Welcome to Laswell’s Studio, your friendly one-stop shop for all of your artisan needs. Here at Laswell’s, we offer a variety of supplies suitable for almost any practising artist; from smocks to tools to canvasses - we’ve got it all! And if you feel like you’re missing that extra something special in your crafting life, just ask for Kate at the front counter.
Remember, a muse is a fickle thing so don’t wait, swing by Laswell’s Studio today! We’re here to help you bring your wonderful creations to life.
𑁍 Inspired by the Roman myth of Pygmalion and Galatea 𑁍
Photographer Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader
Woodcarver John “Bravo Six” Price x fem!reader
Tinkerer Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x fem!reader
Painter Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x fem!reader
Glassblower Rodolfo “Rudy” Parra x fem!reader: Backstory
Couldn't get this post from @brewed-pangolin out of my head so I had to sketch up something. I wanted to work around the Reader as best as I could so I couldn't capture it perfectly. But hopefully, this still carries the essence of the post.
Valentine's Day is approaching! You know what that means! Oh... no plans? No worries! Here at Luvit Inc., we have you covered. Just answer our short questionnaire and we'll send you something to make this holiday season worthwhile ;)
RAFFLE ENTRY - up to FIVE (5) winners will be chosen for a little extra holiday loving this season:
your first step is to take a quick uquiz assessment! there are 14 possible results.
reblog + let us know your results in the tags (this counts as your entry!)
you have until 11:59pm pst, feb. 16th to enter. any entries after that time and date will not be counted (but you can still take the quiz <3)
winners will be selected through the wheel of names and then privately messaged with your result (pls have your messages open so i can let you know!)
winners will have until 11:59pm pst, feb. 17th to confirm response
PRIZES:
a personalized blurb up to 750 words (can be either fluffy or suggestive)
reader-insert or OC-insert - i'll use whatever name/pronouns you let me know of!
will include your tagged result as the character
select a prompt starter from a provided list
prizes will be distributed on feb 19th unless otherwise notified
*eligibility requirements are: cannot be a blank blog, this cannot be the only post on your blog, reblogged and tagged with your result, entered before the time and date
**i've never made a uquiz before so i apologize in advance if it's bad 😭 it is mostly random and gives you a little dive into how i personally characterize and associate things with the different cod men. this is for fun and not meant to be taken super seriously! i just decided on 5 people since i'm still recovering from the sick but wanted to do something interactive and let y'all know that i really DO appreciate you ❤️
“Gooood morning, sir!” you sing as you sweep into Mr. Price’s office. “And happy birthday!”
His head shoots up from whatever he was brooding over, brows arched high in genuine shock. Surprise is a good look on him.
“How the bloody hell did you know it’s my birthday?” he demands, sitting back in his chair.
You beam, sauntering right up to his desk. His eyes flick to the round white box balanced on top of your tablet. Nothing big, a little something you baked at home after a couple dissatisfying trials.
“It’s my job to know,” you reply easily.
He blinks– a habit you flatter yourself thinking he might have picked up from you. “What else do you know about me?”
You tilt your head at him, a smug curve to your lips.
“Just the basics. Your full name and birthday,” you demure. Hold up your free hand and start rattling off on your fingers. “Height, allergies, tea preference, pastry preference, blood type, drink of choice…”
You set the box in front of him and resettle your tablet in the crook of your arm. He stares at you for a beat, expression bleached from surprise to outright shock. You spin your stylus around your fingers.
“Which is why I made you a marble cake with whiskey instead of rum.”
His eyes lock onto the unassuming white box. It’s not a big cake by any means, about six inches in diameter and only one layer. Just a small something for Price to have for himself. God knows the rest of the boys (and Farah) get enough treats from you as it is.
“You made this?” he asks, leaning a bit forward.
“Yessir,” you declare, “and I’m pretty good at it too. Perks of stress baking.”
He runs a hand down his face, as if his beard got ruffled. “Christ, you need a raise.”
“Yes. Anyway – I’ll get you a plate after I’m done,” you say, swatting at his curious hand. He huffs but sits back to give you his full attention. You smile in reward and begin reciting his schedule for the day.
He listens, only interrupting when he needs clarification on little details. You try not to be too endeared by the way his eyes occasionally flick to the covered cake. When you finish, you twitch your nose at him knowingly.
“I’ll get you a plate before I get started on that expense summary,” you say, turning on your heel.
You hum in surprise when a large, calloused hand catches your wrist. It’s not the hand of a businessman, you think, but a man used to work. A man who does the hard things for himself. Before meeting John Price, you would have scoffed at the thought of a rich man knowing labor. Price though… well, he’s been proving to be a welcome exception since the very start.
“Thank you for this, love,” he says, voice hitting that tone and pitch that makes your insides squirm. He caresses his thumb over the tender skin before releasing you. “Really.”
You can already feel the blush climbing up the back of your neck, over your ears, creeping onto your cheeks. Can’t ever catch a break with him.
“Well, don’t thank me ‘til you’ve tried it,” you try to deflect.
“Weren’t you the one saying you’re decent at baking.”
“Yeah, well… maybe I poisoned you or something – for that time you closed my skirt in the door.”
He sputters a bit. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from giggling at the indignance on his face. Such a handsome, almost regal man. You love to rile him up.
“I apologized. Profusely.”
And offered to buy you a new skirt entirely. The way you’d shrieked that that was not an appropriate response made Soap choke with laughter as people stared.
“Yeah, well, I hold a grudge,” you reply, shrugging.
It’s true, but not about things like that. Graves and his assistant? Oh, that’s practically a blood feud at this point. A silly little accident where your boss left a crease in your fourth favorite skirt? That’s not even something to forgive him for, but you sure as hell will never forget. Especially when he still seems mildly sheepish about it.
“You wouldn’t be the first,” he grumbles. You’re not sure if he’s talking about grudges or poisoning, but the dramatics finally make you laugh.
“But I could be the last,” you call over your shoulder as you flounce out.
Not for long though, returning with a disposable fork from the breakroom. There’s something amusing to only you about a man in a thousand-pound suit using cheap plastic.
“Come to see me keel over for yourself, then?” he asks.
“Well, I can’t have you getting cake crumbs on the expense reports,” you reason.
He’s already got the lid open. No icing on the cake – you’re shit at decorating, so you chose a recipe without icing. The flavor of the whiskey and sugar should be plenty. To make up for it, you folded a tiny placard and wrote “Happy Birthday, Boss!” in your best loopy cursive.
He takes the fork, fingers brushing yours in the process. You remind yourself not to snatch your hand away like a scandalized Victorian lady. Christ, you really need to get it together.
“Tell me how you like it,” you say, making to leave again.
“Come try it yourself,” he protests.
You pause, give him an amused look. “I didn’t actually poison it, sir. You’ve not done anything that heinous. Yet.”
He snorts, carefully digging out a respectable bite from the edge. “If you see fit to toss a little rat poison in, then I’ll likely having it coming.”
You hum. “Arsenic is more my style. Classic.”
In the corner of the room, Simon makes a little noise you’ve come to recognize as repressed laughter. You shoot him a quick, amused look, before shifting your attention back as Price gestures with the fork.
“Regardless, you should get a little taste of the fruits of your labor,” he offers.
The fruits of your labor, you think with a bit of regret, will be his enjoyment of your baking. You’re not sure when his admiration became your favorite part of the day, but you’re spoiled for positive feedback from your otherwise stern boss.
“You first,” you insist, “it’s your birthday after all.”
He keeps unnerving eye contact as he brings the bite to his mouth, tongue flicking out to catch any spare crumbs. He hums, eyes closing a for a second in enjoyment, before opening and fixating on you again.
“That’s bloody brilliant, love.”
He scoops up another piece, brings it right to your mouth. You hurry to put a hand beneath in case it falls; don’t even think before parting your lips. Sugar and whiskey, chocolate and vanilla, burst across your tongue.
“Oh!” you hum, hiding your mouth while you chew. “That is pretty good.”
It only occurs to you as he takes another bite for himself, a twinkle in his eye, that you just ate after him. Used the same fork like it was nothing, like that’s an acceptable thing to do as his assistant. You’re not squeamish by any means, no. It’s just… it’s gotta be crossing some sort of professional line. You can’t imagine any of your previous bosses ever sharing with you like this.
“Let me tell you, if you did poison it,” he muses, “I wouldn’t mind it being the last thing I ate.”
You roll your eyes, swat lightly at his arm again. “I told you; it’s not poisoned.”
“I know, you just took a bite,” he answers smugly.
You click your tongue at him, playing at exasperated. “I’m going to work now.”
“Ta, love.”
--
“Oi, li’l miss?”
You glance up at Soap curiously.
(Recognize, in the back of your mind, that it’s a nickname that’s not only spread – thanks, Simon – but that you’re responding to as quickly as your own name now. You should probably feel some type of way about that. Probably righteously annoyed or something. You don’t.)
Soap is standing at your desk, shifting from foot to foot. Uneasy. But the expression on his usually friendly face isn’t nervous. It’s… something else. Something you don’t know how to decipher but makes you sit up a bit straighter, alert.
“What’s up, buttercup?” you ask, voice light.
“There’s some bloke down in the lobby, says he’s got a date with you?” he explains, frowning deeper than you’ve ever seen.
It gets deeper – and angrier – when he sees the blood drain from your face. You push your chair away from your desk to hide the tremble that’s trying to infest your hands.
Absolutely not. This is your place of work, dammit. Where you’re calm and collected, the person anyone can turn to for solutions. You’ve worked so hard to craft this sleek vessel of professional grace and you’re not about to have it sullied like this.
“He does not have a date with me,” you state, keeping your voice flat and tight. “Would you come down with me, please?”
“’Course,” he replies instantly.
You stop by Price’s office, knock twice, then poke your head in when he calls for entry.
“I’ve just got to pop out for a mo’,” you explain, “I’ll be right back!”
He nods and you duck out again before he can notice anything amiss. For a rich bastard, he’s too observant of others. (Especially you.)
“What’s he here fer, then?” Soap asks in the elevator.
You let out an annoyed puff of air. “A reality check, I assume.”
He side-eyes you but doesn’t ask any further before the doors open.
Sure enough, standing in the lobby, is the last man you want to see. Your ex, Brandon.
“There you are, bunny. You’ve been keeping me waiting for—”
“One, do not call me that. It’s inappropriate,” you interrupt, crisp and sharp. “Two, I haven’t been keeping you waiting, because there’s nothing to wait for. Three, get out.”
He rolls his eyes, that smarmy curve to his lips never leaving. You don’t think he’s even noticed Soap just behind you yet.
“Look, I know you’re still in a mood about everything,” he says, “but that’s why I’m taking you out. To smooth things over. Clear the air, and all that.”
“You’re not taking me out,” you repeat. “Get out.”
He crosses his arms, tilting his head in that condescending way you’ve always despised. It sets your teeth on edge, makes you burn with anger.
“This isn’t your building,” he goads, “you can’t kick me out.”
“Might as well be hers, mate,” Soap interjects, “she could kick out the goddamn queen.”
Brandon’s focus shifts to him. You feel a curl of vindictive satisfaction when his expression curdles a bit. Soap may not be a particularly tall man, but he can be intimidating. Built thick and strong, doesn’t bother to conceal his physique at all with his sleeves rolled up his forearms. And you’re not oblivious to his looks either. Soap is a handsome man. A walking ego bruise for a man like your ex.
“Fine,” he huffs, “then come outside so we can talk like adults.”
You click your tongue, fold your hands behind your back to conceal the way your fingers clench into fists. “We did talk like adults. You just failed to listen like one.”
And ohhhh, the petty satisfaction that bubbles through you at the way his teeth click in shock, a flush of embarrassed anger curtaining his face.
“Now, I’ll ask one more time and then my coworker is going to toss you out himself.” Soap chooses that moment to crack his knuckles. “Leave this building. You’re not welcome.”
You drop your arms and turn on your heel, ready to get back to work and compartmentalize this until you’ve got a fuck-off sized glass of wine in front of you.
“Hey, we’re not—”
Even if you did see what happened, you don’t think you could have followed. It happens so fast. One second, Soap’s eyes are on you. Burning with questions and fury on your behalf, checking that you’re okay. The next, he’s darted past you. There’s a scuffle, fancy shoes squeaking on polished floors, a thick, wet pop. Then Brandon is shouting in pain.
You jump, twist to see what the commotion is. Soap’s got a white-knuckled grip on Brandon’s extended wrist – though now it’s bent at an awful angle, you realize he must have been reaching for you. Your skin crawls.
“Away ‘n bile yer heid,” Soap growls, shoving Brandon back roughly.
He doesn’t fall on his ass but it’s a near thing. With the eyes of reception, a few employees, and you on him, he spits a curse at Soap and retreats. You stare after for a moment, lips parted in shock.
“All set, miss?” Soap asks, adjusting his sleeves.
“Um, yeah,” you say. Blink and pull yourself together. “I mean, yes. Let’s head back up before the boss misses us.”
He places a hand on the small of your back on the short walk back. It feels grounding rather than proprietary; you’re grateful for it. He lasts until the doors close before turning to you.
“The hell was that about, lass?”
You sigh, smooth your skirt down for lack of anything else to do. “That was my ex. He wants to… reconcile, I suppose. And he’s quite keen on getting his way.”
Soap mutters a few choice words under his breath. Scottish slang, you suspect. You’ll have to get him to teach you sometime.
“Anyway, thank you for your help,” you continue, eyes on the elevator doors. “I can’t believe he showed up here. I’m so embarrassed.”
“You’ve nothin’ to be embarrassed about, hen,” he protests. “He’s the creeper here.”
You sigh. “I know, I just… you don’t think less of me, do you? That I didn’t… take care of him myself.”
Soap’s expression softens. He draws you into a quick one-armed hug. “You did take care of ‘im, far as I’m concerned. I was just there to enforce. No need to mess up yer pretty nails, aye?”
You smile, small but genuine. “Thanks, again.”
“Anytime, li’l miss.”
The elevator chimes as it reaches the top floor. You turn to Soap just before the doors open.
1. You are responsible for your own media experience.
2. There is such a thing as a healthy level of avoidance towards topics that make you feel unwell or even (in a real-life clinical definition of the term) trigger you - but you are the one to actively take care of what you view.
3. Avoiding does not mean policing others.
4. You have no right to tell artists to censor themselves - you may criticize what others do, you may dislike it, that’s fine - but actively asking for censorship when you could easily unfollow or block a person just makes you look incompetent in your use of the internet.
5. Do not give people on tumblr or /any/ website the responsibility for your emotional well-being. Because these people do not even know you so no, you have no right to ask them to take care of you.
Sorry if I'm being a dummy, but how are people engaging in purity culture? Is not liking rape somehow engaging in purity culture? (Genuine question cause I'm very deeply confused! I don't mean any disrespect at all!!)
so, how you phrased this question is really interesting to me.
you said "Is not liking rape somehow engaging in purity culture?" and not "is not enjoying the depiction of rape in fiction somehow engaging in purity culture?"
just rape. the act itself. now, maybe it was a mis-type or you were just going for brevity, but there's a world of difference between the two sentences.
obviously, the answer to that first question is 'no, absolutely not. the act of rape is horrific.' and to be honest, the answer to the second question is also no! nobody says you have to like it! i don't blame people at all for not enjoying rape/stalking/coercion/kidnapping/etc in fics, your taste is your taste and i would never insist that you're being a prude or a puritan just because our tastes don't align.
however.
insisting that nobody should ever write about those things, ever, is purity culture. insisting that people are 'sick in the head' or 'perverts' and that it should be illegal to write about 'illegal and violent acts' is purity culture. harassing the people who write about those topics is purity culture.
think about horror movies for a moment. do you think wes craven is a pervert and a monster for writing nightmare on elm street? do you think he deserves prison or harassment for creating it? he wrote about a pedophile who kills children, sure, but in no way does anyone who uses critical thinking think he approves of those things! we're all pretty much in agreement that he's just writing fucked up stories for our amusement and enjoyment. the man who kills kids in their sleep with razor claws is simply a spectacle and is to be enjoyed as such, not taken as an endorsement.
you have to take that mentality and apply it to all creators, tbh. i don't think suzanne collins wants the hunger games to actually happen, do you? i don't think grr martin thinks that incestuous rape is okay, either. they're just telling stories, that's all. just because you create a character doesn't mean you agree with everything they say or do. same goes for fanfiction writers. just because you write about things doesn't mean you endorse them. sometimes writing is just going 'hey wouldn't it be fucked up if...' and then running with it.
(also- sometimes, but not all the time, people write about fucked up stuff because it happened to them and they need an outlet to talk about it. i'm not gonna get too heavy into this particular aspect of authoring dark fics, but needless to say it's not our place to judge or ask about that shit. i also don't think that suffering the trauma you write about needs to be a requirement for writing about fucked up stuff or junji ito would be deader than hell)
fun fact that'll probably get people mad at me: for the brief, brief time i could afford college, i was assigned to read lolita in a lit class i was taking. if you don't know about lolita, it's a book about a pedophile who obsesses over his step-daughter, and it's written from his perspective. to be honest- i didn't like the book. that kind of topic is very much not my cup of tea, humbert humbert is such a creep and an asshole, and i thought the ending was just so tremendously sad. but! while i didn't enjoy the story, i still think it was worth reading. the story of the sad fate of lolita was still worth telling despite the elements that made me go ick, because, to me, it showed how much damage humbert humbert had really done that lolita (spoiler alert) ran to the arms of a different pedophile when she finally got away from him. she could never be free of the cycle until she eventually died. it's fucked up, but thank god it's fake!
what i think is important to really drive home here is that i don't think nabokov was a pervert for writing lolita, and what's more, i'm not a pervert monster for having read it! and neither was my professor for having assigned it! that's because i know that fiction and reality are not the same. there is no lolita. there is no humbert humbert. they were conjured out of the ether to tell a fucked-up and sad story for the entertainment of readers. nobody got hurt. nobody died. everything was fake, and the world kept spinning.
all that said, though- i DO think it's important that when folks write about darker content that they tag and warn appropriately so that people who are triggered by those sorts of elements in writing have the ability to opt out. i know a lot of folks like to say 'oh well books and tv and movies don't come with trigger warnings' to which i say 'maybe they should?'. idk, maybe it's just one more way that i'm better than grr martin (i'm joking, i'm joking)
anyways sorry this was a novel, and thank you for asking so nicely
Summary: Task Force 141 operates successfully without an omega, at least that’s what Price has been saying since its formation. Two alphas and two betas balance the pack just fine, and they have the numbers to prove it.
It works for a while, until the Omega Initiative is born and the 141 find themselves having to adjust to the sudden addition of an omega to their pack. Fresh out of an institute, you’re hardly fit for their secretive, dangerous world, or so Price thinks.
As each member of the team gets closer to you, things begin to come to light, not only about you but about the decision to force you into their lives.
Maybe, just maybe, Price was wrong and the 141 does need an omega after all.
Pairings: Poly 141 x reader, Price x Gaz, Ghost x Soap
Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, NSFW content, explicit smut, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), knotting, biting, claiming, mating cycles, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, age differences, military inaccuracies, canon typical violence, blood, weapons, language, brief torture, hurt/comfort, let's be real this is so unrealistic but it's a/b/o you're not here for accuracy.
