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#girl coder
code-es · 1 year
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The women who laid the foundation of tech
EDIT: I noticed that this post ended up being reblogged by terfs. If you're transphobic this post is not for you to reblog. I want to celebrate everyone who is not a cis man in this industry, including trans women and nonbinary people in tech, and it was my mistake to only include cis women in this post when there are so many trans women and nonbinary people who have done great things in tech as well. Trans women are women and just as important.
Here you can read about trans ppl in tech, and please do:
https://www.thecodingspace.com/blog/2022-03-01-six-trans-programmers-who-shattered-the-lavender-ceiling/
https://abcnews.go.com/Business/transgender-tech-visibility-obstacles-remain/story?id=76374628
The morning of women's day i attended a super inspiring seminar about being a woman in tech at a large tech company in my city, and now I'm inspired to share what I learned with all of you!
I didn't have time to finish this post on women's day, but it's not too late to post now: every day is a day to celebrate women!
Women actually laid the foundation for a lot of the tech industry.
For example, the first computer, ENIAC, was programmed completely by women! While men were the behind the scenes engineers, it was women who did all the actual programming of ENIAC.
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The women who made up the team responsible for programming it were called Jean Bartik, Kay McNulty, Betty Holberton, Marlyn Wescoff, Frances V. Spence and Ruth Teitelbaum.
I think one woman who is finally getting her overdue recognition is Ada Lovelace. She was a mathematician (also often referred to as the first programmer) who created the first algorithm in 1842, which wasn't recognized until 1953! However, since none of her machines were ever completed it was never tested in practice during her time.
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She has since been celebrated by giants such as google, and she has given name to a programming language (Ada). She was also the first person to write about what is today known as AI. Back when she was practicing, computers were simply thought of as calculators. But she had an idea that if computers can understand numbers, then that can be translated to letters, and in turn that can lead to computers being able to handle words, and eventually even write, draw and create music.
Hedy Lamarr was a famous Hollywood actress in the 40's, but she was also an inventor who laid ground for what we use today for Wi-Fi, Bluetooth and GPS services.
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During WW2 she wanted to contribute positviely to the military efforts against the Nazis, and she tried to figure out how to radio control torpedoes. In 1942 she patented her technology "Secret Communications System", also known as frequency hopping, which laid the foundation for the technology we use today for Wi-Fi, GPS and Bluetooth. It wasn't until 1962 that it was first used for its intended purpose, during the cuban missile crisis.
Grace Hopper invented the first compiler, called A-0, in 1955, and was also part of the Univac team, which was the company also responsible for building ENIAC. She also initiated work on the COBOL programming language.
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She was also the one to coin the term "bug" in 1947. Computers back then had lights to visualize their working process (which was also a womans idea to implement btw) and bugs would be attracted to the lights, but usually that was no issue - until a bug made its way into a tube which caused the computer to stop working. Hopper taped the bug to a piece of paper and logged what caused the crash - a bug.
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Dorothy Vaughan (left), alongside colleagues such as Katherine Johnson (middle) and Mary Jackson (right), was a mathematician at NASA (called NACA when she started) who worked on the orbit for the first ever manned spaceflight and later also on Apollo 11 that would take humanity to the moon!
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When Vaughan started at what was then called NACA, segregation was still prevalent in the US and she was not allowed in the same areas in the office as her white colleagues. Another department was formed for the black staff, and when the director of said department unexpectedly died, she was appointed as the new director and thus became the first ever black woman at that position at NACA/NASA. In 1958 when NACA becomes NASA segregation is forbidden, and that is when Vaughan and her colleagues Johnson and Jackson started working on programming the orbit and later also Apollo 11.
Continuing on the same track of NASA and space, Margaret Hamilton was the Apollo project's first actual programmer. Hamilton became the director of software engineering at NASA in 1965, and she was also the person to first coin the term !
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In the image above, she stands next to all the handwritten code that was used to send humanity to the moon. During the early stages of the project when she would speak of "sofware engineering", software development was not taken as seriously as other forms of engineering, and it wasn't regarded as a science, either. She wanted to legitimize software development as an engineering discipline, and overtime the term "software engineering" gained the same respect as any other technical discipline.
And lastly, if you're a woman in STEM, I want to highlight and celebrate you! Being a woman in a male dominated industry is not easy, we often suffer from sterotype threat and are not seen as our own individuals, but rather "the woman" in a room full of men. But just as these women, I'm sure you will achieve greatness!!
Here are some additional resources if you'd like to learn more:
https://www.history.com/news/coding-used-to-be-a-womans-job-so-it-was-paid-less-and-undervalued
https://digitalfuturesociety.com/programming-when-did-womens-work-become-a-mans-world/
And this was mainly my source for this post, but it's unfortunately only available in Swedish:
Thank you for reading ✨
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shadowseductress · 7 months
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it's hard being the hot nerd but someone's gotta do it
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carys-the-ninth · 1 year
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what in the actual fuck was i doing
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hypnosis-microsys · 11 months
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thoughts on the buster bros.
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lizzystar19 · 17 days
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@red-geek-girl is building me a PC. It's amazing that the old one ran so well with all the dust and dirt in it.
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selfawxre · 1 year
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posting separately as to not hijack flowers' post but realising that some of you guys may also not be as into ddlc and not know all the nuances and random tidbits about it and specifically monika. like, for example, the fact that monika's piano playing is a metaphor for her hacking the game/changing the code, the fact that every time one of the girls is acting particularly out of character she isn't present in the room, only to rush back in like "oh what happened? i had nothing to do with this!!", the times where she gets absolutely steamrolled in act 2 by yuri and natsuki and is so clearly taken aback despite the fact she's the one fucking with their codes to make them aggressive enough to do that, etc.
also just, all the lines in act 1 where she's so blatantly talking about her sentience but that you wouldn't pick up on unless you already knew she was sentient. like she is not even trying to hide it from the beginning, you just know when she talks about her "epiphany" she's giggling to herself like "oh they're never gonna believe what i mean by that"
#📁 : // ⦗ out of character ⦘#📁 : // ⦗ musings ⦘#monika doesn't really have anything as funny or jarring as the piss poem or any of yuri's uh. quirks. but she's so interesting to me#like when u pay attention to her specifically while playing ddlc#the amount of out of pocket jokes she makes even in act one#of course we all know “you really left her hanging”#but throughout the week she's like “oh it would be a SHAME if something happened to sayori aha ha ha”#and of course her jokes and jabs in act two are a lot more overt#still i love her and her fucked up sense of humour#i also didn't pick up on the times she's late being her actively messing with the other girls until recently#like the day after the argument between yuri and natsuki in act two she's specifically late bc she's making natsuki forget the argument#and of course there's all the times she makes yuri and natsuki do scares while she's “off-camera”#like you'll notice she's never present when the really big scares happen and by the end of act 2 she's almost constantly late into the room#also the fact that she messes with the girls to make herself look better but is still clearly hurt when they take it out on her#one could argue she's making herself sympathetic on purpose but like#she doesn't even get a CHANCE to interact with mc once yuri's at her worst#and she always says she's not the best coder so i fully believe she's like “oh i fucked that up” and bit off more than she could chew#anyway she means everything to me <3
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lor-e-lai · 5 months
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i just some people stay stuck in their "all i care about is fucking" phase too long you gotta balance that shit with also giving a fuck about the world or else you're just a myopic asshole
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pancakehouse · 1 year
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omg did you update your blog or am i just inattentive??? regardless i’m loving the theme
hehehe hiiii froggie yes i did like last weekend i think!!!! thank you sooo much darling xx was having a very cute lil life crisis so decided to change it in lieu of chopping all my hair off and dyeing it platinum blonde !!!!! <3 <3
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orcelito · 1 year
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Ooooohhhh I fucking hate coder bros. Talking to me like I'm stupid just bc i put the reference things towards the top (which is literally standard) + completely overriding everything I'm saying just bc he thinks he knows best and im a "~Girl~" so obviously I don't know a thing about coding our how to instantiate classes
Go fuck yourself
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greatbigbellies · 2 years
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For any of my game designer followers who are into the mcpreggo stuff, yes the menu update will come with a changelog.
Does it need one? No. Will it get one? Absolutely.
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code-es · 1 year
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let today = new Date( 5 January 2023 )
I am visiting a friend abroad right now, and it's so nice to take time for this while also being able to balance my responsibilities at uni. Anddd: her girlfriend works at this super cute anime/k-pop store, and... Apparently their website needs a redo... So we went to visit them today, andd I just landed my first real web dev/design gig!!!! It's just WordPress, but I'm still so excited and happy about this opportunity, and that I get to do it for a company about stuff that actually interests me...ahh!! So exciting (: today's been good so far!
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scholarhect · 4 months
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think of gender-separated esports leagues as less like assumptions that women have weak brittle fingers that can’t hit the keys fast enough compared to men, and more as something in the vein of “girls who code”
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do u want me on my knees? they all say yes! yes! ruby trademark has been that bitch tell jazelle fag to call my mommy pls for me coder in the russian mafia with @chum_fungus
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Fun fact: there is a difference between "coding" and "programming", and even "software engineering". And if someone starts talking about "coding" or "coders" you can assume they don't know what you're talking about.
Tldr "coding" is the physical act of writing code and it's only one tiny part of making computer software. It's the easy bit, tbh.
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ofavoure-aaa · 2 years
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Chihiro would own one of those “[ ] boy  [ ] girl  [X] gamer” shirts & wear it to bed.
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kneelingshadowsalome · 9 months
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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 💡❤️😫
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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. 
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