged. He feels pleasure—dark and ugly—bloom in his chest, dripping, liquid, down the length of his spine. The twist of agony on your face is beatific.

“Not gonna count?” He taunts, pinching your inflamed flesh between his thumb and forefinger. “We're gonna be here all day at this rate, love.”

He leans down, broad chest curling over the small of your back, hand cupped possessively over your cheeks. “But maybe you want that, mm? Maybe all this, mhm, insubordination has just been for show. You wanted this. Wanted to be taken over my knee—”

“You're wrong. I haven't—” it tapers off into a squeak when he pinches your flesh again.

Price pulls back, breathes shallowly through his nose.

“You and that smart fuckin' mouth. Told you it was gonna get you in trouble—”

He doesn't wait. His hand rears, and comes down with a loud smack that echoes in the sparse office he has you trapped inside. Your howl races alongside it, curling up the walls. Beautiful in all its agony.

“Christ—” it's a dagger to his resolve. You sound so fucking good howling like this. Oscillating between feral anger and pain, hissing vitriol between clenched teeth. Choking on sobs.

The first few are experimental. Testing the waters. Feeling. You're combative during it all. Fighting. Screaming. Each strike is uncounted, echoed only with a plea for help. One he knows won't come—

The only person on base is his Lieutenant. Ghost knows better than to barge in on his affairs.

“No one's comin’, love,” he grunts, sweat beading along his hairline, dripping down his temple. The room heats along with the blood in his veins, stifling and oppressive. He reinforces each hit with more strength, increasing the tempo until you're screaming on his lap, begging for mercy, mercy, please, please, Price stop, stop—

Your skin raises with each new strike. Swelling. Becoming inflamed. The perfect imprint of his handprint sits on each cheek, edges intumescent. The globes shake, shuddering deliciously under each hit.

He gets to eleven before you break. Tears streaming down your face, voice a threadbare whisper. Hoarse from screaming.

His hand rains down, slaps your left cheek so hard it stings his hand. Burns. You whimper. Mewling. Squirming on his lap, and then—

“O–one—”

He grunts, feels himself thicken in his trousers. “Good girl.”

You shudder, body breaking out in goosebumps. “Price—”

“Ah, ah, love. You're not allowed to speak unless you're counting.”

He hits you again, cock throbbing when you tense up, sniffling. Grinding out a soft two between trembling lips.

You don't break the way he wants you to. There's a glare on your face despite the tears, the sniffles. A defiance that burns over the bridge of your nose.

But that's fine. He has eight more strikes to ruin you, doesn't he?

He sets to it with a low moan, your pelvis pressing taut to his tumid cock, the friction raging in his guts.

But that, he finds, isn't really the point. No. The pleasure, the arousal, is secondary to the way you fall to pieces at his hand. Flesh stinging his palm with each loud smack that rings out sharply in the room. Uneven breaths. Shuddering little ah-ah-ahs that tumble out through clenched teeth.

It's addictive, this. Therapeutic.

There's static in his head. White noise. It renders everything else mute. Moot. Molasses drips down, thick and entrenching, congealing over every churning thought in the back of his head. There's a sense of peace, ease, he hasn't felt in years. In decades.

He feels his belly knot each time your ass jiggles, skin bulging up from the trauma of being hit so harshly. Chafed under his palm. Welts forming in the shape of his hand. A tattoo you'll have for weeks when he's through with you. Aching each time you try to sit. And fuck—

You'll think of him. Of this. Being taken over his goddamn knee like the bad fucking girl you are. Broken in over his lap. Helpless. Submissive.

The whimpers fade, replaced with shallow hiccups. Your throat is torn. Raw, ruined, by your screams, yowls. Each rasping whine sends jolts of pleasure down his spine. Liquid want molten in his marrow.

“S–seven, nngh—”

The moan slips out—scorched, bleached—and drills deep into his loins.

He peels his gaze away from your blistered skin, glancing at your face, but you duck from his view. Hide. Dropping your head over the armrest. Evading him.

It's new, this. This meekness.

You were so combative, so feral before. His gaze rakes down the expanse of your spine, over the curve of your cheeks, before settling, hot and heavy, at the crease where your thigh meets your pelvis. You squirm in his lap, thighs sliding together. Rubbing. It's no different from before when he'd spank you, but—

He catches it.

It glints in the soft light when you move, and he feels something dark, ruinous, curl in the tar-stained fibrils of his chest. Congealing in the crevasses. Hardening.

Price flicks his tongue out, swiping over his lower lip. The bristles of his beard graze the soft flesh, prickling across it. His throat is suddenly dry. Parched.

His hand comes down again, notably softer than the other hits he subjected you to. Almost—

Tender.

This isn't meant to hurt. Not this one.

He strokes his finger over your skin, cock throbbing with the rasping gasp that spills—a twisted amalgamation of pain, skin still smarting, burning to the touch, and—

His lashes flutter. Nostrils flaring.

Your slick, wet, between your inner thighs.

He slides his hand down, down, until your ass cheek is cupped in the bracket of his thumb and forefinger. Nestled tight. A perfect fit. The sight of your skin—soft, so soft—against his bearish, hirsute paw is sickeningly addictive. He grunts, pressing his thumb into the crease between your cheek and thigh.

“P–Price—”

And then he pulls, moaning deep in his chest as he peels the fat of your ass away, unveiling your cunt to his rapacious gaze. Fuck—

“What’s this?” He taunts, breathless. Pinched. You squirm, trying to press your thighs together. Hiding your pussy from his scorching stare. He doesn't let you. “Gettin’ off on me spankin’ your arse?”

“N–no, I'm—”

He pushes his thumb up, sliding it over your skin. Gathers your slick on the tip. “Don't lie to me, mm. You're fuckin' soaked.”

The air is punched from his lungs. Spills out in a wretched grunt. In the vacuum, something grows. Knots. Festering inside his chest. Animalistic. Primal. There's an itch in the back of his head.

He lets go of your arm, knows you won't run. Won't try to escape. No.

You're a good girl, aren't you? One who does what they're told. Follows orders. It tangles in the soporific slurry of his head, pitching a bivouac of need when you bring your arm down, curling it through the gap of the armrest, holding tight.

Bracing yourself.

His hum breaks in his throat. He drags his hand away from your cunt, reaching for the snuffed cigar idling in the ashtray. There's a fever in his veins. It makes his hand tremble. Shake. He needs the blunted drag of nicotine to quench this heady anticipation blooming in his guts. A brumous storm gyring inside him, an incipient maelstrom of want thickening. Intensifying. Threatening to spill over.

He needs something to steady himself before he tears into you like a beast—

You cock your head over your shoulder, staring at him with eyes drenched in midnight ink. There's a flicker across your tear-stained expression. Something coy. Feline. Leonine.

There's nothing said. Nothing needs to be. He finds what he's looking for in the fracture of your mien, and scoffs under his breath at your sheer gall. Little fuckin' minx.

Tobacco proves to be a paltry facsimile when he draws in a bursting mouthful. The restive glow of it dulled under the adrenaline coursing through his veins, heady. Syrupy. A roaring deluge of anticipation broiling in the balmy air, crackling around him like a storm cresting over the horizon. Ozone saturates in the thickening atmosphere.

Something will break. Shatter.

He tenses, waiting for the first stormcloud to breach, and drops his hand back to your tender ass. Stroking over the raised welts just to make you gasp. Your hips flex under the shocks of pain riveting down your spine, undulating in his lap. Pitched perfectly over his cock.

His breath shudders through a needlepoint. The friction is electric.

In petty retaliation—and just to see you squirm—he trails his knuckles over your heated skin, luxuriating in the way you shiver. Head falling back down over the armrest, beautifully alluring in your vulpine submission. His fingers dip between the cleft of your cheeks, feeling the slickness sticking to your soft, sensitive skin. Soaked between your thighs. Wretched girl.

His index and middle finger slide over your slit, parting your folds. He feels the small pulses of your drenched hole against his flesh when he slides over it with the press of his fingers. Eager little thing.

He hums under his breath at the sight of his hand seated across your hand, fingers shoved between the globes of your smarting ass. Soft and tender to worn and gnarled. The cropping of dark hair over his knuckles, his hand, against your bare skin is obscene. The picture of sin with your stricken flesh and his thick veins. The contrast curdled in the back of his head, morphing into something ugly and wanting.

Idly, he thinks of making you bounce your sore ass on his lap later, your pussy swallowing up his fat cock. Taking it all the way to the root. Over and over again. Breaking you on it until you're begging for mercy, until this little attitude of yours is crushed between his teeth.

Slick gathers against the rough pads of his fingers, drenching them. The hair on his knuckles is matted down, wet with your arousal. Naughty girl. He'll make you pay for that.

And for the puddle seeping into his trousers.

You mewl when he slips, sliding over your clit. The noise spilling molten over your lips, bludgeoning into his loins.

He drags in another mouthful of smoke. Lets it rot between his teeth as he drops the cigar into the ashtray once more, attention riveting to the slip-slide of your slick thighs rubbing together for friction against your aching clit. Cunt pulsing needily against his hand.

You haven't learned a damn thing at all, have you?

Smoke funnels out of his nostrils when he growls. “Spoiled, aren't you? Need to be taught a lesson in respect.”

“I, ah, am respectful, Captain—”

He sucks in a breath between clenched teeth. This lippiness of yours grates on his nerves. He wants you begging for mercy, limp in his hold. Pretty doll. Waiting obediently for him to put you back together again. Soft and submissive at his heel.

“Got three more to go, love.” You shiver when he strokes over your ass. Petting gently with wet, tacky fingers. “If you're a good girl and take it for me, I'll play with your pretty cunt, mm. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

Price brings his hand down, grunting when you moan out his name. Sharp and needy. Your plaintive posturing is a spark inside a tinderbox.

“E–eight.”

The next one is harder, sharper. The force twinges his joints. Rattles through his bone.

It's unexpected, and the pain makes you yowl, body drawing tight like a bow. There's no pleasure when it's like that. No friction against your cunt. It's just—

“Price—!” You yelp, shrill and distressed. The lead up to this has been child's play. A soft hand to tender a nervous mare.

His old man taught him to never strike with the whip first but to wean them slowly.

He waits, humming mockingly to your pettering whimpers as you heave, tremulous, into the air. Shuddering in his grasp at the aftershocks of agony rippling through your body.

Waits. Waits. And—

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, cooing low and condescending when you gasp, craning your neck to level him with an imploring, pleading stare as you stammer out a frenetic nine in a breathless rush. Tears soak your lashline, clumping them together when you blink through another deluge pooling against the rim. Your lip wobbles. The stream breaks, spilling over. Fresh tears run down your wet, sticky cheeks.

There's real panic in the whites of your eyes now. That haughty, pedant gleam buried under pyretic desperation. Gone is the coy twist to your lips. The wily little bloom of amusement in your gaze.

Aw, poor thing. But—

Too late. “You didn't count. You know what that means, love.”

That knot in his chest unfurls, and leaks acid into his lungs. This want is corrosive. A poison. The sob breaks through your chest. The first thunderclap. He relishes in it. Leans back in his chair to bask in the potency of your unmaking.

“Good girl,” he husks out, burning lungs spewing black smoke into the air. “Just ten more now, love. Know you can take it for me, can't you?”

Pretty thing. He'll have that haughty attitude snuffed out before the end of the night. Have you begging for his touch, his cock, him, before the sun draws across the horizon.

Your ruination at his hand. The thought strokes along the kindling smouldering inside of his chest. Burning away at the pyre he's been building since the day he met you. When you looked up at him, pretty in your scorn, and disobeyed his command. Undermined him. So righteous in your fury. A burgeoning flame he wanted nothing more than to snuff out under his heel, and now—

Wide, wet eyes plead with him. “Please, Price. Please, please. I'll be good—I promise I'll be good, sir—”

—ash in the palm of his hand.

He strokes over your searing flesh, humming softly under his breath. “I know you will, pretty girl—” basks in the hiccup of relief you let out, lets it glue in his ears, echoing over and over again. So sweet.

He lets your relief live for a moment. Take its first breath of air through aching lungs—

“But I told you, didn't I? That I'd take you over my knee.” Price pats his hand over your cheek, shushing you when you startle, squirming on his lap.

“Now. Be a good girl and count for me, mm?”

#john price x reader #captain john price x reader #captain price x reader

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sunderwight · 8 months

Text

Moshang AU where Airplane transmigrates into a demon NPC from one of the fanservice clans he created, rather than into Shang Qinghua.

So basically, there was a point in time where a lot of PIDW chapters were just Luo Binghe running around propelled by political plots and rebellions from the demon kingdoms, and most of that actually just ended up being Luo Binghe collecting wives with cute animal ears and tails and various abilities that Airplane used all of once and then completely forgot about. They covered the usual bases of the sexy cat girls, sexy fox girls, sexy bunny girls, sexy bird girls with wings, etc, before moving into more, erm, niche animal hybrid demon territory.

Which is all a roundabout way of explaining Cute Hamster Boy Shang Qinghua in his faithful-to-canon clan of Hamster Demons, whose primary skills include cute squeaking noises and digging abilities.

In the process of making his braindead written-in-a-panic-at-3-am "world building" on this front actually function in a real version of the setting, there has got to be a way for the otherwise-unremarkable fanservice demon tribes to actually survive the incredibly hostile environment which Airplane otherwise described, though. Like yeah sure when you're writing a book you can just say in one breath that the demon realms are incredibly brutal and cutthroat, and then in the next that this tribe of bunny girls with no visible skills at self-defense has existed here for thousands of years, but if you actually tried to set that up in some kind of a simulation the bunny girls wouldn't last one year, let alone one thousand.

In that case of Airplane's hamster tribe, their digging skills are so supernaturally prodigious that they are able to construct massive underground fortifications in otherwise hostile terrain. But that still doesn't solve all of their problems, because they still need to acquire food, and for that they mostly do have to go up to the surface. Some of their weakness is mitigated by sheer numbers -- they have a lot of kids to offset the high mortality rate. However, to further increase the survival rates, the hamster demons also try and make contracts with some of the local liege lords or ruling clans whenever they expand into a new territory. In exchange for protection, they send some of their extraneous family members out as servants, to either cement alliances through marriage (that high fertility is helpful and was indeed the crux of Wife #whatever's acquisition in canon) or to work as diggers or even high-level architects.

As the like, twelfth son of the Hamster Demon chieftain, this is Airplane's fate. On the one hand he's highly positioned enough to get an education, and his plot knowledge helps a lot. On the other hand, he's not high enough in the hierarchy to be kept around, so it's either go work for some other clan or else risk his neck doing missions on the hostile and deadly surface. Neither seems great, but Airplane would rather try his luck as a sycophant than a warrior.

Luckily (or unluckily, depending on his mood when he thinks about it) when Airplane reaches sixteen years of age, it's around the same time that the Hamster clan's tunnels have expanded towards the Northern Desert. Airplane ends up being part of the "hiii~ pleasedon'tkillus let's be friends~" tribute to Mobei Jun's father.

Mobei Jun's father tosses him to Mobei Jun, so Airplane dutifully latches onto him in order to avoid being eaten by any of the other retainers. Airplane has been educated in various subterranean building skills and is under the impression that he's been given to MBJ in order to build him his own palace or something?

Everyone else assumes that the Hamster demon is a concubine.

Mobei Jun also thinks that's what he's been given, but he's too busy bristling in teenage offense at being given a concubine by his father to actually consider taking Airplane to bed. So when Airplane starts doing other things for him, he just sort of bemusedly lets it happen.

Gradually it becomes apparent that Airplane himself isn't interested in being a concubine. No. Clearly, this Hamster is gunning for future empress of the Northern Desert! How else would one explain all the lengths he's going to not only to win Mobei Jun's favor, but to secure his position and ensure his future rule? The system also wants Airplane to ensure the Abyss plot arc happens in the future, too, which means Airplane helps Mobei Jun win and instigate conflicts against the righteous cultivation sects too.

Obviously, Airplane wants power. Mobei Jun knows that if he gets an heir off of Airplane that will be that, the wily minx will use any children to secure his position, and MBJ is not convinced he could control himself well enough to prevent that sort of eventually. Airplane is fiendishly attractive, and he clearly knows it, and Mobei Jun is not sure if he wants to accept what increasingly seems to be the inevitable. He won't be a ladder for someone else's ambitions! But... as long as Airplane remains loyal to him, he will consider it. Even if Airplane never harbors any true affection for him, and simply considers him a means to an end. If, by the time he ascends the Hamster has not betrayed him or tried to elevate himself by flipping over this uncle's side, or seduced any of his other relatives or any of the highly-placed lords all salivating to steal MBJ's would-be empress, then Mobei Jun will grant his wish and make him the second most powerful demon in the North.

Airplane, meanwhile, just wants a snack and a nap. Maybe if he builds a secure enough fortress and amasses enough of an intelligence network and hoards a few advantages for himself, and figures out how to stop pissing off MBJ, he'll survive long enough to retire. Somehow.

#moshang #svsss #mobei jun #shang qinghua #airplane shooting towards the sky #scum villain's self saving system #og shang qinghua doesn't factor in I don't think #airplane gets shipped north around when mbj would have run into hhp and rescues him instead

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