#British devil moment

[add1rall]

You are trying so hard

[saintgoths]

ʀɪᴅᴇ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴡʙᴏʏ

ARTHUR MORGAN, SIMON GHOST RILEY AND JOEL MILLER.

SOME PEOPLE MIGHT WONDER WHAT'S GHOST BRITISH ASS HERE FOR AND AHT! IT'S BASED ON HIS COWBOY SKIN.

THIS IS MY THANK YOU FOR 500+ FOLLOWERS POST

WARNING - NASTY SEX, BREEDING KINK AND P!LINKS

ARTHUR MORGAN

He had been so thick you couldn’t help but bite down on the pillow, this isn’t the first time you had him but whenever Arthur was inside of you, you could feel the way you had stretched to adjust to his size, normally when you had fucked men who were in fact bigger than you it was painful, but Arthur, Arthur knew how to use it, to stir you into a swirl of lustful craziness and break you into a whimpering mess.

As reflex, you had tightened around him, your cunt hot as the friction of his beginning motion began to quicken, and when you felt the arch of his cock slip deeper into you, you couldn’t help but push out a trembling sigh. “Oh fuck!” You had moaned, already overstimulated by his embrace, Arthur continued to rock his hips, focused to aid you to reach your high, he had been keen on your every movement, how you would further your arch whenever the tip of his shaft kissed a soft spot and the way you’d tightly grip the bed sheets when your moans would twist into a higher pitch.

It had always been like this, Arthur would at first be silent when it came to fucking you but as time moved on, he’d become more vocal about how good you felt around him, how tight your sex was and how he only wanted you to himself. Arthur barely showed his possessiveness, in shame you’d make fun of him, but if he was aware of how turned on you’d get whenever you would catch him staring down another suitor or belittle them, unconsciously realising he’d be doing it because he craved you, worshiped you and was a love sick fool.

You tucked your bottom lip behind your teeth as you could feel the pad of his thumb stroke your anus, he knew that always shaped you crazy, how your cunt would become wetter and slippery around his girth and how you’d thoughtlessly hump yourself backwards, greedy for his love and eager to feel his cum fill inside of you. “Like that?” Arthur moaned, his voice deep and throaty, rough like pine cones but lewd like the devil himself. “Like that babygirl?” He’d tease and when you’d nod your head, he would move his other hand to your hair, pulling you closer to him while he continued to move his hips forwards.

“Take me,” he whispered into your ear, your eyes blurry as you could feel tears coat your eyes, he was so big, but felt so good, “Take me,” he’d echo while his other hand would slip to one of your breasts, his palm cupped over it as he would circle the nub of your nipple with his thumb and finger. “That’s it,” he’d sooth as your body shook against his. Your moans embarrassingly soared as your nectar would coat around his length and spill against the bed sheets. “That’s it, good girl, cum for me, good girl, yeah? You’re my good girl,” he’d hum as he would continue to fuck you, your mouth wet with your own saliva as you had attempted to sum up words.

Yet, you had sounded so futile, senseless as he fucked his orgasm into you, his semen so hot and filling you had felt some of it leak down your thighs, but you were rapacious, desiring excessively for more of him that when he pulled himself out, you helped his level his wet and sticky cock to your arse.

REFERENCE

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY

You had lost count on how many times he has made you climaxed under this one showdown, he had just returned back home, impatient but smooth with how he handled you, prior to his return you had sent your boyfriend a plethora of lewd images that had commenced him to fall into his sensual pit, the moment he stepped through the door and closed the exit behind him, he put down his bag and kissed you. Telling you how much he’d take care yet ravage you, and he had always kept his promises.

With his hand underneath your knee, he had continuously rocked his hip forward, with his width had consumed you, you couldn’t help but fall limp within his touch, over-stimulated by the excessive pleasure, you looked at him with watered eyes as you had cried out pleasured wails. “Keep doing that! Keep doing that!” You repeated before he started to moan through your nose you had yelped once you had felt his hand slap against your buttocks.

“Yeah! Oh!” You cried out, beguiled with the hot and dark look that shaded his eyes you had been completely enamoured that he had taken off his mask, revealed everything to you, his body, his scars and the beautiful and comely look he had on his face that had infatuated you every time you took a look at him, you couldn’t believe he was yours, just yours, allowing you to use him for your pleasure as he did to you, he had felt so painfully good you’d whimper whenever you’d feel him slip out of you, dangerously craving for him to fill you up with his cock, there’d be a glint that would briskly sparkle in his eyes once he’d be aware with how much you had wanted him.

“Look at you,” he’d mutter, his heavy voice buried and profound which had set you into another wave of thrill, he had known just the sound of his voice would make you cum and he’d tease you with a comment there and then, but the second he would be set to talking to you while fucking his cock so broad and deep into you, the hearth and wetness of your cunt would profoundly coat his length, making his movements more polished and slick as his cock would begin to throb.

“Taking me like that, you’re such a good girl,” he’d mutter and with your mouth wide open you could feel another crest of orgasm influx and attempt to peak. “You like that? Me fucking you like this, huh?” He’d poke and with a quick nod and eluding words you had gripped your bed sheets, your opening hot as your nectar.

Your eyes tightly screwed shut as you climaxed, agreeing to everything he would say to you. “No one fucked you like this before huh?”

“No! no!” You’d whine, relieved as you would feel his fluids seep into you, his hand that had been under your legs had softened and eventually he pulled himself out of you, his chest heavily moving up and down as he caught his breath fore pressing his lips against your mouth, with a short moan, you had placed your hand against his chest as you returned his embrace, but when you had pulled away, you had looked into his eyes. “Let’s do it again tomorrow.”

“You will be the death of me,” he smiled before he kissed your nose and laid beside you.

REFERENCE

JOEL MILLER

He needed this release, so much pent-up stress and anger he had unconsciously desired to fuck out and you had been there, like a gift for his much tenacious and unyielding force. He had been unsure if you would want him, but the way your eyes looked when you had noticed the hard bulge he had terribly hid beneath his pants, had sent him the green flag, you had actually been the one to make the first move as you had always wanted to fuck him.

He was so big and strong, and you loved the sight of his muscled arms, his muscles arms that had now hung around your waists as you had bounced on his cock, mouth wide open as you had struggled to make noise due to how engulfed you were. You had felt the way his hands had now been placed on your hips as he aided you up and down his length, your sex glazing his cock with its fluids, overwhelmed by how the curve of his cock stroked against your spot, your cunt which had countlessly clenched around him in response to his rugged embrace had commenced you to dig your nails into his muscled chest.

The sounds were so bawdy and erotic, the wet racy noises that were being made by each other’s movements had heated Joel into a further passion, how your breast bounced and how you moved your hips forward as you continuously searched for your orgasm, you were like a bunny in a fever, exposed how much lust you had for him bottled up had moved Joel into an ardent and wistful state, how he had possessively clung onto you as your moans sang into his ears.

“That’s right sweetheart, keep fucking me like that,” he’d groan as he’d screw his eyes shut. “Keep going like that---you feel so good, girl,” he’d whine, his tone gruff and throaty as he could feel himself twitch beneath you, aware how you had moved one of his hands towards your breast, helping him give it a good squeeze before you started to roll your hips, your swift movements compelling Joel into a tranced state as he started to jerk his hips upwards.

He had entered a moment of silence, his mouth opened as he carelessly fucked his cock deep into you, his rough movements had helped you to find your voice again and you squealed due to how heavy and thick he had felt inside of you, how the head of his cock licked your sweet spots thus had sent you into a bubbled trance as you had stopped moving, your figure tense as you had allowed Joel to use your body and milk his cum into you, your eyes rolled backwards as your body had jerked and flinched every second to your own orgasm.

“You good there?” Joel had asked with a smirk and with a brief nod, you had collapsed your body against his.

REFERENCE

[sc0tters]

Best | Jack Hughes

summary: the time has come for you to return to New Jersey, does seeing Jack make you fall into old ways or do you finally stay strong?

request: yes/no

warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol, mentions of sexual relationships but nothing overly explicit.

word count: 3.69k

authors note: first off happy 2025! this is our first fic of the year and we have waited way to long for this part to come out but I seriously think the wait was worth it all in the end. I was going to give us a good ending but then I heard Best by Gracie Abrams and you guys said we could do the angst soo… if it’s not clear, this is a sequel (that I throughly enjoyed writing) but you don’t have to ready part one, it’s just that this one will make a lot more sense if you did first.

part one

This was meant to be a trip you were excited for.

Christmas and New Years in Jersey with Luke at your side. It had been planned since you missed your annual trip to the lake house after your parents surprised you with a much needed summer in Europe.

Just as you should have predicted things ran cold with Jack the moment you the garden state last time round. So now as you stood in Newark airport waiting for Luke to show up you had to force a smile on your face, as the pit in your stomach grew.

Nerves coursed through your veins as you hated that Jack still got to have an effect of you.

This was meant to be a trip that you could use to just catch up with your best friend, but still you stood there forced to have his older brother be the one who was on your mind.

All you were left with was the memories, that you couldn’t seem to part with “guess who?” Your thought was broken as hands covered your eyes “are you that one devils defender?” You grinned knowing that it was Luke who stood behind you.

His shitty attempt of a British accent made you laugh “that one devils defender?” Luke scoffed as he dropped his hands allowing you to turn to face him “Lukey!” You squealed pulling him into a hug.

The boy smiled as he wrapped his arms around you, feeling happy that you were back there with him. Luke had seen you in Detroit over the last two months but this was the first time you both got to spend actual time together since February.

Luke’s eyes scanned your face to see how much you had changed recently, your eyes didn’t seem to shine as bright as they once did. He knew that something was up with you, it would have taken a fool to not.

As the man who knew you like the back of his hand Luke knew that you’d also only tell him once you were ready. He just really hoped that what ever seemed to drag you down, would be set free before it was too late “I’ve missed you.” Your voice was soft as you ran your fingers through the curls you used to help him take care of in your dorm.

He was quick to grab your suitcase from you “we’ve got so much to talk about!” He confessed motioning to you to follow him to his car.

The ride was long but felt short in time as the two of you didn’t shut up, catching up on all things school, hockey, and life itself.

Jack had come back from a workout as the two of you arrived, and you swore that the universe was out to get you. The elevator doors opened on the gym floor and that’s where you were met with the middle Hughes brother.

He was sweaty as he had a towel that sat in his shoulders “didn’t think you were gonna be here yet.” Jack stepped into the elevator as you shrugged “flight got in early.” You tried to pay no mind to the fact that your body felt on fire as his eyes practically burnt into your soul.

Luke sucked at his teeth “it’s good because Jacky here got us into hosting a party tomorrow.” He mumbled sending his brother a glare “Jack eh?” You teased wanting to let out a laugh.

Jack smirked as he looked at you “you want to go on a booze run with me or get snacks?” You didn’t even need to answer as Luke cut you off “you want to get a partner for this prep then you find your own best friend.” He pointed out wrapping his arm around you.

The middle Hughes boy let his lips form a pout “and here I was thinking we’d share her.” The words made you cough as the elevator doors opened to their apartment floor.

Jack laughed “good to see ya Blossom.” The nickname rolled off of his tongue as he walked out first.

The next twenty four hours you were able to avoid Jack for the most part as Luke wanted to show you all the parts of the city that he had grown to love since you had last been. And the fact that he still shopped like a teenage boy helped, as you were having to explain to Luke what a party really needed.

Your luck ran out as Luke got drunk whilst the continued on. Jack clearly knew what he was doing when he bough Luke’s favourite shooter, as the youngest Hughes boy currently stood practically jumping off the walls.

Some of their teammates knew of you from your last time being there and how Luke never seemed to shut up about you. Nico had already been over to say hello again as you had gotten yourself a drink “Y’know I’ve got to get back to my sister but I think you should go see what Jack wants.” Nico motioned in the direction of his teammate.

Jack looked at you as you nodded “thanks for the heads up.” you mumbled seeing the American a confused look as he watched you see if there was someone behind you.

You tried to avoid him but you felt as if you were trapped as Jack seemed to be where ever you turned after that. Every time you went to a different part of the apartment he was talking to a different person. But of course his eyes never seemed to leave yours.

So as you watched this blonde girl run her fingers over his shirt you finally felt sick, rather than watching the scene continue on. You instead opted to chug the remainder of the whiskey in your cup, before you headed to the bathroom hoping that a slash of cold water would do the trick.

Your face felt warm as the sound of water running in the faucet trickled in your ears “pull yourself together.” You sighed resting over the counter as the door opened “can’t you see this is busy-” you grumbled cutting yourself off as you locked eyes with Jack.

He sent you a glare “you know you’ve got a funny way of getting all mad at me when I go talk to someone.” Jack let out a cruel laugh “ain’t like you’re fucking that Canadian or somethin’.” He added making you scoff.

You had started a solid relationship with Ethan right as the summer started as you both seemed to bond over heartbreak. His girlfriend had dumped him and as everyone celebrated the end of the school year, you both found each other in bed needing the company and the release.

Before you knew it, those meet-ups became weekly things. You needed a break from Jack and that seemed to be the one thing that really did calm your mind, even if it was only for that night.

But as Jack stood in front of you, you couldn’t believe that he got mad “you keeping tabs on me or some shit?” you laughed almost wondering if someone was playing some sick prank on you.

He still stood tall as he rolled his eyes “don’t play dumb with me.” He muttered letting a loose strand of your hair get caught between his fingers.

His touch made your body feel on fire “and it’s hard to not know when Luke won’t seem to shut up about it.” Jack added making you smirk “you jealous that he ain’t heard about you?” You asked tilting your head up to face him.

Jack stood there for a moment as he thought about it “you think I’m gonna be jealous of a little college fuck toy?” He laughed almost taunting you “know only I fuck you the best.” The middle Hughes boy knew he was right as you pushed your thighs together trying to dispose of the heat that built up in them.

You shook your head “not anymore.” Your lips pursed together as you shook your head.

Jack noticed how you were still wearing that same perfume of yours that drove him wild “got a long time here.” You still had four days left there and if your trip was going to end like the last one, he knew you’d end up in his bed at least once.

But in that bathroom you tried to remain strong “you wanna act like you don’t fuck me and leave me?” You scoffed wanting to honestly hit him in that moment.

You pressed your pointer finger against his chest “like I’m not just the same as every other girl that you fuck and forget about as if I’m nothing.” Your voice broke as you almost felt your emotions making you feel nauseous.

He could read the pain in your face “don’t say that.” He clicked his tongue as he reached for your arm “know you’re my special girl.” The title was meant to fill you with joy and praise, and it would have if this was February.

You couldn’t help but laugh as you shook your head “fool me once shame on you, fool me twice and I’m the fucking idiot.” You sucked at your teeth watching him remain silent.

There was so much anger in your body “I can’t believe I actually let you fuck me.” You spat turning around to finally leave.

The door to the bathroom whipped as you were faced with Luke “you fucked my best friend?” He scoffed as he looked over you and towards his brother.

His eyes traveled down to yours as he frowned “I’ve got to go.” You mumbled pushing past him as your cheeks turned red, flushed with embarrassment as the boy’s teammates and their partners eyes stuck on you.

You went through the crowed as you grabbed your scarf “I can’t believe you!” Was the last thing you heard before you let the door shut behind you, desperate to be as far away from there as possible.

But the first thing you needed was a drink and a strong one.

It had been hours since what you called your catastrophic meltdown in the Hughes apartment, and Luke still refused to listen to a word that Jack said “she’ll be okay Luke.” His voice broke the silence as the younger Hughes snapped his head in his brother’s direction.

Luke chewed at the inside of his cheek “she’s a smart kid.” Jack added finally breaking his younger brother “you don’t think I already know that?” The defenseman scoffed as he threw his cloth onto the table.

It was rare that he got this angry, but tonight Jack pushed his past his limits “she’s my best friend and you just had to go and fuck her?” Luke felt tears form in his eyes as the betrayal stood in front of him “and for what? To make her life hell and make me think that I did something to make her hate me?” Your avoidance of being in the same place as Jack finally all made sense. You weren’t avoiding Luke but rather the pain his brother managed to so easily inflict on you without a second thought.

The middle Hughes boy shook his head as he let out a sigh “you think I wanted to walk away from her?” Jack sucked at his teeth as he let his eyes squint into a harsh line “you don’t think that I spend most nights fucking wishing she wasn’t your best friend so that this wouldn’t have been so complicated.” Those words made Luke ball his hand into a fist.

He felt his heart pound in his ears as he grew irritated “how is you screwing her and leaving complicated?” Luke’s voice raised as both boys did little to care about what their neighbours would think.

Jack knew he couldn’t really say it, even if there was a truth that made him feel trapped “she deserves so much better than you.” Luke spat letting his words hit his brother like bullets.

The room felt claustrophobic as the middle Hughes boy tried to ignore that he agreed “you’re right.” Jack sighed making Luke freeze as his eyebrows raised.

He chewed at the inside of his cheek “I love her but I couldn’t be the reason you two stopped being friends.” His confession lingered in the air as Luke realised that his brother was being truthful, even if it was as ironic as it seemed.

But Luke didn’t get a chance to offer some form of a rebuttal as the echo of something falling onto the wooden floor of the living room. There you stood with now tear stained cheeks “I forgot my wallet.” You announced holding the red purse in your hand with your eyes widened.

Jack felt his throat go dry, as it was clear that you had been there to hear what he had said. He wanted to reach out for you but instead Luke beat him to it “we should talk.” Luke didn’t give either of you a chance to respond as he pulled you out of the apartment.

Snow sat on the windowsill of the hotel room as Luke joined you on the bed after what felt like the quietest uber ride of your life.

You hadn’t stopped fidgeting as never really thought that you’d have to tell Luke about this part of your life “I’m so sorry Luke.” Your voice was barely above a whisper as you expected him to yell, scream, even just be disappointed in you.

But instead the boy clicked his tongue to break his silence “do you love him?” Luke knew that you had always had some degree of a crush on his older brother. Yet he never assumed it would have been something reciprocated or even acted upon.

The question lingered in your mind as you couldn’t find the right words to explain yourself to him “I did but I don’t know how I could like him when he has hurt me twice now.” You fiddled with the rings on your fingers as you let your eyes stare at your knee.

Your answer made Luke frown as you too were processing what Jack had confessed “and it’s for the best that nothing does happen.” You added, not sure if you were telling yourself that too or just the boy in front of you.

Luke placed his hand on yours “you know that it’s okay to still want him.” He sighed knowing how his brother could be and the love you held for him “I just wish you had told me.” His words made you let out a soft laugh.

A tear slid down your cheek as you cocked your head “that I was fucking your brother or that I liked him?” The words made him erupt into laughter that made yours follow shortly after.

He shook his head as he pulled you into an awkward hug as you still sat cross legged “I just missed you is all.” Luke had stayed up more nights than he could count over the last year as he tried to figure out what had happened to you.

You wanted to believe that everything would be fine between the two of you, that it’d all go back to some sense of normal. But you knew deep down that it would never be the case. Because as you lay there talking yourself to sleep as Luke refused to let you go, part of you wished that it was Jack that held you.

Sure you got your best friend back to the greed you held caused you to want the middle Hughes boy now more than ever. Luke had seen you through your highs and lows so you almost guessed that there was now a silent expectation that he’d always show up for you. And that was it, Luke was always going to show up for you.

It should have been enough, and you really did want it to be that way.

Luke let out a quiet ‘mhm’ as he squeezed your side nestling against you “I just wish things never had to change.” You sighed letting your head rest on his chest as the sound of his heart beat soothed you to sleep.

On the other side of the city, Jack lay there as he struggled to sleep. Thoughts of you plagued his mind, as he too wanted to be selfish. You being in his life as merely Luke’s best friend should have been enough.

The boundary that the title drew should never have been broken. But Jack was so desperate to have you in more of his life than just during the summer or when you’d visit Luke.

It seemed that up until tonight Jack didn’t know how to put what he felt into words and now that he had told Luke the truth, Jack had opened the faucet of emotions that couldn’t be turned off.

So as he lay staring at the alarm clock that sat on to his bedside table, Jack couldn’t help but think about what it was like to have you beside him. The thought of your imprint in his bed was like a drug as his hand gripped the empty side of his bed.

Silence consumed him as he shut his eyes, praying that he hadn’t waited until it was too late.

You and Luke had managed to avoid Jack and the apartment for the rest of your trip “you sure you want to do this?” Luke’s question lingered on your mind as you stared at the front door “if I don’t then I’m worse than him.” You wouldn’t have assumed that the pain you experienced would ever have been felt by Jack.

But still that didn’t help your hands from clamming up as the door opened. Jack paused the tv as he heard the noise, making his head whip around.

His eyes landed on you and it was clear he hadn’t properly slept in days “hey.” His voice was soft as his gaze fell onto his younger brother “I’ll go get the car ready.” Luke offered taking your suitcase with him as he left the two of you alone.

You fiddled with the ring on your finger as the middle Hughes brother walked up to you “I’m sorry.” Jack cleared his throat as he stopped in front of you.

He ran his fingers through his hair hoping you knew what to say back “I’m leaving.” You admitted as your mouth felt dry.

Nerves rocked your body as he shook his head “can we talk about what happened?” He pleaded as he felt as if his throat constricted. The boy reached for you as you pulled away, shaking your head no.

It took all of you to not break “we just hurt each other.” You pointed out knowing that your heart couldn’t take one more time of Jack walking out on you.

His words meant nothing if his actions didn’t fulfil them and right now, you weren’t ready to just take that chance “I love you.” If you didn’t know any better you would have sworn it sounded as if he was begging you to just say it back to him.

Your voice broke as you saw how his eyes were full of pain “you hurt me Jack, you don’t love me.” Jack never knew of your nights in your dorm as you sat there in tears wishing that Jack could hold even an ounce of the love you held for him.

He shook his head wanting to wipe away the tears from your cheeks “I never meant to do that.” Of course Jack never did mean to but it seemed as if he just couldn’t help it. It now seemed as if it was easier to hurt you than call you his.

The two of you cried as Jack gripped your hands in his not wanting to hear you say what he thought was coming “if you love me Jack.” You cut yourself off as you sniffled.

It made his heart break as he squeezed your hand “I’m so in love with you.” He confessed making you shake your head “you need to let me go.” Your voice was barely a whisper as you nodded.

Time felt as it is slowed as the boy dropped your hands whilst he froze “and if things are different down the line maybe we can try again.” The offer almost felt like a shitty taunt, that if Jack hadn’t fucked up you could have been his now.

He wanted to fight you on this, he really did “I’ll see you in the summer.” You knew you were going to be there and that was your personal wound. Memories would have to be made that would try to cover those of Jack and that night that started this all.

Your thumb felt rough against his cheek as you wiped away a tear of his “don’t do this.” He pleaded with you wanted to do anything to make you change your mind “goodbye Jack.” You gave him a soft nod as you saw Luke stood by the door with his keys in his hand.

It took all your strength to not go turn around and run into Jacks arms as you walked out of the door.

Because the truth was that, you were still convincing yourself that you had done the best thing for yourself.

Even if you were convinced that in that moment you lost the love of your life.

So as you forced yourself back into work and school when you got back to Michigan, it seemed that life for Jack continued on too. Yet as you trying to forget about him, rumours spread about there being a lucky lady in Jacks life.

This was struck your heart as you truthfully believed that you had really made the right choice, and that you were so stupid to believe he could have ever wanted you. So with Jack you hadn’t really lost him.

Because after all, you can’t lose something you never really had.

[agendabymooner]

SOMETHING ROTTEN !!! FERNANDO A. X FEM!READER X JENSON B. (18+)

summary: for fernando and jenson, nothing is ever 'too much.' perhaps that's why they insisted that the necklace they bought her was worth it. (possible part two of something spoiled)

content warning: smut below the cut (minors dni), explicit language, dom!sugar daddies!jenson and fernando x sub!sb!reader, mfm threesome, overstimulation, dumbification + degradation, anal play, titfucking, double penetration, mentions creampie (pls don't do that)

💌re:moony's planner request: "hey i was wondering if you’d write a smut with jensen button x fernando alonso x reader maybe with one being mean and overstim and dumbification pretty please"

note: just pulling this out of my ass because i want to write something before i decide to get up at 3am to do my school work. enjoy xx

something sinful (smut) masterlist

a - n masterlist // o - z masterlist

if you’d like to get on one of my taglists, check this post out

since becoming fernando’s sugar baby, she tried to get herself out of the habit of being extremely humble and indulged in one of his displays of affection. 

she was quite there, if she was being honest. but then, fernando’s ex-teammate jenson button came barreling into her life. no wait, scratch that— the british man came to her and fernando’s shared space for dinner and hadn’t even hidden the way he eyefucked her. 

so now, it was like her life involved an angel and a devil. one of them made her want to ask for more while the other made her feel so meek and shy. 

but both men had every intention to have her ask for more. they were not about to let her quiet down when expressing her wants and needs. especially since she got out of her way to meet their needs and desires.

it’s been a year since jenson joined the two, half a year since he moved in with them in a larger place, and as fernando’s season started - she became more occupied at home than she used to be. 

jenson was retired, thus he provided her with the company she sought whenever fernando wasn’t around. of course, fernando hadn’t minded - as long as he was getting videos or even pictures of their girl being fucked by the british while he was gone. 

having a lover who was retired gave fernando more opportunity to make the girl feel more lenient about being spoiled whilst gone. 

fernando would often send messages to or even call jenson whenever the aston martin driver saw something online that would look nice on her, and jenson would immediately take her shopping.

and it would often lead jenson to fuck her senselessly when they get back from shopping, after she would give him a private fashion show.

now here she was, insisting that she really didn’t want the glimmering necklace from bulgari as jenson tutted her.

the british man gave her a smug smile as she continued to eye the diamond encrusted necklace, the emerald in the middle just as big as her baffled eyes. she said she didn’t want it, yet she was ogling the necklace and its pairing earrings. 

“we’ll take it,” jenson nodded to the associate in front of them, with her snapping her head towards his direction. 

“jenson—“

“does it come with a bracelet, too?” jenson grinned widely. 

the fucking piece of shit wasn’t even listening to her protests. jenson couldn’t find himself to listen at the moment, knowing that she would look so beautiful with the parure on occasions that he and fernando would attend with her.

once they made it back to their place and jenson had put everything down, she pursed her lips at the sight of the bulgari bag as she said, “that was too much.” 

jenson turned around, his expression softening at the sight of her pout as he approached her with a reassuring smile. “nothing is ever ‘too much’ for me and fernando, baby,” he kissed her lips and mumbled, “and that means nothing should ever be enough for you too. hm?” 

“where would i even wear that whole… thing?” she mumbled back, shying away from jenson. “i know you and nando will like it but where would i even wear that?” 

jenson’s soft smile turned into a wide smirk as he nipped her skin, earning a moan from her. jenson then said, “don’t worry sweetheart. when he gets back tonight, you’ll find a reason to wear that pretty necklace and earrings of yours. maybe we’ll even get to see the bracelet, too.”

so here she was, her cunt clenching around jenson’s throbbing cock as the british man fucked her from behind. the emerald necklace dangled on her neck, shining under the chandelier while her tits were glistening. fernando’s cock pistoned in between her tits as she squeezed them. 

“mm, fuck, bonita,” fernando growled lowly, thrusting his hips up as she let out a loud moan. “even without the necklace, your tits are just as beautiful as ever,” he muttered, “fucking missed these tits of yours. i missed fucking them and i missed playing with them.”

jenson smirked as he continued to fuck her from behind, his fingers collecting her wetness and spreading it across her other hole before he began to thrust his fingers into it. 

“oh, fuck,” she moaned loudly, unable to utter anymore words as she tried to keep her composure. her elbows dug into fernando’s thighs and her palms squeezed her breast together, watching the way the tip of fernando’s cock disappear then reappear in between her pair of tits.

“you’re so tight in both holes, baby,” jenson crooned mockingly as he continued to prod his fingers in her backhole and his cock in her already overstimulated cunt. “you cummin’ again?” 

her incoherent words were music to the men’s ears. nothing felt more arousing than hearing their girl cry for them like she needed them. at least for once, she wasn’t shying away from what she wanted.

she babbled, “j- nando- ‘m- hah~ fuck…” 

fernando’s hand reached down to slap her face lightly and he mocked her, “mmm… you’re getting too dumb, princesa? is it too much? come on, tell us.”

“‘s too much,” she whined pitifully. “too much.”

“but you love it, don’t you?” fernando continued with a laugh, watching her nod eagerly. god, she was so fucked out already and she hadn’t even been fucked by both yet. “yes? you love cumming too much? you love jenson’s cock inside of you like a dumb little whore you are?” 

“yes, yes,” she nodded once more and cried out loudly when jenson added another finger. “oh fuck! hah! god, jenson!” 

“ease up, baby,” jenson murmured. “you’re doin’ so good. ‘m just prepping you, that’s all.”

“‘m gonna cum again, fuck!” she screamed silently. 

fernando and jenson both chuckled darkly, unable to keep their amusement to themselves as both of them finally pulled away once she reached her fifth orgasm.

the two older men switched places, with jenson lying on the bed and fernando moving around to get something. jenson patted his bare thigh and ordered her, “up on my cock, sweets. c’mon.” 

she couldn’t think anymore, panting heavily while she knelt on the mattress. it seemed like she was unable to process her british lover’s words, because her spanish one had to drag her lightly towards jenson’s lap before she even sunk down on his cock once more. 

a sigh escaped her lips, her cunt still throbbing after her intense orgasm. 

fernando finally moved behind her and entered her slowly, eliciting a whine from her as she murmured about how good it was… or at least, she tried to tell them but she was just incredibly fucked out. 

“mierda,” fernando cursed as he and jenson began to move inside her. his hands gripped her hips as he continued to fuck her. “you’re so tight, bonita.”

“mm— nando,” she cried out, her back arching against fernando’s chest as the emerald necklace glimmered once more.

“so fuckin’ divine, baby,” jenson groaned, watching her tits above him bounce against the jewelry she wore. “look at you- so beautiful looking so fucked out with that necklace on your neck.”

“even better when she’s begging without even knowing what she wants,” fernando added from behind her. “she’s pretty even when she’s dumb for our cocks.”

their hips began to snap against hers, earning loud mewls from her. both men groaned loudly and gradually increased their pace as they chased their highs and hers.

“oh, fuuuuuck,” jenson groaned loudly, his thumb toying with her clit. “‘m gonna cum baby. gonna cum inside this pretty pussy of yours.”

“fuck,” fernando whispered heatedly, his movements now rougher and slower as he reached his orgasm and painted her walls white. 

she whined as she reached her orgasm as well, her eyes rolling back at the feeling of fullness and her climax. 

jenson came inside her as well, thrusting up into her slowly as he let out a guttural moan.

panting heavily, both men pulled out of her and lied her down in between them. they hadn’t even minded their cums leaking out of her holes as they brought her close to them. 

she seemed content, like she actually had her wishes fulfilled. like she actually told them what she wanted rather than shying away from it. 

both jenson and fernando, however, knew that she should start speaking up about what she wanted outside of the bedroom too. because she was their girl, and she deserved the universe and more. 

♡ moony’s reminder 🅶 (general): @hiraethrhapsody @avaleineandafryingpan @enhacolor @roseandtulips @woweewoowa @magnummagnussen @happy-nico @architect-2015 @hiireadstuff @biancathecool @scorpiomindfuck

♡   moony’s reminder 🅴 (explicit edition): @glitterf1 @savrose129 @maxillness

[best-nun-tournament]

Semifinals Match 1

The Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus (The Locked Tomb) vs Sister Beatrice (Warrior Nun)

Harrow is a nun of the Ninth House. She's been described as a space goth necromancer fantasy sci-fi bone nun.

Sister Beatrice is a secret Demon-Fighting Warrior Nun of the Order of the Cruciform Sword.

The Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus

She’s great. She has so many fucking problems. She’s been running the goth space convent since she was 10. She’s puppeting her dead parents around. She doesn’t like tastes. She is extremely passionate about bones. She’s locked in a twisted bond of love and violence and devotion and sacrifice with her childhood best enemy. She lobotomized herself to preserve the best enemy’s soul. She’s been in love with the corpse of the Devil all her life. She goes around in bone jewelry and skull face paint. She’s a sad wet cat who was born in a cardboard box all alone, etc. She chopped another woman’s arm off and regrew a skeleton arm, in a sexual way. She has awkward little fireside chats with God where he makes millennia-old meme references at her and she does not drink the proffered tea. She saw God make a your mom joke and it “destroyed some cavern of her reverence”. She’s even gay. She’s everything.

Sister Beatrice

Sister Beatrice is perfect in every way. She had to be. When you're taught to hate what you are, when what you love, whom you love, brings you nothing but pain, all you have left is to be perfect. To hope that, if you excel enough, in enough ways, then you might be found worthy. Instead, her wealthy, bigoted, British diplomat parents shipped her off to boarding school in Switzerland for the crime of being a lesbian. From there, she joined the Church, married God, and became part of a secret order of demon-fighting black ops nuns. Being married to Jesus wouldn't be so bad, except for the fact that she's fallen in love with a woman who rose from the dead, a beautiful bisexual savior with golden retriever energy and a heart of gold, and for whose training and protection Beatrice is responsible. Her best friend, no less. And roommate. Their apartment only has one bed. Maybe it is bad after all. But maybe Beatrice doesn't mind being bad anymore. Maybe she would rather worship her love, her Ava, than any God of any church. Maybe she would kill a dozen men who stood between her and her love while Ave Maria plays in the background. Maybe Beatrice would burn the world to save her. Maybe it wouldn't be enough, in the end. Maybe she would have to send Ava through a portal to Heaven, or Hell, to save Ava's life, moments after learning her love was returned. Maybe she would wait for her Ava to return too. Until, one day...

[whereispearlescentmoon]

Great points of today’s Pearl ep (a recap of my freak-outs, some of which will be getting their own posts)-

Exclusively spoilers below this line:

Cleo asking Pearl if she’s okay and Scott offering her a life if she goes red. Pearl defending herself when Scott says she keeps making enemies.

Cleo enabling Pearl and Scott trying to stop her. The eventual agreement that she can kill Gem or Joel if negotiations don’t work.

Never did I think I’d see the day but Gem attacking Pearl and Cleo responding with “She’s not done anything to you Gem!” And defending her? My neurons are firing lads.

Scar asking Pearl if shes okay?

BigB is officially fired from the GGGG, and the world possible person (Cleo) caught him doing it.

Impulse trying to do a British woman voice and failing so hard that Cleo fails to recognize her own quote.

Pearl catching Skizz and Mumbo like vermin under their base. Mumbo trying to convince her that her teammates don’t really love her because they won’t give her a life and trying to get her to betray them so she won’t snitch that Skizz is under their base. AND SHE DOES BETRAY THEM?? HELLO?

Bonus Imp and Skizz podcast except Mumbo and Pearl are Impulse in order to keep Mumbo and Skizz’ vid from being just them sneaking.

Ren wanting to kill Grian because he’s the one causing them all their pain and recruiting Pearl, Scar, and BigB… Watcher fans come get yall juice.

JOEL ALSO ASSUMING PEARL’S TEAM DUMPED HER?? Her referring to the parrots as “the canaries” and actually getting the fast and furious reference which does automatically put her in Joel’s good graces.

Mumbo and Skizz immediately sighing after they fail to kill the people coming to visit Pearl. Pearl then getting Mumbo and Skizz to reassure her that she has been making friends and her teammates are wrong.

Scott silently leading her away and telling her that Mumbo is under their base, and Pearl pretending she had no idea anyone was there and she’s been building the whole time. Mumbo lying for her???? Hello?? Mumbo trying to offer Scott the same deal he gave Pearl and Scott refusing?

“Ya know, I have no reason to go against Scott this season. I just think it’s funny. And that’s what I do every season! I do a little fun, I have a little glee, I have a little laugh and it’s, I dunno. But if you make a bunch of allies then nobody wants to kill you right? Right.”

MOON FAST! “You go moon! Look at that cousin in the sky!”

“I knew tnt minecarts were a bad idea. That’s why I don’t touch them with a ten foot pole.” VIOLENT LIMITED LIFE FLASHBACK

Pearl wanting her team’s approval of the base! Cleo calling her very talented!

This moment:

Martyn: Come on, let red Pearl out to play!

Pearl: No, look as much as she would love to, it’s too early for red Pearl. She can stay where she is.

Gem and Pearl getting along for a brief moment to watch the boys be stupid.

Pearl telling Scott not to trust BigB and Cleo saying BigB is working with the devils… Nosey Neighbor fans weep, Pearl and Cleo duo (I don’t know their name) fans cheer

PEARL SHOOTING BIGB WHILE CLEO CHEERS HER ON!!! NOSEY NEIGHBOR FANS WEEP PEARL AND CLEO DUO FANS CHEER

Pearl shooting Martyn?? Oh she’s got blood lust now!

“I’m in me mum’s car!”

Pearl, Tango, and Bdubs just watching the chaos and refusing to cross the bridge.

No Pearl deaths!!!!

[moonstruckme]

i recently found your page and i became instantly obsessed, you're such a good writer!! i'm not sure if you're taking requests rn (if you're not, ignore this hahaha) but i saw a post somewhere saying that when spencer is in love he loses the sense of direction 😭 we saw moments like those with lila and maeve (like he starts walking but then it's the wrong direction <33) and i was thinking about that with bau!reader!! they're on a case and he gets distracted by her and starts walking on the opposite direction or says something wrong and the team is all like??? because he never gets things wrong and maybe morgan teases him or something like that

sorry for the veryyyy long message!! i just thought it could be so cute, and you would write it perfectly!! obviously if you want to write it in a different way it's okay, i would be happy if you wrote it (but again, if you're not feeling it it's completely okay!! 💗) thank you and have a good day :))

Thank you sweetness <3

Spencer Reid x bau!reader ♡ 539 words

There’s an eyelash on your cheek. You’re staring at the board, and your lips are all pursed, and you’re sitting forward on your elbows, and there’s an eyelash on your cheek. Spencer has no idea how you haven’t noticed it, sitting there with both ends curled upward, precipitous on the curve of your cheekbone.

You’re saying something to Hotch about the overly gruesome nature of the case, how it points to a connection with the victims. Your cheek moves as you talk. The eyelash looks like it should be a breath away from falling off, and yet it stays stubbornly in place. Spencer really, really wants to get it for you. It’d be such a tiny gesture, the quick brush of his finger underneath your eye, so brief no one would have the chance to question it. He wonders if you believe in wishing on eyelashes. He’s seen you throw salt over your shoulder more than once, but you claim it’s more a habit from childhood than actual superstition. Still, you’re more a romantic than you like to let on. But the origin of the salt tossing is more rooted in Christianity, Spencer thinks, whereas the practice of wishing on eyelashes is more recent and often suspected to be rooted in Paganism. It supposedly emerged only in the eighteenth or nineteenth centuries, when someone in the British isles spread word that blowing an eyelash off your finger was the equivalent of blowing away the Devil, and eventually the belief morphed into good luck and wishes. Spencer wonders what you’d wish for. 

“And it’s pretty clear what this is hailing to.” Prentiss’ voice is weary. 

“Paganism,” Spencer says quietly, absentmindedly.

“What?” 

Spencer blinks, returning to the room to find the entire table has turned to look at him. “Sorry, I—I was thinking about something else.” He glances at the board. “Jack the Ripper. The degree of mutilation is the same.” 

“Right,” Hotch says, instantly back on task. “And if we’re right, he’s going to act again soon. Wheels up in twenty.” 

Spencer picks up his bag, but doesn’t leave the room. “Hey,” he says as you stand, stepping closer to you. “You’ve got an eyelash.” 

You blink, almost knocking it askew, but hold still as Spencer brings a hand to your face, brushing it onto his finger. 

Your cheek pushes upwards as you give him a lopsided smile. “Thanks,” you say.

“Wanna make a wish?” 

You make a soft, amused sound. “I don’t believe in that, and I know you don’t either.” But when Spencer holds up his fingertip, you lean forwards anyway. Your mouth purses prettily, a tiny little o, and you blow softly. It’s a small puff of air, but the eyelash whirls off into the air. The both of you track it until it reaches the ground.

You quirk an eyebrow at Spencer as if to say satisfied? and go, passing your hand along his arm fondly as you exit.

Spencer follows after you like you’ve got him on a leash, and it’s only once he’s in Garcia’s office that you say “Do you need something, Spence? I just came to bring Penelope something,” and he realizes he’s completely forgotten where he was supposed to be going.

[pingu-4]

I've seen a lot of raven!Neil fics where neil helps jean and Kevin escape form ravens and he escapes with them/joins them later.

But what I really need to see is a fic from jean's and kevin's pov, where they escape but Neil is stuck being a raven, stuck being nathaniel.

I want to see them join foxes but still think about what is happening with Neil right now, what punishments he is getting for their escape. I want to see them scared for his well-being, while not being able to patch him up or do anything. I want to see them trying to heal, being full of guilt at the same time, because Neil, their ally, their savior, their brother is probably going through hell because of them right now and he's all alone. I want to see them guilty, because Neil has helped them so many times, he had saved them and they left him there to suffer, even though they know that if they even tried to come back to nest Neil would kill them himself.

I want to see Jean mourning his partner forever. I want to see him turining around expecting Neil to be there only to see empty spot next to him. I want to see him grabing car keys to go back to nest, to Neil, when loneliness, guilt, fear, everything is too much, only to be stopped by Kevin from doing anything stupid, from going back to their abusers. I want him trying to keep up on living, only because Neil gave up on his freedom, his life for it. I want Jean to miss his little British devil, while literally anything reminds him of neil.

I want Kevin getting himself drunk only not to think about about what it cost for him to be at foxes, not to think about who pays for it, who he had left behind. I want him to wonder why Neil sacrifaced himself for him, he understands why Neil did it for jean, but him? What did he do to deserve it? I want him to feel guilty he didn't help Neil more, to wonder why he didn't do anything when he had the chance, wonder if he would be brave enough to do anything different if he had a chance to. I want Kevin to miss this loud mouth who gave him a chance of better life.

I want them both to live with a ghost of Neil among them. To talk about him, what would he do in any situation, what they remember about him even though it causes them pain and they are trying to move on, because they are too afraid to forget about him. I want them to wonder why they didn't manage to force him to go with them. I want to see them hoping to see Neil every morning when they wake up, only to be met with harsh reality. To think every short red-head might be him. To have so many feeling when they get that one phone call from Neil. To wonder if there is any way that they can help him. I want to see them as puzzles with one piece missing, learning to live that way.

I want to see the foxes wondering who that raven jean and Kevin often talk about is. To wonder who is that guy that they never met, that had such a big impact and is so important to these two broken boys. I want foxes to see Kevin and jean and just know that they lost something, that even though they escaped and are healing, they are still grieving someone. I want them to hear stories that involve that third person, that "neil" but never getting a direct answer as to who exactly he is and what happened to him.

I want Jean and Kevin hearing the news that "nathaniel wesninski" got injured in some freaky incident and them knowing it wasn't and incident. I want them to be terryfied of what riko did to Neil. Or being even more terryfied of what if it was Neil that did something to himself. They know he is strong, stronger then them both, but what if when he is all alone, facing hell, without any support, without anyone who he has to fight for he finally gave up and decided to die on his own terms?

I want them to see other news, that he had died from these injures, and just break down not believing that Neil, their Neil is gone. Is gone and they weren't there for him in his last moment. I want Kevin and jean to wonder if he knew how much he mattered to them, to wonder if they had said it to him, made it aware to him enough times. I want them to suffer because they promised that all of them will escape one day, but while Kevin and Jean are foxes now, Neil forever will be stuck a raven, forever will be remembered as nathaniel wesninski by most people, will never be able to make Neil a real person for someone else then the three of them. I want them to think about how the one person who saved their lifes, gave them a reason to live, died himself and they didn't do anything to prevent it, didn't manage to stop it. I want them to finally spill all the truth to the foxes. To see Jean and kevin learning to live with all of it, trying to live to their fullest, maybe even dedicating their games to Neil. For them, to do it for themselves. And for Neil.

Or i want them to finally have enough, realizing that this is the last moment where they can do something to help, when they hear about the injury. To see them somehow getting Neil out and seeing how much more he is hurt, mentally and physically than he was the last time they saw him, but still being the same old neil. Being happy that he finally is with them but also sad seeing him in that state. I want them to get Neil into foxes, not wanting to leave him, worried, being very protective of him and helping him heal too. Making neil josten real. To have foxes to finally meet that Neil they heard about and being surprised to see how Kevin and jean, not very warm or open people are so fond of him, how they act so different towards him, how they finally are the way they were supposed to be. Together.

[atlasthegreatest]

A Game of Hearts and Ruins / Lara Croft x Indiana Jones! Male Reader

Which, Lara Croft crosses paths with Y/n Jones, a charming archaeologist and long-time rival, while both pursue the same ancient artifact.

Word count: 4788

The midday sun blazed mercilessly over the dense jungles of Cambodia, where the ancient ruins of a forgotten temple slept beneath layers of tangled vines and centuries of dust. Lara Croft crouched low on the edge of a broken stone pillar, her eyes scanning the scene ahead. She’d heard rumors of rare artifacts hidden within these ruins—legendary relics of power that would be a thrilling addition to her private collection. However, she wasn’t alone in the pursuit.

The soft crunch of a boot on fallen leaves caught her ear. Without looking, she smirked, already knowing who it was.

“Late as usual, Croft,” came a smooth, confident voice behind her.

Lara rose to her feet, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face. “If I were late, Jones, you wouldn’t have needed to follow me here.”

Standing a few feet away was Dr. Y/n Jones—a fellow British adventurer and archaeologist with a devil-may-care grin, ruffled hair, and an insufferable twinkle in his eyes. He wore a worn leather jacket over a white shirt and khaki trousers, looking every inch the reckless explorer he was. His belt was loaded with tools, and a coiled whip hung from his hip, further adding to his roguish charm.

Y/n’s grin widened as he tucked his hands casually in his pockets. “Follow you? I was here first, love. Just wanted to see how long it’d take you to catch up.”

Lara tilted her head, arching an eyebrow. “You’ve always been a terrible liar, Jones.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm. “And you’ve always been terrible at admitting when you’ve met your match.”

Lara felt the spark between them, that familiar current of playful rivalry. This wasn’t the first time they’d crossed paths on an expedition—nor the first time their competition had made things complicated. They both thrived on adventure, danger, and the thrill of outwitting each other. It was a game they loved to play, though neither would ever admit just how much they enjoyed the other’s company.

“Still planning to raid the temple alone?” Y/n asked, sauntering closer. “Or do you want to call it a truce and split the prize?”

“Please,” Lara replied, crossing her arms. “I don’t need help. Besides, we both know you’d try to take the lion’s share.”

Y/n grinned. “Of course. It’s what I do best.”

Lara turned on her heel, making her way deeper into the ruins without another word. Y/n followed, as she knew he would. They were drawn together like magnets—constantly orbiting, occasionally colliding, but never fully able to walk away from each other.

Inside the temple, the air grew cooler, filled with the scent of damp stone and ancient decay. The maze of narrow corridors twisted in every direction, and both explorers moved in practiced silence, each determined to outpace the other.

Lara was quick, slipping through narrow gaps and climbing crumbled walls with the grace of a cat. Y/n stayed close, his every move fluid and calculated, as if he were waiting for the perfect moment to make his move.

“Tell me something, Croft,” Y/n said as they entered a massive hall, its ceiling carved with faded murals of long-forgotten gods. “What’s your fascination with these relics? Is it the history, or just the thrill of stealing them before anyone else can?”

Lara shot him a sideways glance. “And what’s yours? Looking to get rich or just eager to impress me?”

Y/n chuckled. “Can’t it be both?”

She rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched in amusement. Y/n’s charm was infuriating, mostly because she found it oddly… endearing. But she wasn’t about to let that distract her. They reached the center of the hall, where a large pedestal stood. On it rested a golden amulet, glimmering in the dim light. Both of them stopped at the same moment, eyes locked on their prize.

“Shall we call it a tie?” Y/n suggested, his voice low and teasing.

“Not a chance.”

In a blur of movement, both lunged for the amulet at the same time. Lara’s fingers brushed the metal, but Y/n’s hand was already there, closing over hers.

“Not so fast,” he whispered, standing far too close.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved, their faces inches apart. Lara could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek, and the intensity in his eyes made her heart race in a way that had nothing to do with the chase.

“Careful, Jones,” she murmured. “You’re playing with fire.”

“I always do,” he replied, his voice a husky whisper.

For a moment, the tension between them shifted. What had started as playful competition now felt like something far more dangerous? It was as if all the stolen glances, the teasing words, and the shared adventures had been leading to this exact moment.

Then, with a sly grin, Lara twisted her hand free and snatched the amulet. “Better luck next time.”

Y/n blinked, momentarily stunned, then laughed—a deep, genuine sound that echoed through the ancient hall. “You’re impossible, Croft.”

“Thank you,” she said, slipping the amulet into her pouch.

Y/n shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “You know, one of these days, I’ll beat you to it.”

“I doubt that,” Lara shot back, her expression smug but playful.

They made their way out of the temple side by side, their footsteps light and their conversation even lighter. For all the rivalry between them, neither could deny the thrill they felt in each other’s presence—the way their hearts raced not just from the danger, but from the sheer joy of being together.

As they reached the jungle clearing where they’d first crossed paths, Y/n gave her a sidelong glance. “What do you say, Croft? Same time, same place next month?”

Lara smiled, a rare softness in her eyes. “We’ll see. If you can keep up.”

Y/n reached out and brushed a stray leaf from her shoulder, his touch lingering just a second too long. “I always do.”

And with that, they parted ways once again—two souls bound by adventure, rivalry, and something neither of them was quite ready to name. But as they disappeared into the wilderness, each knew the truth: the next time they met, it wouldn’t just be artifacts they were chasing.

————————

Several weeks later, the humid jungles of South America set the stage for their next encounter. Lara had tracked down rumors of a jade mask—an ancient relic tied to a pre-Columbian civilization, said to grant prophetic visions to its wearer. The mask was hidden somewhere deep within a forgotten temple, buried beneath layers of rock and a thick rainforest canopy.

As she approached the vine-choked entrance, a voice echoed through the foliage, smug and familiar.

“You know, Croft, you’re starting to make this too easy.”

Lara turned to find Y/n Jones leaning lazily against a tree, arms crossed, his whip coiled at his side. His grin was as infuriatingly charming as ever, and the sun caught the mischievous glint in his eyes. He had somehow beaten her to the site—again.

“Following me across continents now, Jones?” Lara asked, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize I had an admirer.”

Y/n pushed off the tree and strolled closer, his expression full of playful arrogance. “Who says I was following? Maybe I just know you better than you think.”

Lara gave a scoff, though her lips curled into a slight smile. Their rivalry had become a dance—one they both enjoyed far more than they admitted.

“Then you must know I don’t intend to let you take that mask,” she said, brushing past him toward the temple entrance.

Y/n’s grin widened as he followed at her side. “Tell you what—how about we make things interesting this time? Whoever gets the mask first wins.”

“And what’s the prize?” Lara asked, giving him a sidelong glance.

Y/n leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping to a low, teasing murmur. “Winner picks the next adventure. Loser buys the drinks.”

Lara let out a quiet chuckle, her heart skipping a beat despite herself. “Hope you’re ready to part with some cash.”

Y/n’s laugh followed her into the darkness of the temple, a deep, infectious sound that made her chest feel annoyingly warm.

Inside the temple, they fell into their usual rhythm—both racing against each other and the ticking clock of hidden traps. The ruins were riddled with dead ends, collapsing pathways and intricately designed puzzles meant to keep intruders at bay.

Lara slipped through tight spaces with feline grace, while Y/n used his whip to swing over bottomless pits and climb crumbling walls. They traded banter along the way, their words light but carrying the weight of something unspoken.

“You know, Croft, one day your luck is going to run out,” Y/n said, watching her disable a complex trap with practiced ease.

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Lara replied, glancing back at him with a playful smirk. “Just skill—and better instincts than yours.”

Y/n chuckled, adjusting the strap of his bag. “We’ll see about that.”

They reached the heart of the temple at the same time—a grand chamber with towering statues and an altar at the center, upon which rested the jade mask. It gleamed under a shaft of sunlight that cut through the darkness, casting long shadows across the stone floor.

Both adventurers slowed their pace, eyes locked on the artifact. For a moment, neither moved, as if testing the other’s resolve.

“Ladies first?” Y/n offered the smirk on his lips suggesting he was anything but sincere.

Lara scoffed. “Chivalry doesn’t suit you.”

And just like that, they were in motion—both of them darting toward the mask. Y/n’s whip lashed out, aiming to knock the artifact into his hand, but Lara anticipated the move and dodged. With a roll and a leap, she reached the altar first, fingers grazing the jade surface.

But Y/n was faster than she expected. His hand closed over hers—just like before—and they both froze, breathing hard from the sudden burst of adrenaline.

Lara looked up, meeting Y/n’s gaze. His face was inches from hers, and for a moment, all the teasing banter, all the playful rivalry, melted away. She felt the steady rhythm of his breath and smelled the faint scent of leather and earth on his jacket.

“You’re predictable, Jones,” she whispered, her voice softer than before.

“And you’re impossible,” he murmured in return, his hand still resting lightly over hers.

They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity—caught between the thrill of competition and the pull of something deeper. Neither was willing to admit it aloud, but in these stolen moments, the game they played felt less like a rivalry and more like something… inevitable.

Y/n’s lips quirked into a slow, teasing smile. “You always this competitive on dates, Croft?”

“This isn’t a date,” Lara replied, though the amusement in her eyes betrayed her.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

And then, before she could think twice, Lara made her move. She shifted her weight, used Y/n’s balance against him, and twisted free with the jade mask in hand.

“Better luck next time,” she said, throwing him a playful wink as she tucked the mask into her satchel.

Y/n stared after her, half-exasperated, half-impressed. “You’re going to be the death of me, Croft.”

“Maybe,” Lara called over her shoulder, already heading for the exit. “But you’ll enjoy every second of it.”

Y/n laughed, shaking his head as he followed her out of the temple. As they emerged into the bright sunlight, the jungle buzzing with life around them, he caught up to her once again.

“So,” he said, falling into step beside her. “Since I lost, I suppose the drinks are on me.”

Lara shot him a sidelong glance, the corners of her mouth curling into a rare, genuine smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Y/n grinned, something warm and knowing flickering in his eyes. “And next time?”

Lara gave a light shrug, though her heart was already racing at the thought of their next adventure. “Same stakes. Same rules.”

“Good,” Y/n murmured, his voice laced with promise. “Because I have a feeling our best adventures are still ahead.”

And with that, they disappeared into the jungle once more—two rivals bound by danger, drawn together by something far more powerful than either of them could resist.

——————-

Lara and Y/n didn’t part ways for long. Just a few weeks later, they found themselves standing in the shadows of the Atlas Mountains, on the outskirts of a Berber village. Their latest quarry was the Scarab of Anhur, an ancient amulet believed to bring victory in battle. A collector in Marrakesh had offered an obscene sum to acquire it, but neither Lara nor Y/n needed the money. For them, the scarab was just another excuse to outmaneuver each other—and perhaps, neither of them could stay away.

They stood together near the entrance of a remote tomb, surrounded by jagged cliffs and the endless stretch of desert sky. The sun was sinking low, casting long golden beams across the rocky landscape.

“So, what’s the plan this time?” Y/n asked with a grin as he adjusted his whip. “We race to the artifact, you leave me in a pit, and I show up at the bar later like nothing happened?”

Lara smirked, brushing dust off her cargo pants. “That does sound familiar.”

“You wound me, Croft.” Y/n placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “I thought we were building trust.”

“Trust?” Lara echoed, raising an eyebrow. “This isn’t trust, Y/n—it’s foreplay.”

The words hung between them, thick with implication. Y/n’s smirk faltered for just a second, his eyes darkening with something that wasn’t entirely amusement.

“Careful,” he said, his voice quieter now, “or one of these days, you might get in over your head.”

Lara leaned closer, a dangerous glint in her eye. “I doubt it.”

They stood like that for a moment, caught in the web of tension and teasing that had been growing between them since their first encounter. There was no denying it now—their rivalry was more than just a game. It was a dangerous dance, one that neither of them knew how to stop.

Inside the tomb, the temperature dropped sharply, the cool air heavy with centuries of silence. The walls were adorned with faded carvings of ancient battles, and the narrow corridor stretched deep into the earth. They walked side by side, the sound of their boots echoing in the stillness.

“So, why do you do it?” Y/n asked after a while, breaking the silence. “Chasing after these things. The artifacts, the temples… What’s the endgame, Croft?”

Lara shrugged, her flashlight beam dancing over the walls. “It’s not about the end. It’s about the journey. The discovery.”

“And the thrill of beating me to the prize, I imagine?”Y/n teased, though his gaze softened as he looked at her.

Lara glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “That’s just a bonus.”

They reached a large chamber, the heart of the tomb. At the center, atop a pedestal carved with intricate hieroglyphs, lay the Scarab of Anhur. The golden amulet shimmered faintly, untouched for centuries.

Lara’s pulse quickened.

Y/n, ever-watchful, moved closer. “Shall we flip a coin this time, or are we sticking with ‘winner takes all’?”

Lara shot him a sly grin. “What fun would a coin toss be?”

Without another word, they both moved toward the pedestal—two shadows racing against each other through time.

Y/n was quick, but Lara was quicker. She reached the scarab just as Y/n lunged forward, and once again, their hands collided over the artifact. For a moment, they stood frozen, breathing hard, faces close enough to feel the warmth of the other’s skin.

“Déjà vu,” Y/n whispered, his voice low and rough.

Lara looked up, her eyes locking with his. This time, there was no witty remark, no teasing banter. Just the steady hum of adrenaline and something far more dangerous—something that had been building between them for too long.

And then, before she could stop herself, Lara leaned in and kissed him.

The kiss was brief, but it was electric. The moment their lips met, the tension that had simmered between them for so long ignited into a blaze. Y/n responded without hesitation, his hand cupping the back of her neck, pulling her closer.

When they finally pulled away, both were breathless, their hearts pounding in unison.

“Well,” Y/n said, his voice husky with surprise, “that was… unexpected.”

Lara’s lips quirked into a rare, genuine smile. “Maybe. But it’s been a long time coming.”

Y/n’s grin returned, softer this time. “No arguments here.”

The scarab glimmered between them, forgotten for the moment. The prize didn’t seem quite as important anymore—not compared to what they had just discovered.

Lara cleared her throat, stepping back but not breaking eye contact. “So… what now?”

Y/n shrugged, his grin turning lazy and affectionate. “We could fight over the scarab. Or…”

“Or?”

“Or,” Y/n said, slipping an arm around her waist, “we could call it a draw. Just this once.”

Lara chuckled, a rare sound that made Y/n’s heart skip a beat. “You’re getting soft, Beckett.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just realized that beating you isn’t the prize I want.”

Lara looked at him, the amusement in her gaze giving way to something deeper. For the first time, the lines between rivalry and affection blurred beyond recognition, and she found she didn’t mind.

“Come on,” she said, tugging his hand lightly. “Let’s get out of here before we both regret this.”

Y/n grinned, following her toward the exit. “Regret? Never.”

As they made their way back through the tomb, side by side, the weight of the scarab in Lara’s satchel felt lighter than it should have. For once, the artifact wasn’t the victory she cared about.

And maybe, just maybe, the adventure they’d found together was only just beginning.

Bonus chapter:

The bonfire crackled warmly in the moonlit desert night, casting flickering shadows over the sand. Lara sat cross-legged on a blanket, sipping whiskey from a battered flask, the glow of the fire soft against her bronzed skin. The day’s adventure—their narrow escape from collapsing ruins—had left them both exhausted but exhilarated. Across from her, Y/n Jones reclined against his rucksack, his leather jacket thrown carelessly aside, hair mussed, and a satisfied grin playing on his lips.

“This almost feels… domestic,” Y/n teased, raising a brow as he accepted the flask from Lara.

Lara gave him a smirk. “If your idea of domestic includes dodging spike traps, solving ancient riddles, and nearly being buried alive, then sure—domestic.”

Y/n chuckled, the sound low and easy, sending a warmth through her chest that had nothing to do with the fire. He tipped the flask to his lips and took a slow drink, the firelight dancing in his eyes. “It’s not exactly Buckingham Palace, but I’d say it’s the perfect evening. After all, I’ve got the stars, good company…” He shot her a playful look. “And the fact that I didn’t lose—entirely—today.”

Lara arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t win either, Jones.”

Y/n leaned closer, close enough for her to smell the whiskey on his breath, that familiar spark lighting between them once again. “Well, if it’s a draw, I say we call it a victory for both of us.”

“Ever the optimist,” Lara said, though there was no bite in her tone.

They lapsed into comfortable silence for a while, the night wrapping around them in a quiet embrace. The stars stretched endlessly overhead, and the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the distant whisper of the wind against the dunes.

For once, Lara wasn’t thinking about ancient artifacts or dangerous tombs. She wasn’t planning her next move or trying to stay one step ahead. For once, she was simply here—sharing the moment with someone who understood the same restless hunger for adventure, the same need to keep moving, always chasing something just out of reach.

“Do you ever think about it?” Y/n asked suddenly, his voice low and thoughtful.

Lara glanced at him. “Think about what?”

“Stopping,” he said, tilting his head back to gaze at the stars. “Walking away from all of this. The treasure hunts, the danger, the endless competition.”

Lara considered the question, surprised by how serious it sounded coming from him. She’d spent her entire life running toward the next adventure, always searching for the next discovery. But now, sitting here with Y/n, the idea didn’t seem as foreign—or as impossible—as it once had.

“And do what?” she asked softly.

Y/n shrugged, his smile lazy but genuine. “I don’t know. Open a bar in Marrakesh? Start a museum somewhere quiet?” He gave her a sidelong glance, his eyes warm and knowing. “Maybe find someone to share it with.”

Lara’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept her expression cool. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

He grinned. “I’m full of surprises.”

She shook her head, amused despite herself. “And if you had to bet on it—how long do you think we’d last in that quiet life?”

Y/n laughed, the sound rich and full of mischief. “A week. Maybe two.”

“Generous,” Lara said with a chuckle.

Y/n leaned back on his elbows, watching her with a gaze that made her feel as though he could see past every wall she’d ever built. “But we’d have fun trying, wouldn’t we?”

Lara smiled—a real smile, not the half-smirks she usually gave. “Yeah, Jones. We would.”

They stayed by the fire long after the flames began to die, sharing stories from old adventures, moments they hadn’t told anyone else. Y/n told her about the time he’d gotten trapped in a Bolivian cave with only a compass and a bottle of rum to his name. Lara recounted a narrow escape from pirates off the coast of Madagascar.

Somewhere along the way, the space between them disappeared.

Lara didn’t remember exactly when Y/n shifted closer, or when she stopped pretending to mind. All she knew was that his hand brushed hers, and for the first time, she didn’t pull away.

The kiss that followed was slow, unhurried—different from the adrenaline-fueled kiss they’d shared in the tomb. This one was deliberate, a promise made under the open sky, without the pressure of stolen moments or looming danger.

When they finally pulled apart, Y/n rested his forehead against hers, his voice low and rough. “I hate to admit it, but I think I might be falling for you, Croft.”

Lara’s heart hammered in her chest, but she met his gaze without flinching. “Then you’d better keep up, Jones.”

Y/n grinned, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Always.”

Morning came too soon, and with it, the pull of the next adventure. The fire had burned down to embers, and the cool dawn air nipped at their skin.

Lara rose first, brushing sand from her pants and adjusting her gear. Y/n followed, slinging his pack over his shoulder with an easy grin.

“So,” he said, falling into step beside her as they made their way across the dunes, “where to next?”

Lara glanced at him, her eyes sparkling with that familiar glint of mischief. “There’s a legend about a lost temple in the Himalayas. Supposedly, it holds a relic that grants eternal youth.”

Y/n chuckled. “You think we’ll beat the odds and live forever?”

Lara gave him a playful smirk. “I wouldn’t bet against us.”

And with that, they set off into the rising sun—two explorers, two hearts bound by adventure and something far more precious than any treasure they could ever find.

Because for Lara Croft and Y/n Jones, the real prize wasn’t the artifacts or the glory. It was the journey. And as long as they had each other, the adventure would never end.

———————

A month later, the frigid winds of the Himalayas howled around them as they clung to a cliff face. Far below, jagged rocks peeked through a blanket of snow, promising a swift end to anyone careless enough to misstep. But the danger was nothing new to Lara Croft and Y/n Jones.

“Still think eternal youth is worth it?” Y/n called over the roar of the wind, his voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around his face.

Lara smirked, planting her ice axe into the frozen rock. “You afraid of a little cold, Jones?”

Y/n huffed. “No, just making sure you don’t lose your edge.” He swung his body forward, driving his own axe into the ice next to hers.

They had chased the myth of the Temple of Shambala through ancient maps, local rumors, and narrow escapes from rival treasure hunters. Now, only a few hundred feet separated them from the summit—and the legendary temple said to be hidden beneath the glacier.

Y/n reached the ledge first, pulling himself up with a grunt. He turned and offered Lara a hand. “Come on, Croft. I’d hate to have to rescue you at the last minute.”

Lara raised an eyebrow but took his hand, letting him help her up. “You’ll never let me forget it, will you?”

Y/n grinned, tugging her close for just a moment, their faces inches apart. “Not in a million years.”

The entrance to the temple was hidden beneath layers of thick ice, but Lara had spotted faint carvings—indications of a doorway. Together, they set to work, their ice axes clanging rhythmically against the frozen surface.

When the ancient stone door finally cracked open, a rush of warm, stagnant air escaped from within, a sharp contrast to the biting cold outside.

“After you,” Y/n said with a mock bow, sweeping his arm toward the dark passage.

Lara rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at her lips. “So much for chivalry being dead.”

The temple was vast, its cavernous halls shimmering with ancient ice that glowed a ghostly blue. Enormous statues of forgotten gods lined the walls, their faces serene as they gazed down on the two explorers. The floor beneath their boots crunched with frost, and the air was heavy with centuries of silence.

“This place is unreal,” Y/n whispered, running a hand along one of the statues.

Lara nodded, captivated by the beauty of it all. But she knew better than to let awe distract her for long. “Keep your eyes open. If the legends are true, there’ll be traps.”

As they ventured deeper into the temple, they found more signs of its ancient purpose—symbols of renewal, carvings of stars and moons, and murals depicting pilgrims drinking from a golden chalice. At the heart of the temple, beneath a dome carved with constellations, they found what they had been seeking.

The Chalice of Shambala sat atop a pedestal, glowing faintly with an otherworldly light.

Y/n gave a low whistle. “That’s it?”

Lara approached it cautiously, her eyes scanning the room for any hidden mechanisms. “Be careful. If the myths are right, that thing grants eternal youth—but only if it deems you worthy.”

Y/n raised a skeptical brow. “And what happens if it doesn’t?”

“Let’s not find out,” Lara murmured.

They approached the chalice together, their hands brushing as they reached for it. Neither spoke, but the weight of what they had shared over the past few months hung between them.

Y/n broke the silence first. “You know, Croft… If this thing works, we could keep doing this forever. Adventure after adventure. Just you and me.”

Lara looked at him, her expression softening. “Forever, huh?”

“Think you could stand me that long?” Y/n asked, his grin playful but his gaze sincere.

Lara hesitated, her hand hovering over the chalice. For once, the temptation wasn’t the treasure—it was the thought of what came next. She realized she didn’t want a life without him, whether it lasted fifty years or five centuries.

With a small, mischievous smile, she pulled her hand away. “I think I’d rather grow old with you.”

Y/n blinked, momentarily stunned. Then his grin returned, warmer than the firelight on a desert night. “Well, Croft, that might just be the best treasure I’ve found yet.”

Lara rolled her eyes, though her heart swelled. “Come on, let’s get out of here before this place decides to kill us.”

Y/n grabbed her hand, lacing his fingers with hers as they turned toward the exit. “Lead the way, Croft. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

And with that, they left the chalice untouched, their footsteps echoing through the ancient halls as they walked hand in hand toward the next great adventure—one filled not just with danger and discovery, but with each other.

Because in the end, they realized, it wasn’t the promise of eternal youth that mattered. It was the journey—and the person they chose to share it with.

[qqueenofhades]

top ten non-fiction (general) books and top ten history books?

Naturally, whenever I volunteer to talk about books, I completely forget everything I have ever read, but we'll try to overcome this. Since it is impossible for me to pick them from all-time, I'll do this list from what I have recently read and enjoyed, including both nonfiction and history specifically since most of these fit that bill somehow:

Society of the Snow by Pablo Vierci. Just finished this last night, and it's the source material for the Netflix film of the same name, of the 1972 plane crash of an Uruguayan rugby team in the Andes and their incredible survival odyssey. If you've seen the film, you know how harrowing and also incredibly moving it is.

Pretty much anything by David Grann, including The Wager, Killers of the Flower Moon, Lost City of Z, etc. The Wager is his newest one, though people may have heard of Killers of the Flower Moon, but they're all good. He's up there with Erik Larson as one of my favorite writers of utterly gripping and novelistic nonfiction.

Speaking of Erik Larson: pretty much anything by, including Dead Wake, The Splendid and the Vile, In the Garden of Beasts, etc. Most people will have heard of and/or read Devil in the White City, but his other stuff is equally good. His newest, The Demon of Unrest, is a bit slower than some of the others IMHO, but it's also about the beginning of the Civil War and the crisis at Fort Sumter and is important reading in our current perilous moment.

Challenger: A True Story of Heroism and Disaster on the Edge of Space by Adam Higginbotham. A forensic and incredibly detailed history of the Challenger space shuttle disaster in 1986.

A Travel Guide to the Middle Ages, by Anthony Bale. This is an entertaining and readable introduction to mobility in the Middle Ages: who traveled, where they went, what they thought, and how they reacted and wrote about the other cultures they encountered, from both east and west. Definitely a good entry point for the layman who has heard the "medieval people never traveled/went anywhere" stereotype and knows it's wrong, but wants to know more HOW.

Into the Silence: Mallory, the Great War, and the Conquest of Everest by Wade Davis. Another incredibly detailed doorstopper history book that reads like a novel, exploring 19th-century British imperialism in Asia, the race to climb Mount Everest, the Great War, and more.

Emperor of Rome and SPQR by Mary Beard. These are both incredibly accessible starting points for studying Rome, written by a renowned classicist with a knack for making her historical material and concepts easy to understand and entertaining. Don't be put off by the length of either of these, as they read easily.

The Wide Wide Sea and The Kingdom of Ice by Hampton Sides. The former is his newest book, about the last voyage of Captain Cook, and the latter is my favorite of his other books, about the 19th-century USS Jeannette polar expedition. He is a writer of incredible skill, thoughtfulness, and detail in handling subjects of empire, exploration, colonialism, maritime history, and adventure.

Empire of Pain: The Secret History of the Sackler Dynasty, by Patrick Raddon O'Keefe. A compelling, disturbing, mesmerizing, and infuriating account of the Sackler family, the creation of OxyContin, and the opioid epidemic in America.

Master Slave Husband Wife, by Ilyon Woo. Now, this one is a bit cheating since I haven't actually read it yet (it's on hold at the library), but it's won the Pulitzer Prize for history so I'm fairly sure it's going to be good. It's about 19th century slaves-turned-abolitionists William and Ellen Craft and their race- and gender-bending journey to freedom and anti-slavery activism.

[merakilii]

Bound by the Tide / Pirate AU

Part one : Down She Goes other parts

pairing: Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x fem!reader

words: 4.7k

tags: Sword fighting. blood and gore AFAB reader. pirate captain Mactavish and reader. the British Navy, including CPT Price and LT Riley. rivals to lovers.

summary:  In the ruthless waters of the 18th-century British Isles, two pirate captains have played a dangerous game of cat and mouse for years. Captain John "Soap" Mactavish, the devil-may-care scourge of the seas, and you, a fiery, cunning rival who lost everything when the British Navy reduced your ship to splinters. But when Mactavish pulled you from the wreckage, saving a life you would've gladly let sink, the currents of your hatred shifted into uncharted waters.

The sea gives no quarter and trust is a currency too rare to spend.

The sea has always been your home, ever since you could stand tall enough to see over the gunwale. You've grown up with salt in your veins and the sound of crashing waves a melody in your ears. The rolling deck beneath your boots feels more like solid ground than any shore ever could. You built your name through blood and daring, carved it into the stories told in darkened taverns and over roaring campfires. The British Isles tremble when your flag appears on the horizon. You are no mere pirate; you are a storm.

But storms are not unchallenged. For every legend, there is another, waiting like a shadow. And for you, that shadow has always been Captain John "Soap" MacTavish.

He was a nightmare born of the brine, a devil with a wry grin that could charm a saint and a broadsword that could shatter a soul. A man who seemed as much a part of the sea as the waves themselves. You hated him. Despised him. But hating him was like hating the tide, inevitable, unyielding, and necessary for the world to feel right. Every time you crossed paths, it was as if the universe itself had decided the two of you were destined to clash. And clash you did.

You remember the humiliations, sharp as fresh cuts. The time you carefully plucked the map to the Isle of Wraiths from his camp under the cover of night, only for him to intercept you three days later on the high seas. He had stood on the deck of The Highland Flame, waving the stolen map like a trophy as his cannons shredded your sails. The day he threw you into the brig of that cursed ship was another wound that never quite healed. Shackled, humiliated, and yet, even then, he had found a way to needle at your pride.

"Run along now, hen," he had said, his voice dripping with mockery as he tossed you your weapons and let you walk free. "I'll be catchin' ye again soon enough."

But it wasn't all his victories. You'd left your mark on him too. The duel in Shelley still lingers in your memory, the clash of steel echoing against the humid night. Your blade had sliced through his sleeve and drawn blood, a shallow cut, but enough to wipe the smirk off his face, if only for a moment.

"Aye, ye're quick, but no' quick enough," he had grunted as he disarmed you, his grin returning even as his blood dripped onto the cobblestones.

The dance between you had gone on for years. Stealing treasure, reclaiming it, ambushing each other's ships. He had set fire to your sails once, and you had left him stranded on a barren island with nothing but a keg of rum and his wits. You should have hated him with every fibre of your being. And you did. But a part of you relished the battles, the chases, the constant push and pull. The sea would have been dull without him.

But then came the night the Navy ambushed you.

It was a clear evening, the stars glittering like shards of ice in the black sky. You were aboard The Black Siren, your trusted ship, the very heart of your power. Your crewmen and women who had bled for you, who had killed and stolen and triumphed at your side, were laughing and singing shanties as you plotted your next move.

The first cannonball hit like thunder. The deck trembled beneath your boots, and the night was torn asunder by shouts and screams. You ran to the helm, barking orders as the Navy's ships closed in, their white sails ghostly in the moonlight.

The fight was brutal. Your cannons roared in defiance, but their numbers were overwhelming. The air filled with smoke and the acrid stench of burning wood. You fought like a demon, cutting down boarding parties, rallying your crew, refusing to go down without a fight. But it wasn't enough.

The mainmast fell with a groan like a dying beast, and fire began to consume the ship. You remember the heat, the blinding light of the flames, and the bitter taste of failure. Your crew were falling around you. Some were cut down by musket fire, others drowned as they leapt overboard.

You were cornered on the burning deck, your sword slipping in your bloodied hand, when you heard it, a voice cutting through the chaos.

"I'll no' have ye dyin' just yet!"

You turned, and there he was. Captain Mactavish, the devil himself, standing amidst the smoke and fire like a spectre. His face was streaked with soot, his broadsword flashing as he cut down a Navy officer who dared stand in his way.

You remember the heat of his grip as he grabbed your arm and dragged you toward the edge of the ship. You fought him, of course, kicking, cursing, clawing, but he was relentless.

"Enough, woman!" he barked, hauling you over the side and into the cold embrace of the sea.

The shock of the water stole the air from your lungs. You remember the struggle to stay afloat, the taste of salt and smoke. But through it all, you felt his iron grip on your arm, his voice anchoring you to consciousness.

"I've got ye. Ye're no' slippin' away from me that easy."

He pulled you onto a waiting rowboat, his men helping to drag you aboard. You lay there, shivering, half-dead, as The Black Siren sank beneath the waves. And Mactavish? He stood above you, grinning as if he hadn't just saved your life.

"Ye're welcome," he said, his Scottish brogue thick and maddening. "A bonnie lass like you should no' be wastin' herself at the bottom of the sea."

Your hate burned brighter than the fires that had consumed your ship. You couldn't think about that for too long though, not when your eyelids drooped and your body went limp

Then, the first thing you notice is the sound of creaking wood. It's steady, rhythmic, almost soothing, if not for the sharp ache in your wrists and the taste of dried salt on your lips. You blink against the dim light filtering through a high porthole, and reality slams into you like a cannonball.

You're on a ship. Not your ship.

Your arms are bound behind you, rough ropes biting into your skin, and your legs are tied at the ankles. The cabin you're in is small, utilitarian. A desk is bolted to the floor, cluttered with maps, compasses, and, of course, a bottle of rum. You know exactly whose ship you're on.

"Awake, are ye?"

His voice is like gravel dipped in honey, and it makes your stomach twist. You glare toward the captain looking entirely too smug for a man who should have been gutted years ago.

"Untie me," you hiss, your voice hoarse but filled with venom.

Soap leans casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, his broadsword hanging lazily at his side. His grin is infuriatingly wide, and that damn lilt of his makes every word feel like a mockery.

"Untie ye?" he repeats, feigning innocence. "Now why would I do that? Ye'd be at my throat quicker than a shark at a blood trail."

"You saved me just to tie me up? You're as daft as you are insufferable."

He chuckles, pushing off the doorframe and stepping closer, his boots thudding against the wooden floor. "Ach, it's no' just for fun. Though I'll admit, ye do look bonnie all tied up like that." His grin deepens as your glare sharpens.

"If you think I'm going to thank you—"

"Oh, I ken better than that," he cuts in smoothly. "But ye do owe me, lass. That's the thing about savin' someone's life, aye? It comes wi' strings."

You lurch forward despite the bindings, teeth bared. "I owe you nothing! You saved me for your own bloody fun, and now you think you can—"

He crouches in front of you, close enough that you can see the faint scar running along his chin, a mark you'd given him, long ago. The warmth of his presence is maddening, his scent a mix of salt, leather, and the faintest hint of smoke.

"Aye, I saved ye," he says softly, his voice suddenly serious. "Ye were sinkin' wi' the Siren. Fire and sea were closin' in, and yer crew... well." His gaze flickers, just for a moment, to something like sympathy. It's gone just as fast. "I could've let ye go. Left ye to yer fate. But I didn't."

You swallow hard, the weight of his words pressing down on you. The memory of the fire, the screams, the icy embrace of the sea, it all rushes back, and for a moment, you can't speak.

"So now, we've got a bargain to make."

You narrow your eyes, your voice cold. "A bargain."

"Aye." He stands, towering over you, his hands resting on his belt. "Ye've been chasin' that treasure as long as I have. We both ken it's out there, waitin'. Ye want it, and I want it. But ye've got somethin' I need."

"And what's that?" you hiss.

"Yer wit. Yer cunning. And yer stubborn arse." He laughs. "Ye've always been a step ahead o' me. I'll admit it. Ye're sharp. But this treasure? It's no' somethin' I can chase alone. And now, well..." He gestures to your bound form. "Ye're in no position to argue."

Your jaw clenches, heat rising to your face. "So that's it? You think I'll just agree to this madness?"

Soap's expression softens, just a fraction, and he leans down again, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Ye've lost everythin', lass. Yer ship. Yer crew. And aye, I know what that feels like. It's a pain that doesn't go away. But gold? Gold can start ye over. Gold can give ye a chance to rebuild. I'm offerin' ye that chance."

His words hang in the air, heavy and tempting. You don't trust him. You can't trust him. And yet...

You tilt your head, a scowl twisting your lips. "You're awfully bold for a man who knows I'd slit his throat the moment these ropes are off."

"Oh, I ken that well enough," he says with a smirk. "But I also ken ye're smart. Smart enough to see that this bargain o' mine? It's the only way forward for ye now."

You stare at him, heart pounding with fury and frustration. You do need that treasure. But the idea of working with him, of owing him, makes your skin crawl.

Finally, you sigh, the sound laced with resentment. "Fine. But don't think for a second this means I trust you."

Soap grins, standing tall and offering a mock bow. "I wouldn't dream of it. Now, let's get ye untied. Wouldn't want ye thinkin' I enjoy keepin' ye like this...much."

You grit your teeth as he moves to cut the ropes, his touch annoyingly gentle. The moment you're free, you push past him, your shoulder brushing his chest as you rise to your feet.

"This doesn't make us allies," you snarl, glaring at him.

"I'd expect nothin' less."

You've been on countless ships, from the grandest galleons to the most ramshackle sloops, but none of them feel as foreign as this one. The Highland Flame. Every inch of it reeks of him, of Captain Mactavish. It's in the creak of the timbers, the whip of the sails, the bellowing laughter of the crew. No matter where you turn, you can't escape the man or his presence, and it grates on you like a blade scraping bone.

The first day aboard is hell.

You wake to the sound of hammers and boots on deck. The ship rocks beneath you, not violently, but enough to remind you that you are no longer captain of your own fate. The hammock they've thrown you into is small and scratchy, shoved into the corner of a cramped cabin below deck. It's a far cry from your own cabin on The Black Siren, a space that had been yours, filled with maps you'd marked, treasures you'd claimed, and a bed large enough to sprawl in after a hard day's plundering.

Here, you're an unwelcome guest, and the crew makes no effort to hide it.

You rise with a groan, your muscles aching from the battle, the fire, and the hard knot of rope that had bound you. As you make your way to the deck, you can feel their eyes on you, whispers following in your wake like shadows. You've earned your reputation, and it precedes you even here. They know you're dangerous. They know you're proud. And now, they know you're vulnerable.

"There she is," Mactavish calls out, loud enough for the entire crew to hear. He's leaning against the mainmast, arms crossed, his smirk already firmly in place. "Thought ye'd sleep the day away. Ye've missed breakfast, but I'll no' hold it against ye."

You glare at him, but you don't take the bait. Not this early in the morning. "I wasn't aware I was a guest of honour," you mutter, brushing past him.

"Oh, aye," he replies, falling into step beside you. "Ye're the talk o' the ship, ye ken? A legend among pirates, slinkin' about on my deck. I've half a mind to charge the lads admission."

You stop short, turning to face him with a sharpness that makes his grin widen. "Don't mistake this for charity, Mactavish. You didn't save me, you made an investment. And when it doesn't pay off, don't come crying to me."

He tilts his head, his icy eyes studying you. "Oh, I've no doubt ye'll pay me back. One way or another."

His words hang between you, but you break eye contact first, brushing past him with a huff.

The days crawl by, and the ship feels smaller with every passing hour. You find yourself stuck in a strange limbo, neither prisoner nor crew. The Highland Flame is a well-run vessel, you'll give it that. The crew is disciplined, the sails trimmed to perfection, the cannons cleaned and ready for action. It's a ship built for war, and that much you can respect. But you're not here by choice, and the bitterness of that fact taints everything.

You keep to yourself as much as possible, though it's a task easier said than done. Soap seems to delight in cornering you at every opportunity.

On the second day, you're inspecting the ship's charts in the navigation room, what you'd give to find even a scrap of useful information about the treasure you're after, when he saunters in, arms full of supplies.

"Ye've taken a fancy to my maps, have ye?" he says, setting the supplies down with a thud.

"Just making sure you don't steer us into a reef," you reply without looking up.

He chuckles, stepping closer until his presence looms over your shoulder. "Ye think little of me, lass. But don't worry. This ship's seen more action than ye have, and she's still in one piece."

You turn to face him, your jaw tight. "Unlike my ship, you mean."

His grin falters, just for a moment. "The Siren was a fine vessel," he says, his tone softer than you expected. "No man o' mine would wish her end on anyone."

You hate the flicker of sympathy in his voice, hate the way it reminds you of all you've lost. "Save your pity, Mactavish. I'll rebuild. With or without you."

Eventually, you've started to find a grudging routine here, though every part of your being resists it. The ship, for all its strength and order, is not your ship. The sway of its decks feels foreign beneath your boots, the smell of the wood and canvas unfamiliar. You hate how wrong it feels, how each creak of the timbers reminds you of what you've lost.

The crew still keeps their distance. Some throw you wary glances, their eyes filled with suspicion, others with outright hostility. A few whisper when they think you can't hear, hushed conversations that stop abruptly whenever you enter a room. You've heard enough snatches to know the gist. They don't trust you. And why would they? You're not one of them. You're an outsider, a rival. A pirate captain without a ship.

But you don't care about their trust. You've always stood alone, even among your own crew. What you can't stand is the stifling inactivity. So, you keep your hands busy, forcing yourself to haul rope, scrub decks, patch sails, tasks you haven't needed to do yourself in years. You don't do it out of obligation to Mactavish or his men, but because the alternative, being idle, means letting your mind wander to places you'd rather not go.

It's better this way. The blisters on your hands, the ache in your arms, they're distractions, and right now, distractions are your lifeline.

And then there's Mactavish.

Of course, there's Mactavish.

It's as if the man has made it his personal mission to invade every moment of your damn day. He's always there, always watching, always with that damn smirk plastered across his face.

The first time he finds you repairing a torn sail, you're halfway up the mast, needle in hand, cursing under your breath at the stubborn tear in the canvas. "Ye're holdin' it wrong," comes his voice, startling you so badly you nearly drop the needle.

You glare down at him. He's standing on the deck below, one hand resting lazily on his sword hilt, the other shielding his eyes from the sun as he looks up at you. "I wasn't aware you were an expert seamstress," you snap.

"In another life, I'd be sittin' in a wee shop somewhere, stitchin' bonnets fer fine ladies. But since I'm here, I reckon I could show ye a thing or two."

"Go bother someone else," you mutter, but his laughter follows you as you turn back to your work, your jaw clenched so tightly it aches.

Then there's the time you're scrubbing the deck. It's late afternoon, and the sun beats down relentlessly, making the task even more miserable. You're focused on the stubborn grime beneath your brush when his shadow falls across you.

"You missed a spot," he says, his tone infuriatingly casual.

You look up, sweat dripping down your face. He's leaning against the rail, arms crossed. "Don't you have a ship to captain?"

"I do," he says, nodding solemnly. "But watchin' ye work is far more entertainin'. I think the crew might even start takin' bets on how long it takes ye to snap."

You throw the brush down with a growl, rising to your feet. "If you don't leave me alone, I'll give them a show they'll never forget."

"I've no doubt, lass," he says with a wink before sauntering off, leaving you seething.

Even in the galley, he finds you. You've just sat down with a bowl of stew, simple, hearty fare that tastes like ash in your mouth, when he slides onto the bench across from you. The table suddenly feels too small, his presence overwhelming.

"You've got no one else to annoy?" you ask without looking up.

He chuckles, stealing a piece of bread from the tray in front of you. "I'd wager there's no one on this ship more fun to annoy than ye."

"I could stab you," you mutter.

"And ye'd be within yer rights," he replies cheerfully, biting into the bread. "But where's the sport in that?"

You're ready to throw yourself overboard just to escape him. But for all his teasing, for all the ways he needles at your pride and stirs your temper, there are moments, maddening, fleeting moments, when you catch glimpses of something else beneath the surface. Something quieter. Something that doesn't fit the insufferable version of Captain John Mactavish you've come to loathe.

You tell yourself not to notice, not to let it linger. But it's there, slipping through the cracks of your carefully built walls, and it's impossible to ignore.

Like when he laughs with his crew, his voice booming across the deck like thunder rolling over the waves. It's a rich, unrestrained sound that cuts through the monotony of the day, drawing attention without effort. There's a warmth to it that spreads like fire, lighting up the faces of the men around him. You watch from the shadows as they laugh with him, their shoulders loosening, their postures relaxing as if his presence alone lifts the waves of the sea from them.

It's not forced or commanding, it's effortless, magnetic. He doesn't demand loyalty; he earns it with every word, every gesture. You see the way his men look at him, not with the wary respect born of fear, but with genuine trust, even admiration. It's not the same kind you had with your crew. The thought stings like a fresh wound, raw and aching, and you hate yourself for feeling it.

You hate that you can't look away.

One afternoon, you're lingering near the mast when you spot him in the middle of the deck, surrounded by laughter. A wiry young sailor with a scar slicing across her cheek fumbles with a length of rope, trying and failing to coil it properly. The others jeer, their teasing sharp, the kind that can quickly turn cruel if left unchecked.

Before it does, Soap steps in. "Ach, leave the lassie be," he says, his grin softening into something more genuine. He kneels, taking the rope from the girl's hands and demonstrating the proper technique. "Here, like this. Ye've got to keep it tight, see? Let it slip through yer fingers, an' it'll tangle ye worse than a lovesick lad."

The girl grins nervously, her cheeks flushing as Soap hands the rope back to him. The others laugh, but now the sound is good-natured, their ribbing tempered by their captain's intervention. The girl tries again, her movements more confident this time, and when she succeeds, Soap claps her on the back. "There ye go. Knew ye had it in ye."

It's a small thing, that most would overlook. But you don't. You see the way the girl stands a little taller, the way the others ease off their teasing. It's nothing like the man who spends his days poking and prodding at you, and it lingers in your mind longer than you'd like.

And then there are the nights.

The quiet hours, when the crew has retired to their quarters and the ship sways beneath a sky full of stars, are the most dangerous. Not because of the sea or the weather, but because of him.

It's always the same. You climb to the deck for a moment of solitude, hoping to breathe in the salt air and quiet your restless thoughts, only to find him there. Standing at the helm, his silhouette outlined by moonlight. Always alone, always silent.

You tell yourself to turn away, to leave him to his thoughts. But you don't.

There's something about the way he stands, shoulders squared but not tense, hands resting lightly on the wheel, that draws your gaze against your will. It's a stillness that doesn't fit the brash, arrogant captain who seems to delight in needling at your temper.

One night, you catch yourself staring too long. The pale light of the moon softens his features, stripping away the sharp edges of his grin. His eyes, blue as the deepest parts of the sea, are fixed on the horizon, his expression distant, as if he's searching for something just beyond the edge of the world.

He doesn't see you lurking in the shadows, and you wonder what thoughts run through his mind. Is he plotting his next scheme? Thinking of the treasure you both chase? Or is he remembering something, or someone, lost?

The curiosity gnaws at you, maddening and relentless. You don't want to wonder about him, don't want to see anything beyond the insufferable man who's taken everything from you and had the gall to save your life in the same breath.

But you do.

And it's not just the curiosity. It's the way the light catches his face, the way his hair falls just so. There's a pull to him, something magnetic that makes your pulse quicken against your will. You clench your fists, angry at him, at yourself, at the damned sea for trapping you here.

Once, during the day, you catch him perched high on the mast, repairing a tear in the rigging himself.

It's not his job, he has a dozen men who could do it for him, all capable hands with no shortage of skill, but there he is anyway. Perched like a crow on the crossbeam, the sunlight catching the dark strands of his hair and the sharp curve of his jaw. His movements are precise, practised, his hands deft as they loop the rope and secure the knot. It's clear he's done this a hundred times before, maybe more.

You're watching before you realize it, your steps slowing as your eyes track his movements. You hate how the sight holds you, how your gaze lingers on the roll of his shoulders as he shifts to test the knot, his grip firm and steady.

"Ye've got a habit of lurkin'."

His voice startles you, cutting clean through your thoughts. It's rich with that brogue, the tone laced with amusement as if he's caught you red-handed.

You cross your arms, tilting your chin up and refusing to let him see that he's rattled you. "You've got a habit of doing everyone else's work," you counter, your voice sharper than you mean it to be.

He chuckles, low and warm, as he finishes tying off the knot. "A captain who cannae do the work himself has no right askin' it of his crew," he says simply.

He slides down the rigging with ease, his boots hitting the deck with a solid thud. Straightening, he brushes his hands off on his breeches.

The simplicity of his statement throws you. It's not a boast, not a barb, just a quiet truth he carries with him, and it lands heavier than you'd like.

You narrow your eyes. "You don't strike me as the selfless type," you mutter, a jab born of irritation and something else, something you're not ready to name.

The grin that spreads across his face is slow, like he's savouring the words before speaking them. He steps closer, and the space between you feels suddenly too small.

"I'm no' selfless," he says, his voice dipping lower, rougher. "But even a devil's got his principles."

The way he says it makes your breath catch, just for a second. His words aren't just a defence, they're an invitation, a challenge. His grin lingers, the corners of his mouth tugging upward as if he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

You scoff, stepping back to put distance between you, but your retreat feels too quick. You can't stand the way your pulse quickens when he looks at you like that, like he's stripping you bare with nothing more than a glance.

"Principles," you say, forcing your voice to remain steady. "That's rich coming from the man who stole half my cargo last winter."

His laughter rumbles out of him. "Well, I never said my principles were the noble sort."

He shifts, leaning casually against the mast, but there's nothing casual about the way his gaze flickers over you. It's not lecherous, no, it's dangerous. He's studying you, testing you.

"You've got a sharp tongue," he says after a moment. "Sharper than yer blade, I'd wager."

You glare at him, loathing the way his words settle low in your stomach, hot and unwelcome. "And you've got a bigger mouth than sense."

His grin widens, his teeth flashing like a predator catching the scent of prey. "Ye like it."

The words hang in the air, bold and brash, and your fists clench at your sides. You don't answer, can't answer, because the heat rising in your cheeks betrays you.

Instead, you turn on your heel, your boots striking the deck harder than necessary as you stalk away. You hear his laugh behind you, warm and victorious, and it burns.

But later, long after the moment has passed and you're alone in the quiet of your corner below deck, his words come back to you.

"A captain who cannae do the work himself has no right askin' it of his crew."

You tell yourself it's nothing. Just another quip, another ploy to needle at you. But it stays with you, threading itself into the fabric of your thoughts.

And it's not just the words. It's the way he'd looked at you. And for a moment, just a moment, you wonder what he saw.

You shake the thought away, refusing to let it take root. He's a bastard, a thief, and the source of everything that's gone wrong in your life.

[b0g-b0y]

I vomited this out in 30 min. Not good not bad just meh.

Ghost x m reader. (Shadow company)

Love You More

His eyes scanned the bigger man, it’s been so long since he’d seen Ghost. He used to work with shadow from time to time but Ghost wasn’t a solo man anymore as he joined 141. The memory of Ghost's face still stranded the hallway. The memory of his clothes, weighing on a hanger. Y/n remember that time as they were something but not together it weighed on his heart like a garden that never grew.

The way Y/n saw Ghost looked at soap hurt, why was he so jealous?

Eventually brought out of his thoughts as Y/n overheard Gaz and Soap spit out an insult about shadow company.” Nothing but we dogs they are. Not to be trusted might as well put them down” Y/n overheard one of them say. But not a word fell from Ghost's lips, it stung how he expected Ghost to pipe up and say they were not all bad. But those lines never fell from the man’s lips. Just a small chuckle.

Later that night Y/n found Ghost taking a smoke late at night. Taking the opportunity to light up his own cigarette. “ Simon… how have you been?” Y/n spoke with a small crack in their voice. “ Been good.” Ghost replied with a short gruff response. The memory of Simon stroking their hair in bed together and Simon's deep voice softly speaking that “ I’d never hurt you.” But why did that feel like a lie, what changed so much in their relationship. “ Do you hate me?” Y/n spoke as smoke fell from his lips. “ No more. Y/n. No more of this whatever we had.” Before Ghost could continue Y/n spoke up. “ I’m not Graves! So you and everyone need to stop treating me like a damn devil. I’m not Philip! And I didn’t call out those orders…” Y/n snapped clearly he’s been stuck in his head a lot recently. “ But you’re his damn dog Y/n! You're at his heels the moment he speaks.” Ghost growled. As he throughout his cigarette. “ Fine, throw away whatever you want. You're just what you said you were. You're dead from this world. “ Y/n spoke bitterly. “ I will always care for you more, even if you don’t believe me you know my loyalty is true.” Y/n's heart screamed for him to confess that he more than cared about the British man.

As days passed Y/n stayed awake hoping Ghost would come in his door. But it was never that way it seemed like it never would be like that again. Maybe he was just a dog meant to be put to sleep. Again it seemed whenever Y/n made progress of getting over Ghost he would run into him again.

Shadow Company was meant to lend a hand to 141. But just like last time things went south, how did it come to this? How did it come to this, how was Y/n sitting in an empty room with cracked walls holding his side as he felt warm liquid fall down his hand and drip onto the floor. He didn’t remember, he couldn’t remember.

Y/n's eyes felt hazy; he could barely see the figures that rushed through the door. The faint blur of a skull mask brought a small smile to his cracked lips. However he didn’t recognize the other blur next to him.

His dark brown eyes bored into Y/ns e/c eyes. “ You can tell me I’m to blame if you say you’ll stay for sure.” Y/n said as his words fell from his mouth without thinking. “I feel all the same. I will always love you more.” Y/n's voice broke as he held onto the sleeve of Ghost. “ You’ll be okay Y/n, stop speaking nonsense you’ve gone mad yeah?” Ghost spoke with a panic hidden in his voice. But it was too late and things went dark.

That garden they would have talked about would never happen. That garden would never grow, not now, not ever.

Soap put a hand and Ghost's shoulder. “ Ghost, mate it’s ok he’s just a shadow company member just a merc. Let him go.” The Scottish man spoke. “ He’s more than that Soap it’s complicated… Soap he loved me for me and I turned my back on him, I promised I’d never… I promised I’d never hurt him. I promised so much. It doesn’t matter who he bloody belongs to.” Ghost snapped. Soaps browse frowned. “ He was right he will alway love me more” Ghost said as his voice cracked.

New furniture cracked from no contact

And the garden, it never grew.

[thenightshadowqueen]

SFTH moments that live rent-free in my head, part 2 (in no particular order)

Because apparently I have more.

“Mmm, but I’m poison and you love it”

Creepy Jim 🏳️‍🌈

The hat-nose letter

“STOPINTHENAMEOFTHELAAAWWWW!!!”

Sam losing his fucking mind during the expert game in HUGE

“Mr. André Beetroot, you’re my hero!” “Ah, I don’t like you.”

Luke as the horny goblin

Tom’s whole speech as Locomotion—it was so fucking gorgeous and it’s in my head all the time (especially “I’m older than the devil, sir” and “I am the Silver Line and the Silver Line is me!”)

“Don’t let the constant mental breakdowns get you down.”

The bit in the Suspicious Crème Brûlée where Sam yanks Luke around by his hair

“AJ stays with Luke…” (I’m sorry in advance for getting this stuck in your head)

Luke taking his trousers off in Nigel (and then using that to get Tom to do it in My First Bra)

“Lovely little Luke Manning!”

AJ’s rap about Disney princesses (Worst thing I’ve ever seen. 10/10.)

Tom holding up a fucking buttplug during one of the COVID livestreams????? (Also I can’t for the life of me remember which one it was and if anyone knows that would be very appreciated because I’m half-convinced it was a fever dream)

“Gavin, obviously there’s a difference.” (I don’t know what it is, but the way Tom says it has captivated me)

The Jane Austen bit in West End Big Boys

“Grab her by the face and DON’T LET GO! Because sometimes they run away and LEAVE YOU!”

“I’m just a writer, and I like to ride bikes. I’m not weird, I’m not strange; I enjoy juices, and I have a good family.”

“When the wind doth blow/to and fro/you must get your shit together/and fuck up them hoes”

The kiss in the prom Timewarp, and especially the way AJ and Tom were cheering them on

Also the kiss in the “what not to do with your coworkers” video, because the way Luke throws three of his limbs in the air at once is glorious

“Husband! Husband!” “Oh, darling, you’ve been down in the basement—” “The chinchilla’s a FUCKING NAZI!”

Sam calling AJ “CrossFit Voldemort”

On that note, “He looked a little bit like Henry Cavill if he had a wasting disease” (and Tom’s little sassy head movement in response)

“You’re keeping me on tenterhooks, like a piece of sirloin.”

The scene Tom and Sam did for Tom’s anniversary

“The camper the German, the more likely they are to win.”

“You said it was water under the bridge.” “Aye, and you know what’s good at drowning people?”

Giggly Luke from Hornchurch

The booba looba (and AJ’s glorious reaction to it)

“Can I call you Tony?” “You can, but my name’s David.” (“So, Tony—”)

Jackson from the COVID livestreams (“Sit in the well-done corner and just shut up.”)

Sam’s fucking apocalypse plan (which is still in my head despite my best efforts)

“I just wanted to have the talk.” “The talk? The boob talk?” “The boob talk that all women must have with their mothers.”

The wife from the casino scene (it’s the accent)

“Do you need a lie-down?” “I thought I already was.”

“Larger than a man, smaller than a dream”

Moriarty-Sherlock mental fuck chess

“Capitalism is blood!” “CHANGE!” “Communism is yoghurt!”

Tom bring an absolute menace during Puppets

“God bless the British Transport Police” (said in the most ‘what am I doing with my life’ voice I’ve ever heard)

“Stay on your stool bitch boy”

“Get your hand out of my car”

[msmercury84]

Bill Guarnere's Question for Prince Charles

*Author's Note: This actually happened after "Band of Brothers" had aired on HBO. I read about it online and it was discussed on a Spotify podcast. I think it took place before 2010.*

Some of the men from Easy Company were going to London to present the then Prince Charles with a portrait of the elite British paratroopers known as the Red Devils. These men also fought in the Netherlands during Operation Market Gardens.

Each man from Easy Company was interviewed and schooled on proper etiquette when dealing with a member of the British Royal family.

An interviewer asked Bill Guarnere,

"If you could ask Prince Charles one question, what would it be?" Without a moment's hesitation, Guarnere replied,

"I'd ask him why he got rid of the cute blonde girl (Diana) and took up with that horse faced broad (Camilla)." Bill didn't get to go to London.

[str4ngr]

KNEW AND NEW [ SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY ]

cw: suggestive, ghost's pov/ journal-esque, sexual tension, perverted thoughts, military inaccuracies, might be ooc/ not british enough. this is part three to a series. part one. notes: more in pt.2 later hehe. bro academic trenches once again, this time it was like a 1 v. 6. words: 1,081.

Apparently, medical files were just as easily tricked by pretty brown eyes as you were. Because last time you checked, which was definitely not two or three minutes ago, Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley was not stated to have any tattoos. 

Blinking in surprise, you watched as the hunk of muscle dashed at the other figure across the sand, white mask reflecting the light of the sun as he moved. 

Eyes sharp, shoulders relaxed, lunging forward, I meet Johnny’s eyes as I grapple his shoulders and shove him to the ground, a laugh sounding from the man below me,

“Unfair, L.T.!”

My lips tease a smirk, growling back,

“Don’t think so, Sargent,”

He laughs when I release him, helping him back up to his feet. Usually, I wasn’t one to skimp out on training, but I’d much rather waste my time listening to Johnny ramble on about the dog he’s been thinking of getting than doing any more combative training. 

His eyes fall behind my face, his elbow coming to nudge my arm as he grins, 

“Y’know L.T. I think me and that medic—”

“Quiet, Johnny.” 

I warn, watching as his eyes go wide, the devil’s grin gracing his lips as he raises his arm and waves at her. I take a sharp breath, groaning as my hand tightens into a fist.

“Hi Soap, Ghost.”

She smiles. I could feel it, even though my back was facing her. I sigh, hoping she didn’t take it the wrong way as I glance over my shoulder, turning slowly,

“Mornin’, Doc.”

“Heya, Bonnie.”

Johnny grins, standing closer than he needs to before you. He knows, he just won’t say it. I glare to my side, staring down at his half-shaved head. It was impossible to keep my eyes away from her, her damn brilliant smile, eyes curving into half-crescents as they looked up to meet mine. 

My eyes shift back to hers, my stomach turning at the way she giggles and smiles at Johnny, at fucking Soap. How her hands rest on her hips, her hair springing out from around her head as she was mid-shift. He didn’t notice.

I did.

Her eyes were softer, her face a litter hallow as she sucks in her cheeks. Her eyes glittered with the reflection of the orange and red sunset, rounded as they watched Johnny attentively. 

“Aye, Doc,”

The words came out of my mouth before I could think of stopping them and when her eyes met mine I couldn’t do anything but stare, whatever else I was going to say slipping away from my tongue. she look at me, looks to my arm, to my tattoos, to the empty spot on my bicep. Her eyes follow every detail of the ink I need to get touched up, yet she glories it like art. I suck on my teeth, spitting out my question like a reluctant apology,

“What’re you doin’ out ‘ere?” 

There it was. 

Bloody hell, the way her fuckin’ lips turn up in a sheepish smile, glancing up at me, her eyes bouncing around nervously. I can’t help but smirk, the skin wrinkling around my eyes as I shift my feet,

“Oh, just walking around,” 

Her voice was so soft, so sweet, untouched by violence and filth of war. I nod blandly, unsure of what else to do under the probing eyes of the slippery bastard beside me. 

She smiles again, swaying her hips like she always does when she to awkward to figure out what to say next.

“How, uh, how’s your training?” 

The question was obviously for both of us, but her eyes never peeled away from mine. I couldn’t look away either, enamored by the way her eyes filled with curiosity, her cheeks round from the small smile on her face, blushing from either the sun or something else.

I was praying on the latter. 

Her eyes glimmered in the sun, fluttering between mine and Johnny’s face as the prick babbles about training. He didn’t matter, she did, an astral beauty whose face never left my damn mind from the moment I met her.

A rose too beautiful to touch, wrapped behind the protective case of her scrubs and white jacket. Too beautiful for a man like me, who spills blood and guts, who would stain her fragile petals.

“Enough, Johnny, get your ass back on the damn field.” 

I growl, my eyes meeting his in a sharp glare as he smirks at me. I watched as he pulled her into a hug, my hands tightening into a fist in my pockets as she smiled up at him. 

He’s fucking playing with me, laughing with her as he sways with her before pulling away. 

I shove the bastard over, 

“See ya’, Doc.” 

“Bye, Ghost! Soap!” 

She grins, her lips a perfect present on her gorgeous face. I turn away before I let my blood rush, my eyes closing as my eyebrows twitch. Soap talks on about something, not that I’m too keen on listening to his English interjected with nonsensical Scottish phrases. 

Even the way she walks is graceful, with each step, she’s mesmerizing, like a siren’s song. Yet here I am, a fucking mile away from being anywhere near capable of speaking to her.  

My breath felt heavy when I let it out of my lungs, desperate for escape for longer than I realized. Johnny knocks his shoulder to mine, a grin on his face as he looks at me. I groan, rolling my eyes as we lock up for another match.

⚬

Drinking with straws was more common than I had originally thought. Or maybe, my observation didn’t include enough people, since one person probably doesn’t make an accurate statistic. 

It was like that night, Two weeks ago when we all had drinks. Two weeks ago when I first saw the way the apples of her cheeks made her eyes squint with each drunken laugh. Two weeks since I saw her wrap her lips around my fucking cherry. 

All I could focus on was the way her lips moved when she spoke, how her eyes met mine and how the noise of drunkards around us at the pub dissipated into the hypnotic song of her voice. 

Every time I saw her, the way she licked her lips while she searched for her chapstick in her pocket, the way her hips swayed side to side as she looked at the clipboard in her hands. 

God, she was fucking addicting to look at, let alone interact with. 

The way she knew—yes, fucking knew because there is no way on this bloody Earth this woman pouts so sweetly with her eyes so fucking attractive and she doesn’t know it—she could sink her sweet teeth into me. And I would happily let her. 

⚬ ☠︎︎ ⚬

i don't like this one at all tbh. but, hopefully the next one will make up for it. anyways hashtab situationship goals. taglist: @141trash, @thriving-n-jiving, @agorophobicreader, @murder-hobo

EYES THAT HOLD SECRETS

directo

[katuschka]

Out On The Tiles – Prologue

Jake Kiszka x Chris Turpin Josh Kiszka x Chris Turpin

Yaaay, my first AU! Welcome to the 70s rock&roll hell, baby...

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, intended for adult readers. Any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. Also, if you're under 18, go find some other entertainment elsewhere.

Warnings – this story will contain: substance abuse, infidelity, debauchery, same sex smut, hetero smut, rough sex, and as always, an unhealthy dose of heavy emotions and feelings

Special thanks to: @thewritingbeforesunrise and her genius, twisted mind that helped me form this story in my own sick brain.

If you like the story and want to get notifications, you can join the Taglist.

AND if you already received the notif, but you're not interested in this particular story, just send me a message.

I'm just a simple guy, I live from day to day A ray of sunshine melts my frown and blows my blues away There's nothing more that I can say but on a day like today I pass the time away and walk a quiet mile with you All I need from you is all your love All you got to give to me is all your love

Prologue

1994 was an eventful year for the Kiszka twins. After years of unsuccessful attempts to launch respectful solo projects they could build upon after the infamous breakup of their band, they had been finally labelled as “has-beens of rock” when grunge hit the mainstream, only to rise up again like a phoenix from the dust of their once stellar career. 

Josh and Jake, THE ultimate enfants terrible of the 70s rock&roll music scene. Angel-faced devils, as they were called. 

It was no longer true, but it kept haunting them anyway. How could it not.

Born to free-thinking parents who never made it to Frisco with the other beatniks, but instead decided to “settle down” in a small town in Michigan after their mother became pregnant, they were raised – together with their younger brother Samuel – in what you could call a “respectful neighborhood”. But everything was different behind the closed doors, as their parents never grew out of love for art, music and literature. 

Their mother was not only a wonderful and respected teacher, but she could also bake devilishly good sweet treats, so the neighbors somehow “tolerated” the fact that she often indulged in painting “weird pictures.” 

Their father played the piano in church on Sundays, while their own house was filled with the sound of delta blues, bebop and rockabilly on Friday nights. 

Even as young kids, they never had to hide their passion for the new music made by Elvis and Chuck and Little Richard. In fact, their father encouraged it, together with their attempts to learn how to play and write their own stuff. Their longing to create was inextinguishable, partly inherited and wholeheartedly shared, so by mid sixties, they were already in a band. Their band, which they founded together with Sam’s friend, a talented percussionist from the school orchestra. And a cool kid, too. 

After the wave of new British bands hit the US coast like a tsunami, invading the music scene as well as their own ears, they finally found their own sound and everything snowballed pretty quickly during 1968 and 1969. They got signed, they hit the road and their career literally exploded! Air Javelin were on their way to become one of the most influential bands in rock&roll history. 

Fast forward back to 1994, they now found themselves sitting next to David Letterman, eager and ready to discuss their new mutual music project. 

It was good. In fact, it was great, already receiving many well-deserved accolades and praises from the very same people and magazines who used to shit on their music more than two decades ago. 

The only problem being that they were probably the only people who were eager and ready to discuss it at the moment. 

Josh’s recent coming-out was already old news and the questions that focused on that grew stale pretty quickly. It was the 90s after all, and things were getting better slowly but steadily. If anything, it made the message he managed to lace their new music with even more acute and sharp. The first single was a huge success not only among their old fans; it hit the charts with nearly the same force their old hits once did. 

Unfortunately, two weeks after the long-awaited release of the whole album, a book appeared on shelves of bookstores all across the country, and turned into a sensation almost overnight. 

Written by their former road manager Robert Mole, it was packed with juicy and scandalous stories from their heyday. The timing was deliberate. Robert just wanted a piece of the freshly baked cake, and so did the publisher. 

A lot of it had already been somewhat known, and perceived as public secrets for years and years. People may not have known all the details Robert decided to disclose, but it shocked no one. Those were the stories and anecdotes from a long-gone era. EVERYONE was already familiar with the infamous octopus story anyway, even though no one knew what really happened that day. That was the beauty of it. And as Jake already said in another interview, Robert had spent most of those days either drunk or high, often both, so a lot of the shit mentioned in that book was simply made up or blown out of proportion.

So, when Letterman asked about the contents of the book again, Jake replied nonchalantly: “Let’s put it this way, David. I can’t remember half of it, and neither can he!”

The audience laughed, but the host did not give up. 

There was one more story, one that they had managed to keep hidden, but which kept haunting them because it was extremely and painfully personal. Like a cold sore, it would never go away. It was also the reason why Sam still refused to speak with either of them.

They used to like Robert; he was once regarded and treated almost as a sixth member of the group. However, the fact that he decided to include this in the book turned him into an unscrupulous piece of shit in their eyes. 

Back in the day, when their heads were so big it was a wonder that they didn’t float above their shared stage, they thought no one could possibly push them out of their pedestal. But new bands appeared, some of them equally good. Bands such as the British wonder Mellow Yellow, with their charismatic, blonde frontman…

“Alright, alright,” Letterman raised his voice before the applause died down completely. “But I’m sure EVERYONE wants to know the truth behind those accusations that the real reason why Air Javelin split up was the affair you BOTH had with the late Chris Turpin.”

@thewritingbeforesunrise @fleet-of-fiction @writingcold @lvnterninthenight @its-interesting-van-kleep   @takenbythemadness   @edgingthedarkness @myownparadise96 @gvfstuddedmajesty @jazzyfigz @sanguinebats @josh-iamyour-mama @lyndz2names @wetkleenex-gvf @peaceloveunitygvf @cheersdannyx2 @fleetingjake @lizzys-sunflower @emojakekiszka @gvfmarge @Dayumclarizzel @lipstickitty @clownstarr @gretasfallingsky @musicislove3389 @i-love-gvf @psychedelectable @allof--mylove @sacredsparrow