#the bloke code

[autistickaitovocaloid]

You ever think about how at least twice in Yakuza 0 there's a bit where Kiryu has to pick up on a bunch of new social terms/cues/rules without any rundown and if he gets it wrong people get mad at him (producer substory + going to cafe alps w/ Oda).

[brood-mother]

wheel of time TV show is really good, except any time a man is on screen

[vonlipvig]

THEY ARE SO KENOUGH

[teamfortresstwo]

Sorry remember Shank’s Australian voice and got so horny I couldn’t move

[superhoeva]

awkward!simon/pharmacy au part two | part one

"i never got to thank you for your help."

simon jumps out of his lean against the side of the building, cursing under his breath when the cigarette tucked between his fingers falls dumbly to the ground. gulping, he glances at you before averting his stare to settle somewhere on your cheek.

not your eyes, but close enough.

"s'not a problem," he nods slowly, mind blanking on what else he could say. he catches how you shift, unsure of what to do with the silence he's forced to let linger. biting the inside of his lip, simon clears his throat. "'uh, yeah. glad i could help."

you give him a small, bashful smile in return of his words and the man nearly stops breathing. he feels his face flushing once again, and he's lucky you're nice enough to not say anything about it.

more silence. you and simon squirm when you accidentally make eye contact before quickly looking away to the nearest anything. his stare lands on the bag in your grasp, filled with those damn pills and the few other items he saw you pluck from the shelves when you'd caught his eye at least ten minutes before reluctantly asking him for help.

the nerve's rattling simon soon grate into a prickly annoyance. god, you having to waste your money on something like that for someone that simon's certain is sticking it in someone else is nipping away at his sense. chest puffing as he takes in a sigh, his index finger scratches a random spot as the back of his head as he grumbles.

"wish there was somethin' i could do t' help. gorgeous thing like you shouldn't suffer over some bloke like that..."

gorgeous. did he just say gorgeous? he must've based on the gobsmacked fucking look on your face.

shit. he's fucked–and not just because his insides flutter at how wide your eyes are and how satisfying your lips look when they're parted in surprise.

simon blinks at you, eyes reading of horror and a hint of panic. when you open your mouth to sputter out a reply, the man turns and makes a b-line for the side door of the pharmacy that's a few feet away.

employees only is plastered across it and you need to know the code to press on the keypad to unlock it and get in, so there's no way you can follow after him and his red cheeks. great.

what's not so great is how foolishly simon's fingers mash into the buttons as he attempts to escape. it takes two times of the buzzer letting him know he's wrong before he can finally think slowly enough to remember the correct order of the four numbers.

simon sends you one last breathless glance and already knows that the dumbfounded look still plastered across your face–the look that has all his blood rushing downward–is going to haunt him for the rest of the day. he slips back into the pharmacy's supply room, the door clanging loudly behind him.

the man collapses back-first against the metal with a huff, one of his hands reaching to wipe at his eyes.

nice. you think he's nice?

"fuck," he whispers thickly to himself, glancing down and grunting at just how noticeable his bulge is becoming as his mind floods with the thought of you; your lips. your watery eyes. your sweet words. all of you. squeezing at his cock through his pants, he hisses at the throb it generates.

glancing at a nearby clock, simon's thinks. whether the six minutes he has before john will probably come looking for him are enough or not, simon couldn't care less.

he doesn't even bother unzipping his pants, slinking a hand into his waistband with little shame. his eyes roll at the way his palm slicks right over his head, and simon grinds into the feeling with a pleased huff.

good thing he skipped wearing underwear today. and thank fuck he threw on his darker jeans.

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[writersdrug]

Bartender Ghost when waitress reader gives someone a hurricane shot

I had to look this up and now I want to do this so badly

Slight NSFW, slapping

It wasn't a busy night; some new faces on a Thursday evening, the three regulars that practically lived on the barstools, a group of college boys in the corner...

Ghost doesn't bat an eye when you put in four shots of tequila and four waters for those punks, an excited smile on your face. He pours them quickly, eyes narrowing at them as they eye you with their own giddy expression, clapping each other on their backs.

He can't help but check in. "They botherin' ya?"

You laugh and take the tray of shots from him. "Not at all - watch this."

He grabs a glass and starts polishing it with a rag as you saunter back to the college students, ass barely contained in your high waisted shorts (he knows he said the dress code was "not your birthday suit", but you're pushing it in those shorts and that tanktop). Pauses his actions when you pass the shots around, then plant your ass on the table in front of one of the guys, thighs spread and holding a plastic solo cup of water in one hand.

The bloke takes the shot - you promptly throw the water in his face and rear your hand back, slapping him across the cheek with your open palm.

The glass nearly shatters in his grip. He's about to scale the counter and grab you by the scruff of your neck... but they were cheering. The other three men slapping his back and laughing as he wipes the water from his face - he gets up from his seat as you grab another cup of water, grinning at the new fella that sits between your legs.

You do the same thing: wait for him to take the shot, drench him in water, and smack your hand across his face. The crack echoes around the pub, followed by their laughter and loud curses. Ghost doesn't let himself yell at you from across the bar, not when he's stiffening up in his pants and wondering how best to ask you to do that to him.

Soap peeks his head out from the kitchen, right as you deliver the third smack. "Feck is goin' on?!" He asks bewilderdly.

Simon's at a loss for words, palms gripping the edges of the bar as he watches the last guy sit in the chair between your thighs, looking up at you like you're some kind of succubus - and you are, staring down at the lad with a smirk as he takes his shot, dousing him with the water and delivering the final blow.

"Shite- gonna try tha' with me after closin'?" Soap says, the both of them watching as you pluck a twenty from each of their hands and stuff them into your bra.

Ghost finds himself again, masking his sexual frustration with his usual grumpiness. "Where's tha' burger I put in fifteen minutes ago?" He says, making the Scot turn back into the kitchen with a dreamy sigh.

You make your way back to the bar and lean against it, still smiling ear to ear, your chest pushing against the counter - Simon can see the edges of the bills poking out of your tank top. "You ever seen that before?"

"Don't do tha' again." He snaps, glaring down at you with his arms folded over his burly chest, making you pout. "This ain't some college bar, I don' want tha' kinda crowd 'ere, understand?"

"They want eight more shots." You said, looking at him through your sweet, doe eyes.

Fuck - bringing in business, and getting to watch you slap the shit out of those guys? Pretending it was himself? He grumbled and snagged more shot glasses from the shelf.

[springtyme]

hii!! i saw ur inbox open and was wondering if i could request this; so, imagine dad!simon (or konig idm!!) having his son / daughter see his face for the first time since they were born and theyre just kinda sitting there like :000?? hes so pretty?? while yn is just screaming in the back?? <33 have a great day n thnaks for reading x

𝐔𝐧𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 ♡

Thank you for the request, I had such a good time writing this! I love writing dad!Simon so much! ♡ but also, ngl, the image of this big bloke wearing a mask in front of his baby seems borderline comical to me.

Simon Riley x afab!reader || Masterlist || Ghost playlist

summary: Your daughter finally sees her father's face for the first time.

word count: 2.2k

warning/tag: Mostly just dad!Simon fluff with a little hint of angst. No gendering terms are directly used for the reader, but they are pretty fem coded. It's mentioned that they were pregnant. No use of y/n.

As the soft morning light filters through the curtains of your bedroom, you slowly begin stretching your limbs and blinking away the remnants of sleep. As you slowly settle into wakefulness, you hear the screeching sound of the baby monitor on your nightstand coming to life and you feel how your heart flutters happily in your chest as a familiar sound comes through. The sweet sound of your daughter’s happy coos, accompanied by Simon’s deep, gentle voice, fill the room with sweetness. 

“Morning, sweet pea,” Simon’s voice crackles through the monitor followed by the sound of your baby happily gurgling at her father and then exclaiming a little more whiny sound. “Yeah, yeah, I know you’re hungry, but we have to get you changed before we can make breakfast, lovie.”

A smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you lie there, basking in the warmth and comfort of your bed. The love and joy that echo through the monitor remind you of just how much love fills your home. It’s moments like these that make your heart swell with an indescribable sense of happiness.

Your mind wanders, and you find yourself reminiscing about the journey that brought you here. 

From the moment you and Simon first met, there was an undeniable connection, a spark that ignited and grew into a love that was both fierce and tender. However, it hadn’t been that easy to convince him that he in fact was deserving of such love. He had been scared that he would mess it up, mess you up, convinced himself that he wasn’t able to make anyone happy and that he was broken beyond repair. But you had been rather insisting, and he had finally let his walls crumble and let you into his heart. 

And as you had expected, all his worries had been unfounded. He is the best, most loving partner you could ever have dreamt of. 

The love you share with him is a love that feels like home.

And then, the arrival of your daughter added a new dimension to your love story. From the first time you had held her tiny hand, you knew that your family was complete. Watching Simon transform into the most loving and doting father has only deepened your admiration and affection for him.

And as you lie here,  reminiscing on your life, you can’t help but feel a profound sense of gratitude for the love that surrounds you. 

With a content sigh, you finally pull yourself out of bed, ready to start the weekend with your little family. 

As you make your way down the stairs you can hear the sound of your daughter’s laughter from the kitchen, filling your heart with warmth and you can’t help but smile and make your way towards the source of the joyful commotion. As you enter the room, the morning sun gently illuminates the kitchen, casting a soft glow over the room, and you are greeted by a heartwarming sight. Simon is standing at the stove, stirring a pot of millet porridge, your daughter’s favourite, while she is sitting in her highchair, which has been moved away from the kitchen table and closer to the counter, so she can see what Simon is doing, clapping her hands in delight.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air, mingling with the comforting scent of the porridge. You can’t help but feel a surge of immense love and gratitude for the man who stands before you, effortlessly balancing the roles of partner and father.

Simon turns towards you. “Good morning, love,” he greets you, his eyes twinkling with warmth, the bottom half of his face covered by a black mask. He had started to wear it around the house again after your daughter had been born.  

“Good morning,” you reply, your voice filled with a mix of amusement and adoration. “I see you two are having quite the breakfast party.”

Simon laughs softly and nods. “We thought we’d surprise you with breakfast in bed, but it seems that someone couldn’t wait,” he says, glancing at your daughter, who just giggles in response.

You walk over to them, planting a soft kiss on Simon’s masked cheek before planting another on your daughter’s, much chubbier, one. “Well, I can’t say I’m disappointed. This is the best way to wake up,” you say, gazing at your little family with a heart full of love.

Together you finish cooking breakfast, porridge for the baby and scrambled eggs and turkey bacon for you and Simon.

You begin to set the table as Simon picks up your daughter, supporting her with one arm as he settles her on his hip, so he can move her chair back to the table, but before he can grab the chair he stops dead in his tracks.

Your little girl has grabbed a fistful of his mask in her tiny hand. She doesn’t seem to be pulling on it, or otherwise trying to take it off him, but she also doesn’t seem to want to let go of it when Simon gently takes her hand to get her to release her grip.  

“Sweetheart, please…” Simon says softly, but he trails off, a wave of emotions flickering over his eyes, but they end up having a sort of determinant look to them as they lock with his daughter’s.

You feel how your heart skips a beat as Simon lets go of her little hand to instead grip the place his mask is fastened.  

With a deep breath, Simon removes the mask, revealing his face to your daughter for the very first time in her young life. You feel goosebumps rise along your arms as Simon’s features come to light. The room falls silent, and time seems to stand still.

Your daughter’s gaze is fixed on Simon, you can see a whirlwind of emotions flickering across her little face. 

It’s a pivotal moment that holds the power to change everything. You can see how Simon, too, feels a mix of emotions coursing through him. 

He has once mentioned to you that he was afraid that his scars would scare her, but you have had a suspicion that something else might be the reason he has kept the mask on in front of her for. 

He does have a few scars from his work, but they are nowhere near severe enough to scare anyone. You do have another theory to why he has kept it on, one he hasn’t directly confirmed, but a conversation from your pregnancy has stuck with you. 

He had voiced his concern that something would happen to him on the battlefield. not because he was that concerned for his own wellbeing, he knew what the risks of his job was, but because he was afraid of something happening to him, leaving you and your little one alone in the world. He had, on the whole, had many worries about becoming a father. 

He had been worried that his past had broken him so severely that he couldn’t be the dad your daughter needed him to be. Like the fear he also had about you and your relationship in the beginning of it, the fear that he couldn’t be the man you deserved. 

He has, in all the time you’ve known him, done everything to disprove that concern, he is the best partner you could ask for and now the most lovable dad to your little girl, but you know that he still has his concerns and that his feelings about them are valid. 

You think the mask has served as a sort of safety blanket for him. Like he thought that it would be easier for you and your daughter to lose him if your little girl couldn’t remember his face, or something like that. You find that thought heart rending.               

You know that his job comes with a risk, you had known it when you got together and you had known it when you married him and you had known it when you got your daughter. Losing him on the battlefield would be your worst nightmare come true. You know that he is smart, strong and capable, but you also know that there are no guarantees in war, which, to you, is just all the more reason for  your daughter to know her father’s face, but you have let Simon choose for himself when he was ready for that.  

But you don’t want to think about any of that right now, so you push those thoughts away, and instead let yourself be completely mesmerised by the sight before you   

Your little girl focuses on his, now revealed, face, taking in every detail. Her eyes widening in surprise, curiosity, and perhaps even a hint of fear, her little mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ of surprise as she absorbs every detail of her father’s face. 

“It’s just me, princess,” Simon tells her, his voice filled with a mix of amusement, nerves and an overwhelming love for his little girl. His eyes, once guarded, now shine with warmth and affection. 

The confirmation of his voice is what convinces her. A wide smile spread across her little face, revealing the adorable dimples she has inherited from Simon, on her sweet, chubby cheeks. She lets out a happy squeal, as she realises that it really is her father who’s now smiling down at her, a set of dimples matching hers on his cheeks.    

She giggles happily, which, to you, is the most beautiful sound in the entire world. Her little hands starting to explore Simon’s face, her tiny fingers tracing the lines and contours of it. It’s a gentle and tender gesture that speaks volumes. You watch in awe as the beautiful moment between your daughter and her father unfolds in front of you. It’s a moment you will cherish forever. 

When she finally seems satisfied with her mapping of his face with her small hand, she turns her head to look over at you with an excited expression on her little face, one that conveys something along the lines of ‘you seeing this too?’ Her eyes lighting up, reflecting the genuine joy that fills her little heart.

“Yeah, baby, that’s your daddy,” you smile at her, and she lets out another happy shriek before looking back at Simon again, happily nuzzling her little face into his neck. “He’s handsome, isn’t he?” You continue as you step forward, placing a hand on her back, rubbing gentle circles over the dusty rose bodystocking that she is wearing, one that Simon picked out when he got her ready and you still laid in bed.   

You look up at Simon, a soft smile on his lips as your eyes lock. 

“He never wants to believe me when I tell him, but he is actually the most handsome man I know,” you say, with a playful glint in your eyes. “He’s probably the most handsome man in the whole world, actually.”           

Simon chuckles, his cheeks turning slightly pink. “Oh, come on now,” he replies, his voice a mix of embarrassment and amusement.“I think you might be a bit biassed there, love.”

You shake your head, a warm smile spreading across your face. “Nah, I don’t think I am,” you state, wrapping your arms around both Simon and your little girl in his arms. “Just stating facts. I actually got the most handsome husband and the most beautiful daughter in the whole wide world.” you say with a content sigh, hugging your little family tightly.  

It’s a hug that speaks volumes, conveying love, affection and acceptance. In this embrace, you know that you truly have the most beautiful family in the world.  

As you finally let go of them you place a sweet kiss on your daughter’s little nose. She giggles joyfully, and you can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratefulness over what a happy little girl you have. Simon seems to be thinking the same as he smiles down at her.  

But your adorable little troublemaker doesn’t seem to be done with causing havoc yet.   

She reaches out her tiny hand and grabs for the mask again. Simon hesitates for a moment, looking down at the fabric in his hand, the symbol of his past, before letting her have it. The mask, once a symbol of his doubts and fears, now becomes a simple toy for your daughter as she happily shakes it up and down, a cheeky grin on her little face. 

You and Simon lock eyes, and then the two of you burst out in laughter.  

As your laughter fills the room, a sense of pure joy washes over you. You look at Simon, his eyes sparkling with happiness, and you know in this moment, that the love and bond the three of you share is unbreakable, and it fills your heart with an indescribable warmth.

With a deep sense of gratitude and contentment, you take a mental snapshot of this beautiful moment. It’s a memory that will forever be etched in your mind, a testament to the strength of your love and the joy that radiates from your little girl.

As the laughter subsides, you gather your family close again, embracing the love and happiness that surrounds you. In this embrace, you know that you have everything you could ever need.

Your daughter’s laughter and Simon’s unwavering love fill your life with immeasurable happiness, and you couldn’t be more grateful for the beautiful family you have created.

[kabr0ztrousers]

I fucking love when you do Portals, if you’re not bored already with this topic may i ask another? i’ll be waiting in your queue🥰🫦

Kabr0z Writes episode 92: Communion

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: Portals; freeuse; CNC; religious mentions and ceremony; public sex; exhibitionism;

A/N: I was actually struggling for inspiration today... Whatever would I do to make sure I'm not retreading old ground. Thankfully the algorithm came to my rescue while scrolling for inspiration. Is it blasphemy? It's certainly not respectful.

########################################

These were rapidly becoming your favourite underwear. After the coffee shop? Then that "issue" with tuning them between connections? Best sex of your life. The only issue is, after all that, however would you top it?

That's the question that plagued you as you walked into town. You were wearing your portal undies, because of course you were, but what can a girl do to transgress some social boundaries on a Sunday morning?

Wait. It's a Sunday. The beauty of rural Wales is the massive proportion of churches to people. You barely had to walk half a mile and you found one. Open doors, organ softly playing as the occasional person slid through the front room to the main church. A quick selfie, posted to just the right website along with a freshly-generated session code. A tap, a swipe, and the app locked. Four hours on the clock, that's long enough for a church... Session? Worship? You wondered what the actual verb for attending church is as you took a pew and the bloke in the robe took the pulpit.

God he was boring. Something Jesus, something heaven, something repentance. You were just about to get up and leave when it started. The metal disc in your underwear buzzed insistently, then the portal opened.

For a moment, nothing happened. Cool air passed over your pussy, before being replaced with hot breath. A finger traced your entrance as you sat there, trying not to show off that something was interfering with you. The soft touch was easy to pass off. Sure, whoever this was felt good, but after what you're used to with these, this wasn't hard to hide.

What was harder was when the finger pushed in. Maybe the setting was getting you more hot and bothered than you thought, or maybe you just needed this. The gasp was hard to swallow, especially as another two fingers joined in. The three fingers filled you, turning and angling themselves in ways no lover would be able to without a magic portal fleshlight on the other end. You pulled your phone out of your skirt pocket to check the app, who's connected?

Who else. It's WolfDaddy again. You put the phone back before anyone spotted you. At least, you hoped you did. The sounds of him stirring your cunt were soft, almost drowned out by the droning cleric as he went on and on. He was saying something about interpretation, how sins change over time so some things that might have been sins once, aren't now.

Those fingers curled inside you. You felt yourself blush as you suppressed a twitch in your legs. This was still probably a sin.

You clenched your cunt against those fingers, gently pulsing it to try and send him a message: "fuck me already"

His fingers kept hard at work, rubbing and stroking as your body fought you, trying to gasp and moan, whine and wriggle at the invading digits. You couldn't. All you could do was sit there and drip, feeling your juices flow from you in rivers. He brought you to the very edge, then stopped. The fingers pulled out just as you threatened to crest the peak, letting you slide back down for a minute or two before pushing again. If you got closer, he'd leave you for longer. If he took a little while, you'd get the next edge a little sooner.

You ached so badly by the time the priest was done lecturing. The rest of the church got up and into the aisle, but they weren't leaving. You half-remembered something about sacraments? Eating the body and drinking the blood of God to get closer to him or something?

Sounds kinky.

You got up and joined near the back of the line. The fingers felt you move and withdrew, letting your pussy squeeze in vain. A blunt tip replaced them, pressing gently into you. The first inch slid in, fully hard and leaking that lupine precum all over you. Then he pulled out. Over and over you'd get just enough to get excited, but not enough to get you off. Your whole lower body hurt now. The constant teasing of your leaking, drooling hole was taking its toll on you.

You reached the front of the church. Kneeling in a line before the altar. Maybe kneeling made your body move a certain way? Maybe he could just tell you weren't upright any more. Either way, it earned you another inch. You clenched again, trying to keep a steady rhythm to encourage him. You got another inch. Then another, then another.

The priest was moving down the line. First a small biscuity thing, then a sip from a jewelled cup. One by one the other churchgoers were seen to. Whoever WolfDaddy is, he had a good handle on how long this took.

Six people to go. He fucked you harder. Cock pushing up to the very edge of your cervix. Five people, a pair of fingers joined in, rubbing your clit as you began to squirm. Four, the cock was faster now, hammering into you as the lupine on the other end of the portal rewarded you. Three, you bit your lip. The feeling of climax building in you, coming towards you hard and fast as you dug your nails into your palm

Two, the cock hilted into you. You could feel the knot starting to inflate. One, cum spurted forth, the cock throbbing and twitching as jet after jet flooded into you.

Just you left now.

The pastor said something, you opened your mouth, feeling your eyes want to roll back in your head as you begged a present from church.

"Take this, my body" A flavourless wafer landed on your tongue

"And this, my blood" a sip of acid-tasting wine

"T-thank you father" you stuttered out, mouth watering and body burning. You felt it coming. You looked in his eyes. He could tell. You could see he could tell. You suppressed a scream as you fell off the cliff.

You clenched every muscle to try and stop yourself shaking, tried to suppress a scream of triumphant release, instead it emerged as a long squeaking wait as your jaw slammed shut around it. Your eyes rolled, defocusing until there were two vicars in front of you, then back to one, then two again.

There's no way he didn't see as cum started to leak from you. No way he didn't notice as the portal cut off how suddenly there was a damp puddle where a worshipper was so recently sat. You could smell the cum on you, dripping from your oozing cunt.

You took a seat on the pews again. Reassuring wood to lend you stability. The church cleared. You saw the vicar step into a booth at the other end of the church. Dark wood and varnished to within an inch of its life.

You walked into the other side. A wickerwork screen and a small slot were between you and the man you'd just came in front of.

"F-forgive me father, for I have sinned"

Who knows, you might get more fun out of this yet

#########################################

Never fear about requesting a portal fic from me. Easily one of my favourite kinks of all time.

Especially when I get to couple it with monster cocks

[livvymd]

Not Just a Pretty Punch. WillNE x Boxer!Reader

as a boxer myself... i honestly just made this for me. HELPP

Will leaned against the ropes of the boxing ring, sleeves of his oversized hoodie pulled over his hands like some bloke waiting for his turn on the swings. His eyes weren’t on the coach or the training or even the slightly alarming crack of glove meeting pad.

They were on you.

Specifically: you—dressed in nothing but a black sports bra and skin-tight bike shorts, toned legs moving like a piston as you ducked, jabbed, and twisted with ridiculous precision.

“Jesus Christ,” he mumbled under his breath, gaze dragging over your form. “This is either a personal fantasy or a threat.”

You swerved, fist connecting with the mitt in a satisfying thwack, and called out—without looking at him—“Stop staring like you’re drafting a Wattpad fic in your head.”

Will choked on a laugh. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just—” he whistled low under his breath, “—you’re literally out here living your ‘hot professional athlete’ era, and I’m trying not to combust.”

You glanced at him briefly, sweat glinting at your temple, an amused smirk tugging at your lips. “Focus on breathing, sweetheart. You’re turning a bit pink.”

“Oh, I’m beyond pink,” he said, watching you move again with that dumbstruck expression of a man watching his celebrity crush in HD. “You look like a Marvel character. Or a menace.”

You threw one final punch and the coach called the round, shaking out his arms as he stepped back. “Right. She’s terrifying,” he muttered, mostly to Will.

Will didn’t disagree.

You peeled off your gloves and tossed them aside, walking over with an easy swagger that made Will’s brain short-circuit all over again. He held out your water bottle like a peace offering, although his eyes couldn’t stop flicking down and back up like he was trying not to get caught.

“Look at you,” you teased, grabbing the bottle. “All supportive boyfriend energy.”

“I contain multitudes,” Will said. “Most of which are trying very hard not to tell you how fit you look right now.”

You raised a brow and smirked, taking a slow sip. “Oh? Holding back, are we?”

Will blinked. “Absolutely not. You look insane. Like—biceps? When did that happen?” He reached forward to lightly poke your arm. “I thought I was the strong one in this relationship.”

You scoffed. “Will, you once dislocated your shoulder opening a stubborn pickle jar.”

“Character building,” he shot back, deadpan. “Also not the point. Point is—I would very much like to remain conscious, so if we ever argue, I will be apologising first.”

You wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him closer, grinning when he didn’t hesitate to hug your still-sweaty body back.

“And yet,” you murmured, resting your head against his chest, “you still wind me up constantly.”

“Yeah,” he said, chin resting on your hair, “but only 'cause I like you. Also, it’s fun. You’re hot and you threaten me—it’s a win-win.”

You chuckled. “You’ve got issues.”

“I’ve got taste,” Will corrected. “And questionable self-preservation instincts, but mostly taste.”

The gym’s noise faded a little, the background blur of clanking weights and bouncing jump ropes disappearing into the hum of your post-workout adrenaline and his steady heartbeat. He tightened his arms around you slightly.

“You know,” he added, voice softer now, “I’m actually stupid proud of you. Even if I do feel like a Victorian housewife every time you’re in the ring. Like—‘come home safe, my love, I’ve lit the hearth and made stew’ vibes.”

You snorted against his hoodie. “You are absolutely the stew-making type.”

Will grinned. “Yeah, and I’d serve it shirtless just to impress you.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, raising an eyebrow. “That’d be impressive, alright. In a health code violation kind of way.”

“Whatever gets me noticed,” he said, then kissed the tip of your sweaty nose with a stupidly fond expression. “You’re terrifying. And I love it.”

You smirked, eyes twinkling. “Good. You’re meant to.”

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

I meant to post about this back when TTPD was released and never got around to it, but it's so touching to me that Taylor has peppered so many British-isms into the album, and not just in a jokey kind of way like in "London Boy" back in the Lover days.

It's such a beautiful, subtle nod to how much that was her life for years, and to the marks the city and the muse(s) left on her. Because isn't that true of any of us when we've been around a person for so long, or live in a place we've made into our home? You start picking up their speech patterns until they become second nature. (For instance, one of my best friends moved abroad for university, and before long she started dropping in words like "fortnight," "lorry,""shops" (vs. stores) into conversation when we'd speak, which only got stronger along with her accent shifting as the years went by and she stayed there.) Kind of a love language code switching.

It’s sprinkled throughout the album. “For a fortnight” in “Fortnight,” “blokes” on “The Alchemy,” “the shops,”* in “How Did It End?” I think my favourite use of it is in “The Bolter,” because it’s such a classic twangy yeehaw Taylor song, but she’s got these tiny turns of phrase that point to where she spent a large portion of her adult life. (E.g. “best mates,” “out the drive,”* “wish he wouldn’t be sore,”*)(*yes I know these aren’t like, specifically not-American, but as someone who has grown up with North American English in the same generation as Taylor, these definitely feel anachronistic/foreign. Like if I hear someone say “the shops” instead of “the store,” “drive” instead of driveway or “sore” meaning upset, I’m thinking they either watch a lot of 1950s movies or they’re from the UK. And yes I know it’s to make everything rhyme BUT THAT’S THE POINT SHE IS MAKING THEM RHYME ON PURPOSE ok I’m stopping now before the linguistics nerd in me jumps out) It’s such a cool merging of influences, much like the album as a whole fuses together experiences and muses and sounds.

And that gets back to the “I love this place for so long,”of it all. The place is the city, the place is her home, the place is the person, and they are all part of her. To me, these are part of the subtext of the album, of the big love she once felt for all of it, and how it changed her. And, why it hurt so much to leave it all behind. So she’s starting over back home in America, but she’s taking a little bit of London with her for its curtain call on TTPD.

[ldrfanatic]

oh AND if thats not too much, from a different angle, can i also request, also for theodore nott, prompts f12 and l13? 🌟🌟 im all for mirrorball the archer reader hehe and i looove this whole lyric prompt idea!! 🤍

all i do is try, try, try

theodore nott x fem!reader

f12 - "I'm still trying everything to keep you looking at me"

l13 - "Who could ever leave me darling, but who could stay?"

p.s. i'm adding the following line - "i've never been a natural, all i do is try, try, try."

synopsis - when you start to push theodore away, he knows something is wrong. but maybe he'll be the first one to fight for you.

my bookcase slytherin boys masterpost

theodore didn't confuse easily. sure, he was no hermione granger, but he liked to at least think that he was the smartest of his friend group. still, he couldn't for the life of him figure out why you seemed to be avoiding him the past few weeks.

your relationship was finally starting to get serious. so why now of all times would you possibly be avoiding him.

a dramatic huff left mattheo. "stop moping aurelius." his words were followed by a surprised yelp as pansy smacked him upside the head. "shut the hell up riddle. theo, if you're worried she's avoiding you, just ask her."

"i can't. every time i try to talk to her, she runs away from me."

pansy sighed. an internal battle was raging within her. she wanted to honor the girl code. and it was definitively not girl code to tell your homegirl's boyfriend when and where you'd be somewhere when he was precisely the bloke you were avoiding.

but she knew you. and she knew how good theo was to you. how good you were together. and it certainly had to be girl code to look out for your best friend's heart when she was too blindsided to do it herself, right?

"she'll be in the potions section of the library in..." she trailed off and took a quick glance at the clock. "exactly nine minutes. she asked me to meet her there at 7:30 but maybe..."

pansy didn't have to finish. theo had already jumped to his feet and was pulling his forest green jumper over his head. he had one shot to confront you. if this didn't work... who knows, really.

pansy parkinson was dead fucking meat.

when you'd arrived the potions section at 7:30, at your usual study table, you'd expected to see the familiar dark hair and resting bitch face of your closest friend.

you had not expected to see your very handsome boyfriend who you were very much so avoiding. and you were most certain the only person who knew of your session tonight was pansy, thus she was the only person who could've mentioned anything to theo.

an internal sigh rolled through your being. it was going to be really fucking inconvenient to have to kill your favorite friend.

it wasn't that you were unhappy to see theo. in fact, in the days you'd been ignoring him, you'd missed him. significantly. but you were a fake. you had to try so hard at everything that should come naturally to you. being in slytherin, being a good student, hell even just being a fucking person felt like a never ending battle.

you couldn't stand the thought that one day theo might really look at you and burst his illusion of you. the thought that one day he may stop looking at you altogether? terrifying. it was easier for things to end this way, now.

one thing you hadn't anticipated is that theo is a true slytherin. when a slytherin wants something, they will stop at nothing to get it. there was nothing that could deter them. nothing that could stand in their way. and right now, what theo wanted more than anything, was you. ill conceived notions and insecurities be damned.

"you've been avoiding me, dolcezza."

theo's voice was deep and commanding. he really wanted to be soft and gentle with you, but your little disappearing act had scared the snake right out of his skin. and for that, he had to punish you at least a little.

"i haven't--"

"you have." theo stood abruptly and took a few strides towards you until your back was pressed against the bookcase behind you. "but that ends now."

shit.

shit.

theo was really close now. he had a certain look in his eyes, too. like he was a king cobra, and you a field mouse. theo was looking at you like he might consume you whole in one bite.

"i'm only going to ask you one more time." a large hand came up to palm at the back of your neck and your brain short-circuited. this man could have anything, anyone he wanted. and here he was with you. "why are you avoiding me?"

you wanted to be angry. to match his fire with fire. but you'd grown so tired of always pretending. all you could do now was cry. tears welled in your eyes and theo's demeanor changed very quickly.

"no, no, no. calma, baby." he cooed softly into your ear. his large arms circled around you in a rather warm bear hug. "don't cry."

"i'm so tired of pretending. and i'm sorry i can't be the smart popular cool girl that someone like you should be going out with."

theo's brows drew together in confusion. what on earth were you talking about? but when he really thought to himself, he saw it. the fake laughter and forced smiles in the great hall. the way that sometimes you had to try a little harder at certain assignments. you felt out of place.

at once, theo felt like a complete tosser. the one person that you should feel most at peace with was theo. and this whole time, he'd been oblivious to your internal plight. his heart broke a litte. how long had you been fighting this war against who you thought you should be, and who you really were?

"stop it." your tearful mumbling came to an end and theo could see in your eyes that you had all the wrong thoughts running through your pretty little head.

"you don't have to pretend with me. you don't have to fake anything. and there's nothing wrong with you for not being like everyone else. i was drawn to you because you're different." his words were thick with emotion, and you thought you saw his eyes get a little glassy. "it tears me up that you've been battling with yourself this whole time. i'm here to love you, y/n. please let me do that."

your mouth dropped open in shock. pushing people away had always been easy in the past. but theo wasn't finished with you.

"you can push and shove and scream at me to leave. you can argue with me, and we can fight, and you'll be right every time and you can call me names. and it's okay because i will still love you. but you don't get to turn away from something so perfect because you're afraid of the flaws that i already adore."

you stood there in his arms, tears slowly subsiding as you processed his words. every single one of them felt like they were reaching into the very core of you, unraveling the carefully constructed walls you had built. You could feel his warmth, his heartbeat, and suddenly, you weren’t so sure why you had been running. theo was here. Right in front of you. not just physically, but emotionally, too—offering something you didn’t even realize you wanted.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking once more. “i didn’t think… i didn’t think anyone could love me like that. like you do.”

theo’s arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, as if to make sure you could feel his unwavering presence. “don’t apologize.” his voice was so soft now, the commanding tone from earlier gone, replaced with something much gentler. “you’ve always been more than enough for me.”

your heart raced as you looked up at him, his eyes filled with an earnestness that sent a shiver down your spine. you had spent so long doubting yourself, so long convincing yourself that you were unworthy of something like this. but here he was, offering you everything. love. acceptance. patience.

and for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel like you had to run. the fight had left you. all that was left now was to surrender to him, to this love that you had been too afraid to fully embrace. you took a shaky breath, your hands gently curling into the fabric of his jumper as you leaned into him.

“i'm scared,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “i’m scared you’ll see all of me, and you won’t want to stay.”

theo cupped your face, his thumbs gently brushing away the remnants of your tears. “i’ve already seen you, dolcezza. all of you. and I’m not going anywhere.” his lips brushed against your forehead, a sweet, quiet promise.

you let out a shaky laugh, the weight in your chest beginning to lift. “i don’t know what i did to deserve you, theo.”

his response was simple, but it felt like everything: “you don’t have to deserve it. you just have to let me love you.”

you kissed him then, soft and slow, as if to seal the promise he’d just made. the kiss wasn’t a grand declaration, but a quiet, intimate thing—an understanding between the two of you that this was real, and it was enough.

theo wasn’t going anywhere. and neither were you.

maybe pansy parkinson could live.

[takeariskao3]

written for @ginnystrophyhusband june microfics (part of an ongoing series called magic doesn't last)

Harry saw the crowd as soon as he rounded the corner onto Main Street. The cafe where Ginny worked could barely hold six people comfortably, but what looked like a dozen people spilled out the door in a messy queue. They were all dressed in some sort of formalwear and chatting as if they knew each other. 

Peering over the tops of the heads in front of him, he tried to make out the figures inside the front windows. The shop was just as full as the footpath, with various hats and bouffants obscuring Harry’s view of the cash register. He did think he saw a shortish person rushing around behind the counter. 

Politely as he could, Harry nudged his way through the group of smartly dressed people. Navigating the rickety tables and full skirts was no easy feat, but he made it to the back of the room without treading on anyone’s toes. 

His original assertion was correct. Ginny rushed around behind the counter, moving between machines in a harassed sort of way. However, her expression brightened when she caught sight of him behind the pastry display. 

“You…” Harry tensed as he realized the bloke waiting in front of the till was watching him with a glare. Probably because he thought Harry was trying to skip the queue. “You okay?”

“Massive wedding up the street,” She muttered as she refilled a kettle.

“Do you need help?”

“I already called the owner,” Ginny wiped her forehead on the back of her hand. “She’s in Brighton on Holiday and the closing guy is a complete flake. Never answers my messages.”

Harry made his decision in less than a second. Grabbing a spare apron from the hook, he threw it over his head. “What can I do?”

He was put in charge of the kettle. He tossed milk, sugar, and tea bags into takeaway cups without truly measuring. But it helped. That left Ginny in charge of the coffees and the espresso machine which was definitely out of his area of expertise. Before long, the wedding goers had dwindled by half. Then not long after that, they sent the last groomsman out the door with a carrier of cappuccinos.

“Fuck’s sake,” Ginny slumped against the sink with a sigh. “That was a fiasco.”

Harry couldn’t quite agree. He thought Ginny handled herself rather well all things considered. He hung his apron back on the hook and shot her a grin. 

“So, now that they’re all sorted, I’ll have a–”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Ginny cut in. 

Harry laughed and helped himself to a drip coffee instead of his usual. 

“I probably broke about fifty health codes just then. Not including labor laws having you back here when you’re not on the payroll.”

Harry shrugged her off. “Did you make good tips at least?”

“Oh, that reminds me,” she rushed over to the till and reached into the jar of spare pounds and pence by the specials board. “I need to split these with you.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Harry scoffed. 

“I’m not!” Ginny argued, shoving a fistful of notes at him. “I’d still be making that smarmy bloke’s triple-shot, heavy cream, half soy, light foam, sugar free vanilla whatever if it weren’t for you!”

“I’m not taking your money,” he replied firmly. 

Her shoulders slumped with an agitated huff and she dropped the quid back into the jar. “Well, I owe you one, anyway.”

He gazed at her hopefully. “Treacle scone?” 

Ginny snorted, but immediately grabbed her tongs. Harry sipped his coffee while she warmed it in the oven, then served the pastry up on one of the antique plates. 

“There you are,” she handed it over. “A well-earned treat.”

Harry set his coffee aside and went to take it from her, but even after it was in his hand, she didn’t let go. Ginny stared up at him with an indiscernible look on her face. It was like gratitude, and apprehension and determination all in one. 

In one fluid movement, she pushed up onto her toes and pressed a light kiss to Harry’s cheek. 

There was no other way to describe it—as her closeness invaded his senses and her lips connected with his skin, a deranged lunacy took over and he turned his head just enough to catch her mouth with his. It lasted maybe two heartbeats before Ginny’s sharp intake of breath brought reality crashing down around him. 

They broke apart and she gaped at him with wide eyes. Harry panicked. 

“Oh, fucking hell. Oh shit, I’m so sorry.”

“Wha–” she began breathlessly. “What for?”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” his sentences were fragmented, just half formed thoughts said in a rush. “You probably think I’m– and Ron will– Christ, you have a boyfriend–”

Ginny blinked several times in quick succession. “No, I haven’t. I broke it off a weeks ago.”

“You–” The tension in Harry’s chest morphed from dread to hope. “You didn’t mention…”

“I didn’t know it mattered.”

“Didn’t know it–” He vaguely understood he was only repeating her statement just to buy himself time. Because from his point of view, nothing else had mattered more. Once his brain processed this dissonance, however, he lunged forward, caught her face in his hands, and kissed her again.

[the-californicationist]

Let's get you to 100, new gif addition and prompt ask!

Reader likes being controlled, even as she chafes against it, but there's only 1 person she wants to have that privilege.

You decide who, have fun writing lovely 😏

heyyy!! im backkkkkkk 😘 sorry for the wait! had to go on a bit of a hiatus, so thanks for being patient. and thank you so much for the ask!! sexy as hell babes omg. hope you like it. i went a little overboard on the word count sorry 🫣

TW: light bdsm and contol themes, rough sex

Soft Reins

His voice followed you down the wet sidewalk as you made your escape, striding in long reaching steps to put more distance between yourself and your apartment. 

“C’mon, bonnie! Ye cannae walk in this shite. It’s pissin’ down. Bonnie!”

You waved and smiled up at Soap as he hung over the balcony of your shared space, a deep frown pasted across his mouth as he tried to dodge the raindrops. 

Living with the boys, as you lovingly called them, was full of challenges. For one, they seemed to be oblivious to deep cleaning of any kind, and if you didn’t have the primary school style chore chart hanging on the fridge, your whole house would descend into chaos. The only exception was their captain, and his standards were thankfully on par with your own. 

But, even worse, they were nosey. They seemed to love to be in your business, always making excuses to join you on nights out, standing in an all-too-intimidating pack when you brought home dates from said outings. Even Price was not above casually bullying an unsuspecting potential someone. It was enough to drive a girl mad.

You never got a call back. Any bloke brave enough to follow you back to your place, flanked by your surly entourage, was only as courageous as he needed to be to get his dick wet. After that, he’d ghost you. There were plenty of eligible partners who had much less intimidating roommates. 

In the past year, the longest relationship you had was with a man who didn’t make it over to your house for nearly four months. You had gone through all sorts of trouble to keep the boys from finding out about him, and you guarded his address like it was the nuclear launch codes. You thought you were in the clear when the team had to leave for another deployment, but one morning — when you were wearing only your boyfriend’s tee shirt — they decided to come tromping back in, totally unannounced. 

It was all over, then. Back to the drawing board. 

Gaz was the worst offender by far. Once, when you had planned a spa date for yourself, you’d been treated to all sorts of services that you didn’t order. The staff kept insisting that it was complimentary, but you knew in your heart that it wasn’t. By the end of the visit, you were left fretting about the bill. But, when you walked up to the counter, you discovered that it had already been paid. 

 “Oh! Your mister called it in. Already paid.” The clerk’s smile was blinding in only the way a clerk’s smile could be.

“And who is the mister?” You smiled to yourself, not with much joy, shoving your credit card back into your wallet.

“Well, he said he was your mister. A Mr. Garrick?”

Of course. 

You had only to turn around to see his shining red Beamer revved and waiting to take you to lunch. Gaz’s sunglasses gleamed in the daylight as he grinned down at you, standing over his car, his elbows resting on the roof, smug as could be.

You met him in the parking lot, bags and bags of essential oils and spa creams, heavy in your hands.

“Kyle,” you said curtly, “What did you do?”

“Nothin’, babes. Get in. We’ve got a table at that sushi joint you like.”

You complained that Gaz was overstepping. You moaned about Soap being heavy-handed. You lost your temper when you found the fourteenth Air Tag that Ghost had sewn into the bottom of your trainers. It was too much. You hated feeling trapped, and you thrived in your independence. But, living with these men meant that your desire for freedom was directly at odds with their desire for control. 

It wasn’t their fault, really. That was who they were. They were good at their high-profile special operation world-saving careers because they were good at control. It was what made them great soldiers. 

But, one of them was far better at it than the others. 

Captain John Price didn’t follow you down the street. He didn’t chase you in his shadowy, blacked-out Evija. And he certainly didn’t need to hide trackers in your clothes. No; his control was insidious. It made your blood boil, and it had you questioning your every move. He had a way of making you think that what he wanted was what you wanted, and when you ultimately discovered his plans, you could only blame yourself. Price was the king of control, but that wasn’t the worst part. 

The worst part was that you liked it. 

You hadn’t been home for the holidays in years. Ever since lockdown, and your huge workload at your office, you just couldn’t find the time to make it back. International flights were hard to plan, expensive, and it seemed like something always came up. When you mentioned it off-handedly to Price, he’d comforted you, 

“Tha’s alright, sweetheart. I’m sure you’ll find the time this year.”

That was in June. By December, your boss had mysteriously found out that you had a full week of extra paid time off that you needed to take, and your credit card called you to let you know that your airline mileage points had doubled. It was as if everything in the universe had aligned so that you could make it back to your family. 

You’d told the boys over dinner one night, and they celebrated with you, happy for you to be able to finally live your dream. Then, Price had grabbed your phone, reading the email and going over the fine print. 

It grated on you, but you needed to learn how to pick your battles in this house. So, you waited for his approval, tight-lipped. 

“Double miles… ah, there’s a catch,” his voice rumbled in his chest, low and even. 

“What catch?” You panicked. Nothing could upset this perfect balance you’d achieved.

He pointed down to the conditions, and you read it for yourself as he told you,

“Says here they granted double miles for two tickets purchased.”

“Two? Who the fuck am I going to get to come to Saskatoon in December?” You sighed, head in your hands, trying to figure out how you were going to make it work.

“Well, the boys are heading up to check on MacTavish’s mum, but Kate’s got me on a leash. I can ask her to make me remote on this project, if you want.”

His tone wasn’t sly. It didn’t sound like he was hiding something. If anything, he sounded earnest, and it was such a kind gesture of friendship that he would be willing to join you in order to help you see your folks. 

But, that’s what wormed its way under your skin. You knew it was him. You just couldn’t prove it. Months of God knows what kind of backdoor, black-market dealing and manipulation, all orchestrated just to…

Just to what? Make you happy?

Inwardly, you struggled against your bindings, the invisible ropes he’d so carefully weaved just to have you come to him of your own free will, bent on your hands and knees, obedient and eager for your reward.

“Jonathan…” You started to resist, to rebel. Every time you started your sentence, you were stopped in your tracks by the cold, hard truth: He didn’t force you to do anything. You’d done it all of your own free will. 

That was how it had started. But, holy fuck had it escalated. 

Price was the perfect gentleman on your flight over, mysteriously charming his way into business class seats. He downloaded some of your favorite movies onto his iPad, even though you didn’t remember ever telling him that they were your favorites. He even snuck his way back to the flight attendants’ galley, laughing and joking with them, procuring you two extra desserts from the carts since you were such a fan. 

Then, he met your family, and he fit in perfectly. It was as if he was the missing member, a long lost kin, just waiting to be reunited into the fold. Your mother couldn’t figure out what had you so bothered. 

“About time you brought a good one home. Even your Uncle Billy likes him, and Billy —”

You rolled your eyes, 

“And Billy doesn’t like anyone, I know. I know.”

“Honey,” your mother looked at you with a sternness that she didn’t often muster, peering at you over her rose-rimmed glasses, “Why can’t you just let someone take care of you for a change? He’s a good man.”

A good man. 

John Price was a killer. No, he was worse. He was a CIA-funded, black ops, government-overthrowing war machine, capable of literal atrocities. You hadn’t heard much, but you’d heard enough. If any of these people knew how quickly he could turn a crowded room into an empty one, none of them would be looking so fondly at the way he snuggled with the dog or complimented your dad’s knife collection. 

But, that wasn’t why you protested, was it? If you were really being honest with yourself, the reason why you were so against letting Jonathan War Machine Price run your life was that it was yours to run. You didn’t need anyone’s help.

You didn’t need it.  

You could handle things on your own. 

You liked being able to spread your wings, fly your own path…

You were nobody’s puppet.

But, you were starting to like the way he was pulling your strings. When he would take the pressure of choice away from you, after you’d already been making a million other decisions at the end of a long day, it eased something inside of you in a way that nothing else could. It was like he was using those huge, rough palms to massage the hurt out of your head, to show you that it didn’t need to be such a battle, you didn’t need to keep fighting. He would do the fighting for you, and he was determined to show you that he was good at it. 

Even now, as you stomped through the rain, you knew what you were running from. You told yourself you were avoiding John, that you wouldn’t let him see you struggling to hold yourself together. After a much needed switch into a different position at work, the stress of your own expectations weighed heavy on you. But, you wanted them to. You wanted to know that you could still make it alone. You didn’t need John Price. 

But, you’re wearing the slicker he bought for you when yours got left in a cab.

So?

But, you smell like oud, saffron, and bergamot; the perfume oils he found for you at that local boutique you love. The same one he always compliments when he smells you wearing it. 

So?

But, you’re tired and wet and cold, and all you want is for him to tell you what you want.

So?! 

The soft, amber glow of a cigar stopped you in your tracks. A man was sitting on your bus stop bench, his arm slung over the back of the seat, his legs spread wide, taking up as much space as he liked. He was smoking slowly, enjoying every breath, savoring the flavors. Flavors you knew all too well: vanilla, licorice, sweet cedar, and whiskey. 

His sharp, blue eyes only met yours when you let out a labored sigh.

“What are you doing here, John?”

He took another drag, letting the ashes smolder, their warm glow making him look more and more like the Devil, a fallen man bathed in the light of a fire he lit all by himself. And damn proud of the blaze, too. 

“Just waitin’ for my ride,” he smiled in the way that a cat must smile at a mouse under its paw, “Do you wanna sit down, sweetheart?”

“No! I don’t wanna sit down,” you threw up your hands, “I want you to stop meddling in my life. You’re not allowed to keep making me feel like… like I need someone… some — Like I need someone’s fucking help. I don’t need anyone but me.”

His tone shifted in a sudden heat, like a flash in the pan, unexpected,

“Do you think I have any bloody help?”

Price let the question sink in before standing in front of you, his gaze never leaving your eyes. His voice was soft and gravelly, thick with smoke, and yet each and every word cut into you as sharp as a blade,

“Do you think anyone comes to help me when I’m deep in some bullshit, fuckin’ around in Rammaza? Just me, is it? By myself?”

“I don’t… no, I don’t know…” You hated how small your voice sounded in this tiny bus stop hut, the pounding rain drowning out your words. 

John looked at you as if he was waiting on you to find another answer, and then his face softened. He flung the cigar onto the pavement and crushed it out under his boot, smashing the tobacco into the cement without mercy. The object of his affection, once consumed, now snuffed out under his own power. 

His hands wrapped around your shoulders, caging you in, warm and safe from the wind blocked by his broad back. He sighed, his mouth drawing a tight line across his face, 

“Of course I need fuckin’ help. I have my men, and they have me. And I keep you here,” he jammed a finger hard into his chest, “Deep inside me, remindin’ me what I need to come home to. I’m not… meddling in your life, love. I’m trying to put you in mine. I thought…” 

He pulled away, sitting back down, looking up at you with a unique look on his face, 

“I thought that’s what you wanted. If I’m wrong,” he let out a dark, bitter chuff, “You need to tell me right now. ‘Cause all my plans have you in them.”

The rain made the plexiglass roof sound like it was shattering, over and over, the concussive slam of the storm created an oppressive din. He was waiting there, looking at you, asking for your next move. What was your plan?

“Am I wrong, sweetheart?”

You waited, trying to see how many steps ahead he was in front of you. If you said yes, if you said no; what decisions had already been made for you? Did he know what you were going to say before you did? And the real question: Why were you fighting so hard against something you wanted so badly?

You shook your head back and forth, just enough for him to see. HIs eyes lit up with hope and energy, a renewed flame.

“Then, come home with me. Quit bein’ so bloody hard on yourself. Let’s get you dry, love. C’mon.”

So, you obeyed. 

Nothing was more humbling than climbing into a squat little sports car when you were drenched to the bone. You curled yourself right into his cage, feeling silly for ever wanting to escape from it. Why were you pulling so hard against such soft reins? Couldn’t you see that he wanted to take care of you? To remove all of your barriers, to clear your path? You would be more powerful under his wing, soaring far beyond what you were capable of on your own. Why deny yourself a bite of the apple? It was ripe, the snake had promised, and sweet. 

He helped you up the stairs to your flat, walking you past his men as they gathered together in the kitchen, speechless, for once. None of them dared question their captain’s choices, and he had chosen you. More than that, it was clear that you had chosen him. 

Once you were in his room, behind a locked door, he held up a hand and stopped you in the entryway, shivering and dripping by the door. 

“Wait here.”

You waited. 

You waited some more. 

Just when you thought you would turn around and take yourself to bed, he returned dressed in a dry tee and a pair of running shorts. He carried two large, fluffy towels, and his face was set into a serious mask. All business. 

“Take off your clothes.”

You hesitated, looking at him to make sure you heard him correctly. 

He met your gaze, standing so close to you that you could feel his breath against your cheek. His chest was inches from your face, and you had to look up in order to meet his eyes.

“Take.”

He grabbed your phone out of your hand and dropped it on his entry table.

“Off.”

He rucked the jacket off of your back, peeling it down your arms and letting it fall to the ground with a wet slap.

“Your.” 

His fingers pulled the tie out of your ruined braid, letting the elastic roll onto his wrist. 

“Clothes.”

His hands went back to his side. It was up to you to do the rest. He wasn’t here to do everything for you. You were not his plaything. You had to choose to obey him. He wanted to watch you choose to follow his orders, not because you needed to, but because you wanted to.

Slowly, and a bit unsure, you began to shed your layers. You started with your shirt, almost knocking into him with your elbows since he was towering over you, standing in your space. Then, you writhed out of your jeans, peeling them off of your legs, kicking away your shoes in the process, stepping gingerly out of your socks, needing to hold onto his thick trunk for balance. 

Now, in just your bra and panties, you waited, hoping he’d hand you a towel. 

“What did I say?” He asked in a hushed tone, the timbre containing just enough warning to make your cheeks hot. 

“No, John. The boys are here in the kitchen!” You protested, whispering in a low hiss. 

This was beyond what you expected from him. You’d been keeping him at arm’s length, despite his constant pressure to be in your life. Sure, there had been moments of weakness. You’d shared a kiss, and you had let his hands wander when you watched a movie together on the sofa last weekend, but that was as far as things had gone. Stripping naked in the bright light of his apartment suite was something else entirely. Not to mention what sort of noises would seep out under his doorway if things got out of hand. 

“Stop,” he grabbed you by your face with both hands, making you look at him, “Stop fighting me. I am in this. All the way. The only time I wanna hear you tell me no is when you really mean it. If you say stop, I will immediately stop. Do I make myself clear?”

You nodded. He released you and put his hands on his hips, impatient. 

So, you slid out of your bra, slowly letting the cups pull away from your breasts, the lace cold and damp on your skin as it joined your outfit on the floor. As you rolled your panties off of your hips, stepping out of them and shoving them under your jacket with your toe, you felt more than just naked. You felt vulnerable and a little scared. 

What would he say? What did he plan to do? You realized, with a chilly shudder, that you didn’t even know his personal preferences. He’d never even given you a cursory glance into his mind, and reading his thoughts was impossible with that serious poker face. Most men wore their thoughts right across their eyes, or some (like Soap) even muttered them aloud, unconcerned about any judgment or scrutiny. If a man wanted you, you’d know. They were an open book. 

But the captain was very hard to read. 

Suddenly, as you stood back up, warring with your own mind, you were surrounded in fuzzy, comforting warmth. He was drying you off, wiping your arms and legs with reverent care, squeezing the rain out of your hair, using the corner of the cloth to wipe your face, holding you in his arms when you felt weak, off-balance, exhausted. 

It seemed as if the more you relaxed into him, the more power you gave up, the more it began to stoke his fire. While you became soft and pliant, he shifted into a fierce protector, covering you with his hands, bracing you with his heavy bones.

Price wrapped your hair into a high bun with an unexpected level of skill, and he carefully stretched your hair tie around it. When he turned to face you, you caught him staring at your body, raking his eyes over your breasts and studying the curve of your mons. It was as if he was groping you with his eyes, and each swipe of his gaze felt like a lick from his warm tongue. It was enough of an invasion that you wanted to put your hands in front of yourself, to hide out of some sort of shame.  

But when you made a move to cover yourself, the look in his eyes was enough to make you stand with your hands at your sides, allowing yourself to be on full display for him and that ravenous glare. He hadn’t even needed to chastise you. His mere desire was enough of a correction. 

Then, almost like a reward, he wrapped the towel around you, letting you hold it tight to your chest. 

“Tell me what’s goin’ on inside that pretty head,” he commanded you, his voice quiet but firm. It was just a simple question, but you knew it was loaded. So, you brushed him off, tossing out cheap bait, wrapping the towel a little tighter around yourself, hoping he’d drop it. You shrugged,

“Just cold.”

His jaw set with a click, and that soft purr became a warning growl,

“That’s one,” he held up his finger, “The next lie will cost you that towel, pretty girl.”

You stared at him blankly, trying to find a way through this labyrinth he had �� apparently — custom built for you, sending you down twists and turns and dead ends as if he knew exactly how you’d try to steal back some control. But every way out seemed like a worse fate than simply allowing yourself to trust him. Nevertheless, you tried again. 

“I am cold, and I’m tired. It’s been a long day, John,” you sighed, shifting towards him, trying your best to take back the lead to his strange dance, “C’mon, don’t you wanna take me to bed?”

You reached out a hand and snaked it under the hem of his shirt, exploring untouched skin, letting your nails scrape through a dark patch of thick hair, right above his waistband. Your fingers got as far as his navel before he snapped. 

The cold absence of him ripping the towel away from you felt worse than you expected it to. In fact, you hadn’t actually taken him seriously. You protested, indignant,

“Hey! What —-“

“You think this is the same game you’ve always played,” he snarled, throwing the towel away and shoving you to your knees, his hold crushing and cruel on the nape of your neck, “You think, because those lads will eat any scraps you throw to them,” he nodded behind you, gesturing toward his men only a thin wall away, “That I’ll be satisfied with a taste, hm?”

His tone was mocking, and there was an undercurrent of darkness that lingered between each word like a warning, like the red of a poisonous berry that shouldn’t be picked and yet sagged ripe and ready on its stem. 

“You always get your way with them, don’cha? You know that a bit of skin and a little attention will keep them on you for days. And they reward you for it. They text you at all hours of the fuckin’ night, beggin’ you for just one more look, one more bite,” his mouth was right next to your ear, bending over you, casting his shadows across your face, and all you could do was kneel there, fully under his control, unable to move against his immense strength, “But, that’s not what I want.”

Your eyes dared to slant over to the growing monster that pressed its warm body against his shorts, hanging heavy and stretching the fabric, and you dared to hiss at him, even in your compromised position, using his title like a knife, aiming to scrape him with it,

“Seems like you do, Captain.”

He smirked, you could feel his smile against the sensitive skin of your earlobe, and you could see his almost infernal expression out of the corner of your eye. Even though you were trying to get under his skin, it made you feel like you were playing right into his hand yet again, helpless to his will. 

He stood up, never letting go of his grip on your neck, pinching the muscle like you were a caught rabbit, his writhing prey. Then, with a force that made your stomach drop, Price shoved your cheek into the crotch of his shorts, bringing you face to face with the outline his swelling shaft. Your nose was buried in the fabric, and you could smell the soap of his detergent as well as the musk of his sex that throbbed underneath. 

Then, he rucked down his waistband to show himself to you, pressing his length along your cheek, the softness of his skin surprising you just as much as the size of his thick, hefty prick. 

He held your neck in one hand and his cock in the other as he began to stroke himself up and down, letting your temple  and cheekbone feel the slip of his velvet foreskin. You could hear soft, wet clicking sounds as he coated himself in his own fluid, using the clear, dripping pearls as lube. 

You tried to move your jaw to taste him, eager to know if the heady, intoxicating smell of his skin matched his precome, hungry for his reaction to your mouth. But he stopped you, tightening his grip and scolding you like a naughty pet,

“My body wants your body, love. I’ll admit that,” he chuckled, not halting his lurid, jerking pulls, using your cheek for friction, “But I want more. I don’t want a taste. Or a bite. I won’t be satisfied.”

He frowned a bit, shrugging off his confession before he continued, 

“I want you to trust me. Trust that I’ll be here for you, that I’ll always be here. So,” he tugged on your flesh, forcing you to meet his fiery gaze, “Tell me what you thought.”

What were you supposed to say? That you were insecure about your looks? That you weren’t sure if he’d approve? That you were either too much or not enough and you weren’t sure which?

You turned your mouth as much as you could, trying to at least lick along the warm underbelly of his rod, aching to taste him, but he jerked you back into place, laughing at the disappointment on your face,

“Lips to yourself, love. Only good girls get fed.”

You rolled your eyes up to him, and you knew you had to make a choice. He was joking, but it was a façade. He was using it like a shield, waiting to see if you would actually relinquish your control or if you’d cut and run like you did with everyone else. 

So, you decided to trust him, giving him what he wanted, a full confessional on burning, bent knees, eyes cast up at your new master, praying for his communion, your tongue eager for his body and his blood and his love.

You made sure his eyes were locked on yours as you spoke softly, unflinching in your resolve,

“I was worried you wouldn’t like what you saw. I needed you to want me. I was afraid.”

The relief that washed over him was nearly palpable. His whole body responded to your admission, all of that tightly-wound uncertainty melting away in the heat of your submission to him. 

“That’s it. Good,” his voice was heavy with his relief, and he almost seemed like he was slipping into a trance, rubbing himself in steady, long strokes, shuddering against your cheek, “And what now, hm? You want me to let you go? Let you free? Or are you gonna let me in?”

You didn’t break your eye contact with him, but you wavered, sure of your decision but overwhelmed when you had to say it out loud. You squeezed your thighs together, feeling the slick mess he was forging between them, trying to find some comfort. You took a breath and told him,

“I’ll let you in, John.”

His throat held back a long, low groan, the pleasure of your surrender or the pleasure of his hand forcing it from his chest. You weren’t sure which. 

His grip loosened on your neck, but he didn’t let go. His voice was barely above a whisper as he told you his rules in hushed, broken phrases, holding himself back from the edge,

“You belong to me, now, sweetheart. You might be in charge at your bloody job, but everything else is mine. Do you hear me?”

You were going to answer him, you’d even planned to tack on a cheeky little yes, sir, just to show him you were playing along, but he had other plans. Always a step ahead. Before you could even breathe to speak, he pressed the tender head of his cock between your lips and deep into the warm hollow of your mouth, his wide form forcing your jaw to fall open to let him inside of you. It shocked you to be taken that way, not roughly but so certainly, with such surety, as if there was no other choice but for him to take you. You shifted, but with his knuckles tight against the base of your skull, you couldn’t retreat. Other than lolling your tongue along the body of his shaft, or swallowing against its drooling tip, you were powerless. 

His face twisted into a hungry sort of smear full of teeth and lips, grimacing at the feeling of being surrounded by you. Every inch that he drove himself deeper, his breathing would halt until at last, as he buried himself into your clenching throat, his lungs had emptied, and he was sighing with a ragged, guttural cry. 

“When you’re with me…” He continued his dark promises to you, the words choppy and broken, only threaded loosely together between panting gasps, “Even when I’m a fuckin’ world away, I promise that I will take care of you,” he pet your cheek with the softest affection, admiring you like a work of art, “All of you. You will sleep when I say. You will eat when I say. You will come when I say,” he smiled a little more cruelly at that, watching your eyes widen. And, as you began to wish for air, planting your palms against his firm, muscular thighs, ready to push away, he looked down at you with a lurid satisfaction, “You will breathe when I say.”

You were choking. You could hear yourself in the quiet of his room, your throat gurgling, full of your own viscous drool, escaping where it could along the stretched line of your mouth, running down your chin and neck. You felt the flare of panic rise up within you, and you tried to pull away in earnest, writhing against his grip, trying to escape from him and failing, turning your body in shameful futility. 

Price bent his face toward you, folding himself to whisper his lustful words, making sure your eyes met his, pressing your nose into his soft pubic hair,

“You. Breathe. When. I. Say.”

He kept himself contorted like that, keeping his face low to watch your eyes, to witness your struggle, and you felt hot tears burn down your face, the effort overcoming you. But, you wanted to show him that you could obey. You wanted to trust him, to show him that you were willing to give him your freedom, knowing that only he was worthy of such a gift. So, you swallowed deeply, watching as it made his eyes flutter, and again, and again. Over and over, you closed your throat around his steel-hard length, choking when it became too much. 

Still, he kept you there. As brave as you’d been with partners in the past, even those moments were fully eclipsed by this one. You had never even thought that you might be capable of holding your breath for so long. 

You were sobbing wholeheartedly now, your eyes reflecting your desperation, tears pooling and spilling across your face. He was watching you cry, whispering breathless nothings, soft words of encouragement,

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. You’re so fuckin’ good. My good girl.”

Just as purple and blue spots began to obscure your vision, he pulled himself out of you in a terrible, wet departure, leaving you clutching his hips, sobbing into his belly, watching his hard cock pounding, swaying at full height, swollen with blood and eager for its finish. You could feel those same soft, dark hairs matting down as your tears soaked into them. He ran his fingers through your hair, keeping the fallen strands out of your face, still holding you at your nape, but just to comfort you. 

You imagined him letting go, and you felt… sad, somehow. He would have to release you at some point, but you were in such a submissive state, just the idea of him leaving you without his guiding hand was too much to bear. 

Your cries turned to a twisted kind of grief, and when he heard your tone change, he dropped to the floor with you, holding you to his chest, rocking you back and forth, shushing you and talking to you in a hushed voice,

“Shh, baby. Tell me to stop. Tell me…”

You grasped at him wildly, uncontrolled, holding onto whatever part of him you could, shaking your head,

“No, no. Don’t — don’t let me go. Please, I can’t… I need… I need you to touch me.”

You planted one of your hands across his, covering the one that gripped your neck, pressing it like a plaster, like it was keeping a wound healed, like it was a dam in front of your frothing, vengeful river; it was a lifeline and you were adrift. 

“Sweetheart,” he sighed, “I’m not gonna let you go. I’m right here. Shh. Shh. It’s alright. I’m here. C’mon. Come with me.”

He lifted you, helping you walk on sore, shaking legs, your nerves sparking across your skin. Then, with his hand still firmly planted against your neck, he led you like a shepherd with his lamb, marching you to his bedroom. As you approached the bedframe, your thighs hit the mattress, and Price guided you forward until your body lay flat against it. The duvet was cool and smooth against your belly and breasts, and you tucked your arms into yourself, looking for warmth. 

You felt John plant gentle kisses across your back, trailing them down your spine, and after the overstimulation you had just gone through, even his lightest touch was electric. 

Your tears had stopped, but still you panted, sniffling, trembling from the shock of his careful kisses, waiting for whatever would come next. 

You felt his hips press against your exposed ass cheeks, his shorts now missing, and all you could sense was his warm, furry skin. You sighed into it, happy for the connection. 

“Spread your legs,” he commanded.

You complied immediately, all of your tortured resistance gone from you now, ready to trust him to take care of you. 

The unknown was what made your belly swarm with butterflies, and as you waited for his next move, your mind raced with possibilities. 

Would he be cruel? Would he punish you for your lying when he had first taken you in? His hand might strike your tender flesh, slapping your ass and leaving red, angry marks. 

Would he be lustful? Your mind fed you imaginary moments where he would press his cock into your pussy, skipping any foreplay, simply using you like his warm, wet toy. You thought that he wanted more, something more intimate, but if not, you would let him. You were his to use. At this point, you were so pliant, so open to his will, he could use you over and over and you would take him. It was a dark confidence you had never known until now. 

Perhaps he would simply stop. Maybe he perceived you as weak, as if you couldn’t take what he wanted to give you. He would simply comfort you, pitying you for your wrecked state. It was this thought that turned your stomach. Surely, he knew you better than that. John Price was not the pitying type. 

As the base of his cock lay nestled in the cleft of your ass, still as hard as a stone, his long shaft was shoved up against his lower abdomen, pulsing with unslaked desire. Then, as he settled himself, pleased with your spread display, John began to slip the very tips of his fingers into your pussy. He was just feeling your softness, plucking at your petals, laying them open with his hand, using your own wetness to paint your lips and the tight muscle of your hole, preparing you for more. 

His voice broke the trance that his touch had put you in, 

“It kills me when I have watch you putting yourself through hell. You are so strong, but you deserve to have everything you want. Everything you need, I’ll make sure you have it. I promise.”

He was so sincere, and his voice sounded so sure. It was like he was sharing an old memory, something he knew by heart. 

“John, please…” You whispered, feeling yourself slipping, slowly becoming untangled by his touch. You needed more, but you had no words. You could barely concentrate, and your mind was swimming in a liminal space, trapped in a loop of mounting bliss. 

“What do you need, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“I don’t know,” you felt your tears return, and although you were desperate for something, you couldn’t find the answer. 

“Shh, shh, shh. You’re alright,” John rubbed your back with his free hand, smoothing your skin with his warm touch, “Does my pretty girl need to come?”

You nodded, daring to glance over your shoulder at him as he worked on you, his finger now sinking deeper into you, gently prodding your walls in long, aching circles. His other fingers were cradling your folds, slipping between them with each undulating thrust, brushing beside the swelling body of your clit and making you throb with need. 

He felt it, and you saw a warm smile spread across his face,

“I can feel you needin’ me. So wet for me. Fightin’ me so bloody hard. Thought I’d be wantin’ you forever. Do you know how many nights I’ve dreamed of havin’ you under me like this? Fuck, I need you so badly, baby.”

You felt his grip tighten on your neck again as he pressed you deeper into the soft mattress, his prying hand picking up the pace. His thick finger finally slipped down to the knuckle of his fist. As he fucked you on his hand, you could hear your body’s slick as it softened for him, submitting to his power just as you had done, your body at peace with your mind. 

He pressed a second finger beside his first, twisting them together, curling the tips to rub you from the inside, making you feel the deep ache of your orgasm building within your belly. 

You tried to find more friction, rocking your hips against the bed, squeezing your legs together, needing more but completely helpless to his pace and pressure. 

Price stopped, pushing his fingers right into the tender flesh of your neck as a warning,

“Open,” he shoved your foot away, spreading them for you, “You keep fighting and fighting… fine. I’ll give you something to fight for, hm?”

You tried to twist your knees together again, but his legs stood apart, holding you open. Then, you felt his threat. He put the head of his heavy prick against your greedy hole, dipping it into your wetness like a seal into warm, melting wax.

“C’mon,” he squeezed your nape hard, once, just enough to get your attention, “You wanna drive? Fuckin’ drive, love. You think you can fuck yourself better than I can fuck you? Prove it.”

You narrowed your eyes, glaring at him, watching the muscles ripple and pop in his forearm that held you down, unwilling to give you full control, and yet allowing you to set the pace. You saw his other hand rub the curve of your hip, dropping lower to grope your ass, egging you on. 

Unwilling to beg, you thrust yourself down onto his shaft, gasping from his girth, only managing to fit half of him inside of you, physically unable to go any deeper on your own. But, you tried again, lifting away, sinking back, repeating your movements and reaching between your legs to rub your clit as you fucked him.

But, it wasn’t enough. You felt so close to the edge, and yet you couldn’t tumble over it, losing your rhythm, chasing it down, too weak to reach the peak you knew was right within your grasp. 

You grunted in frustration, and his cruel laugh made you turn back towards him again. 

He shrugged,

“I thought you wanted to be in charge. Does it feel good, sweetheart?”

“Fuck!” You gasped, trying to catch your pleasure and feeling it slip from you yet again, humping your hips against the bed shameless and desperate. 

“Tch,” Price gripped the inside of your ass cheek, shaking it and rolling your soft flesh in his hand, “Too bad, love. I wanted to give it to you. Shame, really.”

“John! Please,” you caved, sobbing out a short moan, begging him impatiently. 

“Please, what?” His question came just as he decided to press himself deeper into your body than you had been able to go, sinking into you like a hand into a glove, a tight, all-encompassing fit. 

You whined, rolling your fingers over your clit faster, feverish, ready for relief, 

“Please make me come.”

“You will come…” He stretched you, giving you no warning, the sharp feeling of his invasion making you catch your breath, “When I bloody tell you to.”

Then, as if to prove it to you, he stuffed his length into your pussy, never pulling back very far, choosing instead to massage you with his cock, using his base to stretch you wide before rolling away. The sensation overwhelmed you, and his size made your mind go blank. Any words that formed in your mind turned to whining cries of pleasure on your tongue.

There were no sounds of lewd pounding of flesh on flesh. All of Price’s work was deep and wet, churning inside of you like a volcanic sea, hot and untamed. He, however, made plenty of noise, praising you in every way he knew how, speaking in half-clipped phrases, losing his sentence to a groan of relief as he fed himself to you, filling your pussy like a hungry mouth. 

You felt yourself getting closer by the moment. Each grinding thrust was pushing you ever nearer to that gleaming, crackling fuse. He had lifted you, unintentionally, unable to understand the effect of his strength, and your toes could barely scrape the floor. You could feel your sacral core clenching around him like a delicate vice, grabbing for his cock, trying to hold him within your belly, some twisting grip of nature used to ensure that his creamy come ended up where it belonged, soaking into your womb.

Your clenching made him pause, which, in turn, caused you to cry out to him, wordlessly babbling, begging for him to return, to keep his pace. 

“Don’t you dare, sweetheart. Don’t you dare come,” his voice was like rattling brimstone, smoky and burning within his throat. 

“Please…” You whispered, unable to lift your raspy, keening voice. 

With shallow, teasing thrusts, Price used his cockhead to softly pop in and out of your soaked hole, swollen from being well-fucked. Just hearing a vibrator would have sent you over the edge at that point, and you fought him, trying to get any sort of power at all, rolling your body like a caught snake. 

“Stop,” he said curtly, “Stop fighting. Be still.”

You quieted yourself down, breathing heavy, sweating into his sheets, shivering like you had a fever, burning up from the inside out. 

For the first time, you felt his hand leave your neck, and his fingers twisted themselves into your hair at the base of your skull. Slowly, carefully, he lifted you by your head, forcing your back into a vicious arch, letting your breasts hang freely, your arms trying to balance you, mostly worthless since Price had full control of your torso in this position. 

His free hand slid around your front, groping you wildly, plucking your nipples and filling his palms with the meat of your breast. Then, he replaced your fingers with his own, pressing beside your sensitive clit, rolling it softly in long, firm strokes. 

You heard yourself make a new sound, one you’d never made, an animal’s grunting, something reckless and feral. 

Then, Price took up his stretching rhythm again, fully in charge of everything you were sensing. To you, he may as well have been in control of your mind. It was no use to you; you were at his mercy and it was everything you’d ever wanted. 

“Do you trust me?”

Your thoughts swam, unable to even consider anything but the truth, and amongst all of your vocalized ecstasy, you managed to reply,

“Yes.”

“Don’t come. Keep it. Just like that.”

“J-John!”

“Wait, wait, wait… good girl. Good.”

“Ohhh, fuck…”

His next words seemed barely human, snarled at you through bared teeth,

“Now. Come for me. Come f— fuck! Holy fuck.”

When you felt him spill into you, you had almost no control left over your own orgasm. Your heart felt like it had leapt into your throat, and all you could experience was your shining, explosive finish. You heard no sound, and your eyes went white, rolling back into your head. You couldn’t breathe, or scream, and if it wasn’t for John’s immense body holding you tight, you would have crashed into his bed, all used up.

His orgasm was as long as yours was, and he finished in slow, fearsome thrusts, burying his head into you as deep as he could reach, smearing your lips with your mixed fluids, caring nothing for the mess. 

“C’mere, love. Come to me,” Price held you to his chest, finally pulling himself from you, holding you as close as he could, laying beside you in a sweaty, spent tangle of arms and legs. 

You lay your head on his chest, catching your breath, only to tumble into a dreamless sleep with him, your body exhausted from your effort. 

When you woke up the next day, you could feel him all over you. He had left you alone in the bed, and yet your skin and bones kept his imprints. You could feel the ghost of his fingertips on your neck, and you were sore in places you weren’t sure how you could be. Everything was a wet mess, and just when you worried about how you’d cross the apartment without yesterday’s outfit, you saw that John had left you a note. 

Training day on base. I'll be back tonight. Dinner on me. Wear this. xx

Under the note, Price had laid out his favorite dress of yours, a blue satin slip of a thing, and (with the tags still on) you found a matching lace set of bra and panties in the same pretty color, just your size. You couldn’t see the price, but when you searched for the brand online, you couldn’t help but blush. He'd spent more than just a pretty penny on this outfit. You couldn't help but notice that the delicate lace would show through the thin fabric of the dress, making little raised ridges where your nipples would be.

Whatever you’d just agreed to when you said you’d let John Price into your life was about to get very, very interesting. 

AO3 Link

[tookishcombeferre]

Character Arcs: Why I Refuse to See the New Lilo & Stitch Remake

So, I hesitated to jump into this debate because I wasn't sure I could comment on something I haven't' seen.

However, I want to comment on *why* I won't see it, and it has to do with the fact that I think three characters have been irreparably damaged because of how their narrative arcs have changed in the adaptation.

ONE: Dr. Jumba Jookiba: An Absolute Masterpiece in Progressing the "Mad Scientist Trope"

Dr. Jumba is based in an important literary trope that stems all the way back to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, at least, perhaps earlier?

Therefore, to remove Dr. Jumba's accent and make him the primary villain is to remove something fundamental about *him* and what makes him different from those other scientists in literature before him.

Dr. Frankenstein. Dr. Jekyll. Dr. Van Helsing. Faust.

These are all characters that make up elements of Dr. Jumba's character design, coding, and creation. They were placed lovingly into Dr. Jumba's character through each element of his creation.

Yet, these characters usually do not get any kind of significant "redemption" arcs or anything apart from the sort of "morality play" lessons written into their novels/novellas. (Except Van Helsing who is, arguably a decent bloke to begin with.)

Yet, something changes within the monster genre with the invention of film ... particularly slapstick humor in black and white films.

In the original 2002 film, Stitch is captivated by old black and white monster films. He loves the destruction caused by giant invading spider creatures. He even recreates one of the scenes in which a monster in a black and white film destroys San Francisco.

However, what Dr. Jumba comes to realize watching Stitch in that moment/ those moments of emptiness and loss after destruction is that there isn't a deeper purpose.

And, that digs into some of the greater questions of monster literature at large:

What is humanity's purpose?

What is a monster?

What is the role of their creator?

At what point is the monster a reflection of the creator?

Yet, about that spin off genre ...

Amidst the the more traditional adaptations of monster stories in black and white film, as well as other unique and new monster stories made exclusively FOR film, came things like "Young Frankenstein."

In these slapstick and humorous adaptations, many things about the original monster stories were changed. In these movies, the creator and monster both "reconciled." This usually occurred through some combination of slapstick humor and basically proto-meme culture.

("Young Frankenstein" involves a whole tap dance routine followed by an exploding light fixture and a race through the German countryside ...)

("Young Frankenstein" From IMDB)

In "Young Frankenstein," the reconciliation between monster and creator is fast, silly, but, yet, somehow, actually, leads to some kind of meaningful commentary on humanity.

At the very end, Fredrick and The Creature talk, and they come to the agreement that the Creature is going to receive some of Fredrick's intellect. He will finally, trully, be *adopted* as a Frankenstein.

In this scene, the Creature speaks for the first time, and they do manage to settle the crowd.

And, at the very end, we close on another standard unifying human topic ... toilet humor.

So, if you'd ask me,*this* is the spirit of Dr. Jumba's turn around.

When Dr. Jumba says "Well, he's very persuasive ..." after Stitch says like 3 words?

This! *This* trope, and probably this exact movie, is where that comes from.

To deny that, and to change it, fundamentally alters the spirit of one of the primary influences of the film which is these old school monster flicks.

Besides that, the way Lilo and Stitch changed the genre of monster literature as we understand it is *undeniable.* Prior to films like "Young Frankenstein," and other parodies like it, the stories of the past remained what they were.

Yet, Lilo and Stitch, and Dr. Jumba in particular, begin to draw a perfect circle.

The hard questions of the old pieces of literature could be asked and answered, BUT they could be answered through humor and fart jokes.

Dr. Jumba is the classic Faustian, Dr. Jekyll, Dr. Frankenstein scientist who learns compassion for his creation because he finds purpose, no matter how quickly, in loving Stitch. Dr. Jumba is part of the support system created for Nani, Lilo, and Stitch because *he* needs it.

For most of the film, Dr. Jumba doesn't understand what family is or why it matters. He can't. His goal is make things that destroy things. He doesn't understand human life as valuable (or, perhaps, he doesn't see any life as valuable?) Yet, what he comes to know, through Stitch, is the value of *life.* (Look no further than the sequel film to see *that* come to fruition.)

It's this additional layer that unites two halves - the original monster stories of traditional "mad scientists" and the parodies in which reconciliation is brought about by toilet humor and bad dancing - both of those arcs and narratives deeply influence the "monster" side of Lilo and Stitch's narrative structure. And, for better or worse, Dr. Jumba Jookiba's quick and quirky "redemption" is at the center of that telling.

Gantu needs to be present as the foil for Dr. Jumba. He is the heard-hearted, almost Javert-esque, maniac who cares for nothing and no one except the mission sent for him. Dr. Jumba cares enough to ask questions.

Dr. Jumba's curiosity is his *salvation.*

Gantu's rigidity is his *downfall.*

TWO: Captain Gantu: Lost in Time ... Lost in Space ... Another Casualty of the Capitalist Race

Captain Gantu also has a role to play in these black and white monster films and, to completely remove him, is to do a huge disservice to these sources of influence.

Going back to the "Young Frankenstein" example, there is actually a police officer character named Inspector Kemp. Kemp is actually, kinda-sorta, part of the reason The Creature is accidentally freed near the middle-end of "Young Frankenstein" and is just generally really obnoxious.

(Actually, as I retrace the IMDB for "Young Frankenstein" to check my notes, I'm noticing that there are a *surprising* number of parallels between Frederick and Jumba, Kemp and Gantu, and The Creature and Stitch.)

However, all that to say, Gantu needs to be present because without him the story no longer works. Lilo and Stitch is built on the backs of monster stories in which a "mad scientist" is chased down by "the law." Without "the law," there is no story.

The beauty of what Lilo and Stitch does, however, is asking us to reframe who is *right* and who is *wrong.* What is *just* and what is *merciful.*

Gantu, in many ways, may be *right* and he may be *just.* But, that does not make him merciful. Gantu's lack of mercy is what causes his ENDS to fail to justify his MEANS.

And, that?

That is what makes Gantu so fun to root against and to despise.

To take away Dr. Jumba's quiet moments of reflection, to make him a twist villain, (and remove Gantu completely) fundamentally changes *who* Jumba is *and* what he's meant to represent. It fundamentally changes what this film *does* for the genre in which Lilo and Stitch belongs.

I could get into a whole other rant about why this is significant to me as a neurodivergent person and the extraordinary significance of Lilo and Stitch as a monster narrative that features both a monster and a clearly neurodiverse-coded main character.

But, that's likely a separate post.

Yet, know that monsters and changelings have long been a stand-in for neurodivergent and disabled people in literature, and I do not think it was/ is coincidental the Lilo AND Stitch are written as they are and were chosen to be paired together.

Therefore, to *remove* Dr. Jumba's redemption towards Stitch as benevolent creator changes not only his arc, but the longstanding commentary on the role of the creator and what they created in monster literature.

And, to remove Gantu completely departs from the "monster literature" source material trope so strongly that I'm not even sure they're following the same plot anymore.

THREE: Nani: The Most Egregious Sin has Been Saved for Last

So many wonderful Hawaiian native folks have spoken on this subject all over the internet.

Please, I implore you, go find what they've posted on this platform, on YouTube, on Tik Tok and listen to them.

It is really not that hard to find everything from scholarly articles to everyday folks talking about *why* Nani leaving Lilo in the hands of the state to "pursue a degree" is not the "happy ending" it sounds like to most of the rest of us.

As a white trans-masc dude *from the mainland,* I'm just going to say when I heard about that twist, I turned to my spouse and said "My God, it's like if someone adapted The Outsiders and had Darry leave on a football scholarship instead of staying with Soda and Ponyboy."

And. Yes. I do believe the change is that fundamental. Teleportation gun or no.

The end.

[tonysbed]

Secrets I keep | Part 16

Max Fewtrell x norris!reader

summary: You and Max have been dancing around your feelings for years but jealousy gets the best of us all..

warnings: again, the internet is cruel. Max gets into his head, mental health issues?? self doubt, crying, mention of cheating

not proofread

series masterlist | previous | next

-

“Alright, I’m leaving then! I’ll see you in a few days” You say, coming trough the door into the living room, where max was sitting on the couch. It had been a few good weeks since the whole incident and you were both cooled down from the drama.

Lando hadn’t really come to his senses, but you unblocked him. Your dad had a talk with him, that resulted in nothing.

“Alright. Be careful and text me” He gets up from his place and hugs you, kissing the top of your head “I will, don’t worry” You kiss him and smile “I gotta go now before I miss my flight or something!”

You look at your phone “And they’re here! Okay, gotta go. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone! I love you” “Won’t do, I love you too” Max watches you leave the apartment with a suitcase, and sighs.

He still hadn’t voiced his concerns about Franco. Not to think wrong, franco was a super nice bloke but he was flirty and you two just got along a little to well for his liking.

But how would you know? You only had eyes for max, franco was not interesting for you. But that is something that Max has to get in his head first..

-

You slid into the backseat. Kika turned around to look at you “Ready?” You smile “A tour through the headquarters of tractors? Sure!” Pierre glared at you through the mirror “Do you want to walk?” He grumbled “Pierre!” Kika slapped his arm “What? She said I’m driving a tractor!”

Kika rolled her eyes smiling and pierre dropped it.

-

norris.yn

liked by franciscagomez, pierregasly, maxfewtrell and 36 others

norris.yn she’s everything and he’s… there

pierregasly why am I always catching strays

franciscagomez 🙂‍↕️😘

alexandrasaintmleux 😂😂

charlesleclerc oh pierre 🤦‍♂️

maxfewtrell always tired 😂

pierregasly of your girlfriend? Always

franciscagomez Pierre.

pierregasly What? She’s always stealing you

norris.yn she deserves more than you

pierregasly see??

maxfewtrell I choose peace and ignore it.

-

You three arrived at the Alpine headquarters and as you neared the entrance you saw a figure enthusiastically talk with Paul, who just looked like he was being tortured.

As you got closer, Paul spotted you three and sighed in relief “Thank god. Now he can talk your ear off. I really like you Franco, but it’s to fucking early” Paul says, yawning.

You chuckle as Franco huffed “Mean” He crossed his arms but smiled at you “You’re alive! You weren’t at the paddock, your brother acts as if you aren’t his sister and you don’t post anymore!” He throws his arms up in the air.

“Have you seen what happened?” You chuckled “Yeah I know” “Don’t you follow her on here new account?” Pierre asked “Uh..new account?” Franco looks puzzled at the frenchman and then at you.

“Yeah, I made one just for friends, no strangers, no privacy invasion, just us” You say smiling. Franco nods, pulls out his phone and hands it to you.

You type in his code, which kika raised an eyebrow at and request your account from his. You hand it back to him and accept the request.

“Ah, yes you have been alive!” He laughs. You nod and laugh. Pierre and Kika start to make their way inside, and you two follow them.

-

norris.yn

liked by pierregasly, kellypiquet, francocolapinto and 46 others

norris.yn @/ jackdoohan, pls get better soon, they’re crazy

jackdoohan I will try my best 😂

norris.yn pls hurry up 😭😂

franciscagomez we’re not that bad 🤔

pierregasly …

paulaaron you love us, really

francocolapinto now why would you post this? my my

norris.yn you’ll live

-

max grimaced at his phone. This is exactly what he feared could happen. But before he could continue his thought train, another notification popped up on his phone.

It was a gossip page that had tagged him. That was never good but he clicked on it, and immediately regretted it.

-

f1gossip

f1gossip Franco Colapinto was spotten near the Alpine Headquarters with Yn Norris. Mclarens number one drivers sister. Has she moved on from her boyfriend Max Fewtrell?

user oh my god. She’s disgusting

user what a bitch

user max isn’t even allowed to be mad, he did the same

user are we gonna ignore that Pierre, Paul and Kika were also with them??

user 🤢

user franco noooo

-

-

You sigh as you put the phone down. Kika tilts her head at you “What did he say?” “He’s being weird” Franco raised an eyebrow “About me? I swear, I know you guys are a thing! I don’t want anything from you” Franco raised his hands in surrender.

You chuckle “I know that. Something tells me tho that this is not based on todays events.” You look at Kika with a knowing look. She presses her lips together.

“Do we have to understand this?” Pierre asked confused “Are you a woman?” She asked him with an raised eyebrow “No?” “Then you won’t get it.��

“I’ll guess it’s an early leave for me” You sigh “Nooo, can’t he be weird alone for a few more days?” Paul pouts “I’d rather resolve this as soon as possible. I know how much Max can get into his own head because of the media. I’ve seen it with him, and i’ve seen it with Lando. I know what It does to people”

“Especially something like this” Pierre says, his voice now serious but calm. Kika nods “Of that is what you think is better for the two of you, that’s okay. We can do this another time. Maybe even bring max that time” Kika says, Pierre nodding along “Definitely”

You smile “Thanks guys. I guess I’ll see what flight will get me back the fastest” You pull out your phone again “Is he in monaco again?” Kika chuckled “Yep. He’s at my apartment” She nods “Obviously.”

-

While you were planning your trip home, Max was laying in your bed. His eyes fixed on the side you claimed as yours the first time he had officially slept over as your boyfriend.

He smiled a bit at the memory, which was quickly soured away by the pictures of you and franco flashing in his mind. He knew you would never do such things, he knew that Kika, Pierre and Paul had been there but in moments like these, his mind wasn’t quiet.

It screamed at him. Screamed he’d get hurt again, or more by the one person that could actually hurt him deeply.

He shakes his head. You wouldn’t.

Are you sure? You’re not even a racing driver.

She loves me for me.

does she now? why would you be enough

Max sat up and got up to go into the bathroom. He looked into the reflection of the big mirror. His eyes were red from crying, but not too bad that he couldn’t pass it off as sleepiness.

He splashed water in his face and sighed. His mind was playing tricks on him that only you could outplay. You were outplaying tricks you didn’t even know about.

He let his head hang and sighed again.

He turned off the light and made his way to the kitchen for a glass of water. In moments like these, he would’ve called lando. Something he had also cost her.

She would’ve never argued about Daniel with Lando if it wasn’t for him. It was all his fault.

-

It was later in the day when you had finally arrived back in monaco. You sighed as you pulled out your keys but before you could put the keys in, the door swung open.

Max looked backwards into the apartment, his suitcase in hand. He closed the door and finally turned around to look at you.

you both stare at each other for a moment. You look between his suitcase and him “Uhm..where you leaving?” You ask confused.

“I..uh” Max didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected you back so soon. What in christs name-

“Why are you back already?” “That doesn’t matter right now. Did something happen?” Max’s jaw clenched and he looked away.

A knot forms in your stomach “Please don’t tell me this is about the Franco thing” You say quietly. Max still doesn’t meet your eyes. You abandon your suitcase for a moment and unlock the door.

You point for him to go back inside. Before he could protest, you shake your head “We’re talking about this. Inside. With your suitcase.”

-

You sat down on the couch, turned to Max, while he was faced forward, hands fidgeting.

“Max, please talk to me about this. I already told you, I would never..Franco isn’t..He doesn’t even fit into my life” You say, still looking at him.

“I know” He says quietly “Well apparently you don’t. You wanted to leave why exactly? To tell me what? You didn’t call, you didn’t text” His head turns to the kitchen.

You can see the island from the couch. There is a vase of your favourite flowers and a letter perched up against.

“I knew you would try to stop me” He says quietly. Now he had made you speechless. You look at him in shock.

“You..so” You take a deep breath “So this is it?” You ask, not entirely sure what you’re even saying. Max finally looks at you. He doesn’t say anything but his eyes told you everything you needed to know.

You clenched your jaw “why?” You whisper, biting back tears. Max weighs his options. You would try to convince him to stay, when he would tell you the truth. But he would only hurt you further.

His mind kept screaming to go, his heart was aching, and crying out your name, longing for your love. He knew you’d be better off without him. He had to go.

“You wouldn’t understand” “Then make me understand. Let me try to fix this! Us!”

“There is no us. Not anymore. There should’ve never been an us”

The words lie heavy in the room. You stare at him. You can only watch as he gets up, takes his suitcase and takes one last look at you.

This is it, she’ll be free of you.

-

Alexandra could barely understand what you were saying over the phone as she rushed out the door, Charles closely behind, having to drive her over to you.

She tried to calm you down, with no success. The only thing she understood was “Franco, Max, broke up” And the last one was what made her stomach turn.

-

She opened your door with her spare key, rushing inside, finding you curled up on the couch.

“Hey, hey.” She took you into her arms. Her arms tighten around you as your sobs got heavier and more pained. Charles looks worried, wording the name ‘Kelly’. Alex nods, hoping Kelly would get more out of you, knowing you two knew each other longer.

Kelly arrived sooner than Alex expected, and Charles left, telling Alex to call if she needed anything.

-

alexandrasaintmleux added to their story

[cap: @/kellypiquet our new master chef 👩‍🍳 🍝❤️

reply’s:

charlesleclerc how is she holding up?

she’s okay for now. Calmed her down but his story doesn’t make sense. It’s quite confusing and just really out of the blue.

charlesleclerc hm..you want me to play detective?

pls do

charlesleclerc no problem mom amor❤️

❤️

user isn’t that yn’s kitchen??

-

so uhm.. yeah. Here’s a good handful of angst and Max’s head full of chaos 😬 Ups

Happy Valentine or whatever

[kneelingshadowsalome]

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

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

Just an idea 💡❤️😫

Fire it Up (John Price x F!Reader)

Word count: 7.8 k

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

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

You don't know what caught your attention first.

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

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

No, not too old…

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

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

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

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

He looks like someone who makes love to women.

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

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

"The bug's still there."

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

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

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

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

Because he's here too.

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

Mostly, he goes by the title Captain.

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

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

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

It's because of Price. 

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

"How long have you been here?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Ages."

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

"Have you ever tried a cigar?"

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

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

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

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

Fu–ck…

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

Jesus–get your shit together…

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

Fuck. How can you be so stu–

"Gently then, kid."

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

It's time to make him flustered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Beats those little sticks." 

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

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

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

….....

It doesn't end there.

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

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

No… making love to you.

And it drives you crazy.

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

God. When did it come to this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey, you ok?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Want me to give you a ride?"

Would love a ride.

Would fucking love to ride you.

"Sure. That's kind of you." 

Your eyes must be sparkling like the fucking stars.

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

"Did you have fun?"

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

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

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

You smile and turn to look at him.

"Mm… This one kinda did."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You wanna come up and have a nightcap?"

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

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

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

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

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

His hand falls over yours just before you reach it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're too young. 

You're forbidden.

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

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

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

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

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

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

…But it does the trick. 

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

A nightcap it is, then.

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

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

"You know what… Fuck this."

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

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

"You sure about this?" He asks softly.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

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

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

Love…

Shit.

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

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

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

"You really want an old man?"

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

"You're not that old." 

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

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

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

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

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

"Fucking hell, kid…"

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

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

You finally manage to push some buttons.

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

"Is that how you wanna play it?"

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

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

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

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

Fuck…

You almost moan. 

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

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

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

"This what you want? Hmm?"

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

"Yes. I want it. John."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then…

Jesusfuck–

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

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

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

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

"Ah–John…"

I'll be good… 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's all smoke. All fire.

"Yes…"

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

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

"Ahh shit..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Darlin'. Where's the bed?"

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

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

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

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

"Alright."

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

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

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

"Fuck, woman…" 

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

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

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

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

"Right? No more teasing."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah? That's what you want?"

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

You sniff. Whimper.

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

And you're not crying. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John. John.

"Fuh-…"

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

"Just like that, just like… hah…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you thought Price might, just might be intense…

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

"Ah–hah, God–"

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

"John–h…"

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

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

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

"Slow–slowly, Cap…" 

"Ahh fuck–"

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

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

"Fuck… fuck–!"

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

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

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

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

He feels so good. Too good…

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

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

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

"Gotta admit it was a good idea."

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

"We'll get there eventually."

"I have no doubt about that."

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

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

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

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

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

"Down the…hallway." 

A delicate little whisper, again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

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

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

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

"Have you ever been to Alaska?" 

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

"No."

"Would you like to go?"

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

"I was just thinking."

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

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

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

"Kid. Why Alaska?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is that so…?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Alaska.