#navy blue cord

[monamipencil]

— right here | j.ww

⋆ pairings; wonwoo x fem! reader ⋆ genre; smut, stalker themes, angst, fluff, 90s! au ⋆ w.c; 2.9k+ ⋆ warnings; stalking, a brief non-con talk (doesn't actually happen), masturbating (m.&f.), almost phone sex, stealing of panties, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, he's a bit toxic and an idiot, he's a law student, reader's parents are mentioned as strict and conservative ⋆ a/n; yeah... tried to make it dark and failed miserably. and yes wonwoo reads kafka and you can't change my mind.

stalker! wonwoo who also loves horror movies and hence loves to pull little pranks on you.

“so, gotta boyfriend?” his voice is distorted by the voice changer before it reaches you on the other side. he sighs dreamily, eyes focused on your figure as you cook dinner.

you're not wearing any pants, just an oversized shirt. even though he knows your answer, he waits for you to reply. you blow the soup before tasting it, your landline phone pinched between your shoulder and ear.

“why do you ask?”

wonwoo smiles, leaning against the tree in your backyard. it's almost the same age as you. he knows that. he also knows you live with your parents 'cause they want to protect their little girl from the world. and that you're all alone for tonight, and you share his taste for horror movies.

you move around the kitchen, occupied with the dish. “'could take you out on a date,” he suggests.

you roll your eyes with a scoff, but a small part of you wants to entertain the idea. the idea of going on a date with your digital fling for 3 months does sound enticing. you let the idea sink in as you stir the contents of the pot.

wonwoo groans when you lean your elbows on the counter, giving him a perfect view of your ass. the navy blue underwear, or is it black? he squints his eyes and looks closer. whatever it is, it has him rock-hard beneath his pants.

“did you stub a toe?” you ask with amusement to which he laughs. your visage changes when you realise what he could be doing on the other end. “wait, what are you doing?”

“what do you think i'm doing?” he smirks, watching you move off the counter and closer to the phone body. you twirl the coil cord with your fingers and bite your lip.

“I don't,” you take a deep breath, “know.”

he pulls a cotton underwear from his blazer pocket and presses it to his nose, inhaling your scent. his cock twitches with need, and he suppresses a groan. holding his wireless Nokia 6110 between his shoulder and ear, he undoes his jeans.

it's freezing cold outside, and the risk of mosquitoes is high, but he simply doesn't care. wonwoo pulls his cock out, hissing at the cold air biting his tip. he wraps his fingers around the base, lazily stroking it before wrapping his cock with your underwear that went missing a couple of days ago.

you're at a crossroad in the kitchen. a part of you basks in this debauchery, and the other knows that this very well could be some middle-aged pervert or some 12-year-old messing with you.

“you're so pretty, princess.” he grunts into the phone, hips bucking into his hand.

“you don't even know how I look like..” you trail off, lowkey turned on. wait no! he could be an old man, ew.

he chuckles, eyes darting towards your figure leaning back on the counter with your pouted lips and knitted eyebrows. “maybe..”

wonwoo presses your panties on his tip with his thumb, teasing his slit. his breath quickens and worry looms over your features at his silence.

“you don't know the things I want to do to you.”

you roll your eyes again with a sigh. “really? i wonder what it could be.” the boredom in your tone amuses him.

“I want you to sit on my face,”

a scandalised gasp erupts from your throat before acting nonchalant again. “oh yeah? what else, ghostface?” your breath falters, and your stomach flips. you don't even want to think about what's happening between your legs.

“I'd slowly kiss down your body and make you come undone in all ways.”

well, shit. your legs snap close and bite your lips to stop any embarrassing noises from spilling out. the logical part of you drowns in the wave of horniness that hits you. wonwoo doesn't wait for you to speak and continues.

“I want to strip you bare and make love to you.” his hand movements quicken when he sees you slip a hand down your panties. he sucks in oxygen like he's deprived of it. the cold bites at his skin and his breaths turn foggy, but the thought of you warms him from inside.

your thoughts muddle, and any common sense is thrown out the window when you feel your arousal sticking to your panties. you can't offer him many words, and it brings you embarrassment at how easily you fold. to keep up your facade, you scoff into the speaker but wait for him to speak up.

but the line disconnects, filling you with disappointment and wanting. you place the phone on the cradle and sit down on the floor. the disappointment doesn't deter you from touching yourself to the thoughts of him. you wonder how he sounds in real life and imagine him doing the things he spoke of.

your toes curl as you apply pressure to your clit, rubbing it incessantly. your other hand plays with your nipples, pinching and rolling them over your t-shirt. you try and try but can't climax. you pull out your hands with anger and annoyance.

burying your head in your knees, you think of blocking him but realise he's probably using *67. the hiss of the boiling snaps you back to reality, and you stand up in a hurry to look at the food. you groan, looking at the sad-looking dish staring back at you.

the telephone rings, piling up on your irritated state. “what?” you bark, teeth grinding and knuckles turning white.

“come outside,” a low voice tells you.

“what?” you repeat, softer this time. before the gears in your brain could turn, you find yourself at the front door, turning the knob. it feels like whiplash when your eyes land on the person outside.

“wonwoo? what are you doing here?”

now, why the hell was your ex-boyfriend at your door? and wait.. is he your ghostface?

the possibility—possibility? it's the fucking truth. he's the one who's been calling you anonymously for 3 months and filling the hole in your romantic life. the very hole that he left.

he looks the same—almost the same—but then you notice the faint ring of dark circles, the tiredness in his eyes, and, is that your panties hanging from his blazer pocket?

it doesn't take long for your pent-up emotions to flood your senses and suddenly, you're pulling him in, and locking your hands around his neck. you press your lips to his and let his hands wander your body.

 “wonwoo, fuck!”

you throw your head back on the handrest and tug at his hair roots. his tongue laps at your cunt, and his nose brushes your clit as you lay fully bare on your couch. wonwoo’s grip on your hips holds you down while he slurps and sucks on your hole, tongue prodding inside every now and then.

his soft lips mold with your pussy lips, and his over-grown hair tickles your inner thigh. his hungry eyes meet yours before he pulls away with your fluids glistening on his skin. he ascends on you like a predator sizing up its prey. your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him down.

the soft material of his t-shirt presses against your burning skin, and you feel cold without his warmth. “off,” you huff, tugging at the cloth. he obliges with a smile. soon he joins you on the couch, and feeling his bare skin on yours elicits a variety of emotions from you.

you’re ready to break down and cry but also have the urge to slap him along with the cauterizing need to have him inside you. he stills for a moment, silently looking for reassurance to go ahead. you tilt up your head, kissing him softly and breathing him in. you forgot how intimate it felt to share your breath with another.

wonwoo kisses your forehead and moves back, positioning himself between your legs. “condom?” you croak.

“I don’t have one.”

eyeing the hesitant look on your face, he continues. “I haven’t slept with anyone … after you.”

you crash your lips against his, tongue pushing past his lips. you moan wantonly, and the noises of wet kissing reverberate through your eardrums. you card your fingers through his lush black locks and tilt your head, kissing him deeper and slower.

your core pulsates as his hands rediscover your body. goosebumps rise on your skin when his thumb brushes against your hard nipple, and you shiver, feeling his cock on your thigh. you gasp for air, pulling away. his hands brush down your back to your ass, kneading the flesh beneath his fingers.

wonwoo leans back on the handrest, helping you to position on his cock. you sink down on his cock with his help. you moan in unison when you bottom out. his raw cock kissing your insides sends a flurry of tingles through your body.

you grind down to stimulate your clit. shameless moans escape your lips when he thrusts up, balls slapping against your ass. his hands make a home on your hips as he continues drilling his cock inside you. you throw your hands around his neck, pressing yourself against him. you don’t kiss him but place your lips close to his, and with every moan and whimper, your lips brush against his.

you lose yourself in pleasure, in the way his cock splits you open and in the way he sucks on your nipples. one of his hands moves down to rub your clit as he keeps sucking on your nipple. he moves to the other one, swirling his tongue around the bud.

your body trembles with stimulation, and you bounce on his cock harder, desperately chasing your high. wonwoo detaches from your tits to press a hot kiss against your lips. you moan against his lips, feeling the coil in your stomach tighten with each thrust.

his tip kisses your insides, and your arousal forms a creamy ring around the base of his cock. you're way too gone, lost in the warmth of his hands and the depth of his onyx eyes.

a certain thrust and the rubbing of his hand has you trembling above him. your legs give out, and you rest your head on his shoulder, trying to catch your breath.

“I can't—I,” wonwoo shushes you and repositions his hands on your ass, gripping it as he thrusts upwards into your cunt. the sheer force of his thrusts makes you whimper and dig your fingernails into his broad shoulders.

“wonu,” you draw out his name as your face contorts in pleasure.

“yes, princess?” the nickname never fails to fluster you, and the rich timbre of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. he leaves hot, open-mouthed kisses on your neck and chest.

“please, I want to—want to cum.”

he nibbles on your earlobe, wetting the skin with his tongue. “mhm. but bad girls don't get to cum.”

“bad girl?” you whimper, “but I didn't do anything!”

“y'sure, princess?”

“yes!”

“you started talking to a stranger on the phone. yes, it was me. but you weren't aware.” you whine when he slows his pace to a stop. you clench around his length, chasing for some friction.

“you started locking your windows. I thought you liked it when I used to climb into your room through your window—”

you cut him off, “you broke up with me for your stupid friends!”

“and.. I left it open for the first few days after you left...” your voice reduces to a whisper.

“I'm sorry, princess.” he starts. “but it seemed like you moved on with your little church boy,” he hisses through his teeth, voice lacing with venom.

“joshua is my friend.” you hiss back.

wonwoo clicks his tongue, hating the taste of his name on your tongue. the chances of you kicking him out if this keeps up are high. so he changes the topic.

“y'k how badly I wanted to climb into your room? to take off your blankets, and push aside your panty. you would like that wouldn't you?”

“for me to have my way with you while you're asleep? even if you wake up, you'll let me hit it like a slut, right?”

your pussy flutters around his cock and you whine, hitting his chest. wonwoo smirks and leans into your ear, “dirty, dirty princess.” his voice drops an octave.

“I was peeping on you all this time. you wore my shirts, princess? love me that much? hmm?”

you hide your face in his shoulders but feel his smile radiating through his voice. “fuck you.”

“you are,” he grips your hips, pulling out halfway before slamming his cock back in. your slick arousal drips down your thighs, uncomfortably. his cock stretches your gummy walls and the coil in your stomach tightens.

it's hard to adjust to his animalistic pace and you're overwhelmed. lust and passion clouds your senses and the coil snaps. the orgasm crashes over you and your lewd moans fill the room. your body trembles above his and you grip onto him for dear life.

your first orgasm in three months is mind-numbing. wonwoo continues to thrust, chasing his orgasm. he grunts when you violently clench around his length, forcing him to cum.

warm ropes of cum decorate your walls and the wet sounds of sex halts as he pulls you closer. he rests his forehead on yours, sharing his breath with you.

by the time you calm down, you're flooded with shame and the reality of what just happened. his arms and the sound of his heartbeat is no longer comforting. removing his arms around you, you stand up.

you hiss and clench your thighs at the ache between them. his essence drips out of your hole down your thighs, a reminder of what you just did.

wonwoo sits up, worry filling his system as he watches slip on your t-shirt and move away from the couch. he wants to say something, but what can he say? hey, sorry for leaving you and stalking you. 'think we can get back together?

he cringes at himself and watches helplessly as you move towards the vinyl record holder. you pull out a vinyl he recognises and place it on the player.

‘The Chain’ by Fleetwood Mac fills the room, and you walk back to the couch, sitting with space between you two. the soft strum of guitar and drums calms his nerves.

“why?” you fiddle with your fingers, refusing to look at him as you ask. he sighs and shifts a little closer, t-shirt covering his body and glasses back on. “I,” he sucks in a sharp breath.

“I had doubts about … us.”

“I didn't think we'd work out and my friends seemed to agree. I—I'm sorry.” he holds his gaze down with shame.

“it was stupid, i know. but I thought our differences won't work out.”

“how can you decide it before anything actually happens?” you bark at him, your heart clenches with frustration.

“I—”

‘and if you don't love me now, you will never love me again’

wonwoo cringes inwardly. who would have thought that the song he used to dance with you to would represent his life now? he cannot find words to express what he wants to say. two years of majoring in law and literature down the drain.

he simply moves closer till his thighs press against yours and leans his head on your shoulders. “did you only miss me for my body?”

“no!” his defense comes a bit stronger, and he hugs you closer. “no. it's not like that. I missed you.”

‘I can still hear you saying you would never break the chain’

you take his face in your hands, kissing his lips softly. but you break it as soon as your lips meet and drag him upstairs to your room. your grip on his tighter, harsher, like you're trying to prove a point.

wonwoo doesn't protest that he's naked and lets you drag him away. reaching your room, you pull him inside and show him the stacks of books lining your nightstand.

he adjusts his glasses and squints at the books. he saw you buying books and reading them almost every night. he wondered how your conservative parents suddenly allowed you to read books, let alone ... law books?

“law books. I fought with my parents and bought them, just so that we could talk about it because I don't know shit about law!”

you're sobbing, tears cascading down your cheeks, and he feels his heart skip a beat or two. his eyes dart towards the other books on your shelf, Sherlock Holmes and Kafka, his favorites too.

he pulls you into his arms, hugging you tightly. he smiles at your faux protests and holds you softly.

wonwoo doesn't tell you but he has his own collection of Fleetwood Mac vinyl records lining up in his shelf. he bought Delta of Venus and A Spy in the House of Love, even though he doesn't like the vulgarity of the books you secretly read.

he holds you closer, and for anyone who looks into your windows, they'd only see the silhouette of a single person. your sobs quiet down, and he whispers soft apologies into your skin.

and wonwoo discovers that love is simple after all. love is reading Law and Kafka in your moonlit room filled with '60s rock music.

tags; @seungkwanschicken @aaa-sia @dokyeomkyeom @bangantokchy @jespecially

@asyre @armycarat2612 @bewoyewo @gyuguys @embrace-themagic

@aaniag (send an ask to be added on the taglist!)

[biteyoubiteme]

Taehyun x Reader, simply play wrestling with tyun

and you know how much he likes to get on top of whoever he's against....

pin me

taehyun x fem!reader

synopsis: play fighting with your boyfriend turns into more.

warnings: 🔞!!! choking (f!rec), no protection, slight fingering, prob forgot some sorry

wc: 1.5k

an: mae, my love forgive me for this not being proofread and repetitive ily let me give you anything you want in return for this being not the best. but the banner is so cute I love taehyun in navy blue omfg.

[m.list] [1kevent m.list]

It was a gradual change that came out of nowhere. One second, your boyfriend was casually invited to the gym with his friends and the next, he was corded with muscle, beating his friends at arm wrestling without much thought. But he always lets you win. 

You didn't even realize how strong he’d gotten, so easily fooled by his playful pretend. He will kiss your knuckles, giggle over your serious face, and only give you half the pressure he would his friends. Sometimes he even dragged it out, letting you think he was a second away from winning, the back of your hand so close to the table without touching it before letting his wrist go limp. He always smiles so big right after his fake pout and that's all you really care about, not the factthat he's let you win. 

It was the fact that he never tried to play fair when it came to you that warped your perception, so much so that when asked if he could show you some new moves he'd learned you agreed. Laying in bed, already dressed down, the two of you rolled against each other, your playful laughs echoing in the room. He was so gentle, locking your wrists in his hands as you tried to break free, twisting your hips to try and get out from under his legs, trapping you down. He even let you get far enough to push him onto the mattress, his hair a mess on the pillows as you pressed your hands on his shoulders to keep him down. He reached up to grab your hips, not to push you off but to slip his hands under your shirt to feel your warm skin on his palms.

“You look so pretty like this, on top of me,” he muttered, eyes following the shape on your face, down to the oversized shirt you had on. He lifted his hands higher, pushing the fabric off your body to leave you in only your panties for me. You sat back to let him do it, thinking the wrestling was over, you could feel that he was semi-hard against your ass, and when he pushed his hips up you tried to grind down before he took you by surprise. He had pushed his hips up only for leverage to flip the two of you over, your breath knocked out from the surprise of finding yourself pressed into the spot he was just at himself. “But I think you look even prettier under me,” 

He was right in the cradle of your hips, knees still raised on either side of him, you thought you could just twist again and knock him off balance, but it wasn't that simple. Taehyun sunk his knees into the bed, his hands grabbing yours as you tried to flip him over, he wasn't even straddling you and he was still keeping you down. He pressed his wights into his hips putting all the pressure on your crotch, pinning you in place. “Not fair,” you tried to pout thinking it would be the key to him loosening up his hold because it usually was. But taehyun wasn't taking it. 

“I win, I pinned you,” he leans down to kiss you, nose bumping yours as you turn your head, not letting go of the play fighting so easily. 

“I didn't tap out,” you say when he kisses your cheek. 

“Oh okay so now we have rules,” he quirked an eyebrow at you, “cause I'll get you to tap out if I need to I'm not letting you win this time,” 

“No, you can't, I'm not that weak,” but they are your famous last words because he doesn't hold back. He's slowly dragging his hips, pressing his bulge against your clit, already feeling your warmth through the fabric of his sweatpants. 

“Tap out,” he demands so softly at first, still willing to let you off easy if you give in early but you're stubborn, shaking your head no. You try to get out from under his hold now confronted with the fact that your boyfriend is so much stronger than you. Of course, you knew this and could feel the power he held back, especially during sex but now he's leaning into it, showing you even with one hand he can keep both your wrists pinned above your head. 

His free hand snakes down between the two of you, wedging itself right against your covered cunt, wet spot already soiling the fabric and showing him how much you want him. Your hips jerk at the contact, his fingers pushing your panties aside as he traces lines through your wetness, “tap out,” 

“No,” and you still sound so strong, even when he shoves two fingers into you, your thighs trembling when he starts to pump them in and out of you. 

You squirm, lips tightening to not let out the little moans threatening to give way. The heel of his palm rubs at your clit enough so that you grind right back onto his hand. But he's not playing nicely anymore, he takes his hand away, and you whine loudly, “Tap out,” so casually as if he hasn't just had his fingers inside you. 

“Taehyun-” 

“No, I only want to hear you speak if you're tapping out,” he uses his free hand not holding you to push down his pants, thick veiny cock slapping his stomach. “Otherwise I'll just take it as you saying you lose,” 

Your knees instinctively fall open wider for him, your feet digging into the mattress to line the two of you up. But when he pushes in, the tip of his cock is only just breaching your entrance you want to give in, let him win and fuck you without the game anymore, but your pride is too strong. He's built you up to thinking he will just always give in to you, now you're paying the price of not realizing who's always had the upper hand. 

Taehyun loves the way your eyes go hazy when he pushes fully into you, your warm pulsing walls pulling him as he presses his pelvis against yours. But he doesn't move, not even when you start to writhe on his cock, his tip pressed so deep you're seeing spots even with him so still. “Tap out and I'll move,” 

You shake your head, hips doing all the work for you as you push yourself onto his dick, wiggling to find some kind ofrhythm. He chuckles, “My little cock whore can't even stay still, I'll let you win if you can get yourself off like this,” 

Both of you know it's unlikely, not with your hands above your head, you can even last longer than five minutes when riding him without him taking over, this will be no different but you don't want to give in. You start to move, hips rising and falling while he laughs so sweetly. “Baby just give up, ill fuck you so good, you won't even have to think about it,” 

“N-no,” you stutter, finding it hard to form words when every movement makes his tip bump against your cervix, the painful pleasure pushing you on. 

Taehyun wraps his free hand around your neck, lightly squeezing as your eyes roll back, “I said no talking unless you're tapping out, are you tapping out?” he asks and you shake your head no, the vibrations of your moans are felt along his palm. 

You're doing little to actually try and get off, the feeling of being so full and not used is maddening, you want him to bully your cunt, take no remorse in how he treats you, and yet you're just a whining mess, clenching around him trying to hold out.  He wants you to give in, his jaw tightening with every flutter of your gummy walls around his cock, he bites back his need but you look so desperate to get off. And it doesn't help the way he has you pinned is so perfect to just let himself go, grab your hips, and use you like his little cocksleeve.

It's all too much for either of you. But you're not the one to concede because just like arm wrestling he's giving it to you without question. But he can't blame himself, not when you look so fuckable, begging and clenching on him like you can’t help yourself any longer. He lets go of your neck and wrists before grabbing your hips in a bruising hold, pulling you back and forth on his cock with an unrelenting force. 

Your back arches, his deep throaty moans sound like he's been released from the hold he's put on himself. Your hands twist in the sheets, taking every thrust, your tits bouncing from the force drawing Taehyun's attention. He's so close without even realizing it until the last second, tip hitting your gspot while he cums, twitching cock triggering your own orgasm. The both of you collapse into each other, his weight pressing you back down into the pillows as he buries his head into your neck. 

“I won,” you mutter, brushing his sweaty hair behind his ear, both of you still trying to catch your breath. 

“Shut up, round two in fifteen minutes, best out of three,” 

taglist 🏷: @kissmekissykissme @bts-txt-ateez @apeachty @seungfl0wer @lunesdesire want to be added to the taglist? check out my rules to see how to join! want to be taken off the taglist? send an ask!

[sunday-bug]

Assisting Congress

Pairing: Congressman Bucky & fem reader/law librarian

Content: mutual pining, mention of masturbation

🖤

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes has a crush on his favourite research assistant and finally asks her out.

I’m thinking this could be part one of a miniseries. Let me know if you’d be interested. I also wrote the majority from Bucky’s POV.

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

You’ve been working as a research assistant at the Library of Congress for a little over a year now, and you understand the importance of professional boundaries, but every time Congressman Barnes requests you specifically for research help on a bill, your thoughts can’t help but wander. Why only you? Are you imagining the way he looks at you?

“Good evening,” the Congressman says with a gentle smile as he approaches the door of your closet-sized office.

You stand up immediately and smooth your dress, “Congressman Barnes, hello. I have the documents you requested.” You swallow and do your best not to stare at the cords of muscle rippling through his flesh forearm. Why did he have to roll up his shirt sleeves? It should be illegal. Granted, it was a sweltering day and you felt your own office getting warmer as the day went on. You’d shed your blazer hours ago, leaving only your black sleeveless dress underneath. You start to walk over to the filing cabinet to get the papers for him.

He chuckles quietly as you do so, “Sir?” You ask self consciously.

“Long day?” He questions, gesturing to your bare feet. You’d taken your heels off a while ago at your desk to relax and had forgotten to put them back on before you got up.

You smile sheepishly, “Oh, my God, I forgot. Sorry, sir. That’s so unprofessional.” You rush back to your desk to get your heels, but he steps into your office and reaches out an arm to stop you, “It’s fine, really. I don’t mind. I-, I like the red.” He looks down again at your painted toes and you feel your cheeks heat.

“Thanks,” you stammer, barely making eye contact, “but let me just put these back on,” you reach again for the shoes.

“Leave them off,” he states gruffly.

“Um, ok,” you comply, feeling the blush from your cheeks spreading to other parts of your body.

——————————————————————————

Bucky can tell he’s made her feel awkward which wasn’t his intention. Seeing her pretty bare feet with toes the perfect shade of red made him stop short. He couldn’t look away. She was always so polished and buttoned up. So professional. Wound a little too tight. He’d developed a crush after he’d first met her, researching for a bill proposal. She’d come so prepared and knowledgeable. He recalls what she was wearing the first time he saw her: navy blue dress that was basically a second skin, much like the black one she was wearing now, hair in a low bun with tendrils framing her face, brown tortoiseshell glasses, and nude heels. He’d gone home that night and cum to the thought of her in just those heels. His reverie is interrupted by her whispering, “Damn it.”

He clears his throat and focuses back on the present, watching her stand on her tippy toes to try to reach something from a high shelf. The muscles in her bare calves flex as she reaches for the Manila folder without success. He feels his cock twitch as he watches her taut body stretch to try to reach it.

“Let me help,” he says, walking over to her. He steps behind her to retrieve the folder just as she steps back to get out of his way. Her back brushes against his front, and he feels that familiar twitch again. She turns around so she’s facing him and looks up to meet his gaze.

“I think my colleague put that there. He’s a lot taller than me,” she explains softly.

Bucky nods in reply, slowly backing up a step. Her hair is up again today and he can see her pulse racing in the delicious hollow of her neck.

“I made plenty of notes in there about relevant cases, so let me know if you need anything else or if you want to go over anything,” she looks down at the slim leather watch on her wrist, noting the time, “You reserved me for an hour block, so I have plenty of time,” she swallows, “for you.”

Bucky let out a sigh, thinking about how he'd like to spend the next 55 minutes with her. His jaw clenches as she moves back to her desk and sits down. She gestures for him to sit in the empty chair across the desk from her. He obliges and sits.

"We can go over the highlights, if you'd like, sir," she says with newfound confidence, like the physical barrier of the desk between them settled her. He realizes suddenly that she may be scared of him and looks at her with fresh eyes.

"Congressman?"

"You don't have to call me that," he says with a wave. "So formal."

"Mr. Barnes?" She asks.

"Mr. Barnes was my father," he teases.

"James?" She tries again, and his mouth twitches at the sound of his name coming out of her mouth.

"Bucky is fine. Call me Bucky," he says.

"Bucky," she tests out breathily, making him have to adjust his sitting position to hide the affect she's having on him.

He replies with her name and smiles.

"Now that we've been reintroduced, would you like to go over these notes?" She gestures to the Manila folder he's holding and he keeps it. She looks at him curiously, and he realizes he was wrong. She's not scared of him. Not at all.

“Are you hungry?” He asks suddenly, tossing the folder on her pristine desk. Not a pen out of place.

“Sir?” She asks with a questioning, yet playful look.

“It’s late. I bet you haven’t eaten yet. Have dinner with me,” he doesn’t word it as a question.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” she replies, “I mean, I’d love to, but it’s policy. It’s unethical.” She places air quotes around the last word.

She was wound so tight. Such a good girl following the rules. Fuck it, he thought, “It’s unethical for you to be sitting behind a desk surrounded by case studies while you’re wearing that dress. Have dinner with me.”

Bucky watches the blush creep into her cheeks again as he stands up from his chair, reaching out his flesh hand to take hers, “Don’t forget your heels.”

“Bucky, I could get in a lot of trouble if I went to dinner with you. If people saw us and got the wrong idea-,” he cut her off before she could finish.

“What’s the wrong idea, exactly?” He presses.

“Well, you know, fraternizing with a Congress member…” she looks at him pleadingly, “it’s grounds for termination.”

He sighs, “All of the red tape aside, do you want to eat dinner with me?”

He watches her swallow before answering, “Yes.”

“It’s a date, then. Put your heels on. If you get in trouble, I’ll vouch for you. You know,” he says your name again, “it’s healthy to break the rules sometimes. You might even enjoy yourself.”

He watches her grab her purse and drape her blazer over her arm before slipping her feet back into her shoes. She was still a head shorter than him.

“Where are we eating?” She asks as they head down the long corridor to the main doors.

Bucky smiles mischievously before answering her, “My place.”

She stops short, “Congressman, er, Bucky… I can’t just go to your apartment. I mean, I- I’m…” Bucky watches her struggle to come up with an excuse, but plays into her feigned internal struggle.

“Listen, if you don’t feel comfortable, we can go out. In public. Where people might see us.” He tsks.

She takes a step closer to him, looking up into his face with a stern glance, “Why me?”

“What do you mean?” He asks, confused.

“Why do you always request me as your research assistant? There’s plenty of research librarians with more tenure, more experience…”

“You’re whip smart, you always find exactly what I need, you’re organized, you bite your bottom lip when you’re concentrating… it drives me crazy,”Bucky steps toward her so they are sharing the same air, “and I would love to see how you look with your hair down out of this stressful environment”. He reaches to her hair clip and lets her bun fall into loose curls around her face.

He watches her shiver and her breath hitches.

“Why did you say yes to dinner?” He asks, his face inches from hers.

“Your sleeves,” she blurts out with wide eyes.

“My… sleeves?” Bucky looks down at his shirt.

“You have nice arms. Arm, I mean… they’re both nice. And a really nice face. Like the whole…” she gestures to his visage, “the whole thing is put together nicely. And you’re fighting for important stuff, politically speaking…”

“I like your face too,” he whispers and their lips brush before a loud creak sounds, and they break apart.

An older gentleman walks to the front desk and grabs a form before walking toward them, “Evening, Barnes,” he nods before heading down the hall.

“Evening, sir,” Bucky replies quickly before meeting her gaze again. “Let’s go,” he whispers.

She follows him out into the warm evening air, and he feels that familiar twitch once more.

———

Check out part 2.

[kendrysaneela]

I’ve been thinking about Helena and Helly’s rebellious streak a lot. Helly’s rebellion comes from Helena’s subconscious. Helly is rebellious from the moment she wakes up. She will not calm down. She runs through that door hundreds of times, she is relentless in her desperate need for escape. But when she learns she can’t simply escape by thinking inside the box of sending notes or sending a resignation or running out the door or even doing what she did with the extension cord. So she decides to start forming a plan with the other innies to take the company down instead from the inside. And she does little bits of rebellion while she does it. Mapping the facility, walking the halls, opening doors she’s not supposed to, going to O&D. Maybe she can’t escape but she can do little spots of rebellion while she tries to figure out how to escape. Her desperate need to escape cannot be quashed. It’s such a deep desperate need for freedom and autonomy. Now this seems opposite from Helena. Helena seems to be the perfect little Lumon soldier. Perfect at keeping up the Eagan image. When we see her speak outside the severed floor she speaks very calmly,very leveled, and softly. She recites Keir’s principles to Cobelvig when talking about her job. . She says she took a severed job because it sounds “Freaking awesome” She seems to have fully drunk the Eagan kool aid and she is helping best as she can to spread it. But then. I was thinking. Helly wears colors. Helly wears Yellow,she wears bright blue, she wears green,she wears orange. The dress code of Lumon is white and black, gray, navy or pastels. But Helena? Helena wakes up every morning and she chooses a color that goes against the dress code. I don’t think there’s even one outfit Helly’s worn that fits the dress code. Every day. On her first day? She’s wearing a bright blue skirt and a bright blue top. Against the dress code from the jump. And I was thinking. When you see Helena on the outside she’s always got someone surrounding her. At the party it’s Natalie. She’s telling Helena not to drink too much, in the bathroom, Helena’s father comes in, when she’s talking to Cobelvig in the parking lot? There’s a man behind her. When she’s in the meeting about asking for Helly R and the rest of the team back? she’s not participating in the meeting she’s being told they’re going to give Helly back to him. They’re not asking they’re telling. When she’s apologizing for Helly taking over her body she’s reading off a script and she looks anxious afterwards and releases a ton of tension from her body and slumps down. When she’s watching the kiss over and over she looks around making sure she’s not being watched. I don’t think Helena gets to make her own decisions. I think they’re made for her. So Helena pretends to be that loyal Eagan soldier. But she still wears colors. She makes fun of her family’s lore and laughs about it as soon as she’s in a place where she’s not being watched constantly. I think it'll be really illuminating to see if Helly still comes in after their little outdoor excursion where she was literally drowned and forced to become Helly again, if Helena will still be dressed in colors. Cause that's her little rebellion. Helena is just as rebellious as Helly. The difference is, Helena figured out that doing small bits of rebellion while figuring out how to finally escape is what her answer is, long before Helly ever existed. Helly's rebellion is Helena's without the fear, social conditioning and control Helena faces every day. And as an added bonus? Helly has a group of loved ones to help her who would do anything for her. While Helena is alone in her rebellion. So she wears colors every day.

[questforgalas]

Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Came Back to Life

For @daredaredoodles!! Happy Ghoapmas!!! Here is some very oblivious and very yearny Ghost for you!! Oh, did I mention lots of fluff? :) I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!!!

Thank you @forsaire for hosting!!!!

Ao3 link

Summary: It was supposed to be a holiday season like all of the others - nights filled with reports, and a base haunted by a Ghost while everyone wandered home. Three knocks on Simon's door change those plans entirely.

Words: 5K

No CWs, just tooth-rotting fluff and Gaz so done with these two

It was supposed to be quiet tonight. An intimate date between Simon, the desk in his room, and the pile of reports that magically remain the same height regardless of how many hours are put towards them (a detail Captain Price never misses). Does Simon happen to write a little slower to aid that magical spell so that he has a proper excuse when Price inevitably comes knocking on his door and asks why he hasn’t filed for leave again this December? Possibly, but that little detail belongs between Simon and the twenty minutes during which he contemplates which words to use instead of “infiltrate” and “detonation”. 

He should have known nothing ever goes according to plan. Three familiar knocks rapping against the door certainly proved that right.

Cut to Soap MacTavish standing on the other side, a smile curling his lips and azure eyes all the brighter against the navy jumper wrapping across his broad chest. Words were said, something about a night out which made sense since Soap wore dark jeans that seemed made specifically to torture Simon, and there was a glint in Soap’s eye not dissimilar to a child’s on Christmas morning. 

Ah, so, Price was picking up the tab. 

As Soap stands in the hall, punctuating his pitch to coach the lieutenant out of his room with perfectly placed smiles and a wink or two anyone else would find gratuitous but Simon found infuriatingly endearing, Simon swaps his hoodie for a black jumper, grabs his jacket, and has the door locked just as Soap says, “‘nd it’s not tha team without ma favorite lieutenant.” 

The calendars say “December”, but the unseasonably warm air makes the jacket hanging over Simon’s arm feel like overkill, making him contemplate turning around and throwing it through the door, but instead he rolls up the sleeves of his jumper. In the corner of his eye, he sees Soap watch as the fabric folds back and reveals Simon’s forearms - corded with muscle, covered in scars, one completely inked over. 

Simon wanted to tell himself that the way Soap ogled at the skin didn’t make his own feel a size too small. He wanted to tell himself the way Soap’s Adam's apple bobbed and the dusting of pink at the tip of his ears didn’t match his own. He wanted to tell himself he wouldn’t tuck this moment away safely in the gilded chest labeled “Moments He Can Pretend” that he stored in the safe recesses of his heart. 

He wanted to tell himself all of that, but unfortunately, that would make Simon a liar. 

Soap rambles on about some combination of some chemicals that Simon doesn’t understand a lick of - he’s just happy he remembers to nod at points that seem right for it - and they walk side by side through Hereford. 

“What fresh hell is this,” Simon mutters, the revelry from the pub greeting their ears when they’re still a block away. 

“Don’t fret, Lt.” Soap nudges him with his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s just ol’ Gerry with tha music up because he finally accepted he cannae hear for shit.” 

It was, in fact, not Gerry with the music up. 

The Green Pony quite literally glows on the corner. Green garland lit with soft, white lights frames every window, and electric candles flicker at the streets. Two wreaths adorned with a red ribbon bow hang on the dark wood doors, and through the windows, matching garland and lights line the entirety of the bar. A large tree pulls it all together, lighting up the far corner much to the chagrin of some patrons looking for a secluded corner away from the crowd. 

They shoulder their way through the entry and are immediately sucked into the chaos that is the Green Pony operating over capacity. Behind the bar, Gerry, the owner, a man who Simon is convinced was born in this pub, slings pints and jabs faster than any of the youngsters helping alongside him, and when he catches sight of the two men, he throws a lazy salute and points in the direction of their usual table. They break through the crowd, and the sight of Captain Price and Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick greets them at their usual booth. 

“Well fuck me,” Gaz says as they approach. “Good to see ya Ghost, but you just lost me 20 quid.” 

“Pay up,” Soap holds out his hand as he scoots in besides the other sergeant. Gaz grumbles something about “unfair advantages” as he fishes out his wallet, and hidden under a black medical mask, a smile pulls at the corner of Ghost’s lips. A terrible bet by Gaz, really. Might as well be the title of Simon’s memoir: 

Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Could Never Say No.

 Gaz of all people should know this, and Simon’s pretty sure Soap does do. 

Simon settles in next to Price who silently nods in a way of greeting, but Simon doesn’t miss the way his mouth curls up in a smile around the lip of his glass. “Never become predictable, Sergeant. Easier to kill that way,” Simon offers. Two pints sit unclaimed on the table. Simon grabs one while nudging the other towards Soap. “‘nd have some respect. I’m worth at least 40 quid.” 

“Sound advice, sir.” Gaz tips his glass to Simon then takes a strong swig. 

The rounds disappear and reappear over and over. The older patrons begin to make their way home, thinning the crowd some but not enough to avoid Simon’s shoulder - large enough to breach the end of the booth - becoming a human bumper now and again. Someone’s hijacked the jukebox, and Mariah Carey’s been serenading them about Christmas for the past twenty minutes. Price said his goodbyes a round ago, but not before assuring “Yes, sergeants, the tab will still be open,” and he threw that look to Simon that said “They’re your circus now”. 

Now, Gaz sits at the table, chocolate eyes glassy under the lights, and a finger absentmindedly circles his pint. A dopey smile sits on his lips, and every few minutes he mumbles along to Mariah before she drowns in the din of the crowd. A word hasn’t been spoken between them since Price left - an understood respect by Gaz who knows Simon’s need for silence as much as Soap’s need to fill the air - and Simon wishes he could enjoy it. He wishes he could give Gaz that much. Instead, a dainty hand attached to a brunette he faintly recognizes from base is demanding all of his attention. 

Moments ago, Soap delivered their newest round with a thunk, earning a curse or two from Gaz who saved his pint just in time, but instead of sliding into the space next to Simon - a space he occupied as soon as Price said his goodbyes - he grabbed his pint and beelined to the bar. There, a brunette waited. They were familiar, that Simon was sure of, and Soap kept flashing that smile that Simon was desperate to be turned on him. 

And then the hand. The hand gripped Soap’s bicep, gave it a squeeze, and a laugh, airy and bright followed. The hand remained. That smile flashed brighter. 

Simon hated that hand.

She was pretty enough. Glossy hair, high cheekbones, an ass Simon assumed would be appreciated by the right eyes. Eyes that weren’t azure blue and rivaled the bays of Islay. Any eyes except those. 

The hand slides from Soap’s bicep and cups his elbow. Simon’s knuckles have gone white. He really hated that hand. 

“Ghost, mate,” Simon hears from across the table. “Bruv, that glass is about to lose whatever battle ya’ve picked against it.” Simon tears his gaze away from that hand and sets it on Garrick who, bless him, doesn’t flinch. “Mind tellin’ me what that poor glass has done to you?”

“Don’t know what you’re on ‘bout,” Simon answers and sets his eyes back on that hand that’s smartly retreated back to its owner. Lucky her, she gets to keep it. 

For now. 

Soap’s pint is forgotten on the bartop, he says something to the brunette, and the cute crease that appears when the Scot is trying to puzzle out an equation is between his brows. Simon adores that crease. His hands itch to smooth it out and fight whatever has caused it. 

He misses the questioning look on Gaz’s face and when he follows Simon’s gaze. He misses when the sergeant puts two and two together, but what he doesn’t miss is the sigh that’s pulled from Gaz’s chest and the thunk of the sergeant’s forehead against the thick, wooden table. 

“Ya’ve got to be bloody kiddin’ me.” Stunned, Simon watches as Gaz thunks his head one, two, three more times, then snaps back up. His face is nothing but anguish. “Talk to him.” 

“What?” Simon smartly replies. 

“Talk. To. Him.” Gaz accompanies each word with a thump of his pint as if hammering them into the wood would hammer them into Simon’s confused brain. 

“Talk to who?”

“Bloody ‘ell!” Simon thinks Gaz is being a bit overdramatic, what with throwing his hands in the air and acting as if Simon is the densest person in this pub. Problem is, Simon has no idea what he’s supposed to be grasping. The sergeant rubs a hand down his face, and once he’s collected himself, the stare he throws at Simon pins him to the booth. “Talk to Soap. I’m beggin’ you, Ghost. Talk to him, and save us all from havin’ to keep watching you two dance around each other like a bunch of school boys who don’t know what a crush is.” 

The words make sense. Well, they make sense that they’re words, and they’re going in one ear. But not all of them are processing and some of them are going right out the other ear leaving a jumbled tangle of words like “Soap” and “you two” and “crush” that are rattling around in the empty space of Simon’s mind. Yes, it makes sense that Garrick just said something, but the implications are mad enough that he has half a mind to order him to a psych evaluation at once. 

“Might’ve finally lost it, Garrick. Imaginin’ things now.” It’s really all he can muster past his lead laden tongue. 

Crushing on Soap, well, that was as easy as breathing. But crushing is too trivial a word, wasn’t it? Crushing was what you did on the schoolyard when the brain hadn’t learned the words that threatened to burst from your heart. Crushing was soft glances across a room and sheepish smiles dripping with honeyed words. Crushing wasn’t a deep seeded trust that you’d make it home alive as long as that one person was beside you. Crushing wasn’t intimate knowledge of a body learned in the lowlight of safehouses while rough hands guided needles through skin. Crushing wasn’t hushed confessions in the dark as you accepted your mortality.

No, Simon did not have a crush on Soap MacTavish, because a crush was too simple. A tapestry of moments woven from a tarmac to now - the bar lights catching the hidden caramel strands of Soap’s mohawk - blanketed along Simon’s very being, and no longer could he ignore that his British heart had a Scottish flag planted firmly in place. 

And because life loves to remind Simon that he is not a man destined for gentle touches and even gentler words, he watches as the brunette grasps Soap around the forearm and leads him out of the pub. “Told ya,” the words taste more bitter than he intended. “Imaginin’ things.” 

Gaz tracks the pair through the crowd. “I’m the best interrogator on the team,” he says. Simon’s brow shoots up, and he’s about to question what the hell that has anything to do with this when Gaz holds up his hand and continues. “I’m the best interrogator on this team. I can read body language at a level that, often, I wish I couldn’t. The amount of people’s secrets that they don’t even know but I know is a burden I’m cursed to carry.” Pint abandoned and a finger getting closer and closer to Simon’s chest, Gaz continues. “I don’t know what the hell ‘appened in Las Almas…well I do, I read the report, but I mean between you two. I noticed it the moment we stepped into Ale’s safehouse, and it’s only gotten worse since. We, the 141, are a team. Price and I are teammates. You and I are teammates. Johnny an-”

“He doesn’t want anyone callin’ ‘im Johnny.” Amusement dances across Gaz’s eyes, and Simon knows he fell into his trap. 

“Exactly. Anyone except?” Gaz takes Simon’s glare as confirmation. “All I’m sayin’ is, Soap and you? You’re more than teammates, Ghost. You’re the best in the world - as much as I ‘ate to admit it - not because of hours of training together or years of missions. It’s like you two are one soul, it’s absolutely mad to watch. And it’s not just on missions either. Ya both have a starin’ problem, that’s for sure. Though neither of you would know because it’s always when the other isn’t lookin’.”

“We - what?” Simon can’t fit Gaz’s words into his understanding of his relationship with Soap. 

“The heart eyes? At each other?” Gaz flutters his lashes, and Christ, it actually gets a chuckle out of Ghost, as annoyed as he is. “Ya’d think for someone whose eyes are the only part of his body he shows, you’d be better at schooling them, but I swear I’ve seen those lines at the corners actually melt whenever Soap walks into the room.” 

Oh, Gaz is proper teasing now, and Simon wants to smack the smirk right off of his face. He wants to tell him he’s delusional and that he can’t accept the image Gaz is spinning because it means taking the feelings he keeps packed away in that gilded chest in the safe corner of his heart and laying them all out there. Yet, the denial never comes, and instead, he feels his traitorous mouth curl up.

Is that…relief easing his chest? 

Gaz’s face softens. “Remember the first thing ya told me when I joined the team?” 

“Our job doesn’t guarantee tomorrow,” Simon says automatically. “Take the good moments while ya can. Don’t know ‘ow many ya’ll have.” 

“Maybe time to start takin’ your own advice, huh?” 

“Who’s advice we takin’?”

Gaz and Simon jump at the new voice, both reflexes fast enough to keep the pints from spilling over. Simon peers up, and his heart stutters. There stands Soap with cheeks rosy from the cold, and Simon has well and truly lost it because he desperately wants to loop his arm around Soap’s waist and tuck him into his side to keep him warm. 

“Just Ghost’s words of wisdom,” Gaz supplies easily. 

“Ah, only an eejit wouldn’t listen to the Ghost.” Soap stares down at the table, and he clears his throat before he continues. “Actually, Lt. I - I was hopin’ I could pull ye away?” He rubs the back of his neck, and the red on his cheeks spreads to the tips of his ears. “Unless ye don’t want to! Dinnae me - mean to interrupt, probably discussin’ something - never mind I…”

“Relax, Sergeant.” At the sound of Simon’s voice, Soap’s shoulders drop and his breaths come easier. He meets Simon’s gaze, and Simon has never seen this look in those storm blue eyes. Timid. Unsure. Bashful? “Was just finishin’ up. Garrick, ya good?” 

Gaz waves him off. “Out of ‘ere. Your dark cloud is bringin’ down the festive mood.” He throws them a wink and stands from the table, smoothing out his jumper as he eyes six feet of muscles and a jawline that could break glass leaning on the bartop. Instead of walking around them, Gaz cuts right between Simon and Soap, and just before he steps away, he leans into Simon’s ear. “Talk to him.”

The hour hasn’t cooled the air so Simon and Soap opt to wander through Hereford instead of hailing a cab. Simon blames the beer and Gaz’s words buzzing in his ears, but he feels attuned to every one of Soap’s footfalls and every sway of his arms. The street is empty, plenty of room to stroll, yet the two of them walk with barely a hair between them. A tug Simon will always follow, and maybe Gaz hasn’t completely lost it, because Soap does too. 

But because Simon can never make things easy for himself, he says “Where’s the brunette?” 

Soap looks at him, face scrunched and that crease is between his brows. It would be so simple to reach out and gently smooth his thumb along it. “Wha’ brunette?” Soap asks because he can never make it easy for Simon, either. 

“The brunette at the pub. Seemed…cozy.” If a sniper took him out, Simon wouldn’t complain. 

“Cozy?” An incredulous laugh circles around the word. He’s really going to make Simon spell it out. 

“Ya. Cozy. Thought, well, -” Simon picks at the nonexistent lint on his sweater. “Thought she was makin’ good company.” 

Soap is silent, and it’s making Simon’s skin crawl. He focuses on his steps, one in front of the other. He creates a new mission right then: get back to base, say goodnight to Soap, and not emerge from his room until everyone has left for the holidays. He has rations hidden in his desk, he can make it until then. 

“Oh, Simon,” Soap says softly between them. 

They don’t speak for the rest of the walk, but there’s a spring in Soap’s step, and whatever millimeter of space that had existed between them is eaten up entirely by the Scot. When they arrive on base, Simon prepares his goodbye, ready to go down his hall while Soap goes down his, but when he turns to depart, Soap grabs his wrist and guides Simon with him. 

They arrive at Soap’s private room. The Scot jumbles his keys, nearly dropping them on the ground, and struggles to get them into the keyhole. Simon thinks to point out that the process would probably be easier if Soap just let go of his wrist, but call him weak because that touch is more intimate than any stitch Soap has put in his body. 

Finally, the lock turns, Soap pushes open the door, swiftly kicks it closed, and the two of them stand in the soft glow of the lamp on the bedside table. 

He’s been in Soap’s room plenty of times before, but this, this moment is different. A delicate thing Simon could almost hold in his hand, and he hopes that door never opens again. Hopes that they can stand here away from the responsibilities and the enemy bullets and bask in the warmth of this thing between them. This thing that Simon prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that he’s no longer imagining and is ready to stop ignoring. Since the pub he’s felt exposed, as if every emotion he’s tried to hide away for the better part of a year is now written across his skin for a pair of azure eyes to read. As he spies the rapid rise and fall of Soap’s chest, he thinks he’s not the only one.

Words sit on his tongue, but just before they tumble from his lips, he pulls them back. He’s pictured this moment 1000 different times and 100 different ways. None of it practiced. He has to get this right. He takes a breath. He has to figure out a way to tell Soap that if he wants to take the plunge, Simon is on the ledge with him, but he also wants to leave the door open so that if he’s misread everything, nothing needs to change between the two of them. The jumper is beginning to cling to his back.

But it’s Soap who speaks first. “I got ye somethin.” 

“Ya got me somethin’?” Simon repeats back.

“Aye. It’s - one second.” Soap steps around him and rifles through his jacket. When he straightens, a dark rectangle is in his hands. He holds it out to Simon who has lost all function of his arms and stares at the object. 

“What is it?” 

“A present.” 

“A present?” 

“Holy ‘ell, Simon. Yes! A present! Ye know what a present is, aye?” 

Simon is only more confused by the answer. Soap shoves the rectangle into his chest, and Simon’s brain catches up fast enough to wrap his hands around the object that he now realizes is a thick, wooden box. 

“For me?” Seems his brain hasn’t moved past two word sentences though. 

Soap rolls his eyes and his hands plant his hips. “Yes, it’s for you. It’s what I was talkin’ to Heather about.” 

“Heather?” Christ, Simon needs his brain to wake up. 

“Aye, Heather. The lass at the pub. She helped me get this.” 

“So, ya weren’t -” Simon feels his ears burn. “Ya weren’t…flirting?” 

Soap’s eyes widen for half a second, and then he tries to hide a startled chuckle with a cough as he looks down. Simon’s pretty sure he hears “Fuckin bampot” mixed in there. When Soap looks back up, he seems shy, almost embarrassed, cheeks back to that pink that’s starting to drive Simon wild. “No, Lt. Heather gets handsy after some pints, but I wasn’t flirtin’ with her.” Azure blue locks him in place. “I had someone else in mind for that.” 

Bloody hell. Simon’s first instinct is to retreat. Flirting wasn’t wholly a new thing between them. They’d lost comms privileges on more than a few missions with Price - Gaz never had the power to pull the plug though he always made his grievances known - but it was all coy, innocent, dangling off the edge of friendly banter. None of it was ever so brazen, so laid out in the open. But here was Soap, taking the first step, leaving a small part of himself bare, waiting to see what Simon would do with it. 

“You didn’t have to,” Simon says, holding up the box.

“I wanted to.” It sounds so simple coming from those lips. 

Simon’s jacket joins Soap’s, and he holds the box in both hands. What he mistook for black is actually a deep, rich mahogany polished by an expert hand. The box easily lays in his palms, and he’s acutely aware of Soap watching him as he lifts the lid. Simon’s breath catches.

The inside is lined by a black silk, and nestled in the middle lies the most beautiful knife he has ever seen. He can tell that the blade is of the best steel, a straight spine across the top meets a point sharp enough to tear through his toughest gloves. He runs his thumb along the edge to the heel and revels at the ease with which it knicks his skin. 

Where the blade is all wicked grace, the handle is a work of art. Stunning black onyx catches the light as Simon delicately lifts it from the box. At first glance, it’s smooth, but when he rubs the stone with his thumb, he catches other carvings. He moves to the bedside table, and when he holds it under the lamplight, Simon nearly drops the knife. 

Sapphire blue and rich hazel streak through the black stone, tangling together perfectly. Simon turns the handle. On one side is a blue bar of soap. It matches a doodle Simon has seen on scraps of paper left in briefing rooms and napkins in the mess and on the corners of his reports when a certain sergeant comes to visit. He flips it, and on the other side is a hazel ghost. Another doodle Simon has spied on the pages of a journal kept close to that same sergeant’s heart.  

“Do ye like it?” Soap shifts on his feet. He’s rubbing the back of his neck again, and Simon fights back a laugh. 

The absurdity of it all, that Soap could be nervous right now. 

No. Not Soap. Not anymore. 

Johnny. His Johnny. He’s always been his, from the tarmac to now as Simon stares, gobsmacked, at this immortalization of them in stone. At this declaration of every intention and feeling and dream Simon’s been too afraid of. Johnny’s blue streaking through the darkness, dancing perfectly with Simon’s hazel. Ghost and Soap always side by side. He decides right then that he’s done tucking the feelings away in that gilded chest. He’s done with moments that live only in his fantasies. He’s done pretending he’s ok with it being just Ghost and Soap forever and that he hasn’t craved Simon and Johnny. 

So yes, it is absolutely absurd  that Johnny could be nervous right now.

“Heather’s da used tae be in tha service ‘nd makes these custom now. I ken you’re picky about the blades. Think I drove ‘er up the wall goin’ back ‘nd forth makin’ sure it was the best -” Johnny is rambling, and he’s looking everywhere except at Simon. If he was, he would have seen Simon reverently place the knife back in the box. He would’ve seen Simon rip the medical mask off of his face, and he would’ve seen Simon eat the space between them in two strides. If he was, he would’ve been ready when Simon cupped his face, and crashed their lips together. 

Simon has no idea what he’s doing. He doesn’t know how to do soft and gentle. He doesn’t know how to exist in a space where there’s acknowledged interest that’s so much heavier than a tumble in a bed. He doesn’t know how Johnny MacTavish, full of joy and thunder and blazing glory, found his way into Simon’s endless darkness. But Johnny kisses him back and grips his jumper, and Simon’s heart is no longer his own. 

“Hi,” Johnny says once they catch their breath, and Simon can feel the smile against his lips. 

“Johnny,” Simon mumbles, and it sounds like a prayer. He pulls Johnny closer and feels the strong muscles of his arms circle around Simon’s waist. He cradles Johnny’s face, thumb softly rubbing against the stubble on his cheek, and he leans in again. This, Simon thinks, is his own personal version of heaven. 

They’re pressed together now, chest to chest, and Simon is certain he’d be fine dying right here. 

“How long?” Johnny asks, and he leans into the palm of Simon’s hand. 

“Fishin’ for compliments, Sergeant? B’neath you.” There’s a swift slap on his shoulder. Simon nuzzles into the crook of Johnny’s neck to hide his smile.

“Awa’ an bile yer heid.” There’s no bite in the words. “How long?” 

“Las Almas,” Simon admits against his skin. “The way you looked at the rig when the missile ‘it. I couldn’t look away from you. Still haven’t been able to.” He pulls back just enough to rest their foreheads together. “And when I saw Graves bullet ‘it…well, not even Price would’ve been able to keep me from huntin’ him down.” 

“Hells bells, Simon. That was over a year ago!” 

Simon ignores the outburst and kisses a rough, uneven scar barely hidden within the sergeant’s hairline. Johnny’s newest, only a couple weeks old “But then Makarov -” It takes a moment to fight past the lump in his throat. The arms around his waist tighten.

“In the hospital, I promised meself - “ Johnny turns his face into Simon’s neck, “that if I made it out, if I got one more shot, I was done runnin’ from ye.” He pulls back, freeing one hand and brings it up to cup Simon’s cheek. “While I lay in that bloody bed, all I could think was, ‘Ye didn’t get tae tell him. Ye didn’t get tae tell him, and now he’ll never know.’ So let me tell ye now.” Johnny cups beneath Simon’s jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. “I love ye, Simon Riley. In this life and the next, I will always love ye. God help any sorry soul that ever tries to take ye from me, because I will burn this world tae tha ground until I find ye. I don’t know how long this life is willin’ to give us, but I’ll take whatever it’s generous with as long as it’s with ye.” 

And well, Simon isn’t quite sure what to do with that. 

There’s a jumble of emotions rattling around in his heart threatening to spill into his gut if he thinks too hard about it. He’s aware that Johnny is staring at him, adoration and patience swimming in stormy blue, and his hand is softly carding through the curls at Simon’s nape. He remembers Johnny back on that tarmac - nearly two years ago now - brash and cocky and willing, and wonders what would have happened if he’d known how his fate was written, how his own heart was on the line. If he had known on that first mission what that annoying sergeant would come to mean to him, what would he have done? Would he have kept Johnny at arm’s length, protecting him from the jagged mess that is Simon’s darkness? Standing there, basking in the glow that is his Johnny, he doesn’t think so. He doesn’t think he could have. 

Simon threads a hand in the back of Johnny’s mohawk - it’s beginning to flirt with deregulation - and snakes the other around his waist. “Take the good moments,” he mutters in the space between them. 

“Aye,” Soap says, smile bright in the lowlight. “Take the good moments.” 

So, they spend the evening trading lazy kisses and honeyed words. At some point, boots are forgotten and jumpers join a pile in the corner. They tumble into bed, legs tangled, and even as sleep takes them, not an inch of space is allowed. Johnny’s breaths fan across Simon’s chest, deep, content. Sleep is pulling at Simon’s lashes, but he fights it a little longer. In his last moment of consciousness, he grazes a finger along Johnny’s hairline, catching on the rough scar, and he thinks the memoir needs a title change: 

Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Came Back to Life. 

And in the morning, there’s a folder waiting on Price’s desk. He sips his coffee, picks it up, and smiles at the familiar weight. When he flips it open, there’s simply a location: Glasgow. 

“Merry Christmas, Simon,” Price says and watches a jeep pull out of the base.

Johnny is singing Mariah at the top of his lungs, and Simon doesn’t remember the last time he was this content. The mask is forgotten on the desk in his room, and a new knife is tucked by his side. They turn onto the highway, Glasgow waiting, and Soap lays his hand out between them. 

Simon can feel it, the wispy end of a filament stretching between them. The past collisions and the future moments. He can see it, that future laying on the other side. That future full of lazy kisses and even lazier mornings. Of days together, never questioning if the other walks through the door. Of Christmases in Scotland and maybe a cabin one day, too. For now, they have to make due with stitches in safehouses and easy touches in helis. Stolen kisses in private rooms and hidden words between the commands. 

For now, he reaches over and takes Johnny’s hand.

[melancholicstation]

You heard my baby's back in town now! — controversially young!gf bobby kennedy one-shot

imagine... you are bobby kennedy's controversially young girlfriend who he met at a an oregon mall during his brother's campaign for president in 1959. fast forward a few months and you're finally taking the next step in your relationship: meeting the family.

taglist: @obsessedwithjohnjr @rocker-chick-7 @ultr4v1ol3nt @violetharmonsfavgf @strip-weather-forecast @darcyspirits @fortheloveofjos @h-l-v-kennedy-blog @h-l-vlovesvintage @bluelancergirl @snowsgames @salvatoresablondie @dulcegal @kennedyism @bloxholden35 @kimcrystal123 @astro-vibes-bro @absurdlyvintage @jackiesgirl @unmarlou @joansiesbeloved @jackiesgirl @acrowdedstreetin1944 @miumiumoods @yeuxdenina @its-esdras @jacobseresin @yspix7y @violetharmonsfavgf @vampyiricris @harajukub4rb1e @ironcowboycopnickel @valleyxdoll @angelitawings @monturi @starsprangledgirl

inspired by @unmarlou's age gap!bobby kennedy, go give this blog some ♥️ .

warnings: heavy mention of age-gap, multiple flashbacks, uses lyrics from Taco Truck x VB, use of terms of endearment, period typical sexism (not bobby)

words: 2,862

Most of the time you wouldn't say holding down a 9 to 5 at one of the biggest breakfast chains in middle America was an exciting career endeavour for a 22 year old woman but here you were. That was until you met him: your boyfriend of six months who'd shown himself to be a great lover and an even better giver, always draping you in the finest of mulberry silk and yellow diamond. You weren't shallow though, you would've loved him the same if all he had were the clothes on his back and that floppy hair of his.

However you wouldn't have to because he had the ultimate privilege or curse, many would go on to say, of being born into one of the richest families in America, and was the brother of the Democratic Party pick for president in 1960. Oh, and his name was Bobby Kennedy.

*Flashback to December 5th, 1959*

After working your job at Waffle house for about 2 weeks you knew it was hell, filled with grimy men hitting on you with their dirty pickup lines their dad probably taught them at age 15, that bitch of a co-worker, and a drab work attire that your boss, Susan, seemed to have affinity for catching any slight deviations of. Superficially it was mostly the outfit requirements that bothered you: I mean how were you ever supposed to leave this damned place if your own uniform made sure that no person, regardless of gender, would ever humanly find you attractive.

Despite this, you persevered and tried to work around it. If your boss told you to wear a plain blue top: you wore a lightly stripped blue button-up with featuring an embroidered, ruffled star motif on the chest. If your boss told you to wear heather grey bottoms: you wore an extremely short dark navy skort with built in shorts for the so called modesty striven for in the dress code. I mean for christ sakes this wasn't the White House now was it?

You often pared the dreary outfit with a pair of suede ballerina's in navy: a bit of an oxymoron where your mother was concerned due to the nearly perpetual state of wetness synonymous with Oregon lately. Adorning your neck with the one staple in your jewellery escapes: an antique scapular on black silk cord.

Slinging your bag over your shoulder defiantly: a bag so filled to the brim that it didn't look so much like a bag anymore and more like a rather large and rather worn sack. However you did attempt to beautify its exterior by applying randomised trinkets to it's complexion such as: a statement cross pendant held together with leather twine, a religious pocket book passed down from your grandmother on your Spanish side, and a stone rosary.

Departing from the trinkets adoring the handles of your bag, the once smooth leather of the bag was now covered in tiny hole marks from the pins of the buttons you so religiously adorned your bag with. Many—who were you kidding, all were of John F. Kennedy and his running mate Lyndon B. Johnson. Now you weren't so much of a fan of Johnson as you were of Kennedy but you were seldom able to find ones of Jack by himself. That's why the ones of jack stayed front and centre, with the ones of Johnson meandering in the background, wrapping around the sides of the leather.

It had been a couple hours of your shift before you granted yourself the masochistic reflex of checking the time: counting down the length of time until you were free.

Checking the clock you realise it had not in fact been hours, in reality it had only been an hour and three minutes. Boy time really just flies by when you're serving up cheesesteak melt has brown bowls at five-thirty in the morning: I mean seriously what kind of sicko does that?, and getting hit on by men who look like they could've been your father.

That was until you hear that disntict clink of the door chin: alerting you to a new customer. Exasperated with, well—life, you look up already annoyed. Annoyed until you meet the hilarious sight of a strange man crouched under a comically small umbrella, surrounding by some very self-important all dressed in suit and tie: a stark contrast to the typical male style expected of in Oregon.

Before you can catch a glimpse of the man he's herded into a booth far out of your range of sight. Despite being interested your attention is called for when a woman orders a hot coffee to-go. Y'know, it did always suck when you had to do your actual job and not just people watch for a living.

Out of nowhere two voices come within your earshot,

"No, Tim—I can do it myself. God damn it! You people treat me like a child, I can order my own food." a voice expressed that somehow towed that line between being intrinsically feminine and masculine at the same time.

The other voice begrudgingly backs off but continues,

"I know you're not a child Bob, but I'm trying to help you. Y'know that's kind of my job as advisor, to advise you on shit."

"Fine. You go do it, i'll wait over here like a dog." ,the voice says expressing a particular strain of annoyance you had yet to hear vocalised until that moment.

This man has an advisor? What the he—

"Hey-Uh, could I get a pecan waffle and a dark roast coffee."

Surprised for a moment, you compose yourself and reply "Sure, coming right up."

Shuffling into the back with the intention to tell the cook the order, and then maybe take a cheeky smoke from your bag in the meantime. Maybe.

After telling the cook, you find yourself b-lining for your bag. Getting to your bag, you start fiddling for a lighter that was until you hear a peculiar set of shuffling feet suspiciously close to you.

That's when you realise that you completely missed, on your mission for your bag, a real human man leaning his back against the bag rack.

"Oh-Mary and Joseph—you nearly gave me a heart attack."

The figure, and the face comes into your range of sight and your semi totally mortified. The president-to-be's brother had just seen you try to go for a smoke.

"Oh I'm sorry I just don't like the noises. Forks scraping on plates gives me the chills." the man chuckles.

In politeness you chuckle back, in order to get the elephant out of the room you say,

"Now you're Robert Kennedy aren't you?"

"In the flesh" he says with a quite sassy display of his hands, patting himself on the chest in an act to display his human quality.

"Well I have to say I'm enamoured by your brother's campaign, he's doing so wonderfully."

"Thank you, well I happen to think so too. But I'm a bit biased—y'know it's kind of in my job description. I pegged you for a jack supporter."

"How so?"

"Oh I don't know, maybe the pins on that bag of yours gave me a bit of a clue."

Mortified you look away that was, until, he redirects your head movements with his hand turning your chin back to his with the divine authority of a man much older than you. Though you're not repulsed by that fact, in all reality it's quite the opposite.

"Hey-Hey hey don't be embarrassed. I think it's awfully cute of you, though I wish you didn't have so many of that Johnson and maybe one of me." ,he says in a tone that carries the passion of a thousand un-spoken grievances, peeking your curiosity.

Lifting his hand off your chin, he lightly pets your hair: much like you assume he would do to perhaps a Boston terrier or a bengal kitten. With that same tenderness.

"I better let you get back to work. I'm sure you don't want some old man like me keeping you from your job"

Bashfully you smile, subtly shaking your head in retort. However he does raise a good point, such a good point in fact that it has you turning your heels back in the direction of the front counter. But not before turning your head slightly back—subtly saying goodbye with a smile and a slight wave of the fingertips, to which he mirrors with a sheepish, smug grin.

By the time your shift ends your exhausted and love sick over that man, whom you had only had in your presence for a bijou length of time but had been pondering about for hours.

Reaching for your bag before officially clocking out, you notice a new edition to your bag. A bright white and navy blue pin labelled 'Robert F. Kennedy for Vice President' surprised enough already, you're positively baffled to find a small engraving of a number etched into the backside of the pin.

What was on it, you may ask? Well, Robert F. Kennedy's phone number no less,

And that's how it started.

*End of flashback*

There were moments when you were faced with the awkward societal magnifying glass put on your relationship, and increased ten fold because of your scandalous age gap. I mean come on, it was only twelve years. It wasn't that bad. Though there were times you were reminded every now and then of the twelve year generational divide between you two, like in the instance of when he found that pesky little shoe-box underneath your bed.

*Start of flashback*

"Look at me"

"No I simply cannot bear it, Bobby!" you muffle out, the sound muddled due to your mousy blonde curls interference.

"C'mon, sweetie. It's nothing to be ashamed about, you're a grown young woman. I expected this from you, I'd be weirded out if you didn't partake in this sort of stuff. It's endearing, I promise." ,bobby teases, making a big show of his "promise" by dramatically holding out his arms in a prayer motion.

An action you find less than funny: ending with Bobby getting a pillow through straight towards his head, to which he dodges with ease.

What had caused this whole mess was that you'd tasked Bobby with the mission of finding that cotton camisole he'd so recklessly strewn across your bedroom in the throws of your shared passion. It was your belief that if he did it he should fix it.

However that adventure had led to bobby finding a particularly embarrassing set of erotic books hidden in a shoebox. Each with a more embarrassingly brazen title than it's former.

You had never seen him laugh so much than that day.

"Honey, I'm not laughing at you. It's just-y'know back in my day we never had this. We had to use our imagination, oh how times are changing. It's exciting really" he says adopting a semi sarcastic tone that borders on mocking.

His comments cause you to sulk even more, retreating into yourself perched at the foot of the bed, "Bobby don't be mad, I don't even read that stuff now! not with you. I was so in-experienced back then , I had no idea about anything."

"Oh baby, c'mere" he motions you to him, eventually gathering you up into a bundle and takes you into his lap.

Combing through your hair he explains "Baby of course I'm not made at you. How could I be? with such a pretty face like this. Y'know I'm glad you had those books, though I do like keeping you all to my self. And I certainly don't want to share you with any fictional man." he says in an order to lighten up the room, while dabbing slightly at your cheeks

"Don't cry pretty girl, I hate to see you cry, it hurts me, hurts me real bad. I know you don't wanna hurt me now do ya? Huh?"

Nodding, you compose yourself slightly and lay your head timidly on his chest: slightly hairy and stunk of an addictive sort of musk.

Your slightly moved when he moves his body trying to get something out of his pocket

"Princess, look what I found!"

And there it was your favourite cotton camisole, back in your possession. Sometimes you didn't know how he did it, he just did.

*End of flashback*

And that's how your relationship went for six months. Though it was hard to maintain a relationship being that he was in such a different life stage than you, and coupled with the fact that he was on a gruelling campaign trail with his brother. To be honest most days he would come and see you, you'd just lay in bed soaking up each other's presence. On the days you would venture outside as a couple you got more than a couple looks, and you had your fair share of unfavourable coverage in the media being that you were the controversially young girlfriend by the side of the man who's brother was on track to become president of the United States. But you both brush it off, you knew your truths.

You hadn't seen bobby in two whole weeks and you were beginning to get desperate. Though it wasn't like he was depriving you, he stuck to a strict schedule of calling you every day at seven in the evening: no matter rain or shine. Some times he would catch you eating a late dinner, for which he would scold you about adopting the tone he used in those senate meetings. And others where he would catch you in bed early, and one thing would lead to another. Thank god that you both had been smart enough to check for wiretapping, or else it would've made you two more of social piranhas than you already were...

And sure enough at seven pm, your phone rang off the hook,

"Hey baby, how are ya? Tell me all about what a sweet girl like you was doing all day? I wanna hear it all, leave no detail out." he says in a tone that reveals his true earnest nature that you've come to so cherish in your relationship.

So, you indulge him, "Honey, I got up so early, and then, I got into the shower"

He hums attentively down the line, encouraging you to tell him what you did next: to which you inform him that you took a nap mid-day, "I was just able to go back to sleep for a hour and a half. So that rocked, um, anyway."

"Did ya dream of anything special?" he says while shifting in his leather chaise seat: you assumed he was halted up in his hotel in some nameless city along the trail.

"I had this dream where, um, I don't know-" you trail off sharing some half-baked dream that you weren't sure you comprehend yourself. Apologising you ask about his day,

"Oh sweetie, don't apologise I asked, I wanted to know. I did want to talk about something with you though. Y'know how Jack is coming back to Oregon before the primary. Well, I thought what better a time to introduce you to my family. They'll just adore you baby, I promise just like I do."

Blushing and taken by surprise you bashfully reply, of course agreeing.

"That's great, you'll do amazing. Though, I do have to warn you about their line of questioning. They have a penchant for sort of quizzing girls that I take home about world events, it's like a sport to them-my parents I mean, my siblings will be just fine to handle. I just want you to be prepared."

"Okay, well what kind of events. Like events in your times?" you say sarcastically.

"Okay, Miss Attitude. I'm not from the 1890s, y'know we're only a decade apart. But I'll quiz you when I visit you in a couple days. I'll make it real easy for you, put in some recent events that you know: though you're a smart cookie you'll get it in no time baby."

"Bob, you're making me very nervous. They're not going to go too hard on me right?"

"Oh my sweet, you'll get used to them. They make a big fuss but they're relatively harmless, they'll see how happy you make me and that'll be the end of it. Promise."

After his assurances, you were left unbridled with happiness after you hung up the phone. I mean how hard could it be to charm a family like the Kennedys, they seemed nice enough? You charmed one of their sons so how troublesome could it really be? Jackie looked warm and open in the newspaper, Joan looked a delight and Jack well I'm sure you could bate your eye at him and he would be sufficiently pleased at your presence. Though that left out the parents, which were often the hardest of the bunch when fulfilling the daunting duty of meeting the family, you were sure it would be Bobby assured you so.

And why would he ever need to lie to you?

signing off: bang, bang xx

[snotbuggle]

Some concepts I did for clone formal-wear a few months back. I thought they deserved to have something nice to wear instead of just their armor all the time. I designed a warm and cold variant for the wearer’s comfort. Hats are to be taken off indoors and held at their side.

Original sketches vs. new ones I did today

An explanation on badges and buttons-The organization badge helps identify the soldier’s branch, def/off/other, and the corps. Organized by colored stripes and located on the right breast. Below the collar, legion stripes identify legion, regiment, and battalion. Also color coded. Over the left breast lays the rank plaque which specifies the specific rank of a soldier (ie. sergeant, lieutenant, commander…). Rank specific accessories are drawn in blue on the right side. Rank specific badges and medals are placed around the rank plaque. Earned medals and badges are placed closer to the organization badge and are not required to be displayed. It’s the decision of the wearer to display earned accessories.

Explanation of the individual design choices below

As a whole, their uniforms are largely based on Grand Republic Navy and Imperial Navy officer uniforms. The two are very close to each other given their in-universe relationship. I started with using the detailing shape of the clone officer’s uniform that trails from the shoulder to the bottom of the tunic. But I didn’t like that it curved at the midriff and I instead moved it to turn at the collar connection. I didn’t quite like the look of the asymmetry, so I evened it out by referencing the Imperial uniforms’ take on the detailing while still using the thicker cord from the Republic’s. The right side is the one that actually connects to the collar and opens the tunic while the left is decorative. The collar was inspired by Italian WW2 military uniforms used in some cold climates. They feature buttons on the collar corners that are engraved with the republic insignia. I kept the shoulder strips from the Republic uniform and added simple shoulder epaulettes. Of course I kept the tunic shape, but I’ve always disliked the jodhpurs so I’ve opted to replace them with slacks instead. However I LOVE the slick hats from the Navy uniforms and simplified them a tad to my liking. Finally, I kept the rank plaque and added a few other identifying accessories.

Now, this whole thing was inspired by the Italian WW2 uniforms I saw one day. I loved the large, poofy turtleneck that seemed so warm, and with my OCs being stationed on a cold planet, I wanted to give him something nice to wear at formal events. So, the turtleneck and thick, warm gloves were a must have. Instead of the turtleneck, the warm climate suit uses a classic Navy collar. The rest of the previously explained process came after this. And like I said earlier, I’ve always disliked the jodhpurs so I switched them out for slacks. I liked the way the loose pants on the Italian uniforms pooled into the boots. I mimicked that with the much higher Navy boots which are only in the cold outfit (+an extra layer of pants underneath). The warm outfit instead uses dress shoes to help optimize airflow. The loose slacks allow cool air to travel up and around the wearer’s legs and keep them from overheating. Only the first layers of clothing are required for the warm suit. The cold suit has several layers underneath which makes the fabric seem thicker compared to the warm climate suit. Personally, I really love the cold suit.

I think that’s everything I had on these designs, but if not I’ll add in a reblog or link it to a different post. Congratulations on making it this far, I hope you enjoyed my ramblings :) <3

[oacest]

(with enormous thanks to @noandneuron for their tremendous scholarly work taking pics of the library print version of this article, which seems to otherwise not exist online. original post with pics can be found here.)

LIAM WANTED ME TO MARRY HIM AND HAVE HIS BABY... BUT NOEL TORE US APART

SINGER FELL FOR WICKED SEX LIES ABOUT LOVER

by Phil Taylor, Chief Feature Writer (News of the World) (Sept 8, 1996)

Oasis idol Liam Gallagher's jilted fiancee opened her heart to the News of the World last night and told how her wedding plans were torn apart by his scheming brother Noel.

“Liam was the love of my life and we planned to get married and have children,” seethed Cerice Blakeley. “But Noel wrecked our relationship because the most important thing in his life was Oasis and he felt that I was in the way. I will never, ever forgive him. Noel deviously told his brother the most hurtful allegation that he could about me—that I had betrayed him and had sex with the band's cocaine supplier. I never two-timed Liam. But he believed Noel and was absolutely devastated. To this day he doesn't know the truth. Now Liam's with Patsy Kensit. I wonder if Noel will do the same to her.”

Life had all looked so different when Cerice first met the brothers who were yet to take Britain by storm. It was in a marquee near Oldham in May 1992—and it was Cerice's 21st birthday.

“I was heavily into the Manchester music scene,” she said. “And I was friendly with a band called the Inspiral Carpets—at the time Noel worked for them as a roadie. When he came along with the band I wasn't attracted to him at all. I hated his haircut—it looked as though someone had used a bowl. But I took one look at Liam and it was love at first sight.

“He wore blue cords and a dark navy kagoule and looked adorably different. I got quite flirtatious with him and later we arranged a date. Liam couldn't drive and was living at his mum Peggy's council house in Manchester. So I picked him up in my Citroen and we went up on the moors. Liam gave me the most amazing kiss I've ever had. It seemed to go on for ages and my mind was in a whirl. I felt so turned on I wanted to have sex with him there and then. I know he felt the same.

“But we decided to do it properly, so we booked into a lovely country hotel. I've never felt so excited in my life as we finally curled up on the bed and smoked a joint of marijuana. We kissed and kissed and I was ready and willing for Liam to make love to me. But to my disappointment, he suddenly stopped and told me, 'I respect you too much.' I couldn't believe it. It was so unlike a Manchester bloke. But I was very touched and it made me love him and want him even more.”

Liam later invited Cerice home to meet his mum. Then, she said, after a cup of tea and a chat they went upstairs to Liam's bedroom... and made love for the first time.

Cerice sighed: “Liam was only 19, two years younger than me, and was very nervous in bed. I wanted to strip him off, but he was so self conscious. He wouldn't take off his cream woolly jumper because he felt his chest was too puny. So I tried to break the ice and joked: 'Don't worry about your chicken chest, you've got lovely footballer's legs.'

“It worked. He relaxed and we made love to Hey Jude, one of his favourite Beatles songs. I felt wonderful afterwards and spent the night in Liam's bed. Then, the next morning, he brought me up a cup of tea and we chatted for ages.

“Then he ran a bath and started putting handfuls of salt in it. I couldn't believe my eyes and asked him what he was doing. He told me, 'It helps strengthen my bones.'

“Afterwards he spent ages doing his hair... he was always using his mum's hairdryer. I told him, 'You're going to end up like Mick Jagger.' Then I asked him if he wanted to try my mascara—and he did. But he went one step further and squeezed into my size 8 velvet jacket too. Then he put on the Rolling Stones record Satisfaction, pouted his lips and started strutting around the bedroom like Jagger. I creased up laughing. I'm only 5ft 5ins and Liam is 5ft 11ins. The jacket was so tiny on him, the sleeves rolled up around his elbows. But he loved it and it turned him on. He fell on the bed and we had fantastic sex for 45 minutes. Afterwards, Liam told me, 'I'm not gay or bisexual. I'm just in touch with my feminine side.'”

Cerice saw Liam and Oasis rise from obscurity to stardom. “I went to the studio with them while they were recording their album Definitely Maybe and knew they were going to be massive,” she said. “It went to No. 1.��

Two years after they met, Cerice's life seemed complete. “We had just got back to Liam's mum's house from a gig in Sheffield,” she said. “Liam looked really nervous. He told me, 'I have got something very nice to ask you. Will you marry me? I want you to have my children.'

“I was thrilled. I gave him a big hug and said, 'Of course I will.' We celebrated with a glass of his favourite drink. Jack Daniel's and Coke. Then we went round to my home and he told my dad. Liam said to him, 'I love Cerice and I want her to feel secure, so I've asked her to get engaged.'

“Being a practical, logical man, Dad asked Liam how financially secure he felt he was going to be. At the time, Liam was only getting £100 a week from the band. And he told my dad he couldn't even afford to buy me an engagement ring. But he said he was saving up to get me one. Dad wasn't too impressed. But he gave us his blessing because he wanted me to be happy.”

Liam's brother Noel, she said, was less pleased. “Noel nicknamed me Yoko Ono,” she recalled bitterly. “He felt I'd pull Liam away from the band, just as Yoko did with John Lennon and the Beatles. Nothing could have been further from the truth.”

Cerice and Liam rented a flat in the Didsbury area of Manchester for £75 a week and moved in together. “He put his favourite posters on the ceiling of our front room,” she said. “They were of John Lennon and the Stone Roses, one of his favourite bands.

“I would do the cooking—Liam's favourite meal was steak and Walker's crisps—but he'd always do the washing up and we would take turns with the hoovering. The only thing that annoyed me about him was that he always left his wet towels on the bathroom floor.”

It was in that flat, said Cerice, that the couple planned a family. She sighed, “I said I wanted a little girl and told Liam I hoped she'd have my hair, my brain, and his tenderness. He joked that he wanted a little boy who loved Manchester City, then said, 'I really don't mind what sex it is. I just want to have a baby with you.'”

And all the time, she confessed, their sex life became more and more intense—fuelled by drugs. “I must admit we took our share of cocaine through a £10 note,” she said. “It was extra special when we got in bed together because Liam was away on tour more and more as the band got bigger and bigger. I saw them play before 100,000 at Glastonbury and they were phenomenal.”

In the summer of 1994, Cerice and Liam drove to Scotland together for the massive Tea In The Park festival. “As the journey went on we were feeling friskier by the minute,” she said. “After four hours' driving we couldn't wait any longer. We were travelling on the M74 through Scotland when we saw a big wood. We looked at each other, smiled, and both had exactly the same idea.

“I pulled over, parked on the hard-shoulder and we ran off into the woods. Then we lay down on the soft moss and made wild, blissful love. It was the first time I had ever had sex outside and I think it was for Liam. We were there for nearly an hour writhing among the undergrowth before we finally got up and made our way back to the car. But as we walked back close to the motorway, holding hands and beaming smiles, passing motorists saw us and started beeping their horns. It was obvious what we had been up to and I was blushing bright red. So was Liam.”

They were never to be as happy again. After the concert, Cerice went backstage to congratulate Liam on his performance but could only find Noel. “I asked him where Liam was and he told me, 'He had to leave to catch a plane from Manchester for a concert in Germany tomorrow night. We're performing in Hamburg and he unexpectedly had to catch the flight tonight. I'll be flying over in the morning.'

“Bewildered, I went back to Noel's hotel where I met Simon, the band's cocaine supplier, and a record company executive. He told me he could get keys to Noel's room and I could sleep there. There were two single beds. I fell asleep in one and Simon and this fella slept on the floor, keeping the other one free for Noel.

“Then, at about 6am, Noel came into the room with a blonde and said, 'Oh, you're all in here.' Then he got into his bed with the girl and I went back to sleep. At 9am Noel got up and said, 'I'm going to Hamburg. I've told Liam you're OK and you'd phone him tonight.”

Later that day, Cerice phoned the Gallaghers' mum and she told her that Liam had phoned to pass on his apologies for missing her in the Scottish crowd. That night, Cerice managed to contact him herself.

“He was really angry and abrupt,” she said. “He told me, 'I need to talk to you face to face and not over the phone.' Then he slammed the phone down. I was distraught. He'd never spoken to me like that before and I couldn't understand why. Now I know. Noel told Liam I'd cheated on him and slept with Simon. A friend of mine told Liam it wasn't true. But he wouldn't believe her because it came from his own brother. He was shattered and went completely off the rails afterwards.

“We met just once when he returned to Manchester from Hamburg. I told him he shouldn't have treated me so badly. But we were both so angry and upset we couldn't even row. Instead he walked out of the door and out of my life. I haven't seen or heard from him since. He has never answered my calls. Noel must be delighted.”

After their split in August 1994, Cerice left Britain for Australia to get over the trauma. “It was while I was there that Oasis released Don't Look Back in Anger,” she said. “I tried to relate it to my own circumstances, but I can't look back in any other way. I have no anger towards Liam. But for Noel I have. I despise him. After we split up Liam was shattered and went completely off the rails. He simply hasn't been the same since.”

[slientscreamermj]

The daughter who wasn't wanted (Remake)

~part 1~

15 years ago

Y/n Sully is the oldest daughter/ child of the sullys, meaning she was neytums twin sister.

Even though y/n was a na'vi she came out smaller and her skin was a sky demon tan color with blue stripes. She was given away an hour after birth.

After 15 years the Sully's reunited with y/n but y/n has a new family, she is loved by her new family and Mo'at.

How will the sullys react?

~15 years ago~

It had been one year since the battle had ended with hells gates when the sound of new born baby cries filled the area,

Neytiri had given birth to twins, a baby girl and a baby boy. The girl came out much smaller than a normal na'vi newborn she was human newborn size, her skin was a tannish color with light blue strips, she had five fingers and toes, na'vi ears, nose, kuru, and tail. While the boy came out perfect.

Neytiri held the small new born looking up at Jake with unsure "Ma Jake this isn't right. She looks like a sky person." she started Jake shock his head "don't worry my love." he replied.

Mo'at and the other elders were very happy about the babies little y/n and little Neteyam

~Later~

Mo'at stared at Neytiri and Jake Sully in disappointment while holding her granddaughter in her arms before speaking clearly

"Daughter, Jake Sully, If you go through with handing your oldest daughter away this cannot be fixed." Mo'at said with clear disappointment

"Mother we are doing this for the clans safety and the alliances. she looks to much like a sky demon the other clans might try to harm her." Neytiri said not looking at her mother

"We're doing this for our family" Jake Sully spoke making Mo'at hiss

"She Is Family Jake Sully! And in the way for ewya you do not abandoned family" Mo'at yelled at the two na'vis Infront of her, making them jump

"Listen mo'at we are sorry but we are giving her up she can not and will not stay here. I am the Olo'eyktan and my word is final" Jake said standing up

"Heed my words my daughter, Jake Sully" Mo'at growled as she stood up cradling the newborn "if you give up your daughter, the other clans will not praise you they will shame you"

Neytiri ears dropped before looking away and cradled her son. Jake spoke again "Mo'at our decision is final now give her to me so I can-" Jake started but Mo'at shook her head

"I am still tshaik and an elder I out rule the both of you. I will take y/n away from here, she will group up in peace and she will be loved" Mo'at said as she began to walk away

"Wait mother take her song cord so can she remember her family loves her " neytiri said following after mo'at

"The family that wanted to give her up? No but she will remember everyone and everything. You disappoint me daughter, your father and sister would be ashamed" Mo'at said walking out of the room.

Neteyam and Y/n started to cry as they felt one another being taken away from each other.

Neytiri and Jake held each other while mo'at disappeared from view.

~later~

After a few hours Mo'at finally came to her destination, the village of the Dushnikh clan a terrifying, strong, green orcish, but caring clan of Navis located in the swampy area of Pandora.

Mo'at was welcomed with open arms before they sent her to the tsahík tent, where she sat in front of another tsahík, the tsahíks daughter, and grandson

"Mo'at my old friend, it's nice to see you but what's brought you to our home without notice?" The elder in front Mo'at asked

"Leyra my old friend, my daughter had just given birth a few hours ago and she has given up on the child because she looks different." Mo'at said as she opened the baby carrier on her chest revealing a small tan Navi.

The elder na'vi and her daughter gasped "These young ones always think they know what's best. Did you talk to her about her fate if she does this?" Leyra said as she looked at the small tan na'vi child staring back at her with an incorrect toothless smile.

Mo'at nodded as she looked down at the few hours old infant "yes but my daughter and her husband didn't listen.. they said they know what's best for their family."

Leyra and Mo'at stopped talking when the toddler had walked up beside Mo'at staring down at the new born who giggled up at him.

"sister" At'ok said as he giggled when the baby grabbed his finger

Zo'ile huffed "neytiri mated with a dream walker, but as soon as the baby looks like one she wants to *growl*" Zo'ile froze before taking a breather

"Mo'at, mother. Let me raise the baby." Zo'ile said sitting straight up and reaching out for the baby.

Mo'at and Leyra froze before smiling "Leyra you're daughter is a true daughter of ewya" Mo'at said Leyra smiled and nodded

"That she is Mo'at" Leyra smiled at her daughter.

Mo'at gently gave the baby to Zo'ile. The baby looked so small in her hands.

Zo'ile started down at the baby with nothing but love and care for the child and At'ok was excited about the baby as well.

" her name is y/n" Mo'at said

Zo'ile and Leyra repeated the name and At'ok tried but miss pronounced it making y/n giggle even more.

"Mo'at I promise she will be protected and loved by the people, and you will be recognized as her grandmother as well" Zo'ile said as At'ok climbed into his mother's arms holding y/n as he curled around her into his mother's chest slowly falling asleep.

Mo'at smiled sadly "thank you Leyra, Zo'il." Mo'at said standing up

Leyra followed "of course my friend. You are welcome anytime."

Mo'at and Leyra hugged before Mo'at left.

Zo'ile told her mother good night before walking to her hut.

Once she got inside her hut she bumped into her mates chest

"Ma Zo'ile are you and At'ok alright what took so long?" Nawmrui asked before his eyes widden at the sight of the smaller tan na'vi in his mate and childs arms.

"Ma Nawmrui, Mo'at had came by for a visit and she brought her granddaughter. Neytiri and her mate didn't want the baby, when I laid eyes on her I felt the great mother telling me to take her in as my own." Zo'ile said holding the baby's close

Nawmrui slowly got down on his knees to see the baby clearly, y/n had opened her sleepy eyes before giggle and reaching ot for nawmrui gently placing her hand on his nose.

Nawmrui smiled "Oh great mother has blessed us with not one amazing child but now two. I am blessed" Nawmrui said as he got up and gently hugged his wife and his two children.

The next morning y/n had been introduced to the clan and they watched as y/ns kuru was connected to their spirit tree. The tree grew brighter and the clan was overjoyed to see the newest member of the Dushnikh clan.

Nawmrui and zo'ile stared at their two children with nothing but love and care.

If the Sully's didn't want y/n the Dushnikh clan definitely did.

[lightsofthe-living-gvf]

Lover-Boy

18+ Minors DNI

Danny Wagner/Reader

Summary: You and Danny get it on after a night out.

Warnings: smut, bathroom sex but not like dingy bar bathroom sex, more like mansion bathroom sex, fingering (f rec), rimming (m rec), yes the reader rims Danny, very light mention of overstimulation.

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: Hello, everyone! I haven’t put anything out in a while, both due to a lack of motivation and the worry that people won’t like what I put out. But I realized that’s stupid lol, so I’m back with a short—and entirely self-indulgent—fic about Danny being a total sweetheart pookie lover-boy. Thank you to everyone who reads and I hope you enjoy 🤍

“You looked so pretty tonight, honey,” Danny murmured against your shoulder as he pressed gentle, titillating kisses there. Just the feeling of his lips, so soft and warm, had fuzzy little tingles dancing across the surface of your skin.

You cast your glance upwards from where Danny’s arms were holding your waist to your own reflection in the mirror. Your sweet, charming Daniel was indeed correct. You did look so pretty tonight. You had decided to go all out for your date night with Danny, choosing to enhance your beauty with sparkling make-up and adorn your frame with a satin, navy-blue dress that clung advantageously to every one of your curves and held itself up with thin straps upon your shoulders. You had accessorized the garment with a necklace and earring set, one that Danny had lovingly chosen and bought for you, just for this occasion. The pieces themselves were an enchanting silver, accentuated with gems that shone even in the shadows. It saddened you that you would have to take them off soon, lest they begin to tarnish or tangle as you carried on with tasks such as eating, sleeping, or showering.

“Thank you,” you grinned, meeting Danny’s eyes in the mirror. “As did you, my love.”

Danny’s hold moved downwards, his hands splaying across the round of your lower stomach. You could feel the metallic buttons of his dress shirt—loosened to reveal just a small portion of his chest—pressing cooly into the bare skin of your back. You leaned into him just a touch, pressing the entirety of your upper bodies to one another and situating yourself enticingly against his hips.

You then stared shamelessly at his reflection, taking a moment to commit his look to memory. He’d worn his hair up, wrapped tightly in a shiny black clip with just a few pieced pulled loose to frame his face. Upon his torso was a charcoal grey satin shirt—picked out specifically to match the material of your dress—and around his throat, a shiny crystal dangling from a leather cord.

Once you knew that you wouldn’t be forgetting that image any time soon, you turned your attention to another task. Bringing your hand upwards, you began taking your earrings off, placing them in a little dish sitting upon your bathroom countertop. Danny watched your motions in the mirror intently, his chest resting against your shoulder.

“Sweetheart,” you voiced. “Will you take my necklace off?”

He hummed softly in agreement and loosened his hold on you, moving instead to fiddle with the clasp on your necklace. He handled the piece with the upmost care, removing it from your neck and laying it on the countertop in as straight of a line as he could manage to avoid the tangling of the chain. Then, his arms found your waist again and his lips found your shoulder once again, resuming his kisses from earlier. You sighed, tangling your fingers in his hair and guiding his lips along the column of your throat as you rubbed carefully at his scalp.

You could feel his cock against the small of your back, half-hard and straining against the front of his slacks. You had gone all night suppressing your want for him, shoving to the back of your mind all the obscene thoughts of pleasing him until his bones shook and he could no longer control the noises tumbling from his lips, or the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. Now that the opportunity was finally presenting itself, you felt nearly giddy.

“Danny?” you said.

“Hmm?” he hummed absentmindedly.

Resisting the giggle trying to bubble from your throat, you allowed your voice to take on a tantalizing note as you asked, “Do you want me to take care of you?”  

“I’d love that,” he answered. “But you first.” You began to protest, but any and all attempts went out the window when he murmured a sweet, “Please?”

“You’re too sweet, Danny,” you said softly. “My own little lover-boy.”

“Mhmm, all yours, baby. Is that a yes, though?”

You nodded and he parted from you. You turned to face him, a hand moving behind your body to pull at the zipper of your dress. Danny watched as you unzipped and pushed the straps from your shoulders. When the dress fell to a heap on the floor, revealing your bra and panties, his cheeks flushed a delicate red. You found it endearing that he still blushed when he saw your- well, mostly naked form, even after all the time you’d been together. He would never bore of you, and you would never bore of him.

“Can I?” Danny asked, reaching out to you with an exceedingly gentle hand.

“Of course, darling.”

His fingers found the strap of your bra, where they traveled downwards until they reached the link. He unhooked it with ease and pulled it from your body, dropping it alongside your dress onto the tile. Your nipples pebbled both from the sudden waft of cool air against your skin and from Danny running his hands down your sides until they reached the lace decorating your hips. He then dropped to his knees before you, his fingers hooking in the fabric and pulling it down your thighs.

Once you were fully undressed, Danny’s hands began to truly roam, leaving you to shiver in their wake. For what was likely the hundredth time, he lovingly mapped out and rememorized the dip of your hips and the softness of your lower stomach and the give of your thighs. And as he did, he trained his eyes upon yours in unwavering devotion.

Danny stood, his hands falling from your body and leaving you to stand cold and wanting. You were soon rewarded with the sight of him stripping himself of his clothes in adorable haste. And it was only moments before his hands were cradling your face and his lips were on yours, kissing the breath from your lungs. The warmth of his palms on your cheeks was heady, and you tangled your fingers in his silken curls to ground yourself.

You felt your bare skin erupt with goosebumps as Danny backed you against the cold tile of the bathroom countertop. It was precious how carefully he moved you, so as to not break your kiss and suffer any moments apart from one another. One of the hands on your face moved swiftly downward, taking hold of your thigh and guiding you to raise your knee and allow it to rest at his side.

When Danny did choose to break your kiss, he murmured against your pinkened lips, “Gonna make you feel so good, sweetheart.”

His traveling hand worked its way up your body, settling just atop your ribs as he worked his mouth downwards. Eventually, his plush lips found your nipple, enclosing around the bud and circling it with his tongue. You allowed a soft moan to float from your lips at the sensation, the sound turning into a choked whimper as he suckled a pink mark into the skin of your sternum. He moved across your chest until he reached your other breast, repeating his actions.

You were becoming more and more wet, the sparks elicited by Danny’s hands combined with the alluring warmth of his lips on your skin fueling your arousal. And when his fingers finally wandered past your waist and between your thighs, a breath of relief feathered from your lips, and you nudged your hips towards him as a very clear indication of what you wanted. Only, he didn’t allow his fingers to explore between your legs. No, he just resumed a roving path upwards.

“Why are you being a tease, Daniel?” You huffed at him, whipping out his full name to indicate that you were growing weary of the treatment.

He chucked; his voice as sweet as sugar as he defended himself, “I’m not being a tease. I’m just appreciating you, my pretty, lovely girl.”

You were about to retort, but Danny proved his point by slipping his fingers through your folds, his thumb brushing delicately across your clit. You gasped and open your thighs as wide as your balance would allow. Perhaps you should’ve been embarrassed by how quickly you had grown desperate for your lover and his touch. You couldn’t find it in yourself, though; especially not when middle finger slid down to your core, spreading the slickness to your clit before sinking into your heat. Your fingers shot to circle his wrist in an effort to keep him where he truly belonged: buried inside your cunt at any capacity.

“Feels good, Danny,” you moaned softly.

“Want more, my love?” He returned.

Upon your nod of affirmation, Danny gave you another finger and without wasting a second of time, curled them against your walls. Your back arched, the movement sending jolts of electrifying delight up and down your spine. You voiced your appreciation with a whine of his name.

Danny continued to dutifully work you over, repeatedly striking inside of you and rubbing at your swollen clit between plunges. You had no real control over the noises tumbling from your lips; curses and praises and mewls of Danny’s name. He swallowed down every noise with fervent kisses, pulling away from your lips only to allow rattling intakes of air. He couldn’t stand one single moment without every inch of his body on yours, so while you caught your breath, he babied your skin with nips and soft flicks of his needy tongue.

Heat was beginning to rise and coil in your abdomen, threatening to take hold of your senses. You knew that only a few more moments of the unrelenting movement of Danny’s fingers would take you sky-high, and you voiced that to him in a breathless whine, “I’m close- Fuck, baby- almost there.”

“Yeah?” He sounded so sickeningly lovely and eager. “Gonna let go for me?” You nodded desperately, as if willing yourself to draw closer to your climax. He continued in a soft tone, “Come on, sweetheart… You’re so pretty when you come all over my fingers. Please?”

Again, it was the softly spoken ‘please’ that had you losing control and coming undone, assisted by a few more curls of his knuckles inside you. You gasps your lover’s name, clenching around his fingers as they slowed their pace to work you through the waves of white-hot pleasure wracking your nervous system. He slipped his hand from between your legs as you stopped trembling, mercilessly stealing the breath you’d been trying to catch as he slid the digits between his lips, laving at them with his tongue until he deemed them to be clean.

“Fuck…” You breathed, tilting your head to catch his lips in a short, filthy kiss. “That was so good, baby. Can I make you cum, now?”

He nodded and huffed a laugh that was betrayed by the want shining in his eyes. “I’m so hard, it hurts.”

“Awe, my poor baby,” you cooed, slipping your hand between your bodies to tug gently at his cock. And he was hard- feverishly hot beneath your fingers and leaking pearlescent beads of pre-cum. He whined at the touch, the sound catching in the back of his throat as he pressed his cheek to yours in an effort to keep you close. You let the fingers of your opposite hand dance lightly along his spine as you continued, “You’re such a good boy, making me cum without even touching yourself. So, so sweet… How can I make you feel good, honey?”

“Can I have your mouth, please?” Danny requested in a near whisper, the tickle of his warm breath on your skin raising goosebumps in its wake.

“Where do you want it, baby?” You pressed, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. “Do you want it wrapped around your pretty cock…? Somewhere else?”

He hummed before rather unshyly deciding, “The latter.” His cheeks were still flushed a very cute and soft pink, though, and it had you feeling nearly sick with desire.

And that desire made itself known in how hastily you slipped from his hold, and how your voice wavered just slightly when you gently commanded that he bend over the countertop. You pressed a hand between his shoulder blades and guided him downwards until his cheek pressed against the cool, solid stone, only inches away from where your necklace lay, glinting in the light. You let that hand roam, mapping out smooth, warm skin and feeling his muscles relax beneath your touch.

Running your fingers along his fuzzy outer thigh, you told him, “Open up for me, sweetheart.”

And he did so, demurely spreading his thighs to reveal himself to you and letting out a needy, shaky breath. You eagerly fell to your knees, your lips attaching to the delicate muscle of his inner thigh. You pressed kisses everywhere your mouth could reach, reveling in how Danny’s strong hand came to tangle itself in your hair.

Continuing on, you kissed and licked and bit—avoiding where you knew Danny wanted you the most—until he was squirming beneath you and letting loose pitiful noises. And only then did you relent, bringing one of your hands up to spread him. You began to tongue at his entrance, lapping at him in tiny, pointed motions. He offered a low, sweet noise in response, shifting and arching just slightly into your touch.

Danny’s plush thighs were already trembling, his desperation palpable and heady. So, you started to tongue him in earnest, roving sloppy circles around his rim and dipping past the tight ring of muscle every so often as he breathed whimpers and whiny calls of your name. His hand had fallen to the side of his body, where it took to clenching and unclenching, so as to not tug at your hair. And upon taking notice of this, you reach up tangled your fingers together, giving his hand a grounding squeeze as you pulled away to take a breath.

“Touch yourself, sweetheart,” you told him, peeking upwards and watching as he spit into his palm and brought his hand to his aching cock.

You returned to your task with a fervor fueled by the noises falling from his mouth; noises made even louder and needier by the added stimulation of his fingers curled around his cock. You knew that it was going to be a quick endeavor for your sweet Daniel. You knew that and in fact, you loved it. You loved that he had always been so sensitive and so hot for your every word, whim, and touch. You could never really tease him for that. Afterall, you had come on his fingers in record time only minutes before.

Moments later, Danny was gasping to you a broken warning of his release. You continued on the same as you had been and then, he was spilling against the expensive wooden cabinets that served as the foundation of your bathroom counter. You couldn’t make yourself pay any mind to the mess you two would have to clean up when you were done. Instead, you focused wholly on the perfect whines and curses Danny was allowing to float into the air.

As he came down, you slowly pulled away from him and stood, wrapping your arms around his waist and nuzzling into the warm, slightly damp skin of his back. Your body moved slightly with the force of his pants, and you pressed a kiss to the skin directly beneath your cheek. You spoke, your voice slightly muffled as you did, “How was that, my lover-boy?”

“Amazing,” he breathed.

“I think we’re gonna need to shower, though. Or take a bath?” You wriggled your eyebrows, even though Danny couldn’t see that. You were sure he could get the meaning on your voice though.

“Yeah…” he sighed. “Can you go turn the water on?”

“Shower or bath?” You asked.

“Whatever you want, honey.”

You plugged the drain and turned on the faucet for a bath.

[korizzybee]

Imagine being Jake Sully’s and Neytiri’s adopted daughter, child of someone who was an old friend of Jake’s:

Info: reader’s mom’s avatar had darkskin black features (Afro hair + dark eyes + dark blue skin) so reader also has those features, reader has an Jamaican accent, reader is Navi Avatar hybrid and has 5 fingers and eyebrows, reader is 13 years old

Boom your mom was 5 years old when she moved from Jamaica to North America, she and Jake became childhood friends (more like they became soul siblings)

The same day the RDA recruited Jake, they recruited your mother too

She also spends time observing the Navi and learning their ways with Jake, but Tsu’Tey was her teacher instead

As she lives there for months, she and Tsu’Tey fall in love and mate at the tree of spirits (JAKE N NEYTIRI DUUUUPE)

She and Neytiri actually became pregnant at the same time, literally shortly after they both mate with their men at the spirit trees

Your dad dies during the war yada yada yada, they win and skip boring stuff

For some reason when Neytiri has her baby, your mother is unable to give birth to you and she remains pregnant for 2 more years

The pregnancy drains her energy, making her look even skinnier and her skin color fade as her cheeks become hollow

When she finally gives birth and before she dies she whispers a name that’s a mixture between her’s and Tsu’Tey’s

Neytiri holds your small crying form silently shushing you while Jake cries over your mom’s dead body, she was like an older sister to him

Jake adopts you and when you’re old enough he starts teaching you about your human culture as it was a big part of your mother’s life and she loved her culture more than anything

This leads him to also explaining why you’re different from all the other Omaticaya, but he also explains it’s not a bad thing

You growing up with mixing your life with both your Navi and Jamaican cultures

You are the closest to Neteyam, he’s SOOOOO protective over you (you are his favorite shhhh don’t tell Lo’ak)

Since you’re a lot shorter than your older siblings, you often get carried by them

Jake teaching you so much about humans, pop culture references, music tastes n everything!!!! (Girl you literally take inspiration from his teachings and make your own clothing style out of Navi clothes)

Neytiri making you the most beautiful song cord ever about the love story of your mom and Tsu’Tey and your birth

You and Kiri bonding over both being adopted

You and Tuk are so goofy together, always making Neytiri laugh n shi

You two also bond over being the babies of the family

You and Lo’ak always playing tag in the forest

You immediately loved spider when you all first met him as little kids, (I mean, your mom was once human so you didn’t hate them at all)

ALWAYS wearing your mother’s Na’vi and human hair pieces and your father’s necklaces

Jake teaching you how to fight the human way because your mom was better than everyone in the RDA at that

Going to the Lab with Kiri to see videos of your moms together (they also grew to be close friends and would sometimes just make videos of them being stupid together)

Jake and Neytiri are the only ones allowed to do your hair (your mom taught them how to take care of Afro hair once), they make sure your hair is always healthy

You look so much like your mom but you get your smile, eye shape, and bodily markings from Tsu’Tey

When you can’t sleep, Jake would tell you his childhood memories about your mom

You’re a very spiritual child, always talking with a calm voice, you’re a little shy and always have a good opinion on everyone (girl while Neteyam finna future clan leader, you’re the future Tsahik)

Boom Quaritch bitch ass shows back up (YALL IM SORRY BUT HIS AVATAR IS SO FINEEEEE) and y’all have to flee

You have your own Ikran and she’s named after your mother (let’s just call her Irie)

Y’all make it to the lands of the Metkayina and Ronal starts hating on y’all for being different then she points out how your hair and looks over all are different from your family’s

Neytiri hissing at her as Neteyam and puts you behind him side eyeing Ronal, Jake defending your looks (W DAD)

Y’all get to live among the clan and lowkey….Rotxo he kind of crushing on you I mean not tryna be that one writer butttt uhhh you are the prettiest member of your family (behind Neytiri no one beats her)

You and Rotxo lowkey be flirting with your eyes, giving each other shy looks and blushing like middle schoolers

BUT ANYWAYS THAT’S IT FOR PART 1 IMA DO A PART 2 (this has been marinating in my drafts for months)

[honestsycrets]

before anyone else II: the reverent | admiral!miguel o'hara x princess!reader

❛ pairing | admiral!miguel o'hara x princess!reader

❛ type | double-shot, explicit

❛ summary | politics and murder? easy. but if he thought he could stomach forcing the princess he loves into marriage... he was wrong. or reader forces admiral miguel o'hara into marriage.

❛ tags | forced marriage, royal!au, admiral!miguel, princess!reader, mention of murder, betrayal, treason, angst, f!reader, persuasion inspired, Spanish is not translated, female led breeding session, hand jobs, spicy bath time, ignoring miguel.

❛ sy's notes | the update no one asked for. the first chapter felt very incomplete without this one, so i just wanted to complete this series with a little bit of angst and smut.

“And what is that? Up there, Lyla.” 

Lyla is closer to you than he remembers. In his make-believe voyage to Stone’s home, he would need a new ship. Today Lyla invited you to sail imperial seas, cutting through the waters with a new ship, the Reverent. He hadn’t shown you much of anything in his rush to leave the capital eight years ago. He makes that right with Gwen at your side, donned in the clothing of the guard. You opted for a soft blue gown, a navy blue rebozo thrown over your shoulders. The fat bow that drew in your stomach tumbled down against the dress’s long train.

“That’s the Crow’s Nest.”

His men and women were ogling. It wasn’t exactly normal to have a soft woman on board—much less their princess. You held the top of your hat, glancing up at the beam. Sun bounced in your eye, and you laughed delightfully, clapping your hands together. “A crow’s nest? Why do they call it such a thing?” 

“The Vikings would release crows from the crow’s nest if they could not see,” Gwen answered, he did not know she cared so much about ships. You looked at her in delight as she explained. “Chart the path they took toward land.” 

“¡Qué chévere! Lady Gwen, you are quite knowledgeable.” 

“All sailor legend,” Miguel responded, the string of jealousy coursing through his bones, before he jerked his head toward those gathered along the main deck. He never did like crowds. “Back to shore! Off to your work, then!” 

“Thank you for showing me proper sailing,” they dispersed to the sound of your many thanks, a slight bow in your waist. If it were your father, he would never do such a thing. Gwen stepped to the side, holding her hands behind her back. “You have a wonderful crew.”

"You heard the admiral, off you go!" Lyla rushed off to the stern to take the ship's wheel.

“And Lyla?” she stopped, turning her big brown eyes at him. She probably knew what was coming as you slipped by Miguel, sliding your hand around his inner elbow. “No rum.” 

It was one time, she threw a curse. 

“Have I missed something?” you asked, setting your head against his thin poet’s shirt. He smelled of the salty sea and the thin film of his own sweat. The warmth of the sun must have drained you already, donned in tumbling full-body fabrics.

“I’ve something for you.” 

“Have you?” you asked, turning around to face him. Miguel reached around his neck, loosening the cord. His gift was not a necklace. If it were, he’d be far outmatched with jewels like sapphires, diamonds, and topaz nestled between your breasts. He pulled a ring from the cord, slipping onto his knees. You recognized the ring that he presented to you immediately. A modest ring of pearl set with tiny bits of a jewel that wasn’t quite diamond on either side.

“Oh, Miggy. You kept it?” you slipped your hand down to his waiting fingers. Miguel slid his ring onto your finger.

“It isn’t much. A guards pay, yes?” He began, realizing he was stumbling over his words. “But I… couldn’t help but think you would prefer it to something new.” 

You pulled your hand free, kneeling to catch his lips in a small, patient kiss. He was grateful for anything he could get-- repressed as he was. Gwen bit back a smile, a soft murmur of princess, to urge you not to draw out such attention in front of a band of sea-numb sailors. You slid back onto two feet, your hands coming together one over the other. 

“I love it. I always have, Miguel.” 

“Yes, well--” he cleared his throat. He pushed past Gwen toward the steer of the boat, barking some orders in intelligible sailor slang. “I should check on Lyla. Lest she beaches us on some obvious outcropping.” 

Gwen and you both knew it was to loosen himself of the embarrassment of a kiss well deserved. You glanced down at the engagement ring glittering on your finger, a smile working over your cheeks.

“Perhaps I should not have asked Lyla for her help,” you leaned over to whisper in Gwen’s ear. “My Miggy will never let her live it down.” 

“Yes,” Gwen agreed. “Perhaps not.” 

Hours ago, Miguel was on the salty sea. Tonight, Miguel held a bloody seax, wiping away kingly blood from its blade with a handkerchief that he’d promptly dispose of. For all his talk, the king took death well. Admirable, even! Barely a coward’s cry, a simple do it mijo, as Miguel drove his blade across his neck. Perhaps he expected his death, perhaps he missed his sons. Miguel couldn't help but think he knew what would happen by asking Miguel to deliver you to Stone like a hunk of precious cargo.

“I would say that went quite well. No fuss from the council members. No fuss from the king,” Lyla relaxed at the king’s desk, her breeches smattered in blood. Miguel lifted his eyebrows at her, a bit of sweat dripping down his neck. “How about your fiancé? Think she’ll make a fuss? You did slit--”

“¡Callate! Go with the men and take the body to the undertaker.” 

“You’re no fun,” Lyla threw her boots off the desk, guards flanking her side, heading toward the king’s chambers. Miguel replaced his seax in the sheathe, cupping his face in one of his large hands. The door creaked wide open. Jess, whose frame was also streaked in blood, strode in. Miguel threw her a handkerchief.

“Council members are done and dusted.”

He mulled over what was undoubtedly coming: talk of the next steps. Miguel braced himself for her prodding.

“It has been a long time, years maybe since the people favored the king. I dare say not ever."

"What of the imperialists?"

"My guards are posted to suppress those still loyal to the king." 

“I can't imagine they were happy under his rule.” Miguel moved toward the king’s rum cabinet, grabbing a bottle of glass. He sniffs the pretentious liquid, striding around the front and pouring Jess a cup first, then himself. “He did nothing for them but levy heavy taxes. She is the one who handled public relations. They’ll welcome a new king.” 

“Well, it is better to have a warrior king over a puppet king. Even the corrupt will be happy not to fall to Stone.”

He hummed in agreement. 

“About your rule."

Oh, here she goes.

"You’ll marry her before the end of the rose festival. It is the perfect time for romance.” Jess drank her rum, clinking their ringed fingers together in a toast. “Everyone knows of her standing engagement to Stone. We can frame the wedding as an act of love and her father as an obstacle to it. The women will love it.”

“If she’ll have me.”

“Miguel. We agreed. She has no choice.”

The sound of it grated something low in his belly. His fiancé with no choice but to marry the man who murdered her father. Murder was in no way his preferred choice... It was unavoidable. He had no other choice.

“I know.” 

Miguel threw back the rum. He cast a glance to the window, the sun rising over the horizon. She watches him push off the side of the desk, his claws scratching lines of blood behind his neck. He spoke to himself as much as he spoke to Jess with his next words.

“My woman is gentle. I do not know how to tell her-- that I’ve waited a decade to marry her only to force her to."  

Jess had no answers. The king is dead, sang some distant lament, a panic echoing through the halls. He wondered which you would agree to attend first: the funeral or the wedding.

Your mother was assassinated when you were just a girl. Your brothers met their deaths while at war with Stone. That was the nature of war and being a royal. For much of your life, you were accustomed to the pain of loss. Creating connections with your subjects was what you always aspired to develop. You could talk to people in the crown city you knew would be there year after year. Like the willowy brunet who sold you rose oil even after Miguel left. That was why the rose festival was so important to you. 

It was tainted that early morning with the shrill scream of the king is dead-- bouncing off the halls, sending your heart strumming in your chest as you lurched up in your silky sheets, throwing your feet over the bed onto the cold marble floor.

“My father is dead?” you asked one of the two sentinel guards who stood wordless at your door. Gwen was parked in one of your great lounge chairs, rushing to stand upon the sound of your sleep-laden voice. You picked the bottom of your sleeping gown, rushing down from your place on the bed to the double doors. Gwen stopped you short of them. 

“By order of the Chief of the Imperial Guard, I’m afraid you can’t go out, princess,” she spoke smoothly. She cleared her throat. “It is not safe.”  “Safe?” you repeated. “The last man I could call family is dead and you long to speak to me about safety?” 

She steeled her face. Guilt trickled in, inking in her stormy eyes. She strode in front of the double doors, her hand over the pommel of her sword. You couldn’t believe your luck-- not only to be alive, drawing breath, but to at the same time be sequestered in your quarters like a small bird in a gilded cage. 

“Yes, princess. It is for your own good.”

The doors swung open. In place of your father, with his jovial hops, your fiancé. Miguel took measured steps, swinging the door shut behind him. The doors boomed as they came to a close. Like the other sentinel, Gwen took her place in protecting the only feasible exit. Your chambers were high in a tower, looking before the beautiful coast and its silvery waves. You often looked out the window and thought of him.

“I take it you have heard.” 

Something in his countenance set off an air of distrust. His chin was level as if it was cut out of marble, and effortlessly the words spilled from his lips. There had never been a day in your life that you did not trust Miguel O’Hara. That though he was curt, sharp, and decisive, he always bore your best interest in mind. That was something you reconsidered now.

He stood almost too pieced together. Miguel stood in a clean militant uniform, the finest set of regimental you ever did see him in. Any other time you may have drooled over the sight. Over the way he combed his hair back, tickling his broad throat. Or how tightly the shirt fit when he moved forth, then swayed back on his heel. His thumb hooked on the clasp of an iron belt.

“What have I heard, Miguel?” 

“Of the military coup.” 

His words carried no recognizable trace of remorse. They only communicated the facts of your situation.

“You…” you faded off. It couldn’t have been. ”It was you?” 

“I had no other choice.”

Though he said the words, he knew you would find them inadequate. Wholly untrue, even. Your mind buzzed in disbelief, pacing backward to your bed. You glanced at the clothes your maid set out for the day, settled over bundles of fluffy pillows. As the sun raised over the glittering ocean, one that you visited often in his memory, you felt stilted. “I asked you not to--” 

“Talk ill of the dead, yes, I know. I will not.” 

“You missed my point entirely. I asked that you would not blame them for the past. To not dwell on it. You've done just that!” 

It was perhaps an impossible ask to ask a man like Miguel, cocky as he were, to bury the past when your father made such requests of him. You could handle your father’s death by any other means. By an assassination by Jess or the many others who sought his head. With your heart something akin to numb, you dropped onto your bed, scratching at the ribbons laced in your hair from the night before. You pulled them free. Miguel made his way close, bending onto one knee between your own, sliding his gloved hand up your exposed skin. 

“Perdóname,” he spoke candidly. You gazed at him with watery, bright eyes. If anything on this earth could fill him with remorse, it would have been that. He pressed a kiss to your knee. “It had to be done.” 

“You say that but I wonder if you truly understand what those words mean,” you bit out. He appeared contrite, lowering his head lower, if at all possible. “What would you have me do next, hm? I have no more brothers to rule the crown. I care nothing for politics, only the health of my society, and what of Stone? Do you not think he will feel disrespected?” 

“I did it for you.” Miguel simpered. 

“For me? None of this is for me,” you repeated after him, knocking his hands from your knee. You replaced the skirt over the spot he kissed, finding the feeling of his slightly chapped lips blooming blisters of hot anger through your body. “No, you did it for yourself, Miguel. You are so selfish. My father gave you an ounce of power and you repaid him by taking his life.” 

“I am selfish? He gave me nothing but years of pain.” Miguel’s facade cracked, his face going insipid. “I took these positions to please him. For you.” 

“And how is it that these choices are now my fault?” you interrupted Miguel, looking up at his hard features. “Now where do I figure into this-- bloodlust of yours? What do you want of me?” 

“I want you to marry me. You will marry me. You have no other choice.” 

You weren’t going to let him skate by this time. You wouldn’t allow him to be this wonderful, handsome, caring man you fell in love with at first sight as a girl. The certainty with which he said those words was enough. You pushed past him, Miguel snatching your slight wrist in his thick grasp, holding you there. He couldn’t let it be. Not so easily. 

“Get out,” you whirled your wrist around in his grip to break it. He easily could have overcome you, the admiral that he was. You heard the rumors of his swashbuckling run-ins with pirates and saw him in action as a guard. You knew the depths of his strength. He let you slip away. “That is an order from your princess, Miguel. Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but it is the rose festival. I have duties to maintain peace that don’t require things such as murder and treason to the crown.”

He snapped his head down, inspecting something wildly interesting on the stony floor. His hands flexed and curled into tight fists, as though he could do or say anything more that would talk you from throwing you out of your quarters. His anger piqued before he absolved it of outward expression, instead speaking with a hard voice.

“We will speak of this again.” 

“Out.” 

He never wanted this. But it was necessary.

Miggy, Miggy, me duele. 

The pain will pass, mi amor. 

The only type of hurt Miguel wanted to give you preceded pleasure. One that could be fixed with patience and doting attention. That was what the rose festival provided nearly eight years ago. Today-- that reality couldn’t be any different from his reality. 

Jess’s military presence was intense. Normally, you could cut bundles of bouncy rosy flowers and interact freely with others attending, creating rose products that could be bought, traded, or sold. Your chamber ladies held wicker baskets jam-packed with long flowers to be given to expecting or aged mothers, a small gift for their motherly worries. A parasol blocked the warm Mediterranean skin from your exposed skin. 

“She looks beautiful today, eh?” 

Lyla nudged him with a sticky creampuff between her fingers. Its rosy pink filling was smeared over her slight lip. Miguel’s arms turned one over the other, not a complaint on his lips. She was right as she usually was. You never wore red-- but the occasions that you did never failed to render him breathless. Unfortunately for him, the long dress hugged your curves beautifully, a fat bow behind your back, the diadem settled neatly along your head. You looked beautiful-- like that night, sliding into a hot bath of nothing but warm petals and rose oil purchased from some overly excited peasant. What he wouldn't give to hold your parasol, or the baskets, to simply be close.

“Suppose you didn’t think this bit through,” she leaned in, whispering words in his ear. “The whole let’s assassinate what’s left of her family.” 

“Shut up,” Miguel pushed off the wall. “If you’re so knowledgeable, help me.” 

“I could do that. Princess!” Lyla waved, rushing over. He followed her like a second shadow, nipping on her heels. Your gaze snapped to hers. A slightly forced smile worked at your lips as you brought your red-gloved fingers to the basket your chamber lady had. He tried to make eye contact-- but found you looked anywhere but his eyes, avoiding him in the cruelest way you could. 

“Lady Lyla, I have something for you.” 

“For me?” she laughed, a teasing thing. “I never receive gifts.” 

“I give you casks of rum.” Miguel protested. You looked at Lyla for a moment, eyes flickering gently, before continuing your search. 

How did you punish him? You look anywhere but at him. You ignore his existence. He longs.

“Yes,” you plucked out a ruby red crown of roses. “Well, girls, perhaps Lyla would like to feel like a woman for once. Trapped on the admiral’s battered and broken ship does not serve for much of a love life. Other than brief encounters at distant ports. Which I am sure you do not care much for.” 

“Eh,” Lyla shrugged off the suggestion, slipping onto a knee so that you could set the crown of flowers on her head. She stands back up, nodding her head appreciatively. “I’ve had relations with some beautiful women.” 

“Oh, please tell,” you took her thin arm and pulled her from his side, pinching your skirt between your fingers and walking on. As if he were fucking invincible-- “I am sure the admiral has taken on many lovers during the years. Have you?” 

“He’s not even had one.” Lyla laughed, “Unless you count his hand.” 

She thought she was so funny. Your chambermaids certainly thought she was, chittering in laughter among one another. He quickly understood that you not only did not want to speak to him but by peeling his-- begrudgingly said-- best friend away from him, you sought to make a point. To make him feel as lonely as your grief made you. In this busy, love-filled festival, he certainly felt it. 

Miguel doesn’t buy things often. But there was something in the way the tiny stick of a man spoke. The glitter in his plain brown eyes invited Miguel to buy the stupid oil treatment that he spilled into his bath now. I think I remember you, you were the princess’s guard, the man said. You bought the princess this treatment years ago!

He couldn’t have remembered it. Miguel abandoned the towel by a gilded chair, sliding his sore muscles into the hot water. He shouldn’t have left to help his men at the docks. His muscles were tight with the tension of moving crates of products onto ships all afternoon and into the late hours of the night. The subsequent days of the rose festival proceeded much the same. It was nearly over. Jess would come soon to press him about his marriage. One that he was not certain would proceed-- not if things kept in this vein. Yet, he couldn't bear to walk to your chambers again, to force you into it.

“I’ve thought about it.” 

Miguel would have jerked out of the bath if not for your hands sinking into the warm waters of the bath. Your gloves were thrown somewhere else, not here, dipping around his broad torso and below the waters. You wrenched your hand around his cock, gently pulling his dick to hardness underneath the waters. It did not take much-- it had been so long. He couldn’t quite process your words with the way you stroked him, milking him as if he were detached from his cock. 

“Miggy."

"Yes...?" he didn't know what else to say.

"You murdered my father because you want to be king,” you said, the words held a vein of resentment. You enjoyed it, stroking the soft skin of his dick, tracing the veins that rushed to his head. You especially loved how he stiffened and grew in your silky hands. Miguel gripped the sides of the bath, his knuckles growing white as he held the rim. 

“I don’t want to be king. I want you, I’d-- carajo-- murder him a hundred times over,” he supplied the truth, the words falling from his lips with great effort. Your other hand sunk lower, grasping his balls in your palm and melding them. You squeezed him in some mock punishment. But it wasn’t-- not nearly. It felt good. He cried out, a small pant of air filling the room. 

“Hush, Miguel.” 

“No-- te necesito. I need you, I’m so fucking-- I’m hard,” your languid circular strokes of his shaft were agonizing and caused him to ache. His nails dug into the side of the bath, mesmerized by how gently you treated him, settling a kiss at the side of his neck. Your pace quickened, jerking him more insistently. The many days at sea that he stroked himself just like this-- with the dream of your hands being the one to do it, to do just this, all culminated in Miguel’s harsh panting, trying to obey-- to be good for you, just as you had years ago. 

“I know you do. You want me to marry you?” you murmured against his neck, tracing his pulse. He dropped his head back, closing his eyes, offering you only a small nod. Your hands drew back, leaving him bobbing in the water, so hard it hurt. So hard-- “Stop it.” 

Miguel complied. You drew back your deep red cowl, drawing the strands loose as you moved in front of him. He bore at you in an incredible amount of awe, his hand pulling at his cock like it were second nature. He pounded into his own hand, so high on the lovely sight before him that it surged in his chest, the beautiful way your nails pulled at the frilled bottom of your nightgown, lifting and pulling it off your body. His mind was a haze, skin warm by the hot oil in the bath. What remained was a desire to be touched by you. 

“¿Qué? I didn’t hear you,” your fingers teetered along your clit, stroking along your wet lips. Miguel soaked his own lips with the hunger that rose from the need to touch and be touched by you. 

“Sí,” Miguel murmured, the words short and slight. You slipped into the water, gripping the rim of the bath and presented your ass to him. Miguel’s eyes caught your puffy lips, flecks of rose matted to your skin. He didn’t dare move-- lest you tell him to get out. 

“Come mount me,” you urged, the words soft, gentle, inviting him to climb over your body. He didn’t know why-- but happiness bloomed in his chest, “Since you murdered what family I had left, you’ll give me more.” 

“Give you… you want me to…” Miguel’s mind fizzled out, all cognizant thought of what you meant left field. In its place was the certainty of what you wanted. You wanted him-- his children. He clambered over you, nudging your lips with his cockhead. 

“Sí, mi amor, I want you to impregnate me.” Your hand reached back, nails clawing into his muscular hip. Miguel flinched, the blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance. Water sloshed over the rim of the bath onto marble floors. What you asked for was to be used, to be filled. He couldn't equate the depths of your need when just a few days ago you banished him from your chambers.

“Is that so? Then I won’t pull out.” 

“I expect you not to,” you bit back. 

“Fuck,” Miguel murmured, taking his time in sliding forward. He wanted to savor the feeling, the way his cock slid apart walls that hadn’t been used in years. Your body stretched to make room for him, the feeling of burning pleasure dancing down your spine. Miguel gasped, realizing he should have fingered you first-- because your body was tight, so warm and good, full of his cock deep in your belly. You moaned his name, sounding so beautiful in ways that Miguel had only dreamed of in the past few years. 

He snapped his hips in forceful but short thrusts, his fingers gliding up your sides to your breasts, his thumb and index finger rolled and pinched your nipples. “Dios mío,” he found himself panting. “I’ve missed this.” 

“So Lyla says,” you threw back. “Ah, there, faster--” 

“As you wish.” 

You were talking far too much for his liking. His hands snapped down to your core, fingers delving against the clitoral hood, that sweet little spot he knew would cause a weakness in this facade of yours. You gasped, lowering your head down over the rim of the bath, accepting his thrusts with helpless cries of his name, growing in their intelligibility, until felt it more than he heard it. Your pussy spasmed around him, milking him for his seed. Not yet, he wanted to remember the way you cried for him-- for his children. He snapped his hips hard, short thrusts snatching any relief of orgasm far away. 

“Por fa Miggy,” you whispered, something soft and hot. His eyes went wide, failing to focus on anything but your voice. “Don’t be a tease. Give me your seed.” 

He responded with nothing short of a sharp growl, turning his hands onto your hips. He threw his hips forward in a harsh, punishing pace, as if he were taking out every second you punished him out on you now. Water soaked the floor, replaced with the ringing slap of his hips thrown against yours, his heavy balls full of cum that-- seconds later, he released. Miguel choked loud grunts, scratching at your back for relief. You felt his warm seed fill your walls, his chest bowing over yours as he spurt his cum seated against your cervix. His claws drew lines of blood free of your unmarred hips, marks of his claim. 

“Stay-- stay there,” Miguel murmured against your back, pressing small kisses along your back to your shoulder. “If you want a baby, my seed needs to take.” 

Soon enough, Miguel grew soft and fell free from your body, globs of his cum spilling down your thighs. He stepped out of the bath, drying himself off and throwing the towel on the slippery floor. He extended his hand out for you to take. You did, sliding over the crumpled clothes Miguel threw on the floor so that you would not slip. 

“You marry me tomorrow,” you supplied. Miguel’s bushy eyebrows pushed up, suddenly realizing why Jess had not yet come to bother him about his failure to secure a fitting date for marriage. You must have arranged it. 

“What do you mean tomorrow?” 

“Then our honeymoon. I want to have a child in my arms before the year is up, Miggy. You can handle politics, war, Stone. I care not for any of it.” You settled your hand on Miguel’s chest, drawing it down over his firm pecs to the muscles of his stomach. He glanced toward your core, cum soaking your walls. “You have no choice.” 

“You mean to say you are forcing me into marriage?” Miguel bit out, a heavy breath slipping out of his lips when you grabbed him again. Already? You walked him back out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, pushing him onto the silken sheets. He fell with a grunt, catching your body and dragging you on top. Cum from your leaking cunt soaked his thigh. You brought your thumb to his lips, quirking it against one of his fangs. Miguel turned his face to the side, glaring into the dark night.

“As if it were so hard. Now, the correct response is yes, my princess.” 

He chuckled, small and pleased.

“Yes, my queen.” 

Queen did sound so good when it came from his lips. 

[racheyace]

The Best Medicine - Part One

This two part story is based off of an ask, the ask part of the story however comes in part two haha

This story is set directly after the events of 'What's Wrong With you?'

“So where are we going?” Luke asked for the tenth time that day.

It had been a week since Luke and Jason had broken up. It had been a long and rough week with more than one mental health day off work and Matt simply couldn’t stand the moping anymore. Deciding that his best mate needed some fresh air and sunshine and more importantly to get his ass off the couch. Matt had organised a weekend camping trip for the two of them.

“Will you quit asking me, what are you Five? I told you it was a surprise, didn’t I?” Matt rolled his eyes and pressed his foot down on the accelerator in impatience.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea to go anywhere overly public in my current mental state.” Luke mumbled fidgeting with the cords of his navy hoodie.

In the last week it had been difficult to control his emotions, generally shrinking without warning and finding it difficult to shift back for long periods, hence the time off work.

“We are going somewhere secluded and people free I promise, now quit bitching and navigate to the nearest gas station, I forgot to fill up before we left.” He knew where the gas station was but honestly just wanted to give Luke something to do.

They pulled up a short ten minutes later and Matt got out to start filling the car up.

“Do you wanna go in and pay and maybe find us some snacks, we’re still about an hour away.” Matt asked offhandedly.

Luke rolled his eyes. “You gonna give me your card to pay or am I expected to fund this long road trip that I didn’t ask for?”

Matt just smirked already knowing that Luke would cave.

“Fine!” Luke grumbled and pushed the car door open to stomp toward the service station.

Luke was such a pushover and Matt knew it.

The automatic doors opened, and Luke headed for the snack aisle, he gave the cashier a small nod as he passed by. He browsed the small selection of choices, but something popped out at him that made him freeze and he felt his heart being squeezed.

On a display stand to the side was a collection of Reese’s peanut butter cups, a bright sign telling the consumer that this product was to die for and on sale, the best deal, two for one!

Luke was frozen, watching the scenes flash through his minds eye of all the times he’d surprised Jason by gifting him this particular treat. Peanut butter cups were his favourite and often on sale like this. Luke would get two and they would sit up late watching movies, eating their favourite snacks.

Luke closed his eyes and took a deep breath, nothing worked, his eyes stung and his heart hurt.

Luke had known all of Jay’s quirks, his likes and dislikes to the point where he had at one time kept a stash of peanut butter cups in the apartment for the off chance that Jason would come over.

And now he was gone.

Luke wiped at the tears forming on his cheeks aggressively and opened his eyes.

“No no no.” Where he had once been looking over the tops of the shelves he was now looking at the bottom shelf and still shrinking.

“Stupid fucking emotions!” He glared up at the Reeses peanut butter cup stand before his attention snapped to the sliding door opening.

It was possible that it was Matt coming in to see what was taking him so long but it was also possible that it was someone else entering the store, without a second to lose Luke dived under the shelf that now towered over his head.

His breath came in sharp pants as he eyed the gigantic set of heavy leather boots thundering into the store, they weren’t Matt’s and his brain began to go into full panic mode as they angled toward him. He watched with wide blue eyes as the boot only a few inches now in front of him tapped idly on the tiled floor, sending tremors through his body.

It wasn’t the first time Luke had shrunk in an unsafe place but it had certainly been a while, these days he would usually have a family member or Matt with him and even when he didn’t he had his phone.

His phone!

Luke searched his pockets finding only his wallet, he’d left the damned device in the car. His heart hammered against his chest, he was stranded in an unknown place surrounded by giants who had no idea he was there. There wasn’t much more that could possibly go wrong.

There was some loud crinkling from high above and Luke held his breath as a small canister of pringles hit the floor with a deafening crash and then ominously began to roll toward him. Putting his arms out he stopped the canister from rolling any further, luckily pringles were light or he might have been flattened if it had been something like a bottle of milk.

Anyone else might have just rolled their eyes at their own clumsiness and picked up a different canister of pringles, but for whatever reason Luke’s luck just continued to dwindle. There was a rush of movement and the sound of immense amounts of clothing shifting as the unknown giant crouched down and then a large hand was hurtling at him.

With all the effort in the world Luke held his breath to stop himself from crying out in alarm, and instead ducked behind the pringles and hoped the fingers wouldn’t pry any further once they’d found what they were looking for. Luke’s eyes widened as the large digits spread over the top of the canister and very nearly brushed his head before they gripped the pringles tighter and pulled them back out into the light.

Luke fell to his knees and watched with relief as the giant stood back up and moved away from his hiding spot. Now to somehow get Matt’s attention, he’d have to come into the store at some point, it would only be a matter of time and then he’d be found and he’d be safe again.

Matt meanwhile had decided to have a smoke while he waited for his friend to come back with snacks. Luke didn’t like it when he smoked in the car so instead he saved his nicotine hits for pit stops like this one.

Matt had found a park bench off to the side of the station, a playground was also there but he’d hardly consider it a playground when it consisted of only a small slide and one swing. Regardless it was the perfect place to wait for Luke to finish up in the gas station, with only one other customer having stopped for gas, Luke wouldn’t be too long.

Matt’s eyes drifted to his phone as he took his last drag and crushed the butt on the ground, Luke had been in there for ten minutes, the other customer had come and gone what seemed like ages ago. He’d received no calls or messages from Luke though but that didn’t chase away the unease that was settling into his stomach.

Unable to wait any longer Matt marched toward the sliding doors and stepped inside the store, his worry only increased when his tall friend was nowhere to be seen.

“Did my friend come in here?” Matt called over to the cashier.

“I dunno, I saw him and then figured he’d gone to the bathroom or left.” The older man shrugged and focused back on his computer once more, thoroughly unbothered by his friend’s disappearance.

“Come on Luke, where are you?” Matt murmured to himself, he turned toward the bathroom, it was possible he was simply overreacting and Luke had just gone to the toilet, he could hope.

He took a step toward the bathroom and then froze when a positively miniscule cry of alarm could be heard from his feet, every inch of Matt’s skin tightened, and a sick feeling washed over him as he dared to look down, hi sneaker still hovering mid-air.

Luke was also frozen, he’d been so relieved when Matt finally stepped into the store that he’d run out hoping to call up to his friend or tug at his pant leg to get his attention. He’d completely forgotten how dangerous an unaware giant could be, even a friendly one, Matt’s booming voice had rattled through him causing him to pause and then everything happened way too fast.

Matt’s sneakers turned in his direction and then rose above him, unable to hold back a scream of fear as it glided over his head and then froze mid step directly above his head. Luke wasn’t sure his little heart could take much more as his heart rate escalated once again.

What should have been a quick in and out trip at the gas station had turned into a literal nightmare for the broken-hearted size shifter.

Matt shifted his foot to the side and carefully placed it back down on the floor once his eyes landed on the small, huddled form of his friend as Luke cradled his hands over his head in a desperate attempt to save himself from being trodden on. Without wanting to raise suspicion from the cashier, Matt carefully scooped him up before pushing his way through the bathroom doors and locking it behind him.

“Luke what the actual fuck? Are you okay?” Matt was caught between frustration and concern but focused more on worry upon seeing his small friend flinch from his loud words.

“Sorry dude.” Matt lowered his voice and raised Luke up to his eyes, scanning over him to make sure he was truly unharmed.

Luke curled inward hugging his knee’s to his chest, the whole experience had been too much, from being dragged back to his heartbreak, to nearly being found by an unknown giant to nearly being stepped on by his best friend. Luke began to shake as tears and shame and guilt overwhelmed him.

“I guess I don’t need to tell you how stupid that was, do you wanna tell me what happened?” Matt asked as gently as he could manage.

“Not here.” Luke’s whispered words only just reached Matt’s ears and he nodded before closing his fingers gently around Luke and pushing him into his hoodie pocket.

His fingers stayed curled around his friend as he made his way back to the cashier to pay for the fuel.

“Find your friend?” The man asked gruffly.

“Ah yeah, all good.” Matt said vaguely, tapped his card and then turned and headed back toward the car.

Once seated back in the drivers seat, Matt pulled Luke out and placed him in the centre console cup holder, he was still shaking and clearly upset but Matt suspected there was more to it then a near run in with his shoe.

“Did someone kick a puppy? Seriously, what the hell happened?” Matt asked as he turned the car on and pulled back out onto the road, the sooner they got to their destination the better.

“I-it was the Reese’s.” Luke felt stupid, it all seemed so silly now and yet here he was six inches tall and that overwhelming feeling of loss and sadness had taken him over because of a peanut butter cup.

“What?” Matt asked leaning over a little as he drove to hear his shrunken friend.

���Reese’s were on sale…they were… they were Jay’s favourite.” Luke said pathetically and couldn’t make himself look upward to see Matt’s reaction.

“Oh Luke.” Matt sighed putting the pieces together rather easily now.

“I’m sorry.” Luke choked on the sobs welling inside his chest once more.

“You know that you don’t actually have anything to be sorry about right?” Matt asked, keeping his eyes on the road as he spoke.

“What happened between you and Jay was not your fault, and what happened at the gas station was also not your fault.” As much as he tried to drill the point through to Luke, he knew that his friend wouldn’t hear him at least not right now.

“I should have been in more control.”

“Luke I’m gonna be honest with you.” Matt said quite seriously. “I don’t actually know of any other person who is in more control of their emotions than you are. You can’t be perfect one hundred percent of the time, especially after a break up, give yourself a break.”

Luke said nothing and the car was silent for a while as they drove, Matt hated the current sadness and tension that lingered about the car. There would be no convincing Luke so he tried a different tactic, changing the subject with humour, it always seemed to work for him anyways.

“So my Aunt’s daughter is looking for actors to play parts in her Peter Pan musical next month, I hope you don’t mind, I put your name down for Tinkerbell.” Matt said as casually as he dared.

“You did not.” Luke scoffed utterly unbelieving until Matt choked on a laugh he’d been trying to hold in.

“You didn’t! Matt tell me you didn’t!”

“I mean it’s doubtful you’ll get the part anyway, you don’t really have the sassiness that comes along with Tinkerbell.” He explained. “The auditions on Thursday.”

Matt felt a small object hit the side of his face and he turned to see Luke standing in the cup holder with admittedly a very pissed off Tinkerbell expression on his face and missing one shoe.

“Did you just throw a shoe at me?” Matt smirked.

“You deserved it you gigantic ass.” Luke glared upward.

“Good luck finding that ever again.” Matt laughed.

“Ah shit.”

Matt turned his head again to see Luke’s body expanding slowly inch by inch, he pulled over to help his friend out of the now squishy cup holder and onto the passenger seat. They both held hope that Luke was simply growing to his human height, however there was always the possibility that he could go the other extreme and that meant he’d need a quick escape out of the car.

His growing stopped when his head almost brushed the roof of the car as usual and Matt smiled at him.

“Welcome back.” He said.

“Yeah well now I’ve got one normal shoe and one tiny shoe somewhere in here.” Luke groaned, it seemed his ‘gift’ would never ever gave him a break.

Luke muttered a thanks regardless of his annoyance, he knew full well what his friend had been trying to do and it had worked, and for that he was grateful.

With his mood improved they continued their journey, Matt soon turned down a gravel road that grew rougher and bumpier the further in they travelled.  When their car simply couldn’t go any further Matt stopped and turned off the car.

“We’re here!”

Taglist:

@da3dm

@smolcomfycat

@satethesatelite

@coffehbeans

@soakedmilkgt

@only-surviving-drfan

[redbleedingrose]

Rhys in grey sweatpants, I had that image put in my head now I want to spread the gospel 🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️

Just him with his sleep hair and voice in nothing but his grey sweatpants 😮‍💨

UMMMMMM

Rhysand is totally the best dressed of all the males in the night court and possibly Prythian.

Only Eris rivals him in the clothing department and I stand firm on that statement.

He just knows what gets you going. He knows the colors that suit him and he is not afraid to work it.

I feel like for the most part, Rhys really plays the role of high lord well. And he dresses the part too.

All of his clothes are freshly tailored and laundered. He never really wears the same outfit twice. And when he meets you???

He makes sure that you have all the clothes that you could ever want or need. He also insists on matching most days. You basically are THE moment in Prythian, everyone who isn't you wants to BE you. And it is all thanks to Rhysie's impeccable fashion sense. All your clothes make you look like the star of the night, pun not intended.

And all of your shoes and jewelry he has designed for you? Don't even get me started. Each outfit needs its own individualized look and feel and vibe. And he makes sure that is there for you. He is always there to help you put together your look.

Playing dress up for him is sooooo much fun. He has you doing twirls in your dresses and gets on his knees to help you put your heels on. He kisses every portion of your exposed neck whenever he clasps on your necklaces for you. You are treated like an utter princess around him, never having to lift a finger beyond your desire.

He also loves to help you with your earrings. And he is so gentle with it too. His pretty violet eyes focusing on your ear lobe as he ever so carefully puts in your earrings. He makes sure that they don't feel to heavy or cause any irritation to your ear as you are sensitive to different kinds of metals. When he is done, his eyes focus back on you with this look of utter pride that you are his. You are his mate. His high lady. His everything. And he is just obsessed.

You are lucky if you can make it to ANY event on time because this male will find any excuse to show you just how obsessed he is.

Back to Rhys' fashion sense...

He really rarely wears clothes that are "lounge wear." TBH, I feel like he started moreso a little after meeting you because he sees what it does to you.

Rhysie is the kind of male who can look good in practically anything. But in lounge wear??? send freaking help he is the hottest male to have ever EXISTED!!!

His gray sweatpants are one of your favs on him. He is always wearing it with a tight black or navy blue t-shirt that clings to his chest and shoulders and biceps. You can basically see the outline of his abs whenever he wears those shirts (which you will be riding later so help you gods).

And omg just think of all of his tattoos exposed on his corded forearms. And think about those muscles flexing while he fingers you speechless.

Anyway, poor rhysie needs to replace his sweatpants any time he wears them because they always end up stained from you riding his thigh.

But he knows that.

Thats why he wears them, slutty smug bastard. The smirk any time he pulls them out and surprises you by wearing them is enough to know that he knows exactly what he does to you. And he is proud of it too.

His formal clothing is not to be forgotten.

His tight fitting dress shirts where he leaves the top two buttons open so that you can see his smooth tan chest underneath??? The dark swirls intricately peaking out and climbing up his neck??? The small silver chain he wears??? The one that has your name engraved over and over, all along the metal because he belongs to you??? Because he knows that every part of him, his heart and soul, is all entirely owned by you???

The only ring he wears is his wedding ring too.

Sigh, I need a Rhys.

This was terrible but I love Rhysand so you are gonna get my unhinged thoughts about him always.

[onboardsorasora]

Maybe Max is new to his neighborhood and hears about his direct neighbor, Daniel but never sees him. Realizes he sees lights in the townhouse next door at very random times but no one else seems worried.

Their mutual neighbour Vicky checks on the house for Daniel often. Because he apparently keeps weird hours. She feeds is fish for him.

Anyway he's heard a lot about this guy, the neighbors at their end of the cul de sac love him, even though he's often absent. And they take care of things for him. Daniel's lawn never gets unruly, and someone takes in his mail for him. Max wonders just how safe it is for so many people to have a key to your home. Especially if they know you're not there. They always talk about seeing him and Max can never say hes had the pleasure.

It's probably almost 3 months of that when Max gets home late one evening from a night out. He sees a lone lamp light on in Daniel's house and the front door is open. Max is on alert.

He goes to the house, slowly. He has Vicky on speed dial but it's like 1 am so he'll assess then call the police if anything. He goes up the stairs and pushes the door open, there's shuffling upstairs- definitely the sound of someone rummaging.

Max is no hero, he calls the police. Fifteen minutes later and there's a patrol car. The officer that gets out, Esteban, doesn't seem too worried about the situation. Which makes Max annoyed because he very clearly stated that the robber person was still in the house.

Esteban walks to the front door, doesn't even draw his gun.

"ki Ki ki" he calls out, weirdly. Max furrows his brow in confusion

"rraaa rrraa!" Calls from inside. Esteban chuckles and enters the house, Max follows him.

"Danny, you left your door unlocked again. Your neighbor is worried." Esteban reprimands up the stairs.

"ah shit. Right. My bad." A sharp accented voice groans then there was the sound of rapid footsteps down the staircase. A man jumped onto the bottom landing and Max swallowed thickly.

A tangle of curly hair, framed a hot face pulled back in a chagrined smile. Corded muscle bulged as he rubbed the back of his head. He wore a dirty tight blue shirt and large, navy almost cargo pants that Max recognized as those from a fireman.

His hot neighbor was a fireman.

"Sorry about all the trouble. Thanks for like looking out though." His neighbor, Danny, greeted, sticking his hand out for a handshake. Which Max took.

"oh it's- it's no problem. Can't be too safe y'know? I'm Max by the way."

"Daniel. Sorry we're literally meeting like a thief in the night or whatever. Vicky told me you'd moved in, but we've been short shifted at the station." Daniel explained and Max blushed that Vicky had updated Daniel about him.

"are we all good here? I'm gonna tell dispatch that you're buying a box of donuts for the night shift." Esteban teased and Daniel groaned again

"I'll remember to close the door!" He called when Esteban left.

"I take it this happens often?" Max asked and Daniel blushed.

"too often," he grumbled. "When I do a double or triple I tend to forget that doors aren't like self closing outside of the station."

Max snorted, he could see the problem.

"I hope I'm not coming off as creepy or anything but do you wanna like get some coffee? After I've maybe slept for thirteen hours?" Daniel hedged and Max smiled.

"We can have it at my place." Max offered and Daniel grinned back.

"Sure."

[layla4567]

Me gustas tú

Inspired by this song

Summary: The straw hats take a well-deserved day of rest. While they are on the ship, you and Luffy will go ashore and spend a day on the beach.

Word count: 1.476

Pairing: Luffy x GN!reader

Warnings: slightly canon divergence, sfw, Y/N use, Luffy confessing his feelings, beta read, If I forgot something, let me know.

The Going Merry disembarked and docked at a dock near a lonely beach on a desert island, ideal for a break from aimless sailing. The first to jump onto the sand was Luffy, running like a lynx and climbing like a monkey, he jumped from the deck and landed with a somersault, spreading the sand in the form of a cloud that made the others cough. The captain's shouts of joy were contagious and you suddenly found yourself laughing at his antics. Nami and you went down like civilized people admiring the saline and clear sea water of a turquoise color like quartz. Zoro and Ussop followed behind you while Sanji stayed in the kitchen for a while finishing washing the dishes.

Luffy ran and jumped waving his arms along the seashore smiling widely, he looked like a child who had just seen the beach for the first time. Nami next to you elbowed you laughing

"I can't imagine what he'll be like when he sees the tundra."

"Or the jungle"-You followed the joke

Then each one went to their own side to do different activities. Nami sat on the ground resting on a towel in the sun, Ussop stayed practicing with his slingshot near some palm trees and Zoro stayed with one shoulder leaning on the wood of the boat, in the shade. You took advantage of the fact that you had your swimsuit under your clothes and you took off your shirt and pants, revealing your navy blue swimsuit and you ran to jump in the waves.

Luffy, seeing you, ran towards you and copied your movements, going deeper into the sea and jumping high every time he saw a small wave coming, causing the foam to splash and hit you in the face.

"Luffy stop! You're soaking me!"-You said laughing as you put your hands forward to avoid the water.

He turned around smiling, lowering his hat until it fell on his back still held by the cord around his neck "But isn't that what the sea and the beach are for? Of course you will get wet!"

"But not like that Luff- Oh!"

Luffy hugged you around the waist and lifted you into the air to put you against his shoulder and go deeper into the water. You screamed in surprise while the other straw hats laughed at your situation. The captain was happy as a clam and ignored your fists against his bare back demanding that he put you down.

"MONKEY D. LUFFY PUT ME DOWN NOW!"

"Uhhh (y/n) said his full name, the boy is in trouble."-Zoro mocked from afar.

"Okay, okay, but don't be angry!"-Luffy said

Luffy laughingly let you go and you fell on your butt into the water just as a large wave crashed into your back and pushed you forward, getting your head wet. When you was able to regain your balance you was spitting out salt water in disgust. You gave a murderous look at Luffy who quickly dropped his usual wide and confident smile.

"And now is when he will start running, in 3..2…-" -Nami said

"LUFFY YOU ARE DEAD MAN!!!"

The brown boy ran like hell, stumbling on the sand in fear while you ran after him waving your fist in the air.

"SORRY, SORRY, SORRY, DON'T HIT ME!"

Ussop and Zoro had approached Nami and sat on the sand ready to watch the show.

“I bet (y/n) gets to him first.”-she said

"And I bet that Luffy is wins, he is more agile and faster"

Nami looked at him with a slightly offended raised eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Ok, what do we bet?"

"Wait are you really going to bet on (y/n) and our captain?"-Ussop asked confused but amused.

"5,000 berries" -Zoro said ignoring the boy.

"Bet"

The two sealed the pact while Ussop shook his head laughing. After a while watching the two crew members run as if they were playing hide and seek, Nami, smiling proudly, saw how you knocked Luffy to the ground with a tackle.

"You owe me those berries…" -Nami smiled mischievously at an angry Zoro.

Later the only ones left on the beach were you and Luffy, the others decided that they had had enough of the sun and took refuge on the deck of the ship with their elbows resting on the railing looking at the two of you. You and your captain were sitting together, one on each side, on the white sand with your legs stretched out and your hands behind you, admiring how the burning sun fell on the horizon, turning the sky a bright red. You sighed, closing your eyes and reveling in the salty breeze and the song of the seagulls soaring through the clouds. Luffy next to you couldn't focus on anything but your beauty. He looked at your face instead of concentrating on the nature that surrounded him because being next to you, who cared about everything else? Even the most beautiful flower or the warmest sun did not compare to everything you were to him.

You threw your head back, smiling even with your eyes closed, and the captain came closer to your side, bumping his shoulder into yours. At that touch you opened your eyes in surprise and when you turned your head to see him you found his brown eyes staring into his and a sweet smile on his lips. Being close to him always meant that the environment would be charged with electricity and Luffy is a very hyperactive and energetic being like a puppy. It wasn't the same as sitting near Nami or Sanji whose energy was calmer, no. Luffy emanated sparks and joy throughout his body and even though he was sitting it was as if his anxious molecules could not be still, as if behind that mischievous smile and those mischievous eyes there were hidden intentions to keep moving and jump from here to there. Luffy was always on the move

"Is something the matter?"-You asked because of his insistent, somewhat goofy look.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I just got lost in your gaze."

You laughed shaking your shoulders and he laughed with you without stopping to look at you, and thinking that the flirt was Sanji. You slapped his arm with the back of your hand.

"Don't talk nonsense Luffy, the only one who can flirt here is the cook"

Suddenly, smiling, the boy in the straw hat stood in front of you, very close to your face, with his arms at your sides, caging your torso.

"Of! Luffy what are you-?"-you said startled

"Listen, I want to tell you something important."

Luffy swallowed and seemed more anxious than usual, besides he never spoke so seriously, you didn't know whether to worry or not.

"Ok yeah sure, I'm listening"

He sighed and his breath hit your face "I've been meaning to tell you this for a while… I like you."

"Aw Luffy I like you too"

He shook his head making his dark curls move. "No no, you misunderstood me. I really like you."

You went blank having understood what the pirate boy had meant. You moved your eyes from right to left, looking into his, feeling that your words were dying on your tongue, unable to pass through your lips.

"(y/n) I love you! Phew I finally said it.."

Luffy seemed happy and relieved to be able to let those three words come out of his mouth, regardless of your answer he already had a smile on his face. You let out a small airy laugh and swallowed hard.

"I think I like you too, I mean, I love you too."

The boy rested his cheek against your belly, tickling you and letting the air escape from your lungs. His grip was strong as if he wanted to squeeze a lemon. You fell back laughing as your hands rubbed his back. Now you understood why he always seemed so clingy to you, close to you like chewing gum. And all those jokes he played on you and the way he always seemed to tease you so you would get angry. Feeling playful, you wrapped your legs around his hips and forcefully turned him over so you could now be on top of him. Luffy fell heavily in the sand and you rested your chin near the junction of his collarbones.

Luffy stroked your damp hair "So you're not angry anymore for throwing you into the sea?"

You rolled your eyes with a lopsided smile. “Oh shut up and come here.”

With both of your hands you grabbed Luffy's chubby cheeks and planted a kiss on his lips. At first he opened his eyes in surprise but then he closed them smiling between your lips. From a distance on the ship you could hear the cheerful whistles and cheers of the crew.