I feel like names are very much attached to personalities. Such is the same with call signs. 

I’ve gone by my first name my whole life, but given things that have happened in my young adult years, I’ve decided instead of to start going by my middle name. It’s a redefining of my identity. 

Call signs might work in a very similar way.

Johnny is the loudmouth jokester, the man always cracking lighthearted jokes. The man who flirts his way into the good graces of women. Soap, however, is the slightly more calculated and meticulous Sergeant. He makes darker, more sarcastic jokes with more gruesome undertones.

Simon is a man who’d fall to his knees for the touch of the right person. Soft, and kind; Quiet and caring. He’s the type of man to read to you while you doze in his lap. Ghost, however, is the lieutenant of his Captain. He kneels for no one but Price. He’s hard-edged and loud shouts and no nonsense. He's the man to call when you need to bury a body, not cry over your ex. 

Kyle is the man who values morality above all else, even if he bends his own rules sometimes. He has integrity and honesty. He doesn’t exactly abhor dishonesty, though; sometimes he’ll use it himself. He’ll flirt with a girl for fun at a club, but she’ll know it’s nothing serious. Gaz, though, he’ll break his personal morals if it means completing a mission successfully. He’ll use innocents to further an interrogation effort. He’ll flirt to further an agenda. 

So- I feel like we really see a difference here-

But Price is just Price. 

He’s in control. Always. He’s strong, and reliable and fair to his men. He has his own morals, and he sticks to them. Religiously. He won’t let a bad guy get away. He won’t let his men be threatened or killed without consequence. He's steady at all times. That’s what makes him a good leader.

He maintains these characteristics, these constant truths, on and off the field, unchanging. That’s why Price is just Price. That’s why even when he’s John, he’s Price.

graves x f!reader

smut :)

You were supposed to be sleeping.

Lights off, door shut, uniforms half-hung, boots by the footlockers. The kind of military quiet that wasn’t peace—just discipline.

But you?

You were in your bunk, on your back, legs hiked up to you chest, pillow crammed between your teeth.

And Graves?

He was ruining you.

Real slow. Real deep. Real quiet, or at least he tried.

“Shh,” he breathed against your throat, voice syrupy-thick, hand clamped over your mouth now because the pillow wasn’t cuttin’ it. “Gotta keep that pretty little voice down, darlin’. Don’t want s'mone knockin’ just ‘cause they heard you cryin’ my name.”

You let out a helpless sound beneath his palm—half-moan, half-desperate whimper—because God, he felt so deep you swore you could taste it.

“Easy,” he cooed, cock buried so far inside you it felt like your lungs had to make room. “Know it’s a tight fit, sugar. But you take me like you were built for it.”

The frame creaked under his weight as he ground in slow, careful strokes, every one of them angled to punch the air out of you. You gripped his biceps, legs trembling around his shoulders, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from how full—how stretched—you were.

And he just smiled.

“Can’t make a mess’a you if you keep clenchin’ like that,” he murmured, brushing sweat-slick hair off your forehead, his voice dripping with sweetness. “You holdin’ off for me, baby? Tryna be good?”

You nodded, wide-eyed.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “That’s my girl. Bein’ quiet for me. Lettin’ me ruin you nice and slow.”

You were so close, hips twitching, thighs trembling.

And then—he pulled almost all the way out.

You whined, panicked, hips chasing him on instinct, and he just chuckled low, dark, dangerous.

“Aw, now. You know better. That noise? Gonna get us caught.”

You bit down on the pillow, hard enough to see stars.

And then he gave it to you—hard, deep, full-length thrust that had your whole body jolting under him, head slamming back into the mattress. The cry that ripped from your throat was strangled by his hand, muffled and soaked with heat.

“God damn, baby,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “You were made for this. Made to take all’a me, even when it’s too much.”

Your eyes rolled, fingers digging into his back like talons.

“You gonna let me fill you up nice?” he whispered, voice slurred with pleasure. “Real deep? Nice and quiet?”

You nodded—barely.

And he did.

And you came with his name burning in your throat and your body shaking from the effort of staying silent.

When it was over, he didn’t pull out.

Just held you there, breathing hard, bodies fused and slick with sweat.

“Next time,” he drawled against your skin, smug and satisfied, “we find a room with a little more insulation.”

And you, weak and wrecked and still full of him, mumbled into the pillow:

“Or just gag me right first, jackass.”

Fandom: Bleach

Sample Size: 12,078 stories

I have other things I should be working on

this bitch empty

normalize fans being reminded that boundaries between fandom and creators exist for a reason.

normalize fans recognizing their own creative potential without seeking canon validation

normalize the idea that fandom is a hobby, not an identity to threaten and fight and harass people over

normalize a healthy understanding of the boundaries between fiction and reality

it’s true, once art is released it’s no longer within the creator’s control - which is where fanworks and interpretations come in. but demanding that art be changed while it’s being produced, through feedback from fans, is a massive boundary violation which is what my post is speaking to. you can critique a show, but you cannot ask writers to give you want you personally want to see. also, the fact that genuine critique of pop culture has become conflated with fans wanting their ships to happen is another reason we need to observe strict boundaries between canon and fanon.