#why nothing but your skivvies

[jgfurgie]

So I've been playing a lot of Monster Hunter World lately and twice now I've encountered the same player responding to my SOS Flare on Xeno'Jiiva, with this also being the third time I have encountered a player with this...quirk.

It started with DedxFace, a fellow Dual-Blades main, who showed up to the fight....near-naked. Just running around in their small clothes. Carving up this final boss like it's nothing. I think "huh. they must be seasoned."

Then twice, on two separate days, a longsword-wielder named Annie has responded to my flares where I am fighting this nightmare who can't sit still and let me gnaw on its ankles and turns the entire battlefield into a fiery hellscape, with absolutely nothing on (as best as I can tell at least, it's difficult to tell when I'm running from lazer beams).

So if Annie or DedxFace are out there....thank you for the help and bizarre experience, it at least makes this mess a little less stressful.

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐝 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

eddie fights to get his usually shy and moderately intoxicated girlfriend to bed when you insist on clinging to him at every turn. requested here. fem!reader, 2.5k.

cw intoxicated reader

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You're holding onto Eddie's arm tight enough to leave little fingerprint bruises behind. He doesn't think he'd mind, and he doesn't try to slacken your grip as he helps you up the stairs into the trailer. 

"Do we have to be quiet?" you whisper. Or, attempt to whisper. 

"Nah, Wayne's working." He closes the door behind you and leans over your shoulder to put his car keys in the bowl on the sideboard. "Oh, hey." 

You've given up on clinging to his arm and have started cuddling his waist instead. Eddie feels his eyes go wide, peering down at you almost like he's worried you'll realise you're being bold and move away. You rub your cheek against his leather jacket and sigh. "I love your hugs," you say dreamily, words slurred but understandable.

This isn't news to him, but it's definitely nothing you've said aloud before. Eddie's your boyfriend, he knows you enjoy a warm hug, but he's your new-ish boyfriend, and you're one of the shyest people he's ever met. Half the time he kisses you and your cheeks catch fire. 

"Yeah?" he asks fondly. 

You break the hug quicker than he'd like and bend at the waist. Laughing unsurely, you attempt to untie your shoelaces, wobbling like a cardboard house in a hurricane. Eddie catches onto your shoulders to hold you up, but you can't last. 

You make a strange sound, indignation and admission at once, and put your hands behind you to sit down. You go down hard enough to make the kitchenette shake, trailer walls not especially durable. 

"Shit, are you okay?" he asks, kneeling down in front of you. 

You blink at him glassily. "Will you take my shoes off, please?" 

"Yeah," he says. He laughs and tries not to. "Yeah, I'll take your shoes off for you. Pass em over." 

You put one of your feet on top of his knees clumsily. Eddie unties the bunny knots you'd made earlier, neat and tidy, not wanting anyone to judge you for messy laces, you'd said. 

He slides your shoes off and gives your toes a squeeze. Sober you would blow a gasket, shuffling away from him with a flustered squeak, but drunk you must like it. You leave your foot on his thigh and offer him the other shoe. 

"Do you like my socks?" 

Eddie digs his nail into the second bunny knot. "I love them. Why, are they new?" 

Your socks are normal white crew socks with a black hem stripe, black toes, and black heels. You hum at his observation appreciatively, your hand straying to your stomach. "And my underwear, too." 

"How much did you have to drink while I was in the bathroom?" he asks. Eddie's seen you in your underwear, but it's still unlike you to allude to your skivvies while fully dressed. 

"Not much. Why?" 

"It's not like you to talk about underwear," he tells you, sliding off your shoe and giving your foot a squeeze just as he had the first time, thumb digging into the sole. 

You giggle and yank your legs up and away from him. "That tickles." 

"Sorry, sweetheart." 

"It's okay. I forgive you, duh." 

He laughs, thrilled to see you this adorable and this beamingly happy. He can make you smile like no one else, and of course you're not always shy when you're with him, but it takes time. Eddie wouldn't change you for anything, it's just a real nice thing to see you so proudly happy. 

And hopelessly drunk. You lay on the floor of your side for a moment, jeans riding up your calves as you curl in on yourself, your jacket falling off your shoulder. 

Eddie crawls to your side. He indulges himself, sliding his hand between your cheek and the floor to lift your head. You meet his eyes dozily, sparks of happiness to be seen in your dilated pupils and the apples of your cheeks as you smile at him. 

"Are you feeling okay?" he asks. 

"You–" you begin, not sure where you're ending, "I missed you." 

"You missed me?" You're loaded. "Don't worry about missing me, sweetheart, I'm right here. Can I ask you for something?" 

You nod hurriedly. "Of course you can," you breathe. 

"Will you help me get to bed?" 

You reach for his elbow, your hand coasting up the length of his arm to his shoulder. "Stay here," you say. You're pleading with him, eyebrows drawing together, fingers screwing up in the folds of his jacket. 

"You'll be comfier on my lumpy mattress than you are on the floor, trust me." 

"I'm tired," you say. 

"Come to bed with me," he says softly, mirroring your tone. 

"And we'll have a hug?" 

Holy fucking shit, Eddie's fucked. He thinks, I'm gonna marry this girl, cheeks aching with the effort it takes to keep his huge smile at bay as he helps you sit up. 

"I'll give you as many hugs as you want," he says, brokering a deal with you right there on the floor. 

You agree to his terms, holding your hands out to be pulled up. Eddie stands and pulls you, and you do your part, attempting to stand with a wobble as you go, but he's right there to catch you. Thus begins another round of clinging, your fingers braceleting his wrist, your hips on his. 

Eddie leads you down the hallway. It takes longer than it should, what with your face in his neck and your less than subtle sniffing. He smells better than you do, your shirt soaked with what could be craft beer but might just be a half a cup of cider, neither of which he pictures you drinking. 

"Who tipped their drink on?" he asks, pushing the bedroom door open with his elbow. 

"What?" you ask, lifting your head from his neck. He looks down at you briefly. 

"What happened? You have beer all down your shirt, babe. Did someone tip their drink on you?" 

"Robin did, she said to tell you it was Steve." You raise a hand to his cheek. It's cold, and it smells like your moisturiser. "But I don't keep secrets from you." 

He doesn't mean to melt under your touch. He has things he should be doing, depositing you in the bed, changing your shirt, tucking you in for the night with a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol for your perusal in the morning, but it's a startling delight to have you stroking his cheek. You usually only do this when he's half asleep or you're very tired; hoping he'll forget, maybe, and forgetting your own inhibitions. 

"You don't?" he asks gently. 

Your fingertips slip from the soft part of his cheek up to his eyelashes. You don't touch them, breathing out the side of your mouth rather than in his face. Drunk but not enough to stop treating him with care. 

"No… except for last Friday when we went to the Hawk. I really did need to use the bathroom." 

Well, Eddie knew that. You're shy, that doesn't make you a good actress. "And now we have no secrets," he says, covering your hand on his cheek. 

Your eyes slip closed a touch. Eddie doesn't really believe himself, he's sure there's lots of stuff you don't tell him. He guesses when you need something to drink because you hate asking, and he can't work out whether you like hotdogs or if you're just humouring him when he makes them, but he thinks any secret worth having is one you've let him in on. 

He puts you on the end of the bed. 

"Can I help you get changed?" he asks, already turning for the wardrobe where he keeps your left behind pyjamas and miscellaneous clothes, washed and pressed and waiting for you the next time you come around. 

"You haven't asked if you can undress me in ages." 

He laughs like an idiot, scooping an oversized t-shirt and a pair of your pyjama pants into his arms. "Now, that's not true. I always ask, but half the time you're already getting there." He turns to you, finds you've disappeared into your shirt, elbow twisted into the bottom and arms slack. "Like that," he laughs. 

"Stuck," you mumble. 

He chucks your pyjamas down and slips his fingers under your shirt where it's folded at the top of your shoulders. "Lift your arms, sweetheart. There you go." 

He laughs again when he sees your rumpled hair and face, dropping your acidic smelling shirt on the floor. "There she is. Hey, gorgeous," Eddie teases, running the side of his hand down your cheek quickly. "Bra on or off?" 

"Can I have my shirt first, please?" you ask.

He loves you. Your shyness creeping back in despite his having seen it all before is endearing, and he wouldn't ever say no to you. "Of course you can. Do you need my help again?" 

"I think this part will be easier." 

You're right about that. You get your shirt on easily enough, unclipping your bra without help. Nor do you need help with your pants. 

Eddie strips off quickly, swapping jeans for plaid pants and his t-shirt for a ribbed undershirt. He stretches out day long aches and kicks aside your dirty clothes on his way to the light switch, flicking it off, only his lamp left on now. 

You look lovely. Makeup smudged, watching him move around his small room with your face propped heavily in your hand, a practically cherubic smile playing on your lips. 

He pulls back the sheets and grabs you by the waist, lifting you very slightly to encourage you up against the pillows. You look at him like he's a wonder, adoration softening each line of your features. Your lips part slightly, your eyebrows rise upward. 

He thinks it might be really special, to be looked at as you look at him. 

"Let me get you a glass of water," he says. 

Neither of you have managed to brush your teeth. Honestly, he doesn't think you can stand up any more to try. Water will have to do. 

"No!" you say, louder than you've likely ever spoken to him when he isn't tickling you. "You said we'd hug." 

"We will," he says, giving your hand a little shake where it clings to his. 

"Please, Eddie, I just want to cuddle with you," you confess, giving him the best case of the puppy dogs he's ever seen. 

Eddie thinks, Whatever, we'll just have to make sure we brush extra hard in the morning. He can't deny you any longer. He didn't stand a chance. 

He climbs over your legs and you tuck him in affectionately, ramming your forehead into his chest and throwing your arm around his waist with less care. You nuzzle in, a satisfied sigh leaving your lips as you get comfortable. 

"This is so nice," you praise, words sluggish, slurred even more than they were as fatigue weighs you down. 

"This is perfect," he agrees, easing as flat as he can onto his back, nothing for his arms to do now but wrap around you and hold you close. 

You sigh again. It's even happier than the first, your leg creeping up as you hook your knee over his hip. "I love you, Munson. Thanks for…" You yawn and rub your nose into his chest. "Thank you. I love you." 

"You told me twice," he says, lifting his head to give you a teeny tiny kiss on your temple. 

"It was true for both of the times," you mumble. 

Despite relaxing atop him, your arms are like a vice. He doesn't care, he really couldn't care less, 'cos if you weren't hugging him like this he'd be hugging you tighter. Eddie speaks against your skin tenderly, "I love you, too," he murmurs, sealing it with a punctuating kiss.

He rubs your shoulder, feels your arms give him one final squeeze. 

"Is now a bad time to mention I need the bathroom?" he asks. 

Your answering snore tickles his chest.

—

"Eddie." 

Eddie scrunches his face up. You look down at him, flustered, wondering if it would be better for you to run out on him and never see him again. He groans as he wakes, turning his head and distorting the stain of your lipgloss smudged the length of his neck. 

You nibble the inside of your lip. He doesn't seem particularly annoyed with you. But he is mostly asleep. 

"Eddie, how did we get home last night?" you ask, rubbing between your eyebrows. "You didn't drive, did you?" 

He'd had two beers, which wasn't too much for him to handle but is more than anyone should have if they want to drive themselves home. 

Eddie peels his eyes open. "Steve drove us."

"Oh. I'm sorry, I'm super embarrassed. I got kinda wasted, huh?" 

Eddie's hands slip under your shirt to wrap around your soft stomach. He pulls you in an attempt to make you lay down again. 

"You were very drunk," he agrees, yawning into your ribs. 

You put your hand on the other side of his head to hold yourself up. "Was I a handful?" you ask softly, brushing his bangs away from his eyes.

He smiles against your shirt. You feel the curve of his lips, goosebumps erupting underneath it. Shy, you gasp quietly and try to escape his hold, but he hugs you ever tighter, snuggling into your chest. 

"You were great. I missed sober you, though." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah. Drunk you doesn't get goosebumps when I touch her." Smugness colours his voice, his hand rubbing up and down your naked back roughly to chase away your shivers. 

"I wasn't weird, was I?" you worry, more than alarmed by the gap in your memory. 

"You told me all about your new underwear," —you groan— "and how badly you needed to pee at the Hawk." 

You drop your head on to his, your foreheads touching, your hand curling around his neck. "Did I do anything vaguely in the land of acceptable behaviour?" you mumble in defeat.

"You told me you loved me. Multiple times. Once in your sleep." Eddie sounds delighted.

"That's unfontunately true," you grumble, not really meaning it. 

He laughs and gives you a firm tug. "Cuddle with me, babe." 

You cuddle him if only to hide your face from the world, face in his hair, hands under his back. Eddie draws a path of fondness up and down the dip of your back, laughing at each new crop of goosebumps as they rise. He's sweet enough to let you forget the mess you've made for at least a few stolen hours that morning. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed, please reblog if you have the time it makes a huge difference for me ♡

[blvccl]

GN STREAMER READER X SLIMECICLE

no warnings or anything, but theres a joke that could count as nsfw so just be careful of that.

minors dni pls!!

im so sorry if this is bad its my first time writing an x reader so plssss give advice n stuff <33 ALSO i tried to include u guys so expect to see ur username in here muhehehe

_______________________________________

Slimecicle donated

              1$

   let me spoil you

the streamer’s eyes widened at the donation but then squinted at the screen in confusion, pausing the game to look at it again.

you said nothing, trying to understand how one fucking dollar was “spoiling”. the chat flooded with all kinds of teasing and banter towards you.

piinkzaa: SIMP

reddsl1mer: god i wish that were me

heytrinity: luckyy!!

scoution: ONE DOLLAR 

blvccl: i think someone likes u….

“oh my god, chat, shut up!” you giggled at how everyone was hyping you up, even if it was one dollar from your boyfriend. you appreciated it, you knew it was a joke, but you still appreciated that he took the time to go into your stream and send it.

“thank you, char, for the one dollar.” you finally managed to say after calming yourself down from the giggling fit. the game unpaused and you focused back on it.

“oh, a horse! chat, should i tame the horse? should i ride it?” you looked back at the chat to see a lot of “YESSS”’s. 

“alright, chat, let’s tame the h-” 

Slimecicle donated

             10$

 can i be the horse

“WHAT?!” you yelled really loud before covering your mouth with your hand. your face went red as you saw chat going crazy again.

clownzam: WHHAAAATTTT

milkfordays: EXCUSE ME??

flamingpaige: CHARLIE??????

doubledizzy: honse

ihatebeingparasocial: JAW DROPPED

you tried to hide your laughter from the stupid donation, now pretending like it was never there.

“chat, why is everyone so confused? what’s going on?” you grinned and went back to the game. if charlie could mess with you, you can mess with him.

the chat spilled with “THE DONATION?”, “THERES NO WAY YOU DIDNT SEE THAT”, and “CHARLIE IS WILD FOR THAT”. 

“what do you mean, chat? i’m trying to focus on the game and you’re all worried about charlie, is he here?” you watched the chat reply. you almost lost it when you could hear quick footsteps come near your room. this would be fun.

the door opened and the chat went wild.

skivvy: THERE HE IS

tugboat: MAMA A CHARLIE BEHIND YOU

cyberfail01: BEHIND YOU

darkw3b: TURN AROUND BRO

jslut.co: CHARLIEEEE

“behind me? chat, there’s nothing behind me, look.” you turned around to see him standing right behind you, wearing one of your hoodies. it took everything in your body not to bust out laughing since he looked right at you, also holding in a laugh. 

“yeah, there’s..” a pause to let out a snort, “no one’s there. you guys are seeing things.” your eyes flickered from the game to the webcam multiple times. 

at some point, you forgot about the charlie bit and actually started grinding at the game. you got so invested that you forgot to check the webcam and didn’t notice charlie slowly creeping up behind you.

“chat, look, i got th-” you were cut off by cold hands on either side of your waist, tickling you. you let out a shriek and began to laugh uncontrollably. the chat ate it up, clipping all of it and spamming with “NOOOO HES GONNA GET YOU” or “AWWW”. 

you wrestled with him for a bit before he finally stopped and backed away. you caught your breath and looked at him. 

“what was that for, asshole?!” you light-heartedly scolded him.

“oh, you can see me now? i thought nobody was here.” he teased, grinning as he raised and shook his hands for dramatic effect.

you bit your lip, turning back to the stream and unpausing the game. you mumbled “fucker” under your breath playfully and went back to playing. charlie exited the room, causing the chat to complain. 

not even a minute later, another donation appeared on the screen.

   Slimecicle donated

                 5$

so is that a yes or a no on the horse thing?

“CHARLIE.”

_______________________________________

@reddsl1mer hope u like it :3

[sinisterexaggerator]

As per my last e-mail.

Shriv Suurgav x Fem!Reader

Summary: You're up working late, Shriv's trying to rest, but your ill-timed email has sent him off the rails—couldn't this have waited until morning?!

Warnings: NSFW/18+ for PiV sex, blow jobs, snark and sass. Kissing, dirty humor, etc. etc.

Word count: 4.9k

Notes: Text in italics AND quotations is Shriv's inner thoughts. He self-monologues a lot, imho. This one is for @aloegator-arts in particular, as she requested something for Mr. Suurgav. It's about time, anyway! It's only been ... *checks calendar* over a year?!

Yes, e-mails exist in Star Wars. So does bingo.

Things were never easy. Why should they be? Then things would be too … easy.

Shriv’s mouth expressed all too readily the emotion he was feeling as he marched down the hallway toward your quarters. You had no idea he was on the way. It would be a surprise, just like you had surprised him with your electronic communique at this late hour.

Oh, so you thought he was asleep? Guess again. Shriv sometimes wondered if he’d ever have a proper rest at this rate, what with the Empire always breathing down his—their collective—neck(s). And it didn’t help that people like you were always on his case, it just made his job that much more difficult.  

Why you had carbon copied the general was beyond him. Was he not trustworthy? Did you really think he couldn’t handle it? So what if a member of Danger Squadron had forgotten to sign off on their last intelligence briefing. He’d received it, they all had!

Point being, was it really worth bothering Calrissian? Now you had the caped courtier himself barking up the wrong end of Shriv’s figurative tree. Duro didn’t even have trees!

Well, not anymore.

In other words, he was riding his ass about his least favorite thing—datawork. He hadn’t been sure Lando even knew how to read, what with him always breaking every rule in the Rebellion’s playbook.

But, as it turned out, he did indeed. Something about leaving a “flimsi trail” should plans go awry in the field. Shriv knew all too well how important it was to hold people accountable—Lando just seemed to think he was above “the law,” therefore Shriv figured he should be forgiven for assuming otherwise.

And he was tired of getting blamed for other people’s kark ups! Sure, he was the officer in charge of that particular squad, but they were adults! Grown men and women that shouldn’t need him to hold their hands—not that he would—just to sign off on a couple of forms!

He had spent his entire walk thinking about all the things he was going to say to you, none of them nice, but the second he knocked on your door at 0200 hours, his mind went blank, the Duros grimacing in your face the moment you answered—but at least he had caught you off guard.

Good.

He imagined his mug might even keep you up tonight after he left, if he scowled hard enough, that is—Shriv, not being the prettiest by human standards. You already looked flustered. Hells, some folks were even scared of him, particularly those recruits forced to train under his command. He seemed to have a way with words, or so he was told.

Shriv would argue he just said things like they were. Sugar was for space babies, no reason to coat the truth in the stuff when he felt it would be doing a disservice. If you, or anyone else couldn’t handle the heat, it was just as well that they got out of the galley. But what Shriv wasn’t expecting was for you to open the door in nothing but your skivvies and a T-shirt, you thinking that this must be some kind of emergency for him to be here, lingering outside your humble residence—it was a small room about the same size as anyone else’s aboard the Restoration, though filled with a few of your personal effects.

“Shriv?” you asked, your voice a pretty melody to his lack of ears the way you said his name like that, your lovely eyes darting to and fro both behind and around him, looking for what the matter was while you attempted to catch your breath.

“Huh.”

“Uh—” was all he could think to say, wondering just when, and how, you had gotten so damn beautiful. “I got your e-mail. I wanted to—” The Duros cleared his throat, trying not to let his eyes trail down your waist, hips, legs … “—to, uh. Talk. Talk about—”

Little did he know that the human’s heart in front of him was beating just as fast as his, though he could sense you had an elevated temperature from the way your flesh changed colors. Shriv was now completely unaware of anything else besides your half-naked form before him. It was rather inconvenient when he was supposed to be upset.

You finally realized just what he was staring at, having been so engrossed in your previous ‘activity’ that you failed to notice you had forgotten to throw on pants. You thought surely for anyone to call at this late hour meant the situation was dire, yet here he was—Shriv Suurgav—one of the toughest, most hard-nosed officers of the Rebel Alliance stuttering outside your door.

He was also one of the most handsome.        

Your blood had rushed to your cheeks, warming your skin. It was a well-kept secret you appreciated the Duros species as a whole, and him especially; his datawork was always so thorough and precise.

While others steered clear, you made it a point to travel the path Shriv took on the daily, keeping toward the back of the Restoration’s war room during briefings, recording everything that was said; every decision that was made, shamelessly watching his every move.

Besides, it was your job.

It was those times he left the ship that you were always worried sick. You didn’t want anyone to get hurt, least of all Shriv.

You couldn’t help but eavesdrop on any and all open channels, desperate for a word; to hear his voice; to know that he had come home safe, but never in your wildest dreams did you imagine him searching you out, and over something that seemed so … trivial.

“You wanna … come in?” you asked, reaching out, your arm disappearing just out of Shriv’s periphery.

He was both a little disappointed and relieved when you draped a robe over your shoulders, watching as you folded both sides across your chest as if you had suddenly caught cold.

Did he want to come in? Should he? He supposed it was better than standing awkwardly out in the hall. “Yeah, OK.”

You moved a little to the left; Shriv stepped over your threshold; the door slid shut behind him.

Now that he was here, he felt he shouldn’t be.

“This could have waited until morning.”

“Well, so could her e-mail.”

“Can I get you anything? Caf?” you asked.

“I suppose so,” Shriv replied, not being able to help himself. “Guess you could use a little pick-me-up for all those e-mails you’re liable to send. Busy night and all.”

You arched a brow, turning toward your small kitchenette to gather two mugs from an overhanging cabinet. “Come again?” you queried; you had sent your last correspondence well over an hour ago.

Oh, that did it. Now Shriv remembered just how pissed he had been, how close to sleep he was, that little ding on his comm waking him right back up.

“Don’t play coy with me. You know what you did,” Suurgav said, his tone even and a little dry.

You set the caf cups down and turned around. He had more than piqued your curiosity. And to tell the truth, seeing him standing there, right in the center of your room was igniting your imagination, though you needed little help in that regard. “What’s this about?”

Shriv’s big red eyes traveled quickly from surface to surface; he turned his head to the left and right. You watched in fascination until he spotted that which he was after, the Duros stalking toward your bed.

Your own eyes widened in horror as he snatched up your datapad—the one not assigned to you for work. This was your personal, private datapad. It never left your room, so you always left it unlocked, never once thinking to add a password.

“Thiss. THIS is what—this—is about,” Shriv waved the device loosely in his hand. Then, he did the unthinkable. He opened it. “I was—this—close to falling asleep. And what do I get? A message from none other than little miss flimsi pusher.”

He held up the screen, not paying attention to what was actually brandished across its surface. Just then, a mortifying cacophony of noises rang out in the open: the sounds of moans and kissing, wet squelches, deep growls, and the rustling of sheets. It pervaded every corner of your small abode.

To top it off, Shriv had somehow turned the volume up when he meant to throw it across the room. He’d nearly fumbled it, only catching it—reluctantly—before the source of your ails hit solid ground. You had covered your mouth, completely humiliated, just as Suurgav brought it back up to his face.

“Oh, Zorkas.”

He had found your holo-romance. The one where the Duros was karking the human girl.

Well, not so much a romance as—

“How do I--?!”

Shriv didn’t finish his question, long blue fingers clumsily attempting to adjust the volume but to no avail. Seconds felt like hours. You finally collected yourself enough to rush forward, turning the damn thing off and tossing it far, far away; it landed in a pile of laundry you had forgone folding.

Then, you stared at each other. All was quiet when just a moment ago the girlish shrieks of a woman getting plowed by Duros dick had echoed loudly over every square inch of your apartment. The look Shriv gave you was one of intrigue, confusion, and shock. You did not think you would ever live this down.

“Well, that was interesting.”

Your eyes welled with unbidden tears; you could not control it. You had never felt more embarrassed in your life. Not only had someone found your private collection of pornography, but it had been him—the man you fancied. Before you knew it, you were crying of all things.

Could this night get any worse?! You seriously doubted it.

“Whoa, hey, it’s …” Shriv meant to say ‘all right,’ but he wasn’t entirely sure that it was, or that it ever would be again, not in the professional sense.

“How do you come back from that? I’d most likely have jumped out the air lock if I was in her shoes. Not that she’s wearing any.”

The fact Suurgav didn’t complete his sentence only made you cry harder. You wished to flee, to leave the room, but you had nowhere else to go—this was your quarters.

“Well, it isn’t that bad—I mean, I’d probably feel embarrassed, but it’s not the end of the—”

You turned your back on him; his words were not helping any.

“Ah, geez.” Shriv stepped forward and rested one of his hands atop your shoulder. “It could be worse, right? At least I’m the only one here and it wasn’t in the middle of a meeting or something … I won’t tell anyone,” he added.

This was the first time he had ever touched you. Sure, maybe you’d brushed arms in one of the narrow hallways, skirting past one another on the way to your respective destinations, but this was meant to be for the sake of comfort. Despite everything, you did not take it for granted. In fact, looking back, you would realize you took advantage.

You turned around; Shriv stepped back to give you space. You didn’t want space; you wanted to be closer.

You took a chance; you laid your head against his chest, your body mildly quaking with the release of every teardrop onto your soft cheeks. The Duros hesitated; you felt him stiffen. You nearly pulled away for fear of backlash, but instead he lifted both his arms and hugged you to himself, his embrace so careful it caused your heart to flit.

Rather than saying something reassuring, he felt he had to comment, bringing attention to the fact you had a type.

“Soooo …. A Duros, huh?”

Shriv wondered why he felt so comfortable embracing you; he had hardly ever spoken to you. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact you’d started it, or that maybe, just maybe, you might like him.

“Yeah, right. A girl like this? You’d only be so lucky.”

Shriv felt your shoulders harden; he felt the pounding of your heart. He heard the pathetic whimper you gave in response; you were shaking like a leaf. “I never meant for you to see that,” you whispered. “For anyone to see that. But especially not you.”

“Why ‘especially not me?’”

You cringed. You had just given yourself away.

Slowly, you lifted your head to peer up at him. He seemed entirely oblivious, though within the next few seconds he must have had some kind of epiphany, because his eyes lit up like a kid’s on Life Day. “You—you don’t mean to say—”

Kark it all—

—you kissed him, pushing up off of your bare feet to smash your lips against his. Shriv made a sound of surprise, or maybe it was protest. Whatever it may be, it caused you to second guess. You quickly withdrew, feeling worse off than before.

“I’m sorry,” you pleaded, backing into the counter of your kitchenette. Your own fingers lightly touched your lips, savoring the sensation that remained, notwithstanding the fact you had just thrown yourself at him. “It’s just that I like you,” you blurted out.

Stupid, stupid.

“Well, well, well, you were right, Shriv. Then again, you always are.”

“I mean, she pretty much laid it out for you with the whole Duros-porn thing.”

“You like me, or you like Duros?” Shriv questioned matter of fact. He watched as your bottom lip quivered, as if he had hurt your feelings.

“Good going, jerk. You should probably take what you can get.”

“Hey, it’s a valid question!”

“Both,�� you meekly replied, knowing what it looked like.

“Hmm,” Shriv rumbled, taking a laggard step forward toward you.  He pinned you in, reflective ruby eyes scanning your breasts up toward your face now that your robe had fallen open. “And just what is it that you like about me?”

You swallowed down your spit, feeling what those cadets must feel—intimidation—under his steady gaze. You wavered; you tried to peel your eyes away from his, but he took up your chin, pinching it lightly between his thumb and fore, causing a burning heat to spread in the seat of your belly.

“You’re—you’re funny; s-smart; witty.”

“Uh huh, go on,” Shriv prompted, leaning closer. So close that you could smell him. His scent reminded you of something earthy, or a like fresh rain back home. There was a hint of something else as well—was that Saffron? Musk? Akigalawood?

You decided to get personal.

“You’re underutilized. Lando hardly ever listens to you, but you have so many good ideas and things to say. You’re thorough, precise, and never compromise your principles for anyone, not even your superiors.”

“I—well—”

“You carry yourself with dignity, even in the face of danger. Your heart is made of gold, and your eyes are carved from gemstones.”

“You—you think so?”

You walked him back this time, levering yourself with the aid of your palms. Shriv stood up straighter, his grip faltering as you took the lead.

“You’re kind, selfless, courageous, sexy—”

“—I mean, I don’t know about all—”

“—and I wish that I could fuck you,” you whispered, grasping the side of his face that bore a scar. You peppered kisses along the corner of his mouth; they were slow and soft.

Shriv held his breath; something in him stirred.

Was he really all those things? And just why couldn’t he be? Maybe he was. You had said so, after all.

And it made him feel things, funny things, things he wasn’t sure he ought to feel. But you staring at him like that, kissing him like that—

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t on my bingo card,” the Duros quipped, “but it’d be rude to say no.” It wasn’t every day a gorgeous woman, and a human at that, desired to take him to bed. To turn you down would be asinine. Besides, why should Calrissian always be the one to score?

“I mean, originally I came here to yell at you, but now I’m not even really that angry anymo—”

Your arms encapsulated his neck; your lips engulfed his. Shriv remained calm, taking it all in stride. And he was proud of himself for that; he’d never felt this desired in all his days. It was a nice change of pace, he just hoped he could live up to that pedestal you’d put him on.

“Shriv,” you muttered, just wanting to say his name, just wanting to taste him, slipping your warm, human tongue inside his fang-filled mouth.

“Careful, those are—”

You moaned directly into the kiss, pushing deeper, grinding yourself against his uniform.

“—sharp,” Shriv mentally noted. It was all he could do. His thoughts were becoming clouded, he felt his own core temperature rising, feeding off your body heat. He was beginning to “wake up,” to truly comprehend just what he had gotten himself into, and you were hyperaware of everything apparently, because the moment he felt a twinge below the belt, your hand had found what caused it, making the Duros flinch under the weight of your palm.

“Careful with those, too,” Shriv remarked, though he admired your enthusiasm. It was obvious he had set something in motion because you pulled back just enough to stare directly at him—or through him—some kind of unreadable expression having overtaken your face.

If he weren’t already so turned on, he may have felt self-conscious, Shriv blinking a bit too rapidly. “Well, I-I-I mean, I won’t break …”

You dropped to your knees; Shriv’s eyes widened. You wasted no time in unbuttoning his trousers, desperate to see ‘things’ for yourself. You were so excited you could hardly contain your glee, nudging, kissing, biting the bulge that resided just beneath his boxers.

Boxers.

For some reason, you thought other species might wear different types of underwear.

“Are you sure you wanna—”

Shriv gasped as you slurped down one half of his hemi, it quickly devolving to a moan.

“Yep, ssssshe’s sure.”

It was like you already knew what to do; he wondered how many Duros you had been with before him, or if you just watched too much porn for your own good.

“That’s …”

“Karabast.”

Your tongue whorled around the slick, malleable column of one cock, while the other was caressed by your gentle, human fingers. Your cheeks hollowed as you danced around him, your sucking drawn-out and rhythmic, the pliant, wet muscle of your mouth treating fellatio the same way you had that passionate kiss.

Shriv didn’t know how long he was going to last, feeling so many sensations, all of them good—better than good. He felt like he needed to sit down, or his knees might buckle, struggling not to cum too soon so he didn’t just outright shame himself; it had been a minute since he had the time to even jerk himself off, he was so busy.

“You’re a marksman, Shriv. You’ve remained still for hours on end, waiting for a target that might not ever show—you can stay standing long enough to get your dick sucked.”

“S-sweetheart, you’re a little too good at thiss—I’m gonna—if you don’t ssslow down,” the Duros warned.

You felt something akin to cuteness aggression welling up inside you. Your nails clawed into his bare thighs. His lisp only made you suck him harder, faster, the sounds of his adorable moans reaching all the way down to your cunt; you were soaking wet.

“Whoa-kay, you’re not gonna—"

Shriv came despite himself, his second cock’s tip tightening around your fingers. It was prehensile, the movement reflexive; you were overjoyed to engorge yourself, swallowing every drop he had to give—it was sour, but a little sweet, and reminded you of candy.

You only allowed his prick to retreat from your mouth once he was spent.

Shriv ambled backward, though he managed to find the edge of your bed. You crawled forward on your hands and knees as the poor dear panted, watching with slight apprehension as you came closer.

“What are you …”

You latched onto his boots with both hands and took them off, one by one. Next, his socks were gone. You couldn’t help it and kissed his toes, all the way up to his ankles.

Shriv made a face, though nothing seemed to bother you.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He hated the idea of subjecting you to what he presumed were his stinky feet.

You only grinned, tugging his pants the rest of the way down, and off. You pressed your palms against his knees as you pushed up; Shriv watched you, still in recovery mode as he tried to predict what you’d do next.

“A lady of her word, are you?” Shriv breathed; your fingers tugged at his jacket, prying at the stop of his zipper. You pulled it down incrementally; Shriv smirked, realizing he was about to wind up completely naked, and he was OK with that.

“You next,” he said.

You were up and off him; you obeyed without question, removing your robe, your ratty T-shirt, to reveal your breasts in their full glory.

Shriv had nothing to say to that; he found he could no longer move his mouth, nor was his brain cooperating to help him form words of any kind, especially ones that were coherent.

“Uh—mm … heh,” he managed.

“Boobs. Wish we had those.”

“Well, not me personally. Duros.”

“Bet she wishes she had two … you know.”

“One’s just fine.”

Your panties were next; you shimmied them down your thighs, knees, shins, then kicked them off. You were a sight to behold and Suurgav was drinking you in like that cup of caf you’d offered.

Then again, he hadn’t actually had any. Things had gotten a little … offtrack since then, not that he was complaining any, and he did that a lot.

Shriv tested the waters; he wanted to see how much you might divulge to him. “You’re … really something. Beautiful. But I bet you hear that a lot,” he prompted. “Maybe from … other Duros,” he snuck in.

“Not at all smooth.”

Your mischievous grin softened into a smile. You shook your head then climbed on top of him. Shriv leaned backward and gazed up into your glimmering eyes with his of jasper, his horizontal pupils adjusting to the shadow your body cast.

The rebel pilot was unsure he would get anything more out of you, but he thought he’d just have to be content with that. To have you here, now, should be enough, though he dumbly seemed to form attachments way too soon, whether he would ever admit to it or not.

“No,” you whispered, your warm breath tickling his hearing organ; Shriv felt a shiver rake down his spine. “No one else has told me that in ages.”

“Oh, good.” Shriv thought that over. “I mean, not good that you haven’t heard it, because it’s true, but good that I’m the only one telling you.” Shriv thought it over a little more. “Not that I have to be the only one telling you or anything. You’re a grown woman who can make her own—”

Your smile stretched wider before your lips found his again. He was nervous, and it made you giddy to know you had that effect on him. It was as if all your dreams were coming true, thanks to a well-timed e-mail.

“—Fuck me,” you interrupted.

Shriv went quiet then. A moment passed before he spoke again. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered back.

It was as if he turned into a different Duros, the breadth of his palm cupping your face as he drew you in close to kiss. You leant over him, eager to return it, your breasts brushing against cool scales, causing your nipples to perk.

Shriv pinched one for good measure; you mildly gasped. He took the opportunity to slip his tongue inside your open mouth, just as his secondary cock slithered up, up, pushing past the boundary of your sex to sequester itself deep inside the walls of your cunt.

“Shit, shit,” you intoned, your belly expanding and contracting rapidly as Shriv settled into you. It felt so fucking good; he spread you sooo fucking wide, so much so, that you belted out a sound of pleasure like that of the girl on your holo-romance.

“Are you all right? Or does it really feel that good,” Shriv asked, an iota of smugness lacing his tone.

You nodded, though it was up to him to figure out what you meant by that, yet you held your breath, urging your body to become accustomed to his girth, the shape of his phallus, the range of motion he could subject you to, your belly tightening once more as he curled his cock inside you, pressing against what he knew to be a very sensitive place.

Your breath caught in your lungs; your chest froze mid-inhalation. You came instantly, coating his dick in your warm excess.

Suddenly Shriv didn’t feel so bad for doing the same thing earlier, a twisted little smile upturning the corner of his mouth. “Is it always thiss easy?” he asked.

You shook your head in the negative; Shriv hummed a little “hmm.” He clamped onto your waist with his broad hands, thinking he could see his own protuberance inside you as he coiled once more against your G-spot.

“Fuck—” you muttered, falling forward onto your hands. Shriv wasted no time in lifting his hips, beginning to use the powerful muscles of his thighs to force you to ride him as your fingers dug into the arches of his shoulder blades.

“That’s what you wanted, right? To kark me?” Shriv asked playfully, nuzzling the flat of his face against the side of your ear. Everything, all of it, was too perfect, so you wept. Shriv felt a drop of something moist and warm pelt his cheek.

He stopped. “Hey, hey—does it hurt?” he asked, concerned.

You shook your head again. “Don’t stop,” you begged.

Shriv, somewhat uneasily, abided by your order, though the crease of his brow remained fixed—that was until you orgasmed a second time.

“Shriv … I’ve fantasized about this so many times,” you admitted, though you did not confess of your own volition—it was the fault of your emotions, of your brain, overwhelmed by sensation, by smell.

Shriv reached up and pushed a loose strand of your hair away from your face, though the motion of his hips never ceased; it was slow and resolute, his other hand gliding down your hip to sneak its way between your thighs.

“A good fantasy, right?” he asked, as if he didn’t already know the answer, the tips of his lengthy index and middle fingers brushing against the top of your clit before they slid down to massage it; he worked the little nub with as much precision as he did his datawork.

“Like heaven,” you murmured, finding yourself, once more taking control of your body to undulate your hips in line with his. Shriv’s face softened; he closed his eyes. He was focused on a feeling, chasing his own high as he continued to trace a pattern over your delicate nerve-endings, your cunt clenching around the width of his cock.

“Just like that,” you coaxed, riding him as gingerly as his touch was thoughtful, Shriv closing his mouth entirely, not having a single smartassed comment left in his arsenal, only a tight-lipped admonition.

“Thiss is dangerous,” he cautioned. “I know something about danger,” he affirmed, though his mind was elsewhere, drifting, drifting …

“Don’t cum inside, don’t cum inside, don’t cum inside,”

“Come inside me,”

“Fierfek.”

You felt a cool rush, the frisson of something filling you, the sudden surge of Shriv’s ejaculate coating your insides as you had willed it to. You rode him to completion, the Duros gripping you tightly, clasping you to himself like some cherished object, the feeling of his heart thumping against his ribs echoing through you, matching pace with your own.

Once finished, you slowly rose, the sticky, wet sheen drifting down your legs to leave marks on your sheets. You collapsed on top of him; Suurgav would allow you to remain, ever so subtly pulling you in more closely.

“This is not how I expected my night to go,” Shriv chortled wryly. “I expected the exact opposite, in fact.” The Duros tilted his head so as to look down at your prone form. “Maybe you won’t try to sass me anymore, hm?”

You gave an involuntary yawn. “As long as you do what you’re supposed to do.”

“And what, pray tell, is that?” Shriv asked a little too snidely.

You couldn’t help but to smile as you started to nod off; it was hard not to feel safe and protected in his big, strong arms.

“As per my last e-mail…” you said, giving him a taste of his own medicine.

[impactdial]

möbius, forever (2/2)

Ship: Sanji/Usopp

Rating: T

Warnings: Alcohol use

Tags: Feelings Realizations, Jealousy, Denial of Feelings

“Are you mad at me?” Usopp asked suddenly as he lifted his head slightly, his voice slow and a bit somber. The stark difference between his behavior from just a little while ago versus now made Sanji’s stomach drop. “No,” Sanji said without hesitation, maybe too eagerly, pushing himself closer to Usopp to double the warmth between them. Some of Usopp’s stray curls brushed the hollow of his throat, and something compels Sanji to add, “Why would I be mad?”

Note: Thanks for reading! Sorry it took a minute, I actually ended up rewriting a lot of this chapter lol. I'd love to know what you guys thought! <3

AO3

It was relatively easy to guide Usopp through the cabin door, physically speaking. He did lament, albeit very briefly, that Sanji was “robbing the party of its guest of honor”, to which Sanji (lightly) kicked him in the back of the thigh to usher him inside. After that, Usopp resorted to theatrically jutting out his bottom lip and whining in the deliberate, exaggerate tone he uses when he’s trying to appeal to the cook’s kinder tendencies (such as grilling pike for dinner or, seas forbid, obliging a dessert request). Sanji, already thoroughly pissed off, just barked at him to put his dirty overalls in the dirty laundry pile while he rummaged through his own locker for a spare shirt.

(He purposefully avoided looking inside the locker’s door, where the old charm was still carefully taped beside some scribbled recipe cards.)

Once he’s found something suitable, he quickly changes and then sets upon the task of finding Usopp something as well, which is easier said than done. Usopp’s neighboring locker is, perhaps not unlike its owner, organized chaos at its finest. Sanji eventually got frustrated rifling through piles of hastily folded overalls and grabbed something from Franky’s locker instead; an older floral pattern top, something that he knew for a fact Usopp could wiggle into easily. In all honesty, they both probably need a shower to properly rinse off the heady smell of beer, but Sanji was not going to attempt bathing someone who’s intoxicated and likely to slip and bust his ass anyway (and then Sanji would have to explain to Chopper why he felt the need to go to the trouble of rescuing Usopp only to leave his drunk, clumsy crew mate unattended in the showers). He decided that was something that could wait until morning, at least.

The cook then pivots on his heels to turn towards Usopp, only to get an eyeful of the younger man in the middle of stripping down to his skivvies, kicking off the rest of his ruined overalls. The sound that leaves Sanji’s mouth is so high pitched that nothing manages to come out at all.

“The hell are you doing?!” Sanji snapped incredulously, quickly turning away again and wondering why in the world he felt strangely lightheaded for a moment, like he did when Nami’s displaying a more than generous amount of cleavage. The mental image of Usopp’s broad, bare thighs and the tantalizing line of dark curly fuzz that trails down his overhanging belly lasted every time Sanji rapidly blinked. He heard Usopp make a confused sort of noise, sucking in a breath between his teeth.

“Y’ said to get naked–” the sniper began before Sanji whipped towards him again and quickly interjected, “I said put your clothes in the dirty laundry, not strip down while I’m still in here, dumbass!”

Sanji shoved the oversized hand-me-down in Usopp’s hands on his way out the door, fuming.

“Stay here! Do not move, or I’ll kick your ass so hard it flies across the Grand Line twice.” The blond ordered firmly, but Usopp didn't seem to take it to heart as he’s barely holding back boyish tittering at the mental picture Sanji’s painted for him. Sanji stormed out without waiting for a reply, briskly making his way to the galley while he fumbled to light a cigarette. He scrubbed at his face, hating how warm to the touch it felt. Fuck. Damnit. Shitty long nose.

Sanji knew this is what he karmically deserved for fussing over Usopp in the first place, but even so, the quieter, shittier part of him got what he wanted too, and seas, if that wasn’t a fucked up thought. Squirreling away Usopp from any potential danger. The same selfish thoughts that invade his mind whenever the Strawhats encounter trouble. That maybe he could forgive himself for failing to protect Usopp on Saboady that fateful day, that maybe if he tried harder these other times, he’d finally be forgiven–

The cook hissed in pain, batting away the sting of hot ashes on his skin where what remained of the filter dangled in his grasp. Sanji swore, pitching the finished cigarette over Sunny’s railing, and fished in his pockets for another all before he finally reached the galley door. He doesn’t dawdle in the kitchen. The blond poured a tall glass of cool water and grabbed a clean dish rag from the cabinet before wetting it thoroughly. He wrung it out once, then with both his items, returned to the boys’ room. His walk was again thankfully uninterrupted, and somehow no one seemed to notice him slipping by. If anyone saw that he and Usopp were hidden away while the swell of Brook’s violin sang high over the evening waves, nobody questioned it anyway.

Usopp was dressed this time, thank goodness, except now he’s lying on the floor in the middle of the room, sprawled out against the cool flooring. Sanji wondered briefly why he’d chosen the hard floor over the cushioned bench, but figured it would be pointless to argue over it. Regardless, if he blacked out on the cushions or the floor, Sanji would be carrying his sorry ass to bed either way. Sanji nudged the younger man’s leg with a mumbled “Here,” muted by the cigarette in his mouth, coaxing him to sit up. Usopp hummed a questioning sound before he squeaked in surprise at the cold, damp rag being unceremoniously tossed at the exposed portion of his chest where he’d presumably lost the coordination to button the rest of his oversized shirt.

“Clean yourself up. I’m not going to bed with you stinking up the bunks.”

Usopp, to his credit, obliged. He took his sweet time sitting up though, the concentration of wiping himself down apparently too much to achieve vertically. Finally, after a minute or two, he hauled himself upward and took the offered water with overly complicated hand gestures that Sanji assumed meant he was grateful. As Usopp chugged the water, Sanji sank to the floor and watched him, one hand in his pocket as his thumb flicked over the shape of his lighter thoughtfully, ascertaining his crew mate’s sobriety.

It’s not the worst Usopp’s ever gotten trashed before, but it’s enough that Sanji couldn’t say for certain just how miserably hungover he’s going to be tomorrow. Something simple and light would probably be best for breakfast, then—toast with almond butter and sliced banana perhaps, served with a mug of black coffee sweetened with cinnamon–

Sanji was suddenly pulled out of his thoughts when Usopp loosely grasped his chin and gives it a small, playful shake.

“You’re so good to me, Sanjiii.” The cook’s name drawled sweetly out of his mouth, and Sanji’s about to tell him off again but his temper cooled considerably when he saw the way Usopp’s grinning at him so dopily, affection brimming full in earthy brown eyes. He tolerated the treatment instead, nose wrinkling irritably.

“You drank too much, shitty long nose,” Sanji huffed, trying hard to sound annoyed, brushing Usopp’s hand away. It’s a half hearted attempt at scolding, and they both know it. The sniper’s hand doesn’t stray far, bracing now on Sanji’s arm, the warmth scalding. The cook twitched involuntarily, but didn't move away.

“Maybe you–”Usopp poked a finger into Sanji’s chest to demonstrate his point, “haven’t been drinking enough! S’what a party is for!”

Sanji frowned. He never really found that much fun in drinking alcohol to begin with. Zeff threatened to skin him alive if he ever caught Sanji drinking on the job, and between sneaking smokes or sampling the Baratie’s wine selection, he’d always choose the former. Still, he’s not a mother hen, so he said nothing in retaliation.

There’s a stretch of silence between the two men, the quiet only briefly interrupted by Usopp taking gulps of water one mouthful at a time. Sanji took the moment to shift into a better position, figuring if he was going to be on the floor he might as well be comfortable. He can faintly hear the commotion from outside, if he concentrates hard enough, muffled through the wood. Sanji breathed in deep through his nose, then outwardly sighed likewise. His temper has simmered, finally feeling the relief of stillness, even if for just a moment. Usopp’s ok. Nothing's wrong. All the possible scenarios that Sanji’s mind had conjured were quieted because Usopp was right here with him, safe.

Usopp adjusted himself, having finished his water, and Sanji startled a bit when the younger man leaned against his side, head heavy on his shoulder. The cook went rigid, the subtle tickle of Usopp’s thick curls brushing his bare skin causing his nerves to sing. He’d never been the best at accepting physical affection, and although the Strawhats had brought him well out of his comfort zone, he hated his own awkwardness. But he does like this. Craves it, sometimes, but can never bring himself to voice it. And even if he didn’t, he’d still endure it for Usopp, who he knew deserved it more than he did. If it soothed the ache of loneliness, even just temporarily, Sanji would keep him close all night.

“Are you mad at me?” Usopp asked suddenly as he lifted his head slightly, his voice slow and a bit somber. The stark difference between his behavior from just a little while ago versus now made Sanji’s stomach drop.

“No,” Sanji said without hesitation, maybe too eagerly, pushing himself closer to Usopp to double the warmth between them. Some of Usopp’s stray curls brushed the hollow of his throat, and something compels Sanji to add, “Why would I be mad?”

It’s a stupid fucking question, of course, especially since it feels like he’s done nothing but laid into Usopp verbally, and Sanji willingly acknowledged he has a short shitty temper; but–that’s the thing, once Sanji’s blown off some steam (sometimes quite literally), he doesn’t linger on those feelings. 

Usopp didn’t reply, and the silence made Sanji anxious, not wanting to be misread, but then the sniper’s head settled back on his shoulder, Usopp’s calm puffs of breath so close they’re giving him goosebumps. He couldn’t tell if Usopp believed him or not, possibly too tired to argue otherwise, but it seemed to satisfy him.

Then, Usopp said in a distant voice,“Y’know, ‘Guin said somethin’ funny. Said, ‘Here comes the guard dog’ when he saw you comin' earlier. What’d he mean by that...?” 

Sanji’s heart was sent into a full gallop.

Something Zoro had said to him once before, which resulted in an especially volatile brawl between them, came to mind: “Don’t be so jealous, cook.”

It was said in response to Sanji allegedly shooting Zoro a particularly sour look all because Usopp had ducked behind the nearest crew mate after being startled by sudden Marine canonfire, which happened to be their vice captain’s hulking presence.Sanji could’ve punted the shitty swordman’s head right off his shoulders for the accusation. Jealous of what , exactly? Not being Usopp’s personal bodyguard? It was stupid. Even worse to get so pissed off about.

He remembered how Zoro had looked at him, an almost pitying expression to parry Sanji’s explosive anger, a huge fight breaking out when the cook argued on the contrary. Like he knew something Sanji didn’t. As if the answer had been clear to everyone except him.

Almost as if to insinuate–

Usopp’s breathing had finally evened out, the sag of his body letting Sanji know that he had finally surrendered to sleep. He snored softly, nestled practically under the older man’s chin. Sanji released a stuttering breath that he wasn’t even aware he’d been holding. Just like that, the moment had passed and there was none left to witness the trembling revelation that had just struck the cook. It was too much, too enormous of a feeling to simply ignore and yet, Sanji felt too afraid to name it. 

So he didn’t. Wouldn’t. Not yet, anyway. He had to examine it later, more thoroughly, because if he went and hurt Usopp for the tangled mess that was his own heart, he would never forgive himself. He allowed himself one terrible, selfish moment: just closed his eyes and buried his nose into Usopp’s hair, lip trembling as he tried to memorize the smell, just in case. 

Of all the things Sanji promised himself he’d protect Usopp from, he never could’ve imagined that included him, too.

[briefalpacashark]

=The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare=

=Plus a Woman or Two=

=Chapter 3=

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Once the dust of the new arrival had settled, the men were outside tending to the ship as they hit a bout of harsh winds. Looking through your bag for the twentieth time you sighed as you came to the realization. Now in a pair of brown pants held up by a pair of suspenders set atop a light blue button up your bare feet slapped against the deck as you walked past all the men who gave you sideways looks coming to stop in front of your brother who was tending to some ropes. ”We have a problem,” you announced, pocketing your hands. ”What is it?” Gus asked, slightly concerned. ”I haven’t any boots,” you stated. He frowned, looking down to your bare feet that you wriggled. ”You didn’t bring any with you?” he asked. ”I did. Quit a nice pair, actually. Couldn’t swim in them, though. The flight suit was doing wonders to try and drown me,” you explained. ”So why not take the flight suit off?” he asked. ”Well, that would mean I would arrive on deck with nothing but my skivvies. While I’m sure the gents would have enjoyed that I dought you would have,” you explained. ”I much prefer the flight suit actually,” Lassen’s comment earned a glare from Gus, making him chuckle. A smirk pulled at your lips as you looked back at Lassen who simply smiled. ”I would prefer the skivvies,” Freddy pipped in. ”Shut it Freddy,” Gus ordered. ”Yes sir,” Freddy smiled.

”Any of you boys have a spare pair?” Gus asked. Shortly after, Lassen placed a pair of boots in front of you. You propped an eyebrow, looking up at the smiling Swed. ”While I greatly appreciate the offer,” you picked up the boot that almost dwarfed the size of your head. “I’m more likely to drown in this boot than I was the sea,” you finished. ”Well it’s the only spare pair we have,” Gus said, taking the other. ”There are the best boots on the market,” Lassen boasted. ”How so? Made of special squirrel leather?” you asked. ”Yes, how did you know?” Lassen quick response to your quip had you smiling. A smile he found dangerously contagious. ”I could make it work. But I’ve had to gut the poor buggers. I’d hate to ruin such a good pair of boots,” you said. ”Please, think of it as a gift. A welcome to the team,” Lassen stated with a shrug. In spite of his statement he looked reminiscent on the pair of boots. ”Ah of course. Welcome to the team. Now let me cut up a pair of boots you clearly have some attachment to,” you took the boot from your brother holding them out to Lassen. ”I grew up running barefoot through the shire. I’ll be fine until we acquire another pair,” you gave a thankful nod and a kind smile. ”I insist,” he shock his head pleasantly surprised at your kind gesture. ”So do I,” you said. With a huff, he smile tilting his head to the side. ”Then I suppose we are at a standstill,” he said. ”It seems we are,” you sighed. ”Only difference is, when I’m stood at a stand still I never back down,” you finished pulling the boots back to you starting to fiddle with the laces. ”Neither do I,” he said crossing his arms over his chest. The poor shirt he was wearing strained at the flex of his muscles. You hummed as you took in the apple assortments of such he had. ”What ever shall we do then?” you questioned. ”Please Ma’am. No lady should be walking around bare foot while a man stands booted beside her,” he explained. You chuckled at the address. ”Listen closely, boys. Ma’am is not something I like to be called. You can call me Pat. Patsy, Patience. Miss or lad. Anything but Ma’am,” you beckoned Lassen down. He frowned but obeyed, leaning down. ”Good las,” you smiled, slinging the boots you tied together by the laces around his neck. Giving his cheek a little pat you smirked before moving away. He paused a wide smile spreading across his face as he straightened up to watch you walk away. ”Also,” you stated, pulling your sniper out of its case. Sliding a magazine into it, you cocked the gun. “We have a large ship off the starboard side,” you said, resting your gun on the roof of the control room. The boys instantly moved to examine it, squinting through the sun. You leaned down, looking through the scope. Seeing the nazi symbol you tisked. ”And they don’t look friendly,” you stated. ”What are we looking at, Patsy?” Gus asked. ”A problem,” you admitted honestly. You took in the large turret gun. “A rather like one at that,” you continued. ”Possibility of being blown to bits at the first sign of aggression?” Gus asked. ”100% Gusly,” you said, looking up from the scope. ”Right well. Hasey how’s your Swedish?” Gus asked. ”Non existing sir,” Hasey admitted. “Accent?” you asked. ”Only the one I was born widh,” he said. ”Right Hasey hidden below deck. Well stay up here, Pat you hide that gun of yours until the times right,” Gus said. ”You know I’m a terrible shot close distance brother,” you said. ”How does that work?” Hasey asked. ”Well the closer someone gets to me, the better the chance of my bullet misses,” you explained. ”You could hide down below,” Gus suggested. You chuckled amused by the suggestion. ”And miss a chance to gut a Nazi?” you laughed, shaking your head. ”Right then. Freddy,” Gus finalized, turning to Freddy with a grin. ”You're going for a swim,”

You watched the small little boat filled with Nazi solider’s trudge up to the boat. ”Stay safe Pat,” he whispered. ”Never,” you grinned. It was always your saying. Every time before you were about to go into something dangerous, he would say it. And you would respond the same way. The small boat pulled up to the side and in it stood a small little angry german. Lassen waited by the opening with his hands on his hips. There was a stale air as you waited. ”Where do you sail from?” from his little wings on his shoulders you assumed he was a Major asked in German. “Er, Sweden,” Lassen’s demeanor seemed to do a complete turn as he played the part of innocent little fisher. ”Do you speak the English?” the Major asked. ”I’m... I’m... Swedish but I speak a little English,” Lassen said. ”We’re coming on board,” The Major stated. They quickly filed onto the vessel the Major ordering the boat to be searched. ”All are welcome. All are welcome,” Lassen now stood next to the steering wheel beckoned them all on as they passed by. You stood by the entrance of the below deck smiled, giving small greetings. ”Even the little one. He can come too. Welcome,” while you could understand why Lassen was so nonchalant about it, you couldn’t muster any more than a smile as the Major stepped up to you, looking you up and down, his eyes shamelessly resting on your chest for a moment longer. But being a woman, his question wasen’t for you. He turned to the boys. ”Why are you here?” The Major asked accusingly. ”Just a little sailing holiday,” Gus said with a rather good Swedish accent. The major hummed, his gaze turning back to you. Where his eyes once again fell to your chest. Seeing the gaze and the discomfort it brought you, Lassen stepped up, placing a hand on the Majors shoulder, drawing his gaze from you. ”A jolly holiday trip,” he said. ”Take your hands off,” the major demanded, his already sour gaze turning more so. While there was little suspicion about it, he didn’t trust them in the slightest. Or perhaps he didn’t like them. ”Papers? Passport?” He asked. Gus pointed to the control room where Lassen reached in and retrieved said forged papers. Your eyes flicked to the man behind you as they searched every part of the boat. Lassen handed them over, “Here you go,” knowing they were well-forged passports. The major wasn’t able to find any fault in them.

”Any other people on the boat?” he asked. ”Just the three of us,” Gus stated with an innocent shake of his head. ”Anybody else down there?” The major called down below deck. ”Nein,” one responced. ”Even so. A lone woman on a ship with two men. Of which she shares no last name to,” The major returned to full height flipping open your passport. Your heart sunk, but you kept your face calm. ”Ah. You see, In Sweden we are a very progressive country. Equality between man and woman is very important to us,” Lassen called. The major hummed again, a sick smile twisting his face. It wasn’t a good enough reason. You could see it. ”Ack, don’t be like that,” you chuckled bashfully. “You will excuse my fiance, he is a little shy. I told him I had never been out to sea before. He surprised me with this little holiday to celebrate our engagement,” you played the blushing bride as you smiled innocently batting your eyelashes. Leaning closer, you whispered. “You know how men are, they would rather roll over dead than admit they have a soft side for their women,” you chuckled. The Major studied you looking for any lies. You could see the clogs ticking in his mind. One more push. You moved your mother’s old wedding band you wore on your middle finger to your enjoyment finger before holding it up wiggling the gold band, it catching the sun and the Major’s eyes. He was convinced. Although he wasn’t happy about what he was convinced of. ”It is a shame you are engaged. If not, we could have taken you aboard for a proper celebration,” The major was a man at sea, had been at sea for a long time. To see a woman in any state would arouse the desires he had not been able to tend to. You could feel the eyes on you, the sicking hunger they all shared for fresh meat. “Perhaps we still will,” he reached up, dragging his fingers down your cheek. You forced a laugh at the disgusting feeling that washed over you as you dropped your cheek, subtly moving away from him. ”Come, come, we have lots to eat...” Lassen stepped up behind him, firmly directing him to the table of food and wine you had set out in hopes to appease them. ”Take your dirty hands off me!” The major snapped. All at once it was like someone had tripped a wire. The soldiers scattered around the deck all trained their gun on you all. Most on Lassen who was harshly shoved back at gun point till he was forced to sit on the ledge by the steering wheel. You yourself was pushed up against the mast. ”And you, put your hands in the air!” The major snapped towards Gus who did what he was ordered. You all held your breath as Gus and Lassen shared a look. There were a few moments of silence before a huffy laughed crept up from Gus. ”Oooh! Ho-Ho!” Lassen quickly caught on laughing as well as he pointed to Gus. “You’re in trouble now! You’ve been a naughty boy!” he teasingly called out as they both broke into drunken laughter. The major glanced down to the almost empty wine bottle. ”I’ll give you 100 francs to shoot him,” Lassen offered. ”Don’t shoot me!” Gus mockingly waved his raised arms. The major looked between them, bewildered. ”He hates Germans. You should really shoot him,” Lassen said. If only the major knew. ”I... I’m sorry. You are very scary,” Gus tried to get his laughter under control as the major debated his life’s decisions.

”Make him walk the plank. He loves wood,” Lassen added. The major then looked to you, who gave a sheepish shrug of your shoulder. Moving past you, he approached Lassen. ”Dirty drunken animal!” he slapped the passports back to his chest. ”Guilty as charged,” Lassen sung with a smirk that had their laughter striking up again. ”Lets get rid of them,” your blood ran cold at the german which you perfectly understood. “Take the woman,” he ordered, his dirty gaze claiming you as his prize. Your hand slipped behind your back, catching your brother’s gaze. He knew you could speak german. And he knew you heard the words whispered. You placed your thumb in the middle of your palm and closed your finger around it. It was a simple enough sign. It meant danger. Not that you needed to pass on the information. ”I carry a can of kerosene for just these sorts of occasions,” he nodded to one of the solider’s who received the spoken of can. “It’s been a while, but the last time someone laughed at me when I boarded their vessel, I gave them the choice. Either swim to shore or take their chances on a burning ship,” the major looked between you all. To all your faces as the smiles left from them. Lassen glanced over his shoulder to the solider pouring kerosene onto the deck. “Hans and I wondered which option they’d choose, death by water or death by fire. Oddly, they chose both,” he smirked. ”They made it until the very last moment, until their hair was on fire,” he commented reaching out to tug a strand of your hair. “And their blistered skin,” his hands trailed down, slipping between your buttons popping the top three and flicking the material open to show the top of your cleavage. “Peeled from their fingers, before they immersed themselves in water in the vain hope of reaching shore,” he hummed in satisfaction taking a moment to admire your bosom before nodding to two of his men who flanked you. The man pouring the kersone did so right over Lassen’s boots.

”One of them sank immediately and perished. But to our amazement, the big one, he showed great spirit. In spite of all the odds...he painstakingly made it to shore,” he moved away from you, focusing on the boys, the kersone spilling over the food you were defiantly going to eat. You looked over the poor destroyed treats running your tongue over your teeth. You could feel your patience getting thin. The boys were getting riled up as well. The cruelness of the Majors story was sickening. ”We followed and cheered him on,” The major feigned encouraged excitement. “And rewarded this impressive achievement with a bullet, to the back, of his head,” Lassen eyes narrowed at the man in front of him. A cruel man. “Isn’t that funny? Why aren’t you laughing?” the major asked. The tension was so thick at that point just about anything could cut it. What did though was a bang, then the sound of bullets firing from below deck. The soldiers erupted in confusion and at the very second Lassen snapped up his arm, lashing out. The knife he gripped with white knuckles slashed clean across the major’s throat. The blood sputtered from the clutched wound, the crimson red running through the pretty white sailor’s uniform. He then turned to the one on his left and did the same. Gus unveiled the gun he had hidden under the table, taking out the soldier who stood on the far front of the ship than the one at the other. You stamped your foot down on the edge of your gun, hidden by a simple rucksack, and the barrel snapped up into your hold. Hoisting it up, you tucked your finger on the trigger, tilting the gun first to the left, hovering it right under the solders chin before blowing his brains into a beautiful burst of red. You then tilted it to the right and did the same. Hasey emerged from below, quickly taking out another two while Gus took out one that ran from around the side. Hasey walked past you as you hoisted your gun up into a proper position, taking out the one that followed him as he took out the remaining soldier on the boarding boat. You all then turned to Lassen as he expertly dispatched the last three with nothing but his knife. He walked past you shoving a solider, all the while stabbing his neck until he went limp. He then shoved him to the side before literally gutting the last one before shoving him over the side of the ship. The solider he had killed moments before hung over over the railing. Reaching down Lassen grabbed the scuff of his pants, lifting it and chucking him over board. All of which Gus watched with a bemused smile and you with an impressed prop of your eyebrow. ”Nice work, Lassen,” Gus cheerily said setting his gun down. With all the danger now disposed of, you let your gun lower.

“Work, looked more like art to me,” you said, Lassen giving you a breathy nod of acknowledgement. ”There’s more where they came from,” he said, gesturing to the war ship behind him. ”Yes,” Gus squinted off. You moved forward, getting yourself ready, resting your gun on the railing as you kneeled. Lassen groaned as he heaved up the dead major with one hand, the other pupating the major’s hand to wave limply. Gus opened his spy glass, looking through it. ”Not sure it’s working, Lassen. The captain looks rather agitated,” Gus stated as Freedy emerged from the sea hoisting himself up onto the boarding boat. ”They’re bringing their guns to bear,” Gus barely finished the sentence when a missile was shot. The boys all looked behind them as the missile exploded into the sea a fair distance from the boat. ”They’ll find their range soon sir,” Hasey warned. ”Freddy, should we be worried?” Gus asked. ”Oh, I don’t think so, sir. It’s a rather large explosive, so I set a rather large fuse. I located the outside of the powder room, so when it goes bang, it really should go bang,” Freddy explanation was finished by another missile firing. ”Closer...” Hesey stated, the worry clear in his voice. ”Taking out the captain won’t stop the missiles,” you stated. ”Bet you a tenner for a cock shot on the captain,” Gus suggested. A split second later you had changed target and pulled the trigger. The shot rang out and you pulled back. Gus chuckled maniacally as the captain doubled over, clutching what remained as blood spattered onto the wall behind him. ”Should be any second now, chaps,” Freddy stated. You had to admit you were getting nervous. They seemed to have their range now. The boys felt it, two nervously shifting from foot to foot. ”Freddy?!” Gus questioned. A moment later the explosive went off, then the powder went off, resulting in a spectacular explosion. You whistled as the wind from the explosion wafted over you all. ”Good work, Frederick,” Gus congratulated him. ”Thank you, Captain. Now, any chance you can tell us what we’re doing here, sir?” he asked. You propped your gun against your shoulder looking at your brother, wondering the exact same thing. ”Dry yourself off, frogman, and I’ll tell you,“ Gus said, collapsing the spyglass. ”The curiosity is eating us all up, sir,” Hasey said.

”So fiance?” Lassen asked as you all waited for Freddy. ”What you didn’t know?” you asked with a half serious expression. ”Lassen you bastard. Didn’t even ask for my blessing,” Gus commented. ”I would have if I had known. I mean, it’s all so sudden. I’ve only met you this morning,” Lassen said gesturing to you. ”Your right. It was a rather long courting period,” you nodded, a smile breaking your face as you couldn’t keep up the act. Hesey watched in amusement at the interaction. ”Do I have any say in the matter?” Lassen asked, raising his eyebrows. ”Course not darling dear,” you grinned. Lassen grinned back, taking note of the funny feeling that stirred within him. The way you called him darling. He liked it very much. Once Freddy had changed, you all gathered around the table all looking to Gus expectantly. Freddy was seated at the table. Hasey leaned against the stairs and Lassen found himself a seat on one of the beds. You sat opposite your brother fiddling with some of the charting instruments. ”I apologize for all the secrecy, chaps. But this is an unsanctioned, unofficial, and unauthorized mission. If we’re picked up by the Brits, we will all go to jail. If we’re picked up by the Germans, torture and death,” Gus explained. Lassens lips twitched up in a a half smirk at the audacity Gus had. You leaned back in your chair. You knew it was going to be a danger. Your brother only ever called on you when he absolutely needed it. ”So, it’s just the four of us, and her then?” You frowned at the slight quip Freddy unknowingly gave. After all he held no malice in his words. ”Five of us, And Captain Appleyard,” Gus said. You perked up at the name of your old friend. ”Granny’s gonna be there?” you asked. The nick name granny came around in a sort of roundabout way. Appleyard = apples = apple pie = granny smith’s apple pies = granny. ”He’s responsible for securing this information. He is, however, in a spot of bother. He is being held by the Germans on La Palma,” you frowned at the news as Gus pointed out the small speck on the map. ”Our first job is to liberate,” Gus stated simply. ”Oh, so, that’s all, is it?” Hasey asked sarcastically. ”No. We need to confirm Appleyard’s intelligence. That’s why there are two more agents on their way to Fernando Po by train, as we speak,” Gus explained. You picked up a measuring instrument, plotting it along the map to ruffly calculate the time it would take to get there. ”Doing what, exactly?” Lassen asked. ”They’ll be ensuring that those ships are filled with supplies, so they’re worth blowing up in the first place,” Gus said. ”I mean any german ship it worth blowing up,” you muttered. ”True but these ships insure and supply the uboats that have been giving us a hard time,” Gus explained. ”No u boats means Americans on British soil and the British feed,” you whispered realizing the importance of such a mission. Gus nodded. The seriousness of it all sunk in to the group. ”So no pressure, then?” you stated with a bright smile.

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Masterlist =Here=

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[syrupfog]

When Penguin starts finding petals littered around the bunk room on the Tang, in the beginning he thinks nothing of it. People track in dirt and leaves all the time— or maybe Clione was trying to pretty up the place at some point. There was an incident a while ago with ornamental candles that stopped after Bepo took a bite of one.

He takes more notice when the flower petals keeps happening, though. 

They’ve been at sea for weeks with their only stop being a winter island to stock up. There’s no way someone’s tracking in bright, fire-red petals from a barren landscape like that.

He considers going to Law about it, but decides against it. It feels like overreacting. It’s overreacting, right? Just some flower petals from time to time, surely it’s nothing. 

Well, it’s nothing for about a week.

A week before he’s walking into the mess hall at dinner and spotting Shachi coughing into the collar of his boiler suit before surreptitiously drawing out a handful of crumpled red blossoms when he thinks no one is looking.

Well, fuck.

Penguin corners Shachi in his bunk later when everyone else is doing actual responsible things.

“Who is it?” Penguin asks, sliding over Shachi and sitting down heavy on his stomach.

Shachi groans from the weight. Rude. “Who is what?” 

“Whoever you can’t get over,” Penguin says.

He knows he’s right when Shachi shifts uncomfortably beneath him. “None of your fucking business,” Shachi says, and Penguin can tell even with the sunglasses that he’s avoiding his gaze.

“Fuck off, I told you the second I was crushing on Killer,” Penguin pouts.

“You tell me the second you find a stranger’s ass hot,” Shachi points out. “That’s not special.”

“Well it’s still important.” Penguin leans forward, arms bracketing Shachi’s head, brims of their hats almost touching. “Come on. Why aren’t you confessing? The flowers mean you’re not confessing.”

“Or that I got rejected,” Shachi points out peevishly.

Penguin blinks. “You got rejected?” he screeches. Impossible. Who would reject Shachi?

Unfortunately, his screeching alerts Hakugan, apparently passing by out in the corridor, who comes barging into the room.

“Hey! Penguin you were supposed to be on cleanup duty with me and I just had to swab the whole mess myself!”

Shachi manages to slip out from under Penguin’s hold while Penguin makes flimsy excuses that Hakugan doesn’t buy.

Damn it. 

Shachi avoids him after that, or at least avoids one-on-one situations. And that drives Penguin insane. When has Shachi ever kept secrets from him?

—

“He doesn’t do this!” Penguin moans, face planting into Killer’s thigh.

“Maybe he’s embarrassed,” Killer suggests, petting his hat.

“Shachi tells me every time he takes a shit and half the time he wants me to rate them,” Penguin grouses. “He can’t be embarrassed.”

He feels Killer’s hand pause for a moment before resuming petting. “Taking a shit might not be as personal as getting rejected,” he suggests. “If that’s what happened. Which we don’t know. But especially so since it’s someone he clearly has actual feelings for.”

Penguin, very briefly, considers the possibility that Shachi has a crush on him.

But then he dismisses it. They’ve made out (and more) many times over the years and Penguin knows he’s not Shachi’s type. Shachi likes them passionate. That’s the word he uses, at least. Penguin’s not exactly sure what he means.

“How long are you lot docking here?” he asks, shifting the conversation out of frustration.

“Log pose resets for us in three more days, so should be four for you guys.”

“Excellent. Lots of time to make out.”

Killer laughs. Penguin likes it when Killer laughs.

Law’s never been a fan of the Kid pirates but he’s made certain allowances since Penguin and Killer started dating. When they’re on the same island, they dock within room-ing distance so that Penguin can be deposited on the Punk’s deck like a child of divorced parents.

But usually it’s just Penguin. Which is why he’s so confused when he comes out of Killer’s room in his skivvies and hat for a midnight snack only to catch a brief glance of Shachi sneaking around the end of the corridor.

“Wha—?“ Penguin says before taking off running after him.

He doesn’t catch him. He turns around the bend and Shachi’s nowhere to be seen.

Returning to Killer’s room, where Killer is splayed out and snoring on the bed, Penguin sits on his stomach and says, “What’s Shachi doing here?”

“Hnnnm,” says Killer, throwing an arm over his face. “What happened to snack time?”

Penguin snaps his fingers at him. “Keep up,” he says. “Shachi’s on your ship. Why is Shachi on your ship?”

“Fuck should I know,” Killer mumbles, turning over onto his side, leading to Penguin tumbling off of him.

But a thought has occurred to Penguin. “Oh no,” he says. “Is it you?”

“Is what me?” Killer asks, pulling Penguin in and clearly trying to go back to sleep.

“Are you the reason he’s got Hanahaki? Does he like you?”

Killer snorts. “Shachi doesn’t like me, babe.”

“How do you know?” Penguin stops. He considers. “I guess you’re going to have to date us both.”

“Peng, I’m not the only person on this ship. You know that, right?”

“But you’re the only hot one!”

Killer opens his eyes and gives Penguin a flat look. “You’re biassed,” he says. “If Shachi liked me, he’d tell you. Your first instinct upon learning that he might light me is to try to share me with him. You know he’d tell you.”

He tugs Penguin back down vertical. “Also, I’m not good at sharing.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen the way you get with noodles,” Penguin mumbles. Trapped under Killer’s arm, he figures he’ll corner Shachi tomorrow. For now, he tries to rank the other Kid pirates in order of hotness, listing them off on his fingers as Killer ignores him. Heat? Wire? Mosh? Boogie? Obviously no one compares to Killer.

—

Of course, the next day he can’t find Shachi. 

He goes back to the Tang (two days until the Kids set off) but no one has seen him. Ikkaku thinks he might have gone into town. Jean Bart says he didn’t sleep there last night. Law rolls his eyes and says nothing, but that’s perfectly normal.

He snoops around the Victoria Punk but he doesn’t know the layout of the ship quite as well, and eventually resorts to asking around. Quincy says she saw him on the upper decks. UK says he was near steerage. Dive says she watched him steal the good pancakes. So he’s been here. Somewhere.

But why?

And then, down another corridor looking for clues, Penguin finds the petals.

It’s a handful of them, smushed and hidden under some equipment boxes in the hallway right outside the captain’s quarters, ironically just two doors down from Killer’s room.

Penguin abandons decorum and throws Kid’s door open.

Which, in hindsight, was not a smart move, but Penguin’s critical thinking is not what it could be right now.

And hey, he finds Shachi.

He finds Shachi leaning over Kid, the fucking captain, swapping spit.

A strangled sound comes out of Penguin’s mouth.

Shachi scrambles off of Kid in a hurry and Kid wipes his mouth, cursing in Penguin’s direction.

“What the fuck you can’t just barge in here,” he snaps, all the metal in the room shaking a little in response.

“Him?” Penguin yells, ignoring Kid entirely and looking at Shachi. “That’s who?”

“Shut up,” Shachi yells, which is very un-Shachi like. He does yell, but he doesn’t yell at Penguin. 

But his yelling immediately devolves into coughing into his fist and Penguin turns on Kid, who’s getting up off the floor.

“You,” Penguin shouts at him. “You rejected him?”

“What the fuck are you on about?” Kid yells back, and at the same time Shachi rushes forward, clamping his hand over Penguin’s mouth and trying to drag him out of the room.

That’s not going to fucking work though because Penguin’s mad and he’s going to be mad. 

He bites Shachi.

Shachi lets go. 

There’s crumpled flower petals on the floor around  him.

“You rejected him,” Penguin accuses. “What, so you’re just using him now, instead? He’s not good enough to date but he’s good enough to make out with!?”

Metal bits swirl through the air around them.

Shachi lets out a very quiet “oh shit” as the door slams behind them, trapping the both of them in the room with a now seething captain.

“What the fuck are you accusing me of,” Kid bellows. “I didn’t do shit. Your little crew member is the one who’s been coming onto me every time we see you! HE’S the one who initiated this, he’s the one who said no string a-fucking-tatched!” He points a metal finger at Shachi, who’s shifted to standing slightly behind Penguin, his fingers digging into Penguin’s upper arm. 

“You,” Kid shouts, pointing over Penguin’s shoulder at Shachi with an accusing finger.. “What’s your fucking problem, was this a joke to you?” 

Shachi stammers something incomprehensible but Kid continues. “What was your fucking plan, fuck the captain and then go brag to your fucking friends about it?”

“Hey,” Penguin shouts back.

He takes a step forward, held back by Shachi’s hands digging into his arm. “Don’t talk to him like that!”

Shachi, a little shakily, says, “I didn’t! I wouldn’t say shit!”

“I don’t fucking believe you,” Kid yells. “Get out and don’t fucking come back here!”

The door behind them is wrenched open, but before they can go, Shachi is collapsing onto the floor, hacking coughs wracking his frame as flame-red petals spew from his mouth and cover the wood. Penguin falls to his side but he can’t do anything to help, and this— this is so bad.

“What the fuck…” says Kid, but it’s quiet now, voice shifted to something between shock and concern. 

And then, suddenly, Killer is there. Scooping up Shachi’s shaking form and taking him out of the room. Penguin follows, not knowing what else to do. This feels like his fault.

— 

The infirmary on the Victoria Punk is colourful and crowded like the rest of the ship, but the cot Shachi rests on is clean and sparse.

UK has made him tea, something in it to help soothe his throat and keep the plant in his lungs at bay.

Killer and Kid are both there, sitting on mismatched chairs, silent and serious.

Despite feelings like he’s in deep shit, Penguin wasted no time in crawling onto the cot with Shachi as soon as he could, wrapping himself around him like he could protect him. Shachi didn’t protest (he rarely does) but he’s not making eye contact, staring down at the tea in his hands.

“I think your ship’s surgeon will be a better fit than I am to get that thing out of your lungs,” UK says after looking Shachi over. “Should be a simple enough operation. Only complication is that you’ll forget the, uh, target of the affections.” He looks sideways at Kid.

Kid continues to look fucking livid, but he’s stewing in silence, shoulder to shoulder with Killer, who’s donned his mask and is giving little away.

After UK takes his leave, Shachi downs his tea in silence, coughing only a few stray petals.

“We should leave,” he says.

Penguin’s about to agree but Kid interrupts them. “No you fucking should not,” he says, leaning forward and pushing Shachi’s chest back down with one hand. “I know you well enough to know that if you leave you’re never coming back here.”

Penguin lets out a low whistle. He’s not wrong.

“What was your plan?” Kid asks. “Just fuck around with me until I fall in love with you?”

“Fucking Christ,” Shachi mumbles, his voice raw. “Of course not!” Then, quieter. “Just planned on doing it as long as I could, then… getting the surgery when I couldn’t handle it anymore.”

Penguin frowns. “You weren’t ever going to tell him?” he asks.

“No!” Shachi shouts. “I’m not naive, Peng! I know this wouldn’t have had a fairy tale ending! I just wanted to— to indulge as long as I could.” He peters off, staring into his cup again.

Kid is back to looking furious but Killer leans forward before he can say anything. “For clarity’s sake,” he says, his voice shockingly even next to Kid’s. “Why wouldn’t this have had the ‘fairy tale ending’?”

Shachi looks at him confused. “Because?” he says, like it’s obvious.

When it seems like no one is on his page, he points to Kid. “He’s a captain? He’s not just a captain, he’s a Worst Generation captain! He— he owns this fucking ship! He’s one of the most powerful men in the world and he’s got a sickass devil fruit. And listen, I know I’m hot. But I’m not, like,” he gestures to Killer. “I’m not even first mate! I’m just some guy!”

“Hey—” Penguin starts to argue but Shachi shuts him down. 

“Peng it’s not about being hot or whatever. A captain, especially a Worst Generation captain, can’t just date a scrawny fucking nobody. It’ll fuck up his image! He’s gotta strike fear into the heart of the Marines!”

He coughs and a few stray petals come out. “That’s why Law can date Luffy but Kid can’t date me, even though I’m objectively much sexier than Luffy.”

“Ehhh,” Penguin says while Killer makes an uncertain hand motion.

“Anyway, this has been good,” Shachi says.“I’m going to go now before I can embarrass myself more. Gonna go get the dumb surgery and then make out with Hakugan or something until I feel better.”

He goes to stand up but is almost immediately pushed back down by a slightly crumpled metal bar levitating through the air and attaching itself over the bed.

“Shut up,” Kid says, pointing his finger accusingly at Shachi. “You talk too fucking much, you know that?”

Shachi gives him the middle finger. “Well you use too much tongue when you kiss.”

“Your teeth are too sharp to bite my neck, UK made me get a rabies shot,” Kid shoots back. “Shut up. Your reasoning is stupid.”

“My reasoning is not stupid,” Shachi argues back flippantly.

“I don’t give a flying fuck what the marines or anyone else thinks of who I date,” Kid says. “That’s a dumbass thought process and you’re dumb as fuck for thinking it.” His scowl deepens. “And you’re dumb as fuck for being such a coward that you weren’t even going to tell me! What kind of idiot lets himself almost die for the sake of a good fuck?”

“Many people,” Shachi says petulantly.

“Shut the fuck up. You’re an idiot. If you get that surgery, I’ll kill you.”

Shachi gapes at him. “What the hell?” he says. “You just want me to die, then? Gonna choke on some flower petals, is that metal enough for you?”

“No you fuckskull, I want you to stop being a fucking coward and ask me out!”

Killer has his head in his hands.

Shachi fishmouths at him. “Well maybe I don’t want to do it right now!”

“Yes you do,” Penguin says soothingly, well aware of how much of an idiot Shachi can become when he gets mad. He’s also been sort of uncomfortably trapped on his side by the bar Kid has stuck over the bed. “Please be sensible and just ask out the pirate captain known for murder.”

Shachi scoffs, throwing his hands up. “Fine,” he says. “Even though it’s a dumb decision on your part if you say yes, will you go out with me, Captain Kid?”

“Yeah,” Kid shouts. “For some reason I like your scrawny ass, so i will!”

Killer’s head is somehow more in his hands.

“Fine.” shouts Shachi. “Move this bar so I can make out with your dumb face, then!”

The bar moves very quickly.

Shachi is on Kid’s lap almost as fast.

Penguin makes eye contact (probably) with Killer through the mask. “Can we be… somewhere else?” He asks.

Killer nods. “Please,” he says.

They evacuate the infirmary and close the door firmly behind them.

“They’re going to have sex in there,” Penguin says.

Killer nods in agreement. “They’re going to have sex everywhere.”

A thought occurs to Penguin as they make their way to the upper deck. “Oh, Law is not going to be happy about this.”

Killer snorts. “Your captain isn’t happy about anything.”

Well that’s true.

The rest of the day is spent dodging bits of metal debris that levitate and shoot off at the most alarming of moments. Penguin learns that this means Kid is “extremely happy”. 

He hates having this knowledge. 

Shachi will love it.

[fandomnerd9602]

Break

Fem!Peter Parker x Stark!Reader

You and Petra Parker, the Spectacular Spider Girl were happily married. Life was good and a proper balance of work, college, and superhero stuff. You couldn’t have asked for anything better.

And then Petra told you she was pregnant. You were on cloud nine. The woman of your dreams was going to having your baby. Your dad, the always showboating Tony Stark, was already a doting grandpa and the baby wasn’t even born yet.

He showed up with a moving truck full of baby stuff, clothes, and diapers. “Let me know if you need anything else” your dad gave you and Petra a genuine smile. “I want my grandson to want for nothing”

“What if it’s a little girl, Mr Stark?” Petra asked with a little smirk.

“Even more so” he gave a shrug before jumping in his Lamborghini.

Aunt May practically spent every day over at your house from that point on. She already trying to coach her niece thru the first trimester, cooking meals, helping with the nursery, etc.

You and Petra couldn’t be happier. But you could tell something was on your wife’s mind. It all started at the end of the first trimester. She was started to show signs of a pregnant belly.

You found you and her getting ready for patrol. Petra just looked at herself in the mirror, costume at her ankles and only standing there in her skivvies.

“Baby? What’s wrong?” You approached her and wrapped her in a hug from behind, locking eyes with her in the mirror.

Her eyes were full of tears and a bit of sadness, “I can’t.”

“What?”

“I can’t be Spider Girl anymore” she whispered. Her hands were gently caressing her belly.

“I wouldn’t say anymore” you countered.

“Our baby is my main responsibility and priority, Stark” she said back. She turned in your arms to face you. Her lips were mere inches from yours. “I just want what’s best for little May”

“May?” You smiled at her, “that’s what you want to name her? Little May?”

You nuzzle Petra, earning a giggle from your favorite Web-Head.

“Yeah.” Petra giggled, “we can call her May-May as a nickname.”

“I love it. And I love you.” You gently rubbed her arms, reassuring her as best you could, “I support you. And I’m proud of you. Our baby’s gonna have a super mom”

“You’re so corny” Petra buries her head in your neck. How you love her scent, the way her head fits perfectly into the crook of your neck.

You smiled, “our baby. It’s so surreal to say”

“I know” she whispered back.

So Petra had to briefly retire from that point on. The Spectacular Spider Girl disappeared for about a year. No one knew why.

It didn’t matter if anyone else knew. All you and Petra cared about was the family you and her were building together.

And that’s all that truly mattered, just you, Petra and little May-May.

Tags: @jacelion @ma1egamer @multi-fandom-enjoyer @supercorpdanbeau @scarletquake-n7 @mostlymarvelsstuff @deafeningsharkslimeempath @iamnicodemus @pinklawyerwinnerzonk @wombatking @lifespectator @aloneodi @abimess @family-house-of-m @holiday-house-of-m @russianredassassin @revanshand @tokufighter

[dellalyra]

omg imagine gojo with a welsh or irish gf - another irish girl

Gojo would thrive with one of us Irish women

Because let’s face it: we’re mostly all firebrands, strong, fiery passionate women.

That strong sense of loyalty and family (blood or found) oriented attitude? He relishes it, a feeling of belonging - of being truly loved and respected by someone? Amazing. The fiery nature of our blood lends itself a protective nature. The higher ups are giving him shit? Not a chance.

“Eh? Excuse you, you wrinkly sack of shite? What your last skivvy die of? Hush your gob or I’ll shut it for you. Fucking scarlet for ya’, absolute state of ya.”

Sometimes when you’re angry your accent becomes thicker or if you’re a gaeilgeoir you might slip into your teanga nádúrtha and I stg gojo has never gotten a hard on quicker in his life than seeing you spitting fire at that typical angry Irish girl speed of light.

None of his arrogance or occasional push-too-far would float either. None of us have the energy.

“Satoru, for the love of God, if you keep going on about not wanting to do the washing up because you’re the strongest, I’m going to crack up. I don’t have the energy for your shite right now. Now get up off your arse and clean the pan.”

Probably takes him a while to get used to how casually we curse and drink too, like you’re going to see your friends?

“I’m meeting the gang for a few jars tonight, coming?”

“The fuck are you doing with jars?”

The vernacular gets him too.

“SATORU!” Comes a shout from across the house.

“Yes, gremlin?”

“Grab me a few tea cloths from the hot press will you? Good chap.”

“Hot press? Is that a sex position?”

“Oh, Jesus Mary and Joseph.”

If you guys have kids - they’re brought up with the value that the mammy is the centre of the family and nothing goes on without her say so.

Like imagine a little mini version of Satoru running around and sprinting to his dad.

“Daddy, can I have the sweets on the table?” Shiny blue eyes mirror each other.

“Ask your mother, kiddo, it’s her dairy milk.”

The patter of feet is followed by a:

“MAAAAAAA! Can I have your selection box?”

“You can in your hat!”

Satoru sick? Why do you keep giving him flat 7up or cream crackers? Suguru got wounded on a mission, why do you insist on putting sudocream on it?

Christmas rolls around and for some reason in late November it’s a very big deal one Friday night. You have cornered him, Suguru and Shoko and forced them all into Christmas pyjamas and made hot chocolates for everyone and switched the telly on.

“What is going on? It’s not even Christmas.” Suguru asks, completely lost.

“Wha? Sure it’s the last Friday in November.”

The three just sit in silence.

“You three, thick as a plank, the lot of ye. I told ye last week that it’s the Toy Show tonight!”

“The what show?”

“The Toy Show!”

“It’s a show… about toys?”

“Yeah! A load of kids showing off their toys and showing how they work and all. Fierce funny. Robbie Keane usually ends up on it too somehow.”

If ever there’s an issue where some arsehole is annoying you about stereotypes, it’s always an entertaining show for Satoru.

“Can you do a Riverdance?” The stranger asks.

“Jaysus, sure I haven’t done any Irish dancing since I was in 3rd class and my nanny forced me to.”

Introducing him to Irish delicacies?

No I don’t mean coddle, or stew.

I mean real delicacies.

Like a chicken fillet roll or a spice bag. Your Nana’s apple tart. Soda bread or a bottle of Lilt. Bag of tayto (cheese and onion, obviously) or purple snack bars? A curly wurly? Red lemonade or a mikado biscuit? (Fuck, we love sweets I’m realising as I write this) or a decent cup of tea (Barry’s or Lyon’s, I won’t start that debate here).

Most of all, I think Satoru would thrive in the warmth of an Irish woman. We might be temperamental, battleaxes sometimes, and always a bit mad but one thing I know is we love wholeheartedly and fiercely, with every fibre of who we are. That belonging, the nurturing, the warmth and sheer sense of home that we all somehow tend to exude would made Satoru an incredibly happy man.

[raisindave]

[Chapter 56] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

The ground connected with your feet before you entirely understood what was what. In a panic, a rhythmic thump on a thick wooden door compelled you to stand at attention at morning call as if you were back in your first week of basic training. Light peeks through sheer orange curtains. You've slept in later than usual. Hours spent awake with your thoughts dug into dedicated sleeping time. That's when a surge of memories hit you in the form of a stone in your gut, recalling the cause for your aching cheekbone. For some reason you'd fallen asleep fully clothed, but it meant that whoever's on the other side of the door won't be meeting you in your skivvies. Your response timer is quickly elapsing, and the creaking door is flung open to reveal a familiar face. 

"Sergeant," Price wasted no time, crashing into a conversation as if you hadn't been asleep seconds before. "I have some bad news."

"What is it, Captain?" 

"It's about your trainer. Lorenzo," he leaned his shoulder on the doorframe, effectively locking you in your prison with an intense look.  

You swallowed hard. The bruise on your cheek probably says it all; probably horribly angry and purple from a night spent manifesting. Fuck. What if Lorenzo got to Price first and told some horrifying story of your deeply inappropriate behaviour. In truth, you have nothing to worry about, nothing that can't be explained away as training. But that's why they're called malicious lies. He wouldn't be so evil, right? Well, he did sock you for not immediately leaning into kissing him. Maybe you're just a poor judge of character. Down the hall, your other comrades were bickering about someone's shooting record, fighting for your attention as your captain fought to find words. 

"I'm sorry to tell you this, but he quit. Pretty unexpectedly," Price sighed, flashing you a crumpled piece of paper caught between his fingers. "I got a note on my desk sometime last night. 'Said there was a family emergency or something," he grumbled. 

A steady silence settled into the dialogue, manifesting an expression of concern made for an excellent way to disguise your racing mind. You sighed deeply, but it did little to relieve a building tension in your chest. Phantoms of words sat heavy on your tongue.

"But we'll get you a new trainer, someo-"

"Captain I- "  The words caught in your throat, simmering like acid under your collarbone as time stood still. "I've learned enough from my time with him. -Sir!"

The cool morning air became increasingly noticeable as his eyes bore down into you—icy blue eyes that weighed your soul below the wide brim of his hat. Your words made him squint for a second, turning to scratch his beard to consider your proposition. He studied your expression as he studied yours. The issue was that his expression was entirely unreadable. He was intense and stoic as always, almost flickering with humour, if anything. 

"We can talk more about this tomorrow," he responded flatly after a short period of consideration. "Laswell asks that you're set to go by 17:00. She'll meet you at the front."

"Yes, sir," you nodded dutifully, finally mustering enough willpower to meet his gaze. 

He seemed satisfied with this solution. Slapping his palm on the doorframe and smiling casually past his moustache. Price took it as a satisfactory conclusion to the issue, sighing deeply and nodding with a smile, excusing himself down the hall. You peeked to watched him leave, almost doubting the authenticity of the encounter entirely. He disappeared around another corner toward booming voices reverberating over slick plaster walls. No training, no expectations, the day is entirely your own for the time being. Your door clicked shut after a hearty creak, giving you the grace to cross the room to observe the aching blemish on your face. To your surprise, it's not as dark as you'd expected, and you'd become alarmingly adept at identifying how quickly and deeply bruises manifest. However, memories of a late-night ice pack quashed the lingering mystery as you rubbed sleep from sunken eyes. 

A stack of magazines in that dusty library will make suitable food for thought to pass the time, despite their publishing dates being barely within the decade. Scores of generals and patrons gradually made their way to the distant banquet hall that you'd vaguely overheard the location of. Only a ten-minute drive from the base, a grand section of a parliament building that's dedicated to hosting this type of event. Even when the afternoon quickly came and went, you spotted Laswell bustling down the corridors, echoing flats pattering over wood and stone. It's heartbreaking to see the sling that still cradles her arm, a result of your last mission, but it hardly seems to register as an impairment to her. 

It's always hard to gauge how long it takes to get ready. You can be out the door in half an hour for military formal wear, assuming your suit lapels and pants have already been ironed the night before. Makeup is a non-issue, and neither is finding a pair of matching shoes for your outfit. There's only one way you know to effectively style your hair, but that sort of defeats the purpose of finding your own personal style for this rare occasion. A tight military-style bun won't match your outfit, either. That black mass of tulle sat dormant in the same bag it'd been left in when you bought it. You could only hope it didn't wrinkle because there's no way you'd know how to get your hands on an ironing board. The nerve-wracking thought spurred you to leap into action. 

After a moment of trying to orient which direction was upright, you flung the dress onto white sheets. You looked at it, and it looked at you. Your final obstacle, except for maybe the shoes. Or the makeup. Or maybe the hair. In what order do you even do these things anyway? The black dress was more fitted than you were expecting, snug along your hips and waist. It didn't have quite as much cleavage as your getup in Mexico, but it's not entirely far off. The guidance of an unsettlingly upbeat tutorial you'd found on your phone will help you achieve a look you'd seen in one of those magazines. It only took you two tries to achieve the manicured 'effortless' look of updos that are supposed to make you look carefree and elegant. Frankly, it couldn't be farther from your actual psychological state. Stray strands tickled bare shoulders, a thoroughly unfamiliar sensation, but it somehow registered as pleasing. This is your reward for hard work, and when's the last time you've been able to doll yourself up and peacock among greatness? 

Coral gloss made your lips shine like fresh peaches. A quick swipe of flesh-coloured eyeblack in a pearlescent tin does the trick to mask dark under eyes, the consequence of a sleepless night. It'll also cover weeks of miscellaneous bruises that flaw your skin. Every time you were certain you'd smothered the last bruise in makeup, a new blemish manifested somewhere else on your body. Some came with memories of specific encounters, and some were mysteries that left you questioning any vitamin deficiencies. Glancing at the clock commands you to fulfill any remaining swipes and tucks before stepping into unbroken black stilettos that brought you down the stony corridor. 

Although the navy blue dress Laswell is wearing is modestly styled, it still doesn't register as natural to her. She seems more like the type to wear khakis and a dress shirt or sweater, but a knee-length fitted gown seems like the rare sight, tied together with a thin white belt. You'd bet your life that's her one formalwear dress that she breaks out on every once in a while if the occasion demands it. Either way, she's gesturing that you follow into the pedestrian black truck, and you kindly oblige. Hopefully your unsteady gate won't be too noticeable as you approach a cobbled pathway, feeling a cool breeze grace mostly bare shoulders. 

"I hope Italy has treated you well," Laswell smiled, gripping the steering wheel with her unbound arm.

Oh Kate, if you only knew the half of it. 

"It's a beautiful country," you smile sweetly as you swing into the passenger seat. "I could definitely get used to linen sheets and hot coffee."

"Don't get too attached. You're all headed to a new spot in a few days, another situation."

"Should I be worried?" you queried flatly, already expecting her incoming response. 

"Nothing to worry about for the time being. You'll be filled in when the boys are," she glanced at you, diffusing bubbling curiosity with a sober look. 

Small talk was easy with her, effortlessly crossing the barrier into friendly dialogue that flowed back and forth like a crashing tide. A sweet story of her honeymoon in Italy made for a surprising coincidence, finding time to travel with her wife along the same countryside you could barely spot when you drove over the crest of a hill. She complimented your dress, and something about it made you smile at the thought that that'll likely be the only recognition of your wardrobe all night. 

"I'm sorry to hear about Lorenzo," she sighed after a generous lapse in conversation.

"Do you know what happened?" you gulped, prying for additional context absent from Price's description.

"John said he left in quite a hurry," she sucked air through her teeth in thought. "Not even two weeks' notice or anything. But hopefully, we can get ahold of him again. Price said you were making good headway."

"I'd be interested in exploring other styles if that's okay with you- or... him," the words slipped over your tongue in an effort to dissuade that outcome. "My training in his style had reached diminishing returns anyways," you forced a relaxed grin. 

Laswell smiled with a pleased shrug, content with your selection. Your heart rate steadied from the initial spike in adrenaline that threatened to sweat away your carefully applied makeup. The whole situation still rang as bizarre, like your mind would only dabble in connecting your consciousness with the gravity of last night's encounter. The thick string of pearls around the collum of your throat constricted around your airway. But the thought was quickly swallowed as a new flow of dialogue as Laswell bemoaned how tiring these social events can be. A welcome change in pace and a welcome diversion from clamorous thoughts. 

At this event, you know no one. The only faces you might see will be occupied with ceremonial duties, likely standing at those gold-inlaid fences that Laswell pulls you up to. Definitely a parliament building, exquisitely carved pillars and painted statues adorne a square building, easily six stories high. A bowing sunset painted pristine white walls the colour of sherbert and salmon, a feast for the eyes save for the armed guards. And it was beyond evident that those guards had no intention of letting a single passing caravan go uninspected; you could spot matte firearms under crisp black suits, invisible to the untrained eye. An eye that Laswell shared, exchanging a knowing smirk as you stepped toward the gates.

An expansive and grand central room made itself known after a set of heavy gilded doors. Inset white panels along tall walls that reached an arching ceiling made way for grand chandeliers, each easily the size of a small Cessna. Lustrous tiles glimmered with shimmering specs of pearlescent stone, currently occupied by meandering footsteps from painstakingly polished shoes and stilettos. Even if you tried, not a single face in the crowd rang as familiar. Bustling bodies created warm and fragrant air that reeks of excellence and pomposity. Colognes and lotions that cost almost as much as the clinking glasses of rich amber liquid and gems so sparkly they looked like they'd charge you just to observe them. 

Laswell stopped every few patrons, chatting and sharing polite handshakes with enthusiastic guests. It's hard to say what's more embarrassing; being Laswell's awkward and helpless-looking company or being at this gala to begin with. The more you spied shimmering gowns and bubbling champagne flutes, the more you realized how out of place you were. Even the music was eerie, upbeat and carefully rehearsed orchestral melodies on harp and piano, only somewhat drowned out by a steady murmur of conversation. It's clearly enough to get them to forget why this event is happening to begin with. Another few steps further into the crowd, and another guest recognizes poor Laswell, who spared an exasperated glance in your direction as a way of bracing herself for a particularly rowdy decorated general. It's funny to see glimmers of her candour before she's thrust into another unsolicited and lively exchange. 

From the corner of your eye, just past a set of tables with exquisite displays of bouquets, sat another form of manicured display. Your comrades stood at attention in formal uniforms, living mannequins that help these wealthy aristocrats remember why they're here in the first place. Rows on rows of soldiers arranged like a choir stood with prim uniforms, some familiar, some not. Your four British companions stood shoulder to shoulder in their proper blue suits, packed neatly on the third row behind a legion of similarly dressed soldiers in green and grey suits. Black ties on white dress shirts made them look like prim little businessmen. You could tell them that they look absolutely precious in their darling blue uniforms, but if you did, they'd likely ring your head like a bell. It's hard to tell your allies apart at first, though that's the point of a uniform in the end. 

Past a bustle of some passing patrons, they were easy to spot in the group with their SAS tan beret prescribed to the elite rank. It's weird to see Gaz without a baseball cap and even weirder to see Price without his boonie hat. Ghost was easy to identify, standing a head taller than Gaz, and Soap was last in line. A flash of pale skin made you instinctively divert your gaze to avoid consuming the forbidden fruit. Curiosity compelled you to look back. A full balaclava with a skull plate crudely stitched overtop must not be included in the British Air Force No. 1 Dress Uniform, so he'd have to make do with an alternative. Instead, a black tube of fabric, not unlike a scarf, covered the lower half of his face, settling just below the bridge of his nose. It made him stand out, but maybe that's why they're all disgraced to the third row. You had to fight the urge to chuckle, spotting an unseen scar creating a notch spanning above his eyebrow, making him look like a victim of a hockey hazing ritual. Pale brown hair was horrifyingly visible in the short space between where the beret met the black facemask, and just observing it felt like a forbidden insight. 

Each soldier was sparkling with gold and silver multicoloured metals on their breast pocket, making it easy for figureheads and diplomats to separate themselves from the brutality of these soldiers' practice. How do they think they earned those Purple Hearts and King's Cross'? Stepping closer made you grin at the thought of testing their drilled obedience, daring any of them to flicker their trained gazes to spy your approach. You strain against the tight fabric to will your legs to bring you closer, fighting gravity to remain on tippy-toes. No dice, even when you stepped an arm's length from the front row. Such compliant little toy soldiers, playthings for exuberant patrons to collect and brag about, boasting association to the corresponding nationalities on many of their sleeves. So many of these faces were noticeably absent from this recent conflict, save for a few of the helicopter crew you identified in the back row. Farah and her moustached familiar were notably absent, though that's far from a surprise. She seems like the type to sooner fling herself from one of those overhead balconies than be eye candy to politicians. 

Perhaps you just didn't notice these thirty-odd soldiers with polished medals when those four raided that hellish quarry back in Al Mazrah. Maybe their presence just slipped past you when you were transcribing those transcripts and interviewing the terrorized citizens. Possibly they were standing at attention in the background while you and Ghost brutalized vital information out of a cartel terrorist? It's an easy thing to miss, especially with their rows upon rows of shining chest candy that catches every stray light and jingles like sleighbells.

Closer inspection made you flinch in confusion. At the far end of the third row, just beside Soap, a shorter figure stood a head shorter than the Scot. What made your gaze furrow further was the fact that she looked so similar to you. Your same hair, complexion, even eyes matched yours. Her jaw was slightly rounder, with a few freckles you'd never been blessed with, but otherwise a near mirror. She too stood at attention, standing tall and proud in the deep blue formalwear of an American troop, lacking the light blue stripe on the side of her pants that your comrades sported. A recognizable badge on her chest denoted her affiliation as an Information Analyst, a similar pin to your own. Hopefully she's not your replacement, though Laswell did mention your trek to the next mission in the coming days. 

Maybe this is their cruel way of breaking the news? It's unbecomingly petty from someone as stark as Price, but maybe Lorenzo's unexpected resignation was the last straw after all. The thought of termination, paired with an unwelcome memory, made your dejected gaze fumble, only to catch onto something new. Out of all the things that are yet a mystery, those red scuffs and scrapes on Ghost's freshly bloodied knucklebones suddenly made the logic behind an unexpected resignation clear. 

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Master List

[theseshipsshallsail]

Summary:

There’s a blissful familiarity in this passion. The like-for-like movements that put him in mind of their eager verbal sparring. Oliver moans, lost in the lethargic rut of sensation, and it’s only when black orbs infringe on his vision that he grudgingly breaks for air; rocking their foreheads together as he absorbs Elio’s strength like he’ll drown without it. Without him.

Chapter 8/8

A fey light creeps around the pinned-shut windows when Oliver next stirs; a diffuse palette of watercolours that accentuate the play of shadows across Elio’s ebony lashes.

They’ve swapped places during the night: Oliver rolling supine with the other man tucked neatly into his shoulder; a halo of curls cushioning his chin in an artfully dishevelled mop. Their legs lie jumbled at the knees - the soles of Elio’s feet book-ending his own - and to Oliver’s relief the emotional vertigo of the previous evening has lessened its stranglehold; leaving him more at peace than he’d ever thought possible. 

The lax slouch of Elio’s body - the vibration of his whistley snores - the very idea, even, that he’s comfortable enough not to wake immediately, burns like a supernova. There’s no conscious decision to reach up - to skate his fingertips over the pin-prick rash of irritation at his jowl - but as exquisite as the sex could be, it’s the tactile moments like these Oliver’d valued most, and trembling like an addict he glides those questing digits to Elio’s brow. 

The smattering of freckles above his nose: the ones he’s sure weren’t there in his Dartmouth classroom. 

The crease lines from his pocket that criss-cross his stubbly cheek. 

He can’t quite believe he’s finally here, and like a moth to the flame he flattens the rose-bud purse of Elio’s lower lip; the impish smile that dawns thereafter rendering him powerless not to mirror it.  

“Good morning, sunshine.”

He feels Elio humming before he actually deigns to rouse. “I can hear you thinking, mon cher…”

“Maybe you’re projecting?” 

“Sémantique,” Elio says with a yawn. “Why are you up so early?”

Oliver smirks at the blatant innuendo. “I was having a pretty spectacular dream,” he replies, fuelled by a frisson of daring. “Turns out it was real…” 

“I see…” The hand beneath his t-shirt migrates; strumming his ribs like guitar strings. “So is this just residual?” Elio asks, the lithe yield of his midsection moulding against his erection. “Or is it for me?” 

Oliver huffs as he wrestles him to the rumpled, cotton sheets. “Oh… it’s for you,” he says roguishly. “Most definitely for you.” 

An answering hardness pokes at his thigh. Slow, overlapping bites drift to his timpani pulse. Groaning aloud, he shifts his hips - a futile attempt to offset the urgency - but the petulant complaint that escapes Elio’s throat has him giggling in delight. Rasping his tongue over his jumping Adam’s apple as he rejoices at the whines caught within.

“I want to kiss you.”  

Elio’s pupils blow wide with desire. “You can. You should.”

“But I haven’t brushed.”

“And?”

Oliver sniggers. “On your head be it,” he says, ducking to do so properly, and Elio meets him halfway, domineering his mouth with the same hooded focus he used to apply to Haydn or Brahms.

There’s a blissful familiarity in this passion. The like-for-like movements that put him in mind of their eager verbal sparring. Oliver moans, lost in the lethargic rut of sensation, and it’s only when black orbs infringe on his vision that he grudgingly breaks for air; rocking their foreheads together as he absorbs Elio’s strength like he’ll drown without it. 

Without him. 

“Don’t stop…”

“I won’t,” Oliver swears, vying for restraint. “But I’ve been picturing this for months… years, all told. So I’m not about to come in my skivvies like a trigger-happy teenager.”

Elio leers as he shoves him backwards. “Don’t tease me with a good time,” he says, shucking the twisted blankets to straddle him at the waist. “Besides… that’s easily rectified.” 

He promptly rids him of his tee. 

Off and off and off, Oliver hears, returning the favour post-haste.

Yet again, Elio’s piercings snare his attention, but before he can so much as capture one between thumb and forefinger he’s already scooting southwards. Kissing sonnets over Oliver’s collar bone. Chasing the field of goosebumps that erupt on his arms.

“Ascenseur,” he instructs, teeth grazing his naval. “Lift,” he translates, when Oliver peers at him, stumped.

He’s pinned like a butterfly - spread-eagle where Elio’s knelt above him - but with a bit of creative wiggling they’re hurling his boxers towards the armoire; the beading precome at Oliver’s slit daubing his abdomen as he levers up to watch. 

“Look at you,” Elio murmurs with undisguised lust, moist breath ghosting his groin. “My preening peacock…” 

It comes automatically, the ingrained humility. “Buyer’s remorse is a terrible thing, maestro. I’d hate to think my reality falls foul of your expectations…” 

“Idiota.” Elio milks him from root to tip. “Is that supposed to be a deterrent?” he asks then, locating the faded scar that marks them as two Jewish men: binding them since time immemorial. “Because I think you’ll find I know exactly what I’m getting.”

“Oh yes?” Oliver tenses then slumps in a rough, unordered spasm. “And what’s that?” 

Elio’s eyes flare viridescent. “L'amour de ma vie,” he says point-blank.

The love of his life, indeed, and when Oliver repeats the phrase verbatim, the avid suction that surrounds his spongy glans has him panting in easy seconds; garbling a chorus of the other man’s name as he’s floored by the warmth, the tightness, the mumbled utterances Elio makes around him. 

“Christ…” he barks: leave it to Elio to master his gag reflex like an unusually tricky concerto. “Everything we’ve talked about the past nine weeks, and this you forget to mention?”

“You’re surprised?”

“You’re a menace!” 

“And a consummate overachiever,” Elio maintains, evidently enjoying his battle for self-control as one hand fondles Oliver’s scrotum. Another, the swell of his ass. “Let go, mia anima. Quit holding back. We’ll save the finesse and stamina for round two.” 

“Round two?!” 

“Problème?” Elio relaxes his jaw. Ditches all pretence of eking it out. “Start as you mean to go on,” he says, pulling off with a pornagraphic pop. “Life has no limitations save the ones we create, and we were proficient enough in our youth, were we not?”

Saliva titillates Oliver’s cleft, eliciting something primal. Forty-four, he might be, but if anyone can coax his refractory period into heroic feats, it’s the man currently driving him to premature rapture with a series of dainty flicks. 

Sweat coats his brow at the euphoric give-and-take. 

Constellations burst behind his eyelids.

The pleasure escalates. Carrying him under. Casting him out unmoored. He’s god and tribute all at once, and Oliver’s struck by a courageousness he has no business having as Elio bears him to the highest of highs. Head bowed. Cheeks hollowed. Praxitelean in his beauty.

“So…” he says, rallying his cognitive functions. “Even a cough won’t go unnoticed, huh?”

Elio’s scoff tickles his perineum. “Do you think we’ve horrified my housekeepers?” he asks, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, and Oliver laughs as he totes him upwards; purging the seed from his sticky lips. 

“Your housekeepers. Your neighbours. The fishermen by the docks…”

“We could’ve sold tickets,” Elio remarks. “Printed a few programmes…”

My hubris knows no bounds, offers his puckish cohort, and Oliver snickers as he topples them one-eighty. 

“You’re a provocateur, Elio Perlman…”

“Praw-vaw-ka-tœr,” comes the heavily-exaggerated reply. “And it takes one to know one.”

“Touché.” Oliver’s gaze stays riveted to the risqué metal bars embellishing Elio’s nipples. “Can I?”

“Be my guest.”

It’s all the permission he needs, and with the full force of a hurricane Oliver laves the silver balls with his tongue; pinning Elio’s forearms to the mattress when he tosses and squirms. 

“Mon Dieu…  it’s a thing, isn’t it?”

Oliver chuckles. “What gave me away?”

“Beyond your reaction at the berm?” Elio’s spine arches in supplication. “You never used to be this focused on my skinny chest.”

“Nonsense,” Oliver tells him, leaning back in for a tender kiss. “I worshipped your skinny chest. Just as I worshipped every other part of you.” One last peck before he’s reaching down: enthralled by the sodden patch of arousal on Elio’s straining underwear. “And for what it’s worth?” His sentence shakes with conviction. “You, my darling, haven’t seen focused yet.” 

“Bene ora…” Elio squeezes his neck. “Promises, promises…”

“Actions speak louder,” Oliver disputes, casting the navy-blue boxers who-knows-where as Elio’s engorged cock springs free, its heft curving thick and glistening towards his belly button. 

“Oliver, please…”

The unadulterated scent invades his nostrils: the taste overwhelming as he suckles experimentally at the shaft. Long-repressed impulses soon leap to his rescue, and the sound Elio makes is unquantifiable when Oliver growls in unison; swallowing carefully as his mouth forms a ring. Clumsy, maybe, but there’s wisdom in the flesh. What he lacks in experience he recoups in enthusiasm, and it’s only a matter of time before Elio’s testes draw up; a harbinger of his looming orgasm.  

“Oh, fuck you…” he grumbles, fisting the pillow in pent-up frustration when Oliver uses an iron-clad grip to postpone it. 

“Is that a standard expletive or a request?” 

“Consider it a - wait.” Elio’s voice drops at least two octaves as Oliver smears the trickle of opalescence that dribbles from his tip. “Are you serious?”

The mere thought makes him shiver. “Would I suggest it if I weren't?”

“What if you’re too sensitive?”

“What if I am?” Oliver mutters, nursing a mottled hickey into Elio’s untanned thigh. “I trust you.” A beat. “Implicitly.” 

“But -”

“You said you’d take care of me, yeah?”

Utterly debauched, Elio scarce has the wherewithal to nod. “I did.” He heaves a shuddering breath. “I would.”

“So I’m going to let you.” The admission strikes a deliberate chord. “Assuming you’re amenable, that is?”

Elio shrugs. A Botticelli angel with threadbare wings. “Do you honestly think I’d say no to that ass?” he asks, tugging him up by the earlobes. “That I haven’t been ogling it since the train station?”

“Lech.” 

“Tourmenteur.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re blushing,” Elio counters - brasher, more insistent - as Oliver turns his face, kissing the thin knot of veins at his wrist. 

“Do you have…”

“Supplies?” Elio gestures at the nearest side-table. “Check the bottom drawer. With Ollie about, it’s wise to keep it locked,” he explains, lifting the marble Achilles to procure the key, and when Oliver hangs off the bed to jiggle it open he quickly sees why.

There’s several types of lubricant, for starters: silicone and water based. A sealed bottle of patchouli massage oil. Tempo travel-tissues. Three different dildos - something they’ll definitely revisit later - and a half-full packet of cigarettes crumpled in the rear. 

“Condoms are in the bathroom cabinet,” Elio adds, lips paying homage to the birthmark on his slightly sunburnt shoulder. “Should you prefer I use them?” 

They’ve both been tested - a somewhat redundant process on Oliver’s part - and exclusivity is a given. 

“Let’s not put anything else between us,” he decides, relinquishing the small sachet of lube.

His spent cock plumps admirably, but before he can so much as think of palming himself the fwip of torn foil precedes two slick digits sliding behind his balls - gentling his untouched rim - inching inside with possessive familiarity to knead his inner-walls. 

“Phénoménal…” Elio whispers, drilling his sweet spot incessantly as he summons a tempest under Oliver’s molten skin. “You’re doing so well, bell’uomo… it’s perfect. You’re perfect...”

“More…” he pleads, a lifetime of suppression coursing to the fore. “I’m ready. Do it. I want -” 

“Oliver -”

“Sweetheart, please!” 

The entire planet shifts off its axis as Elio ceases his ministrations, sitting back on his haunches. “Since you asked so nicely…” he says, clasping Oliver’s thighs to urge him into his lap.

Despite the meticulous prep, the initial breach leaves him gasping, but the heat of Elio above him - the steely press inwards, the obstinate jostle of his pelvis - it’s everything he’s been missing these past twenty years. Memory is more indelible than ink, it seems, and Oliver makes a noise he didn’t know he was capable of. A fevered keen he muffles with the pillow when Elio seats himself fully; prolonging the intimacy with the deepest push imaginable.

It hurts. But it’s a good hurt. Truly. Each twinge like the throb of an overused muscle: exorbitantly satisfying. 

“Cazzo… that’s divine,” Elio mutters, rubbing soothing circles on his stomach, giving him a chance to adjust. 

Oliver hisses when he flexes his hips. The fortuitous nudge to his prostate conjuring fireworks in his brain. He can feel Elio’s pulse inside him. Or perhaps it’s his own? Either way, he slides a curious hand to his twitching scrotum: fingertips skimming the trimmed pubic hair corralling Elio’s erection; the outer edge of his obscenely stretched hole.

“Alright?”

“Yes,” Oliver grunts: understatement of the century. “Yes. Keep going. Move.”  

And Elio does. Retreating slowly. Snapping forward. Making Oliver jolt as he begins to grind: claiming him as surely as he’s being claimed himself. The recurrent motions of being filled are enough to send him to Nirvana, but as each filthy encouragement spurs him onwards, it also feels like his partner’s exacting revenge - deferring his climax intentionally - switching the angle just when he’s in danger of careening into the void. 

“Too much…” Elio groans, crowding in for a sloppy kiss. “I won’t last.” 

Oliver snorts. “Brevity is the soul of efficiency,” he says, licking into his furnace mouth. “Don’t fight it on my account.” 

There’s a knife’s edge they’re riding - something elemental waiting on the other side - and Elio manages a dozen uncoordinated thrusts before withdrawing completely; the fondness of his smile a stark contrast to the wanton manner with which he pumps his slippery length.

“You're going to come, aren't you?” he asks boldly, the three fingers he scissors inside him throwing an accelerant on Oliver’s release. “Sei pronto? You’re close?”

“So close -”

“Fallo, mio caro…”

Another stroke. 

Another crook. 

Another allegro to his long-neglected bundle of nerves.

“You too,” Oliver begs - the atmosphere electric - and with a guttural cry his overtaxed body convulses; a pastiche of white decorating his torso like some lewd Jackson Pollock.

“You’ve made a mess of me, Elio Perlman,” he accuses, minutes, hours, an eternity later.

He’s drenched in sweat - his limbs loose like jello - and the other man tuts as he swirls lanquid patterns in the tacky patina of semen coating Oliver’s sternum; his weight quadrupled in defiance of all known laws of physics.

“Objectively? Yes,” Elio says, smudging a streak to his jugular notch. “Personally?” He nips at his throat. “I think you’re worthy of the Louvre. Une véritable oeuvre d'art,” he declares, balancing on his elbows in preparation to rise, but Oliver’s having none of it.

“Thank you,” he whispers, anchoring him by the biceps. 

There’s tears of atonement on his cheek, and Elio tilts his head to catch them with his tongue. “For what?”

Oliver sighs. “For waiting. For forgiving.” Their Stars of David clink where they’re piled at his breastbone. “For not letting go.”

For always being one step ahead.

For reaching out when he’d thought all hope was lost.

For every time he calls him by his name, when what he really means is I want this. I want you. We’re in this together.

When what he’s really asking is should I? Do you? Are we?

When Oliver’s answer to each is a clear and emphatic yes.

Feeding off the past will get them nowhere. There’s nothing, now, that’s fixable by regret. But solace resides in that clean slate - in knowing what’s done is done - and as the distant bells of the duomo herald a brand new day, it’s all he can do to hold on tighter.

Two fragile hearts beating in tandem. 

Two pairs of lungs expanding in an age-old rhythm. 

Two erstwhile lovers united in the real world; no longer adrift in the foreverland of ambiguity.

[hausofmamadas]

TO THE SMASH N GRAB CREW | RIP to the homies and this Cece x Kenny meet cute

⁂

Pairing: Cecelia “Cece” Garza x Kenny and The Smash-And-Grab Crew gif dump

For @narcosfandomdiscord NarcOctober - Day 16

Prompt: Day of Surprises - create a fanwork that focuses on dreams, literal or metaphorical

Okay so, you guys, I have no idea if this even works for the prompt dreams, bc it’s not really a dream one of the characters is having but rather, a dream of mine, and specifically a dream of whatever this was or could’ve been???? That we were categorically deprived of thanks to the Narcos’ writers’ tendency to just drop narrative grenades lil hints of things and then never pick them back up again.

So idk if yall remember that one time Operation Leyenda actually didn’t entirely fuck some shit up but there was One Time n I’m lowkey convinced it was thanks to the involvement of some estrogen no one will convince me that GOAT Secretary Susie wasn’t the strength of Jaime and Kiki’s operation, mmkay in the form of this baddie, named Cece aka Danilo’s way-too-foxy cousin.

What exactly did this bonafide mothafucking G short for goddess do that made the mission so successful? Idk, maybe just being the sassiest, most could-not-be-fucking-bothered, beyond not-having-any-of-your-shit to political scumbag and all around general skidmark, Ruben Zuno Árce okay we don’t even have time to get into how legitimately want to light this man on fire whilst painting💅🏽her💅🏽fucking💅🏽nails💅🏽 I MEANSJSHWH it truly doesn’t get better than this

I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE SATISFIED WATCHING TBIS FUCKINFSKWJHW W SHOW except that one time Barrón broke my brain by spending the whole time being some random and then very sudddnly stealing the whole gotdamn show out of nowhere in ten mins but shhhhhhsjshshs we’re not talking about that right now like they fucking did it. They got this bitch on US soil, homie was shitting in his skivvies right there on the runway also ngl I’m convinced that Walt dressing respectably in that torturously sexy red shirt was another crucial key to the success of this plan but it was mostly Cece

Okay okay okay so then after the plan goes down like gang busters, they all meet up for lunch and we get this random little exchange between enemies-to-lovers Danilo and Kenny before Kenny cried weeweewee all the way back home to the US bc he could not handle big swinging dick Calderoni and like tbh, fair where Danilo makes a point to introduce Kenny to his cousin, The Real MVP Cece, who, like the rest of the women on this show is infuriatingly hot and stunning bc they cannot for just one moment pipe down with that shit

Almost as though he’s like been, on the low, talking to Cece about Kenny and promised to introduce them as like!???????? A blind date or somethinggghdhe like some kind of setup!??????

And it’s not like Danilo does this and Kenny’s like uhhhhhh, ‘scuse me, tf? Kenny’s literally justlikesjejsjwjsusuebehsh like, okay check this shit, look at Kenny’s fucjinfjdjsd face in that gif, like if he were wearing a suit or a tux, mans would be straightening his little bow tie, all checking himself in the mirror, picking at his teeth, breathing into the palm of his hand, asking bestie Daryl, heygorl, be honest, does this silk cravat make my neck look fat? To which Daryl is like, sorry, what the actual fuck is a silk cravat? Also idk when this became Victorian England where ppl wear silk cravats and it kinda seems like it’s setting that shit up to go somewhere except all we get is what?

A BIG. FAT. NOTHING. BURGERRRRRJDJDJHE

We literally NEVER FUCKING SEE Cece again and Kenny cries weeweewee all the way home in like the next episode, and the rest of the team gets mowed down on another airport tarmac, except sweet bby angels Sal

And Daryl and Walt but as much as I love him, he’s far too much of a glutton for punishment to be considered a sweet bby angel

I mean if blue balls existed, this show would be The Fucking King Kahuna of Blue Ballers. Why??????? I MEAN LOOK AT TBJS WOMANNNNNNNNNN OKAY????????

And as if we weren’t suffering from our blue balls enough already, the show literally pushes us to the ground and pummels us in the metaphorical dick with titanium baseball bats yes more than one by giving us this👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽one and only moment of joy, this👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽 👇🏽 one single, solitary victory

…….

…………….

………………………..

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand then they went ahead and straight-up just Game-of-Thrones-Red-Wedding massacred like seventy five percent of the motherfucking cast by like episode 9

Coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoool. Fine.

═

For the giiiiiiiifs: @narcosfandomdiscord @ashlingnarcos @drabbles-mc @narcolini @artemiseamoon

[luveline]

i absolutely love that james blurb where he gives r flowers and it's her first time receiving it! <3 can i request something similar with remus or sirius??? ty!!!

sirius black x fem!reader <3 a surprise in the dark

Sirius Black doesn’t do anything by halves. He’s starting to wonder if maybe he should, unable to tell his hand from his face in the dim light of your room, and the mess of fragrant flowers opening just in front of his nose.

The door of your bedroom creeps open and he thinks, Oh, oh no, this was a very bad idea. Sirius doesn’t have bad ideas, ever… except maybe tonight. You turn on the lights and don’t even glance his way, going through the motions as you strip down to your skivvies. Another mistake, he thinks, because suddenly you’re half nude and spinning on a socked heel, arms above your shoulders in a half stretch.

You flinch so hard he hears your neck click. It’s like a mento under a tire for the force of it, more than enough to have him springing to his seat, flowers and all, yelping “I’m sorry!” It startles you a second time.

You wrap your hands around your chest, changing tactics a moment later to cover your tummy. He’d roll his eyes if he weren’t fawning over you, flowers scattered across the floor between you, a damp bouquet upturned. The splotch of its dew wets the carpet underfoot and your cute ankle socks.

“You’re such a creep!” you shriek, which is the harshest thing you’ve ever said to him. He’s surprised it took you so long.

“Fuck, I’m sorry! Christ, here.” He shrugs out of his jacket to hold it over your shoulders. It doesn’t do much, your chest and stomach and so very naked thighs uncovered and, dare he say it, beckoning.

Your chest rises and falls too quickly. You look him in the eye for the first time since you walked in.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he says hopefully.

You look sweet, rumpled from a long day, nothing to hide behind, no scarf or hair or hat. It’s rare he gets to see you like this, rarer still to see practically every inch of you. He pulls the jacket tighter across your chest and slides into suaveness. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he jokes.

“Why are you in my room?” you ask. There’s a fond sort of defeat about you now. Sirius knows he isn’t in any trouble, though when he lifts your chin you don’t concede. “I didn’t give you a key to be a pervert.”

“I’m not being a pervert,” he insists lightly, lips lining up with yours but not quite touching them. He can feel the heat of your breath.

“Could’ve fooled me. Why… why in god's name were you in the dark?”

“To surprise you.”

You talk against his lips like it doesn’t matter. There are flowers tickling your ankles and his hand yearns to flatten against the naked stretch of your navel. He holds it there, cautious.

“You surprised me,” you say dryly.

He kisses you, finally. His smile is huge, and your lips don’t quite connect. “I know,” he says, pecking what’s practically your teeth. “Sorry. I’ll get you another bunch.”

“Is it our… anniversary?”

You haven’t been together that long. Sirius shakes his head, smiling as the brush of his curls against your cheek seemingly outs you at ease, tension slipping from your shoulders as your chest bumps into his.

“Heard you never got any before, that true?”

“Where did you hear that?”

James. “Sources. Anonymous sources.”

You give him a kiss. It’s smaller and gentler than the one he’d given you, but it isn’t any less sweet. You brush a curl from his shoulder as you part ways, failing to hide a dopey smile.

“I’m gonna save them,” you say. “My first bouquet and you chucked them at me.”

“You get dressed, love. I’ll gather the fallen.”

Before you can’t get very far, Sirius tugs you back by the arm and puts his hand exactly where he’d wanted to, flat to your navel and creeping round to the slope of your side.

“I’m very sorry,” he says again. Charming. All eyes.

You wrinkled your nose. It’s basically another kiss, there’s so much love in it.

“You should be. Creep.”

[babblingbranches]

Looking back through the memories, Zelda mentions how Link “refuses to back down from any challenge,” and it hit me, Yeah, no kidding. Obviously there’s the big stuff like facing down monsters and fighting ancient evils, but there’s also the minor things.

Get this bell to ring as loud as you can? Ok. Withstand the freezing cold and scorching heat of the Gerudo weather while completely exposed to the elements? No Problem. Clear out a monster den in nothing but your skivvies and whatever you can steal from the monsters? Sure, why not!

Link is the kind of guy who will hear some ludicrous challenge and respond with “Wanna bet?”

[gaydiation-poisoning]

This was originally gonna be a reply to a moot but it's going on too long so I'm gonna make my own post, incoherent rant inbound

To me BOTW's story was a poorly paced mess of underdeveloped characters, unrealized themes and boring cutscenes.

I adore the game, haven't spent 2000+ hours in it and completed all shrines three times over for nothing,

The world and details were utterly incredible, easily the best open world I've ever played in, but to me, the story was told so badly as to ruin what were otherwise fantastic character concepts.

I enjoy a lot of the theming and symbolism, the Silent Princess stuff in particular was just...mmm delicious I wanna eat that part of the narrative

It's such a good story, but sparse short cutscenes that show very little beyond basic character introduction, and then having 80% of a characters' growth be shown in fucking reading in game books (some of which are behind a FUCKING PAYWALL) rather than through playing the damn game is just like...objectively bad video game storytelling, at least for a game like this

BOTW tried to tell a complex story with nuanced characters but it did it in a game where the focus physically could not be on those characters, resulting in what felt like an underbaked mess that was missing massive pieces

And I can feel people arguing that "Well LINK is missing pieces of his memory so the gaps in the narrative are acKCHEWALLY GOOD" Like

Okay

Sure

If that works for you that's great, all power to you, but it's still not good storytelling.

There tends to be a general (but not rock solid) rule of writing, 'If this isn't the most interesting part of your character's life, then why aren't we seeing that?' I feel like BOTW gets hit hard when stepping on that particular rake.

You're getting bits and fragments of a really cool narrative that...ultimately means very little in the end. Trying to make a complex narrative work in a game where it's possible to leap out of the tutorial area and book it right to the final boss equipped with nothing but your skivvies and a stick is REALLY HARD and it's VERY EASY to make your story lackluster and cause it to suffer in order to accommodate that non linear playstyle. And boy does BOTW's story suffer.

Simultaneously trying to tell this narrative that's deep and complex while also having to work around the fact that the player might not even do the story stuff caused that story to have a sort of...non presence in the world, a much weaker presence than it deserved at the absolute least.

To me BOTW's story does not fit a nonlinear Zelda game, and honestly probably would have worked much better in a more traditional linear one.

It was such a good game, with such a good story, but it's disjointed pacing and resulting lack of major impact resulted in it utterly failing to get me invested. Which is so insanely frustrating.

Which is impressive, considering my ass is a constant Zelda lore junkie who will leap on the smallest story details and devour it, and yet I cannot see the supposed storytelling brilliance half the fandom seems to

Follow up reply on how these problems relate to totk eventually???

[the-soliloquies-of-sadists]

#304

“Mr. Williamson please sit.  I’m glad you could stick around.  I know that you want to bail and have a beer with the guys as everyone is eager to start a three-day weekend.  You're going to the lake, right? I hear you have a new boat and a new F-250 to show off.  But I have something to talk to you about.  Ever since I took over this company, there has been resistance to my management style, especially at this site.  That’s bound to happen any time there’s a takeover.  After a while, things settle down to an equilibrium.  Not here.  You guys think that because you guys are so far from the other sites that you can make up your own rules.  As I told you all on Monday, this stops now.  You all bitched and complained.  I thought that things would finally start to settle down.  That is until yesterday when I come back from lunch and find this on my desk….

“That smirk tells me everything I need to know.  Mr. Williamson, is this your gift to me?  Oh, don’t try to deny it.  The security camera outside my office shows only you enter my office yesterday at lunch.  It’s hard to miss a six-foot five man of your size….  What?  Nothing to say? 

“Consider this.  This weekend you are heading to the lake with your new truck and boat.  From what I heard you telling the other guys that you get your kids this weekend.  It must be hard to be away from them except for twice a month.  I know you look out for them.  You must pay a lot in child support.  I paid for my son quite a lot until he went to Arizona State, so I know how difficult it can be.  You have what three kids?  Four!  Wow.  That’s a lot of support to pay.  It's a good thing you have this job.  I know we pay you quite well, just over six figures. 

“Now, let me ask again, did you put this Vaseline on my desk?...  If you make me show you the footage, I will terminate you on the spot.  Not only will you not be able to make payments on your truck and boat, but also child support payments.  You’ll lose your retirement.  And good luck finding another job that pays this well.  So, did you?...

“See.  That wasn’t so difficult to admit.  Now, why did you leave this on my desk?  What’s the point?  I better hear the start of an answer in the next five seconds….  A joke?...  That’s interesting.  I don’t understand it.  Explain the humor….  I’m serious.  What did you want me to do with this Vaseline?...  How does Vaseline make me ‘loosen up?’  You can stop the awkward laughing.  Tell me.  You need to weigh your next response—remain awkwardly silent and tell your three daughters and one son that you got fired or tell me the instructions for loosening up with Vaseline….

“Wait, so applying a gob of it to my asshole will somehow make me better to work with?  I don’t get the humor of that or the logic of it.  Let’s try this another way.  Here catch.  Demonstrate how fingering an asshole with petroleum jelly will transform you into a better employee.

“I’m fucking serious.  There’s a reason I asked you to stay late tonight rather than yesterday.  We are the only two here.  Now, boots off, pants off, skivvies off, legs up and wide, and show me.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven,…  Good.  Good.  I’m gonna sit back and watch what you are doing….  Damn, those are some hairy legs; they are going to look great in the air.  Undies too….  Wow! That’s one impressive piece of meat.  No wonder you have four kids.  These chairs will have to do.  Sit back and raise those ankles.

“You are one hairy beast.  Reach down like those bitches do in the porno and spread your cheeks so I can see your hole.  Relax, this is between a boss and his employee.  No one else needs to know, nor will they.  Now apply the Vaseline….  Oh put more than that.  You are the biggest asshole here, and you really need to be loosened up….

“Stick that gob in deep.  Use your middle finger.  Work it in there.  Yeah.  Do a second finger.  Oh man.  I can’t tell if you are enjoying this.  Your face says no, but your fingers are going to town.  Close your eyes, relax, and enjoy.  Yeah, just like that....

“Now look at me.  Fuck yeah.  That photo is a keeper, definitely.  Hey!  Don’t move.  The photos have already been taken, and they are on their way to the cloud.  So no chance of them getting deleted. Get those legs back up.  I said it’s done.  Those photos are there to protect me from you doing something stupid.  I said get those legs back up!  Your job depends on your feet not touching the floor. 

“It appears that you need some more time ‘loosening up.’  Put another gob of Vaseline on your finger.  You know, I don’t think the gob is going in deep enough to have an effect.  Your finger is what four inches long?  I think it needs to go at least seven inches deep.  Now if there only something around that is seven inches long and that can fit in there even if it is a tight fit.  Hmmm.  Hmmm.  I have an idea.  Why don’t you reach under and put that gob on me.  Don’t look at me like that.  You know this is going to happen. 

“Oh that feels so good.  I don’t normally use Vaseline, but you were the one who chose it.  Now relax.  I’ll take over putting it in deep.  Relax.  Yes, it’s painful, but less so if you relax your hole….  Like that.  Oh man.  Your hole was made for this.  Oh fuck.  That gob is deep.  But I need to push it in even further.  Oh yeah.  It’s in deep.  Fuck yeah.  Fuck.  Fuck.  FUCK Yeah!! 

“Fucking A!  That was good.  Now keep your legs up for a moment.  I’m gonna pull out.  Now that’s a sight.  Oh man, you are leaking some of my spunk.  Stay put, I want this pic too.  Are you crying?  Good!  I got a pic of that too. 

“Now you can put your legs down.  I have to get going here.  I’m glad we could work this out.  You can get dressed.  Or, you can sit there wallowing in your own shame.  I don’t care.

“When you are riding around in your boat looking at your four kids this weekend, remember what you did, you did for them.  I know you only see them every other week.  And on those off weeks, I fully expect you to come over to my place for further training. You need to be reminded who is boss here.

“I’m out of here.  And clean up your mess.  But before I go, I have to say that a little Vaseline really does make one loosen up.  I’m glad you made the suggestion.”