#Unique Soap Boxes

[customboxesmart]

Discover the Best Soap Boxes for Storage

Soap market is getting more advanced day by day and every business is coming up with its own special recipe for the soaps to make a name for itself in the target audience. As a soap manufacturer, you are no different than the rest so how would you emerge as a distinct entity? Exceptional custom-printed soap boxes will surely help you in this regard. They play a significant role in slicing up the competition, grabbing every eye, and express the unique features of your soaps. Custom soap boxes packaging with invoking colorful graphics portray the color and fragrance of the handmade soap bars and encourage onlookers to instant purchase.

If you looking for such boxes to distinguish your soaps from the rest, then look no further than Custom Boxes Mart. We are your one-stop printing and packaging services provider that specializes in crafting unique soap boxes with the preference of clients. By utilizing our advance digital and offset printing machines, we impeccably print your desired graphics, images, animations, and essential text to add an innovative touch to your custom soap packaging boxes.   

[plushflower]

Box Board Art

Plush Gem Art ……linktr.ee/PlushGemArt

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

My hands are tied, I have to ask for more Ghost family! It's a need not a want

What do we think about Simon and the 141 being on leave after a particularly long mission and Tommy is in football (us soccer ) and has a match and made little crayon invitations for the each member if the team, inviting him to his game

And maybe they go get dinner afterwords? And celebrate? Win or lose?

His Whole World

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Warnings: Fluff, emotional softness, child/family content, swearing (from the adults), suggestive content and soft smut (MDNI 18+), mild language, hurt/comfort themes, domestic sweetness

Author's Note: You asked for more Ghost Family—and I gladly deliver. I hope you enjoy this little life of theirs!

Summary: While on leave, Simon and the 141 attend Tommy’s football match after receiving adorable crayon-drawn invitations. What follows is a celebration full of laughter, love, and a quiet night where Simon gets to hold his whole world in his hands.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

It started with a stack of brightly colored paper, three boxes of crayons, and Tommy sitting at the kitchen table with his tongue poked out in concentration.

You'd glanced over while washing dishes, catching him drawing lopsided smiley faces and scribbling stick figures in what he insisted were team uniforms. Little soccer balls dotted each corner, and each card was signed in big, clumsy letters:

To: Uncle Soap

To: Uncle Gaz

To: Grandpa Price

“Baby,” you smiled, drying your hands. “What are those?”

He held up a green one proudly, a sun in the corner with a crooked rainbow above it. “I’m inviting Daddy’s friends to my match! ‘Cause they said they’d come next time!”

You blinked back emotion. “They’ll love that.”

When Simon walked in and saw the mess of crayons and construction paper, he tilted his head.

“What’s all this, little lad?”

Tommy beamed. “Invitations!”

“For what?”

“My game! You said they’d wanna come!”

Simon froze in the doorway. And then—very slowly—he crouched next to his son, picked up one of the drawings and stared at it like it was the Mona Lisa.

“They’ll be there, kiddo. Promise.”

—

A Few Days Before the Match

The restaurant was the definition of comfort—old booths, framed kids’ drawings on the walls, crayons and coloring menus already on the table. You, Simon, and Tommy were squeezed into one side of the booth while Soap, Gaz, and Price took the opposite. It had been laughter and casual teasing all night.

But Tommy had been fidgety the entire meal, a little bundle of nerves and excitement, bouncing in his seat and clutching his backpack like it was a top secret mission.

When dessert arrived, he couldn’t wait anymore.

“I have something!” he blurted, sliding out of the booth and tugging open the zipper of his backpack with both hands.

Soap raised a brow. “This ain’t a bomb, is it?”

Tommy giggled. “Nooo, silly.”

He handed out folded papers one by one—wrinkled, smudged with crayon, each one unique.

“To Uncle Johnny. To Uncle Kyle. To Grandpa Price.”

They each unfolded theirs carefully, expressions going soft.

Soap snorted a laugh. “That’s me? You drew me with… is that a cape?”

“You’re my superhero,” Tommy explained proudly.

Gaz blinked a few times. “Is this for your football match?”

Tommy nodded eagerly. “You said if I invited you, maybe you could come. So I made invites! I drawed them all by myself!”

Price cleared his throat, already reading aloud. “‘Please come watch me score lots of goals. There will be juice after. Love, Tommy.’”

“Juice and football?” Soap grinned. “It’s a date.”

Gaz leaned across the table. “Front row. We’ll make signs.”

Tommy gasped. “Really?!”

“Absolutely,” Price added. “We’ll be the loudest ones there.”

Simon hadn’t said a word, just watching with his jaw set tight, a hand resting protectively on his son’s back.

When Tommy crawled back into the booth beside him and leaned into his side, Simon bent low, pressing a kiss to his curls.

“Told you they’d say yes,” he murmured.

—

Game Day

The field was damp from last night’s rain, the grass lush and springy underfoot. Kids ran wild in miniature uniforms, knee-high socks pulled to their thighs, shin guards crooked. You’d found a good spot on the bleachers while Simon paced just behind them, arm crossed, leg bouncing.

He was nervous.

“He’ll do great,” you said, rubbing his arm.

“I know,” Simon murmured. “Just—first time he’s ever played with a crowd.”

“He’s not just playing for a crowd.” You smiled. “He’s playing for his dad.”

He didn’t answer. Just kissed the top of your head and scanned the field until he found Tommy—a tiny blur of navy blue and white, blonde curls under a too-big headband, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

And then the shouting started.

“GO ON, TOMMY BOY!”

Soap.

“LET’S SEE THAT RILEY FOOTWORK!”

Gaz.

“DO US PROUD, LAD.”

Price, calm and commanding even from a lawn chair.

The three of them had shown up in matching 141 hoodies, faces painted with small stripes in Tommy’s team colors, holding signs that were very obviously made by Soap’s chaotic hand: “RILEY FOR MVP!” “BABY GHOST DOMINATES!”

Simon looked like he was about to cry. Or fight someone. Maybe both.

Tommy turned to look for you—and when he spotted his dad and the team waving wildly from the stands, he lit up.

He gave the smallest salute.

And then he ran.

The game was chaos in the best way. Kids missing the ball, bumping into each other, falling down and crying before getting up again like it never happened. But Tommy—Tommy scored. Twice.

You swore the sound Simon made wasn’t human.

Soap was on his feet, swinging Gaz in a circle. Price looked smug like he knew all along that the kid was destined for greatness.

And Tommy? He ran right to the fence after the whistle blew and threw himself into Simon’s arms.

“DID YOU SEE?!”

Simon lifted him like he weighed nothing. “Saw everything, champ. You were brilliant.”

His voice was hoarse. Raw. So proud.

And you—watching your husband hold your son like he was holding the whole damn sky—felt your heart swell.

—

After the Match

You all piled into a local family diner—sticky booths, cracked menus, a jukebox in the corner. Simon sat with Tommy tucked under one arm, still in his uniform, now eating a celebratory sundae with a plastic gold medal around his neck.

“Best player award,” Tommy announced to the table, lifting it up for all to see.

Soap clapped so hard it startled a waiter. “That’s our lad!”

Gaz leaned in close. “You want us to tell the base commander to get you a real one next time?”

Tommy’s eyes lit up. “Can you do that?!”

“Absolutely,” Price said. “We’ll frame it for you.”

The food was greasy and perfect—burgers, fries, and milkshakes all around. Simon barely touched his own plate, too busy watching his son laugh.

You caught his hand under the table. He laced his fingers with yours instantly.

“He’s happy,” you whispered.

“So am I.”

—

Later That Night

Back at the house, Tommy crashed the second his head hit the pillow—sunburnt cheeks, messy curls, medal still clutched in his hand.

Simon kissed his forehead and closed the door quietly behind him.

You found each other in the hallway, drawn together like magnets.

“He was amazing,” you whispered, arms slipping around his waist.

“He was perfect,” Simon murmured, pressing you back against the wall, hands slipping beneath your shirt. “You should’ve seen yourself cheering for him. Christ.”

“I did. You cried.”

“I didn’t—” he huffed, nose brushing yours. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

You laughed softly, fingers sliding beneath the hem of his shirt. “Come to bed.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice.

—

You lay beneath him, skin bare, breath stolen by the slow rhythm of his hips and the heat of his mouth on your neck.

Simon moved with reverence—like prayer. Every inch of him pressed close. Nothing frantic, nothing rough. Just desperate closeness.

“Missed this,” he whispered against your collarbone. “You. Home.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered, breathless as his hand slid over your hip, his lips ghosting over your breast.

The only sounds were the quiet creak of the bed and the way you gasped his name when he filled you again—slow, deep, a rhythm just for you.

You arched under him, clutching his shoulders, letting yourself fall apart in the safety of his arms. He followed not long after—buried deep, voice catching as he groaned your name into your mouth.

After, you stayed tangled together, hearts thudding in time, sweat cooling against your skin.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“For all of it. Him. You. This life. I never thought I’d have it.”

You cupped his face. “You earned it.”

Simon kissed you slow, like he could bottle this moment forever.

And maybe—just maybe—he could.

—

The Next Morning

You woke to the smell of pancakes and the sound of tiny feet thumping down the hall.

Simon’s voice drifted in from the kitchen.

“Alright, champ—one more flip, then you do the syrup.”

You padded out, still in one of Simon’s shirts, hair messy.

Tommy looked up from the stool he was perched on, beaming. “Mummy! We made breakfast!”

Simon looked up and smiled, eyes soft.

“Family tradition,” he said, setting a plate in front of you.

Tommy hopped off the stool, ran over, and threw himself into your lap.

You looked at them both—Simon, shirtless in flannel pants, Tommy in his dinosaur pajamas—and felt that ache again. The one that came from too much love in one room.

He was your little shadow.

And Simon?

Simon was finally standing in the light.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[weisshapt]

finding the "folk" and the "lore" in the folklore of the wwe

do you want to participate in/contribute to the most electrifying master’s dissertation in all of folklore studies sports entertainment? read below to find out how you can!

thank you to @moxleyrollins for helping me find and source footage, and @alistairs for both excellent suggestions and putting up with me throughout the whole process!

i am currently looking for wwe fans to answer questionnaires and potentially sign up for one-on-one interviews regarding their relationship to, experiences with, thoughts on, and memories connected to their viewership of the wwe and professional wrestling. these will be used as data to help bolster my upcoming master’s dissertation project, where i will be arguing that the “lore” within and surrounding the wwe fits the criteria to be considered folklore, and that the wwe universe, comprised of both performers and fans alike, can be viewed as a folkloric group.

i know what you might be thinking: how the hell do you get folklore out of what is essentially a soap opera of violence? well, that was my question too and apparently i’m the first person to ask it because as far as all of my research has found, i am the first to climb this mountain, and by participating, I’m inviting you to climb it with me!

at this point, feel free to skip to the bottom unless you want to go down this absolute rabbit hole with me as well.

now, what exactly am i calling folklore? for starters, everything you see above. but let's take it step by step. think about how extensive of a culture wwe has amassed over the years, and not just for those of us tuning in weekly and for events. how many people do you know who’ve never watched a single match in their lives, but can recognize john cena’s entrance music and can understand what the five knuckle shuffle is, and the “you can’t see me” catchphrase? how many memes have you seen using pictures or gifs of various wrestlers or that one clip of vince mcmahon (i don’t even have to specify which one do i?) or videos using the undertaker bell?

as fans, have you ever thought about how, given all the various jargon, when you talk about wrestling, you’re practically speaking a different language, one unique to those within this specific community? and a whole language it definitely is. i’ve got 220+ words in the glossary portion of my appendices to prove it. material culture? how about all the replica belts, action figures, and various merchandise sold by wwe? what about fan-made stuff like signs, clothes, fanart? and yes, ring gear can and does count (or at least i’m arguing it does) as a kind of folk costume, whether that’s ric flair’s robes, cody rhodes’s red, white, and blue get-up, the wyatts’ masks, and pretty much every look shawn michaels or seth rollins have sported across their entire careers.

the very nature of wwe storytelling adheres to some of the characteristics folklorists study. not only are the plotlines and developments governed by adherence to calendar customs, with raws and smackdowns always leading up to and following in the wake of one of the many premium live events, but the storylines themselves are chock full of motifs straight out of the stith thompson index, constantly utilising tropes of good vs evil/hero vs villain (babyface vs heel), underdogs and heroes journeys. additionally, folklore and the folkloresque are often used as symbols and aesthetics to build up the image of a character and their gimmick.

and the community, from the wrestlers in the ring to the fans behind the barricades? easily checks off the list for attributes of a folkloric group. shared experiences and interpersonal relations, a sense of community, unique customs, rituals, beliefs, and traditions that are preserved and sustained, culture transmitted through group-wide communication and oral traditions (online with the iwc or in-person at events). the only box not checked has to do with size, and that's a point of wider contestation living now in such a technologically interconnected world.

i'll stop here, or else you'll end up reading through what is essentially a prolonged abstract of the entire project.

so what am i actually looking for and asking of the community?

i need members of the wwe community to take a few moments out of their day in order to answer questions about their introduction to and memories involving the wwe, their interest, engagement, and experiences with the material and the performances, their knowledge of wwe 'lore' whether it deals with the wrestlers (in or out of kayfabe) or fans and how they view those anecdotes, and their thoughts on the wwe community as a whole.

the questionnaire is made up, in total, of 10 main questions (one for every era), with an additional checkbox for those interested to note down their willingness to participate in one-on-one interviews, either chat-based or audio-recorded depending on the interviewee's preference.

below you will find a link leading first to an official consent form provided to me by my university. this will involve some level of sharing personal information, however it should be noted that no identifying information will be shared outside of the written project itself, all data will be kept secured on a university-issued cloud drive and will be deleted following the submission date of august 4, 2025, and any participants not wishing to be named in the dissertation itself can and will be anonymised.

upon finishing the consent form, you will then be referred to the questionnaire itself, described previously.

as for the interviews themselves (for those interested and able), those may range anywhere from 30 minutes to 1-2 hours, depending on time constraints and interviewee preference), and will largely focus on expanding on the answers previously provided in the questionnaire.

i hope that's all clear but i am happy to clarify any information for those who may have questions! if not...

click here to access the consent form and the questionnaire

now, for those who may wish to contribute but either don't have time to fill out the questionnaire or for whatever reason don't want to, my ask box and dms are both open for any comments or suggestions for what others might consider "wwe lore." have a moment that's stuck with you ever since it aired? a favorite match or promo? a fan-story you can point me to somewhere online? send it in, anonymous or otherwise! and feel free to share this post wherever you like and/or send it to anyone you believe might be interested in participating!

[anya-nya-nya]

A sudden concept that struck my head today.

SFW, GN! reader, slave! reader, mention of Aventurine’s past > mention of SA, slavery

All wealthy men are the same - thinking money and status not only open all the doors but also crush all the morality norms. The higher you step, the more godlike you felt, thinking there's nothing you could do that would lead to bearing the responsibility.

Aventurine knew that along with another conclusion - all wealthy men are stupid but with a goddamn good memory. Because even when he stood on the same level as them, the whisper about his past lingered in the air, always the same conversation that popped like a soap bubble the moment he entered another casino. Of course they never would discuss it in front of him - at least not straightforward. Commentaries about his unique eyes or rare luck never were aimed to please Aventurine, but to puncture the invisible pit that still separates him from all the other players in the room, no matter how long his win strikes would be.

One day the usual groveling teases and double views become boring, resulting in a more cruel joke.

���And… The ace makes a full house.” — The hand behind his back calmed enough from trembling to be slided back onto the table while the second sprawled lazily over open cards with the highest score around other sets. Not a surprise but adrenaline hits anyways. Though, even with steam in his blood, Aventurine could easily say today's atmosphere was slightly off.

“Well, aren't you lucky today?” — The phrase one of his opponents said the first evening they accidentally intercourse, that now flew from his cursing mouth every time they met again - like some inside joke. — “He even outplayed you, Jake, despite your precious gift!”

Interruption wasn't the best way to learn the information, so Aventurine kept his mouth shut for now, busied himself with the chill the edge of a champagne glass gave to his lips. His eyes flash to the addressed man anyway - cause there were no gifts.

“Well, maybe because he hasn't seen it yet? I'm sure after unwrapping our dear player would be more amiable toward us, huh?” — Jake smiled, but both his mettle and voice was too familiar to Aventurine now - that tone certainly wasn't good for him. — “Pardon, but it seems my surprise was spoiled a bit. I've arranged for it to be delivered to your hotel room. Go check anytime.”

Maybe if the chance that it was just some stupid tight bracelet laying in his VIP bedroom to remind him about all the chains Aventurine didn't freed from but switched material of which was high enough, then he wouldn't even bother to get up and finish the game. But for some reason this moment didn't seem quite suitable for any chances and bets.

“Oh, it's okay. We call it even, then - cause, pardon me, I'm too curious now to see what my dear friends decided to prepare for their humble Aventurine.” — Shoving himself away from the green table, he didn't even bother to collect win chips and redeem them back for currency.

Brisk stride drove Aventurine straight to the elevator, yet it seems he left not only prize money but also his stomach on the casino floor: elevator went up - something plummets in his insides. They never were really kind with him. Although regular reminders about Aventurine’s past keep him on toes - maybe it was a kindness in some way.

Door to his room was locked - how did they get inside? Bribed employees? There are many things a guy with minimum wage would do for a few coins - slipping a box or something inside someone's hotel room with duplicate keys wasn't the worst, probably. Yet as soon as Aventurine opened the bedroom, all the guesses were blotted out by sudden rustling.

Gloved hand flick the light on, and sound repeated - this time certainly with metallic echo - coming behind the other side of the bed.

“Is my gift alive? If so, I'm certainly not ready to have any pets..” — With a chuckle, Aventurine circled the bed, preparing to see something striking and painful that reminds of his past, or perhaps his home planet. Maybe these fuckers managed to bough a sand fennec that lives only on Sigonia.

But as his path drew a half a circle around the bed, he stopped.

Fucking hell.

Oh, how naive he could be! Thinking someone like guys who probably are still sitting in the casino and laughing their asses off, would think small and cheap!

Scantily clad, with arms and legs in metal chains. Is this their idea of wrapping?

“I'm sorry, didn't mean to call you like that.” — Gently kneeling on one leg - a rare sight, but his bespoke pants would endure the fur of a rug in an extraordinary situation - Aventurine tilted his head, not touching the trembling figure a few meters away from him. He knew better. — “These jerks send you here?”

Through these long years, Aventurine learned psychology and knew how to be so winning and appealing, yet not this knowledge helped him get you to talk - but shared experience does. In a slow, long hour of careful questions and small stories - because there's no trust in a chat without equivalent exchange - he learns enough about you, and about the way Jack paid for some cleaner to lock you there, and about how long you've been in these chains.

Of course there was no key near you - it's probably still hanging in the keychain in the pocket of one of the men down on the lower floor. They want Aventurine to get back and to ask about it - cause both they and he knew he wants you free - just to see quite an emotion on his face. Not like humiliation would hurt him that much, he's more worried about what to do with you after.

Luck kissed his forehead and blessed him with a hell named IPC, good enough for someone to even call it heaven, but Aventurine sure he couldn't bring you there on the same terms. And just unlock your chains and free you? All the paths he, as a slave, had in front of him - besides IPC - were even more revolting. To think you would need to survive on the streets on your own, without metal chains but with the weight of cold and hunger on your shoulders that would be equal to collar tugging you to sell yourself in dark alleys... No.

Aventurine didn't know but it seems his heart was as big as his wallet - cause no matter how expensive it would be to rehabilitate your life, he would invest. He just needs to make sure you wouldn't feel the need to pay back, and that's the problem - it's hard to wean someone off from a habit he can't shove away from himself too. One slave helps another to adapt: the irony some authors would thrive to write about in poetic books.

But the evening is still young and all these thoughts and questions only begin to bloom - Aventurine has enough time to discuss them all with you, and maybe warm his way into your heart a bit more.

[thatsexcpisces]

Gifts to get the moon signs for Christmas 🎄🤍

°❆⛄⋆.ೃ࿔🦌*:･❄️ °❆⛄⋆.ೃ࿔🦌*:･❄️ °❆⛄⋆.ೃ࿔🦌*:･❄️

Aries moon: clothing and items for the gym and working out, bold accessories that make them stand out, hats, earrings, tickets or a class for their favorite activity or take them on any fun adventure, new car (if you wanna go big), fancy mirrors, watch, strong fragrance, trendy gadgets

Taurus moon: jewelry, luxuriously-presented items, something cozy and for the home, a spa day voucher, soft blanket, cute slippers, beauty products, skin and self care items

Gemini moon: cute journals to write down their thoughts, entertaining card/games (ex. cards against humanity), stationary, technology, thought-provoking gifts, their favorite book collections.

Cancer moon: cooking set, something sentimental and hand-made (ex. a scrapbook of all your memories together), a comfy robe to lounge in, recipe book, candles and stuff for the home

Leo moon: gifts related to their interests whether musical or hobbies in general. ex., if they love lana del rey get them a vinyl collection of her music or a poster of her. designer clothing, something extravagant and unique, tickets to their favorite musical or show.

Virgo moon: organized home planners, plants, cookbook, antiques, cleaning gadgets, home fragrances, books on getting organized and lifestyle advice, gift cards for home goods stores or their fav stores in general, maybe even get them a small pet to keep company!

Libra moon: designer handbags, books on fashion, good-quality perfumes, beauty items, fancy soaps, silk scarves or pajama sets, luxury brand shoes, fancy decorations for their living space

Scorpio moons: spiritual gifts, something personal from you, leather/ dark colored clothing, pampering gifts, marble items, brand sunglasses, ruled by Pluto; get them an elegant version of whatever they generally like; if they like gold jewelry, get them a carefully-selected box of fancy gold rings or something like that.

Sagittarius moons: gifts brought from a foreign country, something unique, plane tickets to a country they’ve always wanted to go to, travel picture book to record their journeys, good- quality camera, laptop, money, practical gifts

Capricorn moons: expensive things (I mean it’s a Capricorn moon here 💀), money in an envelope, gift cards to high-end stores, good chocolates, wine, and other specialty gourmet items, functional coffee machine, items to relieve stress (back-massager tool, etc), self-help books

Aquarius moons: technology, new phone, computer, Apple headphones, vintage record player, art materials, something no one else has, something related to their humanitarian or quirky interests, trivia games

Pisces moon: dream journal, thoughtful gifts, paintings, adult coloring books or stuff for arts and crafts, cute headphones, their favorite album and CD’s, something that encourages creativity, collection of bath salts and fragrances, meditation/yoga tools, locket necklace, fluffy blankets and pillows

Thank you for reading hope y’all have a good holiday! 🫶🎁🌟

°❆⛄⋆.ೃ࿔🦌*:･❄️ °❆⛄⋆.ೃ࿔🦌*:･❄️ °❆⛄⋆.ೃ࿔🦌

[tonycries]

A strangely unpopular opinion on this platform Long smut fics for the win, long one shots, long chapters, long plot with porn. 5k+ words want that, 10k+ words NEED THAT.

idc if this isn't A03. I will nimble every sentence. And you, Tony, know how to feed the masses. You make reading smut fun again istg, you give ppl unique writing. Your fics are so yummy. Smut one shots have become so popular that they are written damn near the same way every time, no matter the character, BORINNGG . Let me not go on a soap box about that. Basically, thank you for feeding us fresh meals.

PUHLEASEEE tysm babygirl, as a chronic overwrite that means a lot mhm ☝🏽 And oh hell yeah, I see a 10k+ word one-shot and I damn near cream my pants 😩😩

[cloudypariah]

How to perpetrate and sabotage your own kidnapping: A guide for dummies.

- The creation of the board (and its subsequent discovery)

Summary: Step One: host a brainstorming session with your teammates on how best to kidnap your future abductee. Step Two: have said abductee show up half an hour into the session and begin correcting your entire plan. Step Three: realise at the beginning of their impromptu presentation the target has absolutely no idea that they’re the target. Step Four: fail anyway.

Pairing: Dark!Poly!Task Force 141 x fem!Reader

Word count: 1.8k

Content tags: Dark content - Discussions around kidnapping, tense situations. If this is not your cup of tea, please go and find something different might better suited your palate. This is an 18+ fic meaning minors do not interact with this work. No one has permission from me to repost, copy or translate my work. No one has my permission to put my work into any AI source.

Notes: This is my first foray into the COD fandom and will be the first part in a dark comedy series. Please let me know what you think. Not proofread very well, sorry for any mistakes! Thanks for the motivation @live-love-be-unique !

Link to Task Force 141 masterlist / Link to COD masterlist

Captain John Price likes to think he knows his men well enough to trust them when his back is turned. Now that itself doesn’t necessarily mean knowing each and every one of their dirty secrets - he definitely wouldn’t come out smelling like fresh daisies if any number of his were revealed - but it does mean that he has the awareness to recognise that they all share one particular secret.

He sees it in the way Lieutenant Riley’s body language shifts when you give him his medical forms to look over, your consideration at offering him the option to disclose only certain personal information making the reserved soldier relax just enough to offer you a low thanks, accompanied with a stare that stretches on for a few moments longer than considered socially polite.

It’s also so amazingly obvious with Sergeant MacTavish. John’s surprised everyone else misses the way Soap’s smile takes a little longer to fade after departing for yet another mission, your swift congratulations on completing yet another physiotherapy appointment - “ Keep it up the good work big guy” - leaving the Scotsman floating on cloud nine damn near until the plane lands.

And how could he forget Sergeant Garrick? The man’s quick to change his tune and focus up, but the captain has observed Kyle absentmindedly rubbing his shoulder, thumb gingerly stroking the spot where your palm was only moments before, your figure long gone as you retreat down the corridor to where you came from.

No, Jonathan Price doesn’t miss a thing about his men. And it only takes two weeks and a long chat in the corner booth of the bar one quiet night - sans you or Laswell - before somehow his place becomes the meeting point for an unusual, though not unwelcome, topic - you.

More specifically, how to keep you.

The wooden shit box of a sports bar was where the first two facts were confirmed amongst them: 1. Every single one of the 141 men wanted you for themselves, but they weren’t above sharing. 2. You weren’t worth killing each other over, not when there was a much easier solution staring them in the face.

John’s house became the go-to place to discuss fact number three - They needed a plan.

It was Gaz who initially suggested the whiteboard after numerous interjections from Ghost and John; from everything to how to keep this from Laswell, to deciding which of your usual hangouts would provide them with the best opportunity to commence your “relocation”, to how to delicately but firmly explain said "relocation" to you once it was complete. Kyle loves his brothers in arms and never regrets a moment where his life is on the line if it means saving any one of them, but his patience began to wear thin when Soap got bored and started using goddamn paper planes instead of words to get his point across. At that Price finally relented and bought the damn thing.

Now, John was expecting you to pop by his place on Wednesday night to drop some papers off. A perfect opportunity, were it not for the fact that the gentlemen were still disagreeing on where to relocate you. However, it’ll allow you to grow more comfortable with him while he has some alone time with you, your presence like a balm on a wound - soothing and necessary (at least to him).

He had been looking forward to seeing you… tomorrow. So when you turn up not just on the doorstep but in the middle of the bloody hallway in his own bloody home halfway through the 141 “guys night”, his secondary action of shitting bricks quickly overrides his primary instinct to eliminate the threat.

He’s on his way back from the bathroom when he sees you standing, familiar folders firm in your grasp - fucking hell, is that his spare key too? - and a sour expression on your pretty face.

Your eyes narrow further when you spot him, striding over with fury rolling off you in small waves. “Captain Price, I know you did not leave these dossiers on my desk just before the end of my work day with a note stating they all need to be completed by the end of the work day.”

John’s senses are briefly overwhelmed by you being so close to him, the sight of you angry having a different effect on him than what you had originally intended. He’s never seen it before, and his hand twitches when you’re less than a foot away - fluctuating adrenaline or the desire to reach out and hold you, he’s not sure which is more prevalent. 

He always forgets to not be so obvious around you, but it isn’t as though you usually notice. (He’s not sure if the thought should make him feel sad or grateful.)

The sounds of his men arguing in the background, merely the next room over, are enough to bring reality crashing down hard.

His voice is deliberately loud and stalwart when replies. “You can’t be here.”

“Tough shit. Your lads night can wait.” You lean past him to the origin of what your gut was telling you was the sounds of the remaining 141 members quarreling. It’s easy to slip past Captain Price once your mind is set, the push of files against his chest preventing him from reacting for a few seconds - all the time you need to move down the hallway to where everyone else is bound to be.

John is quick to rush behind you, the arguing noises having swiftly changed to near cartoon-like crashes just moments before you enter the room. 

Ghost has migrated to the corner of the sitting area, standing as stiff as a fucking nutcracker, a mountain of crumpled notes and paper planes spilling out from between his arms. (His mask is still on thank god because it’ll hide exactly how caught out he feels, and if there’s one thing Simon Riley cannot stand it’s feeling like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar). His eyes instinctually watch your every move, waiting for your reaction.

Both of your gazes drift to the other side of the room, with neither of you failing to notice how the couch cushions are strewn widely across the space, (with one being stuck on top of a bookshelf for some odd reason) to find not one, but two soldiers gecko’d to the standing whiteboard.

Their demolitions expert is currently splayed out on the left side of the board and desperately grabbing the top of its metal frame, his stomach pressed into the cold porcelain and a left leg hitched up in a poor attempt to conceal the incriminating writing.

Price’s protégé is in a similar state. Dear Gaz has his back against the right side, with his arms outstretched to - much like Johnny - cover as much of their group planning as possible, a coloured marker clasped in each fist.

Two deers in headlights.

The sight of his task force is enough to bring back flashbacks of his original conversation with Kate about bringing these men together because Jesus H. Christ, what the fuck was he thinking?

There are a few moments when nobody moves or dares to breathe…

… except for you, of course.

You waste no time walking over to the two youngest members of the 141 as you attempt to shove them off the board. “Move,” you demand, palms pushing firmly against their sides. “I want to know what’s so important to everyone.” When they refuse, you do your best to stare at them, pleading with a pleasantly soft, “Please.”

Yeah, they both do what you say with ease when they hear that, giving you enough space to take in the somewhat smudged scribbles.

You miss the signal John gives Simon, the Ghost moving closer to your position as John quietly locks the door, and when your attention is drawn back to the board after the other two move you also miss all of the knowing looks shared behind your back. This was very far from ideal, but how can they recover from this?

They hope you understand that whatever comes next, they didn’t plan for it to start this way.

Kyle and John call your name but you ignore them, still processing the information written in front of you.

Johnny flexes his hands, preparing for the worst as you step back and say, “This is… bullshit.”

Every single member stops. That was not the reaction they were expecting.

Turning to face the group, you scoff. “I’m not even kidding. Firstly, you’re using guys' night to work, which is horrible for your mental and emotional health. And you should all know better.”

Four sets of brows furrow in united confusion. You don’t let that deter you from continuing, your arms gesturing haphazardly at the whiteboard. “Secondly, this is hands-down one of the worst brainstorms I have ever seen. This is not cohesive in the fucking slightest. Garrick, mark me.”

Kyle chokes on his spit, his brain short-circuiting before he sees your fingers wiggling at one of the markers he’s holding. The sergeant promptly gives it to you.

Your free hand takes turns pointing at everyone else in the room, a verbal command of, “sit down” directed at each man also. Dumbly and cautiously they all do. Ghost places himself at the end of the couch nearest the entrance, John strategically chooses a spot between yourself and the kitchen, and Soap and Gaz sit closest to you, where the two of them can hear you muttering under your breath as you draw what appears to be a massive cloud shape in the middle of the board.

Once completed, you fill your shape in with the word ‘TARGET’ and slam your free hand against the board. No one flinches, but if one were to look closely there would be some eyes widening in response. Johnny swears he sees one of your eyelids twitch.

“So,” you call out, “what do we know about the target?”

There are not only wide eyes looking at you, there are full glances exchanged between your audience.

“Seeing as you had the nerve to not invite me in your little meeting while keeping me on overtime” - Kyle and John squirm at that, and your finger makes a little circle - “we are going to be working on this project together. With all due respect, I’m not asking.”

Surely not…

And it’s when Captain John Price reviews the writing left over from the others that he realises Kyle and Johnny did one thing right during their clusterfuck of a coverup.

They managed to erase your name.

… you have absolutely no idea you are the target.

 A piece of writing far in the coroner catches your attention, and your shoulders slump. “The target likes knitting and ‘The Karate Kid’. In another life we would have been the best of friends.” A dramatic sigh leaves you, “Oh well, at least I’ll be able to give you some insight into the mindset of this individual. Any questions?”

Four hands shoot up.

Rubbing your hands together with glee, a maniac smile grows on your face. “Excellent.”

[sanjifucker42069]

Good Boy

It was a warm day on the Going Merry. It was mid-afternoon and you were alone on the ship, busying yourself by swabbing the deck. The rest of the crew was out on their own journeys, Nami and Usopp shopping, Sanji gathering supplies, and who honestly knew what Zoro and Luffy were up to. You hadn't felt like travelling, you were docked here for a few days, and you really wanted to just rest. But that was this morning, and now you were bored. You sighed, perhaps you should've planned something too.

"(Name)!" You spun around at the sound, seeing Luffy waving both arms at you. Beside him, Sanji carried boxes of supplies. Your eyes softened. Moving to the gangplank you wave back at the boys.

"Ahoy Captain!" You joked, eyes shifting to Sanji and winking. "And ahoy handsome chef. What brings you to my ship?"

Sanji softly smiled at your antics, whilst Luffy boarded the ship excited. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." Luffy grinned, grabbing your shoulders. You laughed. 

"So no hat?" You joked. Luffy shook his head. 

"Where is everyone?"

"You two are the first ones back." You shrugged, turning to Sanji. "Can I help ease your burden there, Sanji? That's a lot of stuff."

The man huffed humorously, jostling the boxes in his hands to be more comfortable as his long legs boarded the ship. He shot you a lopsided grin. "And subject a pretty lady to manual labour? I don't think so." 

You giggled. Damn that man and his charisma. Luffy buzzed with excitement next to you. "You all good there? Did you eat a hive of bees before you got here?"

Luffy ignored you, instead badgering Sanji. "Can we give it to her now, Sanji? Please?" 

Give you what? You cocked your head, confused at your fellow pirates' attitude. You shot a look at the chef, raising an eyebrow. He shrugged.

"I suppose so." 

"Yeah!" Luffy pulled something from his best, handing it to you. "(Name), we got you something. Look, look! Isn't it cool?"

You gasped. A book. It was a modest size, covered in a gorgeous (colour) cover. You ran your fingers over the cover, feeling its coarseness. Eagerly you untied the side tie. The paper inside was gorgeous, a creamy ivory paper with a thickness that made you excited at its possibility. It was lightly textured, perfect for any kind of medium. Truly a beautiful sketchbook. You fawned over it. How did they know? You'd tried to not let it show that you were almost through your current sketchbook. You forced your eyes to acknowledge the two, happiness swelling in your chest.

"Ah Luffy it's perfect! You're such a good boy!" You praised, cradling the book to your chest. You quickly drew the captain into a bear hug. Luffy laughed, scratching the back of his neck. Beside him, Sanji pouted.

"It's no big deal (name), we can't fulfil your dream if we don't have something to draw in!"

"I helped too love." You heard Sanji flirt. He was just joking, well, half-joking. Well, no, if he was honest he really wanted a hug. But he couldn't just outright ask for a hug that wouldn't look cool. So he tried to hint lightheartedly. It didn't bother him too much when he noticed you roll your eyes, chuckling.

It did, however, bother him when he saw you turn your body to him. He didn't really think you'd acknowledge his flirtations, so when you outstretched your arms and pulled the tall man into a surprisingly strong hug, he blanked.

Oh.

The hug was warm, firm, and he could feel all of you against him. You smelt so good, smiling of sea air, soap, and something uniquely you.

"Well thank you too." You laughed, squeezing him for emphasis. "You're also a very good boy."

Oh! 

Good boy. Sanji really didn't want to admit how much he liked that. Neither did he really want to unpack all that. He didn't want you to catch on to just how much he liked that, so he quickly squeezed you back before pulling you back to arms length. You stared up at him confused. You heard him clear his throat. Sensing his discomfort you let go, patting his shoulder.  Any hurt you may have felt you covered up with a bright smile, clutching the sketchbook to your chest.

"I'm gonna start sketching immediately!"  Before Sanji could respond, you were retreating back to the girls' room, keen to get to work.

-------------

It was a cool night. Sanji was lying in his hammock, sleep evading him. The thin cotton blanket resting over his chest. Beside him, he heard Zoro's annoying snoring, Luffy to his right muttering something about meat between snores. The nose symphony slowly chipping away at his sanity. At least Usopp was quiet, he supposed. He wondered if the girls' had to put up with this. His mind wandered, what were you up to? Were you sleeping away without a care, or were you possibly scribbling away in that little book? Sanji sighed. He wondered what you drew, you always seemed so at peace. Sanji considered getting you another one, even if it was mainly to hear your praises. Gods, he'd do anything if he could please you.

"Good boy." Sanji breathed. You were going to be the death of him. He felt his heart flutter. Yeah, he guessed he probably was whipped for you. He let his mind wander. What if he fully hugged back? Would you reciprocate? Would you kiss his cheek? He felt himself flush. He could imagine how soft your lips would be, how you'd pull back with that sweet smile. If he was lucky maybe he could-

SNOOOOOOOOOOORE!

Sanji felt a growl bubble in his throat. He couldn't thrive in these conditions. Savages, having no respect for romance. Swinging his legs over the roped edge, he jumped out of the hammock, stalking his way out of the guys' quarters.

Instantly, he was hit with the cool night air. If he wasn't awake before, he was now. He lazily wandered along the deck, supposing he should probably rearrange the pantry for the ninth time if he was awake. Bare feet padding along the hard wood, he inhaled deeply, the salty sting of the sea invading his nostrils. Nearing the galley he saw it. A light at the front of the boat? Confused and intrigued he crept closer. Who the hell would be up at the hour? And then he saw it. 

You wrapped up in a blanket, scribbling away in your old sketchbook. Sanji felt a soft smile creep up. You looked so cute, periodically looking up to study the scene in front of you. He felt like swooning, the way the moonlight kissed your hair, the way you seemed to sparkle, a gem in the cold night. 

"What are you doing up sweetheart?" He mused, secretly relishing in how you jumped. You clutched the book to your chest, exhaling deeply as a grin formed. You whipped your head to meet the handsome chef.

"Sanji, you scared me! I'm drawing the moon. It's so pretty tonight." Your grin made him flustered. "Why are you up?"

"My bunkmates are bad for my beauty sleep." He feigned annoyance. You laughed. 

"Yeah sure, like you need beauty sleep." He felt his stomach do somersaults. You opened the blanket, tapping the wood next to you. "Got a seat right here. Surely you must be cold?"

Sanji wasn't. It was a pleasant night. However, he'd be an idiot to pass up such an opportunity. He settled down next to you. You drew him in, settling the blanket around his shoulders, dragging him further against you, giggling as you went. 

"Comfy?" You asked once he stopped squirming. Sanji was hyper aware of your thighs touching, you leaning into his side. 

"Yeah." He breathed out. He felt his nerves buzzing, watching as you all but snuggled into him. He needed to calm down. "You like the sketchbook?"

"Love it." You beamed up at him, turning back to scribble marks down. Sanji felt his heart swell. "It's got such nice quality paper. Where did you even find such a thing?"

"Markets. Looked like it had your name on it. Luffy wanted to get you this one that was huge, but you like thicker pages, so this one just seemed like a good fit. 'Sides, I'm sure you've finished your last one."

Sanji's breath hitched as you leant your head on his shoulder, arm gripping his. "You remembered that? Gods you're good to me."

"Only you love." He managed to choke out without sounding too flustered, adding a wink to further sell the facade. You giggled. "What have you got in there anyway?"  

"Oh! You wanna see?" You sounded shy, looking up at him. Sanji nodded. You offered him the older sketchbook, apprehension clear on your face. Sanji began thumbing through the paper. "I know its not brilliant but-"

"Darlin' these are stunning." He praised, tracing an intricate sketch of Merry with his fingers. You beamed next to him when you couldn't detect a lie, a blush forming on your chubby cheeks. Sanji stared at the pages, in awe at your skill.

There were sketches of the others, one of Usopp holding a mop, a detailed one of Zoro napping. His eyes caught a particularly beautiful portrait of Nami against the tangerines. He gasped. You'd captured her beauty expertly. He turned the page, there was a spread of sketches of his crewmates, of Luffy and Usopp playing on the deck, sketches of Nami plotting her maps at the galley table, even a few of Zoro exercising. He felt a frown form. There were none of him. He didn't mean to feel so selfish, but you'd captured the crew with such liveliness and love. He certainly didn't realise you had been studying his face intently. 

"What's wrong?"

Sanji sighed, realising he'd been caught. He figured he'd broach the subject with humour. Plastering a fake smirk on his face he turned his attention to you. "These are incredible (Name), they look great, but am I not model material?"

You extricated yourself from your hold against him, getting to your feet. Sanji immediately felt disappointed by the loss of touch. "Wait here." Your voice was shaky. 

Sanji sighed sadly, he shouldn't have said that. Instead he did as he was told, waiting patiently for your return. You must have been gone five minutes, five aching minutes for him to consider his mistake. When you returned you were holding something behind your back, looking visibly uncomfortable. Sanji raised a brow.

"Love I didn't mean you had to paint a portrait of me now." He laughed softly. You thrust a book in his face, eyes scrunched shut. He delicately tried to take the book but you didn't budge.

"Promise you won't laugh?" You asked shyly, peeking open one eye. Sanji frowned. He'd never laugh at you. He nodded. You relaxed your shoulders, agreeingly giving him the book. He was going to open the book but he took in the way you fidgeted in front of him.

"You not gonna sit back down?" You shook your head, not trusting your voice. He sighed. With no hesitation this time he opened the book. 

Oh.

The first used page he came across were small sketches of him working in the kitchen. There must have been four or five small, quick drawings, but that was unmistakably him. In awe, he turned the page, greeted once again by drawings of him, bigger this time. You'd sketched his face while he was cooking, clearly oblivious to your staring. He felt himself freeze. That was him. It was clear there was a lot of time put into this. Just how long were you staring at him? He thought you were drawing the food, not him! He felt himself blush, embarrassed by the revelation. Keen to see more he continued through the book, seeing sketches of only him. You'd sketched his hands, his eyes, so many little drawings of his face. There were even sketches from his sparring sessions on the deck. These. These were all him? He felt a bit lightheaded. When he made it to the last used page he stopped. There was a rather intricate drawing of him smoking, leaning over the Merry's bannister. It left him breathless. There was so much detail.

"Uh." Was all he managed to force out.

You blanched. "Oh! I'm sorry, I've weirded you out. I..." He saw you reach out to take the book back, his grip tightening. 

"I like drawing you, wanna make sure I get your features right." You muttered. Sanji tore his face away from the page when he heard you take a shaky breath in. He looked up and jolted at the tears in your eyes. 

"(Name), I-"

"I'm sorry. It's really creepy right? I'll stop, I promise."

"These are all me?" He managed dumbly. You cringed. He felt his heart thumping loudly. 

"Yeah...That's your book."

"Do the others?"

You shook your head, tears starting to fall. "Just you. It's weird, I know-"

"I love it." He breathed out.

"What?"

Sanji stared up at you, closing the book with care, and setting it to the side. He grabbed your trembling hands, trying to coax you down to his level. You followed, dropping to your knees. 

"It's beautiful love. You've made me look beautiful."

"You are beautiful." You muttered. 

Sanji couldn't take it anymore, he pulled you flush against him. You squeaked, falling into his chest. His arms came up to hug you tightly. 

"I'm the luckiest man in all the seas." He smiled. That managed a laugh out of you. You peeked up at him, eyes wide and cheeks tear-stained. "I was really jealous when I saw you drew everyone else. Don't know how I never caught you drawing me."

"I'm sneaky." You joked, earning a laugh. You snuggled against him. 

"Can I kiss you?"

Your eyes shot back up to him, choking on your own spit, all you could manage was a a strangled, "What?"

"Wanna reward my little artist. So can I kiss you?" Sanji spoke as if he was talking about the weather. You nodded dumbly.

Wasting absolutely no time, Sanji caressed your face, softly. He started softly, before crushing his lips to yours. You squeaked happily, moving to try and get closer. Your lips moved in tandem, sharing kiss after kiss. You felt electricity shudder down your spine, sweet sighs escaping. Sanji felt like he was on cloud nine, committing all of you to memory, tracing your lips as if he needed to map it to mind.

Unfortunately you needed to breathe, and you pulled back, eyes sparkling. You panted lightly, trying desperately to catch your breath. Sanji took in how flushed you look, lips swollen from his attack. You were grinning wildly at him.

"Wow." You breathed. Sanji laughed. "You're really good."

Sanji mulled over your words for a second, before throwing caution to the wind. Fuck it, he got to kiss you, he supposed anything else right now was a bonus. "Am I your good boy?"

What Sanji didn't take into account is how his flirty demeanour can come across as purely teasing. You groaned beneath him. Sanji got his hopes up at the sound. but you pointedly looked away.

"Sorry about that. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, it seemed funny at the time."

Sanji's heart fell out of his ass. Ow. But you had kissed him? 

"I'm not?"

"What?" You looked at him inquisitively, taking in how hard he tried to hide his dejection behind that smile. You brightened, the puzzle clicking together. "Wait. You like that?"

"No!" Sanji lied. He didn't like the cheeky grin you were now sporting, it always spelt bad news for him.

"Oho I think you do. That's why you were being weird! You were jealous that I called Luffy a good boy?! I thought it was because I hugged you. You like me, that's so cute."

"You literally have a sketchbook dedicated to me."

You giggled. "No, we're past that. You like being called a good boy?"

"I like being called your good boy." He muttered. You giggled, causing him to further frown. Soon, he felt your soft hands on his cheeks. 

"Ah, you really are so cute. My heart. Kiss me again good boy?"

"Stop teasing me." Sanji pouted, cheeks red. You laughed.

"Nuh-uh! You tease me constantly, I finally have some ammunition of my own! Wait until you have to put up with me calling you pretty boy."

You peppered his face with kisses before finally planting a smooch on his lips. Sanji grinned into the kiss, pulling you further into his lap. You nipped at his lower lip. He obliged, parting his lips for you to attack. Sanji sighed as you thrust your tongue into his mouth. Gods, he could die now and be happy. 

You were in absolute heaven. If you'd known Sanji would be this receptive, you would have kissed him months ago. And his blush? Gods, you could grow addicted to flustering him. Pulling back with a wet smack, you stared down at him, taking in how beautiful he looked under you. With a delicate hand you lightly cradled his chin.

"Would you be a good boy and model for me someday?"

Sanji cocked an eyebrow. "We that far ahead are we?" 

You laughed at his hidden meaning. "I meant just letting me draw you properly, but I wouldn't say no to staring at your naked body."

Sanji blushed, his ears burning and mind racing. He covered it up with a cough. "Are you going to be like that from now on? What happened to my cute little artist?"

Your grin was more of a smirk, Sanji mused. He liked when your mischievous side came out. The idea that this would be a regular occurrence made him dizzy. You kissed his cheek. "Now that I know you like me I have no need to be shy. You're stuck with me."

"And what a shame that is." Sanji smiled, resting his head on your shoulder. You laughed. 

You really could get used to this.

[rileyslibrary]

Ghost helps Riot decorate the Christmas tree at the base.

Fluff. A gift for my friend, @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot with her OC, Christine “Riot” Vega. (Awesome render here!)

———————————————————————

“It’s too tall.”

“Or, maybe you’re too short.”

Riot shifts her gaze from the Christmas tree to Ghost. He doesn’t regard her back, yet she knows there’s a smile underneath that mask—one of those triumphant, snarky, arrogant, ‘i-got-her-again’ grins.

“Behave, Lieutenant,” she warns. “I’m 1.70, in case you didn’t read my file.”

“Congratulations to the whole 1.70 of you,” he replies and playfully pats her head. “With or without the shoes?”

Riot rolls her eyes and swats his hand away. “Can you just get me the ornament boxes from the warehouse?” She asks.

“You have to be more specific, love,” He says. “The warehouse is a two thousand square meter void filled with cardboard boxes.”

“I don’t have the coordinates, Ghost.” She replies, smirking. “You can ask Gaz whether he planted a GPS tracker in them or, here’s a better idea: how about you search for the boxes labelled as ‘Xmas’?”

Now, he’s the one rolling his eyes. He murmurs a “how unique” and walks to the door to fulfil her request.

While waiting for Ghost to find and retrieve the boxes, Riot tests the new Christmas lights they bought by plugging them into the socket. Once she confirms they work, she starts wrapping them around the tree. Although the task appears to be assigned to just the two of them, it took all five—including the captain who gave the roles—to make it happen.

Gaz chose the tree and bought extra ornaments, then Soap measured its dimensions, ensuring enough lights to cover it. Once aligned, they raked the entire base to decide on the perfect spot. Their prerequisites? It had to be a place where everyone could see it and would do it justice. Unfortunately, they couldn’t agree on a specific location, so they met in the middle and decided to place the tree in the mess hall, the exact same spot it was last year. And the year before it. And the year before it.

Then, it was up to Ghost to carry the tree, and the captain instructed him to help Riot with the “heavy-duty” tasks. Now, all that’s left is for Riot to decorate it.

“I still don’t get why you get to decorate.” Ghost says, placing the boxes on the floor. “Why are we doing chores like measuring and carrying boxes while you get the fun stuff?”

“Because whoever did it last year did a terrible job,” she retorts, emphasising ‘whoever’ and handing Ghost a light strip to continue up to the top. “You guys didn’t even shuffle the decorations. Not to mention that the back was empty.”

“Nobody sees the back,” Ghost argues.

“You don’t?” Riot smirks.

“Nobody sees the back of the tree,” Ghost corrects.

“Well, I do,” she replies, pointing at the top of the tree, “and go a little bit lower over there.”

“Like that?” he asks.

“Like that,” she confirms.

After finishing the light placement, Ghost sits on the sofa. He takes an ornament shaped like a candy cane from one of the boxes and starts playing with it. Riot, on the other hand, gets straight to the job. She opens the boxes and grabs two ornaments. She places one on the tree, removes it and tries the other. She concludes on the latter. She turns around to search the boxes for more ornaments and catches Ghost fiddling with the candy cane.

“You can go if you’re bored,” she says. “I won’t finish anytime soon.”

“That I figured,” he murmurs under his breath, making Riot instinctively place her hands on her waist. He lets a sharp chuckle and shakes his head. “I’m alright here.” He assures her.

But of course, where else would he be alright if not here?

Time passes quickly. Ghost and Riot reminisce about their past Christmases—childhood festivities, memorable Boxing Day gifts, favourite holiday foods, and the annual movies that defined each season. Yet, these beautiful memories end at a certain point unique to each. Maybe those memories have faded away, or perhaps they have purposefully chosen to let them go. And when that happens, when they approach that personal boundary, they stop dwelling on those past celebrations and turn to each other, to the present, to fill them with joy.

Sometimes, Riot shows Ghost different ornaments, and he either picks one or dismisses the options with a casual “whatever” or “there’s no difference.” Other times, Ghost critiques her progress, giving feedback while she decorates. He points out areas needing more attention or playfully suggests she’s gone overboard elsewhere. In return, Riot replies with a firm yet joking, “Go on; you do it then”, and shuts him up.

She lifts one final piece into the air and shows it to Ghost—the Christmas tree topper.

“Seems that I’m too short to reach the top,” she pouts.

“Nonsense,” he whispers and stands up. “It’s the tree that’s too tall.”

He walks towards her, grabs her waist, and lifts her up.

“Now I get why the captain assigned me for the heavy-duty stuff,” he says.

“Drop me, and I’ll stick you up there instead of the topper.” She warns him, chuckling. “Take one more step forward, please.”

Ghost does as told, and Riot places the topper at the top. She adjusts it and lightly taps Ghost’s hand to put her down. They take a few steps back and marvel at the result.

“What do you think?” Riot asks, still looking at the tree.

“Seems alright.” Ghost shrugs. “Should we turn the lights on?”

“No,” Riot replies. “I want all of them to be here when we do it.”

He turns to look at her and nods. She meets his gaze and smiles.

“Thank you for lifting me up.” She says.

“No,” he replies. “Thank you for lifting me up.”

———————————————————————

[z0mb13-34ts-br41ns]

Valentine's Headcanons <3

yippee more call of duty headcanons, this time a valentines special! I forgot to write anything so I'm writing this last minute in my after school club </3 This one is specifically romantic coded, but could be a very close platonic relationship I guess.

Enjoy :D

Price - he's very traditional about Valentine's Day. A bouquet of flowers, your favorite, a box of chocolate, a nice dinner date, and millions of compliments. Any gift, no matter how small, means the world to him. You can see the way he lights up when you hand it to him, and insists you didn't have to.

Soap - some sort of fun date, he wants it to be unique. An escape room, or go karting, or an improvement show idk, just not something you'd do everyday. He gets you some treats as well, of course!

Gaz - sweet little lover boy over here <3 full royal treatment, you are not going to lay a finger on anything remotely stressful. He showers you in compliments, gets you flowers, gifts, candy, a teddy bear, the works.

Ghost - he has a hard time showing his emotions, so he ends up putting it off until the last minute. He tries, of course, but he would rather you just tell him what you want to do. In the end, he decides to just say yes to everything you suggest, hoping you'll understand that's his way of showing he cares.

Makarov - he doesn't celebrate, not fully. He's far too busy and doesn't really care for giving meaningless gifts. What's the point on spending money on all that? He does, however, enjoy receiving gifts he's always been a taker. At most, you can get a few things out of him, with enough begging and convincing.

Graves - he goes above and beyond with Valentine's. One of those person sized teddy bears, more flowers than you could ever need, everything. He takes you shopping, and makes a home cooked meal. He also likes to show you off, evey person he gets the chance to tell, he's on and on about how you're his valentine, and how he's yours.

König - he hasn't celebrated Valentine's Day for most of his life, so he's very pathetic. He tries his best, but shopping for flowers scares him since there's so many and be doesn't know what any of them are. In the end, he gives you a little box of chocolates and a handwritten card, and hopes that its good enough. He doesn't know how to receive compliments so it's a lot of awkward nodding and thanking and apologising.

-

Sorry this came out so late. I'm so tired, and I have no motivation to write. I hope these are good enough, because I'm going to bed now.

Happy Valentine's day

[writingoddess1125]

Nerdy S/O 🎮 📖 🧛

The guys and their uniquely nerdy S/Os who they love!

Soap 🧼, Ghost 👻 , König 👑 x GNREADER

Soap + Cosplayer 🧛

• Johnny had met you when you were both at a bar, You typically werent too into the bar scene but it had lead you to meet the man of your dreams.

• Afterall who could resist that Scottish Charm?

• It had been 3 years of bliss shared between the two of you-

• Johnny knew from the beginning you were- quite the Nerd. He found it cute however! Even if he didn't understand it fully-

• Often getting back from deployment in the nice flat the two of you shared to see you dancing around listening to music while stitching some sort of fabric together.

• Johnny spent hours with you, Enjoying the craft of building your costumes and often wanting to join in the fun. Even if he knew nothing of the media this was involved in.

• "What is this costume for again?" He asked setting down the freshly cut foam to the side while you glued your peices down on some fabric-

• "This my Darling is a costume from the 1999 Mummy with Brendan Fraser" You say cheerfully as you stitch the costume.

• "Movie?-" He questions and you comfirm "Movie-"

• Will eventually start watching the Movies and TV shows with you. And gets really really into them as well- Turns into a big fantasy guy

• "Love- I want to cosplay with you at the next convention.. I wanna be a elf" He said shyly

• You damn near cry at this and hug him "Oh Honey I've waited to hear those words!"

• "I need to do the inseam-" You mumbled as you measured inbetween the man's leg to get the measurment.

• Will definitely want to roleplay in the bedroom. Feels like it has opened a new door for him and is more then excited-

• Comes in dressed like Han Solo with a wide grin- Fake gun and all on his hip as you laid on the bed in your own costume. "I do believe that you ruined my last smuggling trip- Sorry darling but you'll be paying for that another way"

• Will show you and his costumes off when he visits friends on base. Showing the last convention the two of you went to together- if anyone gives him shit he has no issue punching them.

Simon + Book Nerd 📖

• You and Simon had been married for years, the famed Lieutenant knowing from when he first met you that you were a book fiend

• It was a major part of you- And one he adored

• Simon was quite the reader himself but truthfully not as deep as you. Havibg seen you so engrossed in stories before that you forgot to eat.

• But books were also how you showed love.

• "Love, I know this is a long deployment for you.. so I want to send these with you so you don't get bored" You say softly, holding up a 3 book series to your husband as he prepared for his job.

• Of course he accepted and read them while on his missions.

• Enjoys whatever you give him, be it fantasy, sci-fi, historical fiction or what have you. He will always read them through and even take a note so he can talk to you about them later.

• Will also love when you read outloud to him

• "Honey I just got this series I want you to check out" You called out excitedly as you rush to your husband who is watching his Football (Soccar) game and sees you holding the collectors box. Calmly mutes the TV and gestures for you to sit and read out loud to him the new book.

• He had built you a library and Many shelves to store your hoard of books and got you a special couch to sit in and read.

• Does have a deep appreciation for Spicy Books and will happily warm up to prepare for your want to experiment.

• He had gotten you the book 'Den of Vipers' and had heard from the book store owner it was a spicy one- so he waited.. It took a few hours but you came into the bedroom flushed face. Simon having already stretched and was ready-

• He also knew about your fanfiction even if you were embarrassed and secretive about it. Occasionally you'd let him read over your work, which he would appreciate and genuinely enjoy the stories.

• Also will grab books while he is on his deployments or secretly read your fics on his phone.

• Buring a Mission he is stuck in a book store, as he is ready for the attack he spots one of the fantasy books you had wanted that had sold put before you got your little hands on it... so he slips it into the vest of his armor and goes on with his mission.

• Saved him 50£ anyway-

König + Gamer 🎮

• When you and König start dating he is a bit surprised by you playing video games.

• He was taught it was something children do- so to see his Partner playing is a big surprise for him.

• However you help him open his eyes to the media and introduce him to the fun interactive stories and escapism that video games help you with.

• This peaks his interest and ask to join your gaming adventure.

• "Schatz are you sure about this?" He ask softly as you get him to play some Mario Kart 8. He's nervous at first but after a round his competitive spirit comes out and gets very good quickly- Cheering loudly as he wins and gets first place.

• After this a massive gaming room is built in his home for the two of you to share. König now understanding why you love games so much and supports you hobby fully.

• Even if it's a very expensive one.

• The two of you having funny cute arguments over the games subtitles or language.

• "I want it in German with English subtitles so I can practice" You wine as König shakes his head- "Liebling I want English with German subtitles"

• This often ending with the two of you giggling together over it and a passionate session between the two of you.

• Will support you wanting to decorate the home with some gamer merchandise and even gets his own to throw in there.

• Will eventually start playing some other games without you. Something to help him relax and take his mind off things-

• Mainly Stardew Valley and Animal Crossing are his favorite at the moment. It helps him unwind after his deployments

• After the hardest of deployments will just want to relax with you and watch you.

• Will love to just have the two of you cuddle in a warm bed and watch game play videos if you guys aren't up to playing a certain game. YouTube being a wonderful addition

• Will download some games on a burner smartphone he keeps and play it in his bunks. If it's multi-player will invite you to join him so the two of you can spend this time together even at a far distance.

[neuroticbookworm]

Engagement of QL Fandom in Indian Queer Media

I was tagged by @lurkingshan and invited to respond to an ask she received from @impala124 that noted the absence of India in the Asian queer media spaces and discussions, and questioned the reasons behind it. @starryalpacasstuff has also responded to it in a great post (check out the reblog additions for a treasure trove of Indian queer media recs), discussing, among many things, Korea’s culture export aiding their queer media ventures, access to Indian queer media, and the quality of Indian queer media. @twig-tea’s addition discussed the ease of access of Thai BLs via YouTube and how it prompted Korea and Japan to re-enter the genre.

My thoughts on Indian queer media are complicated and involve several detours to understand Indian media culture, its economic power, and how it navigates international viewership. For context, I am an Indian cinephile who grew up watching a wide variety of Indian media in terms of both language and genre. I naturally transitioned into watching Western content as globalization of the 2010s brought HBO and Comedy Central to Indian screens, and later sought out queer media, Asian media and Asian queer media on the internet.

Indian Media Industry - A Primer

I know there are a lot of countries right now that produce QL media, so I am gonna mainly consider Thailand, Japan, and Korea, the three countries most prolific with ql, for the purpose of this discussion. All of these countries, while regionally diverse, have managed to considerably homogenize in language and culture over the course of history and colonization. India, on the other hand, is still significantly and distinctly diverse in language, culture, religion, food, media styles, social norms, and on and on. India has 22 official languages and thousands of regional ones that are used in various capacities everyday. This diversity is then reflected in the media produced by India, with multiple powerhouse film industries dominating box offices simultaneously. Bollywood is the biggest one and obviously well known internationally, but Tamil, Telugu, Malayalam, Kannada, Punjabi, Bengali-language film industries are successful in their own right and consistently produce box office hits and self-sustain in the larger Indian media landscape. This makes domestic media highly regional in India. Even today, in the age of social media, it takes a box office success to the tune of hundreds of millions of rupees for a film to break out of its domestic audience and cross over into other Indian states.

This diversity has also led to the different industries developing media styles unique to them. I watched this video a while ago of a creator documenting his experience of dipping toes into Indian Cinema for the first time, and he ends up covering three movies from three different industries, because the pathos of each of them is so fundamentally different yet effective in their own ways. This diversity also applies to the television industry, both traditional cable TV soaps, and the modern shows made for streaming sites. And all of this, *waves hands*, presents a set of challenges like no other country faces for both Indian queer creators and Indian queer media audiences.

The Challenges for Creators

Since the Indian media industry is not a big monolith and is made up of multiple film industries, queer creators who are trying to get their foot in the door will face a unique uphill battle in whichever regional industry they’re trying to break into. And trying to research, learn, and understand each and every single one of them will take me and my non-existent research team years, so the simpler thing to do would be listing the factors that have worked for other countries to foster their media industries to produce QL content, and discuss if India could replicate them. The list goes like this:

Japan’s rich history in yaoi

Thailand’s use of BL as a soft power to promote tourism

Korea’s culture export via kpop and other media

While India does have religious mythology that discusses sex, gender and queerness, it is often subtext with a lot of intersectionality. Does Ardhanarishvara represent fluid gender, or a symbol of harmony, or both? The debates are endless. Japan’s yaoi roots are as deep as they are explicit. And this rich history could be why the Japanese domestic audience is open to queer media even when the country is still conservative.

Thailand’s rise as a major player in the QL industry is remarkable, but there is a case to be made that the country’s media industry was directly and indirectly boosted by the government’s interest in establishing revenue from tourism, and exporting culture to international audiences via food and media. While the revenue from tourism in India is substantial, the Indian economy is not built on it. And the Indian media industry is thriving and regularly makes bank with their already established content models, so the producers have a pretty low incentive to deviate and fund queer media.

I bet every coin I own that not a single one of us on this hellsite have successfully eluded the allure of Korean media in our lives. The Korean media industry is a well-calibrated machine that shall and will target every single human into funneling their time, attention and money into the Korean culture and economy. And I think queer creators looking to make queer content in Korea would’ve had good incubation in an industry that was looking to make as much content as possible. And once again, while Indian movies have significant international box office collections, that is not where the Indian media industry, and just India in general, makes its money. The priorities are just not the same. And to be perfectly honest, India is nowhere near the level of Korea at producing and exporting television shows to international audiences.

All of this is a long winded way of saying that the conditions required to foster a QL industry in India are not the same as what we have seen work so far from the other major players. And sadly no one has really figured out the winning formula yet.

These are just a few reasons, and I haven’t even discussed nepotism and how painful class mobility is in India, making it even harder for new queer creators to break into the industry. There’s a reason why movies with queer representation like Badhaai Do, Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan, Ek Ladki Ko Dekha Toh Aisa Laga, and Kapoor & Sons all feature characters in the upper middle class or above. Hell, they’re even played by actors whose portfolio is already filled with daring and experimental roles, or by first- or second-gen nepo babies who would literally have nothing to lose from the potential backlash for playing a queer character. Poor, queer characters in Indian media have never been a part of a fluffy romance as far as I know. They are reserved for the gritty dramas where intersectionality of queerness, poverty, class and caste could be examined.

The Challenges for the Audience

And once again, all of this, *aggressively waves hands*, makes things harder for even the domestic audience to engage with Indian queer media, let alone international audiences. Kathaal - The Core, a 2023 Malayalam movie about a queer man in his fifties coming out of the closet and contesting in his village body elections, was a box office success in Kerala, and I can tell y’all with complete certainty that not many people outside of Kerala would’ve even heard of it. And this was not some small indie venture – in fact, the lead characters were played by Mammootty and Jyothika, who are both absolute legends in their own right in the South Indian film industry.

Super Deluxe was a 2019 Tamil-language black comedy film that tells four interwoven stories that run in parallel, and one of the stories is about a trans woman who, pre-transition, was married and had a son. She returns to her family as her post-transition self after years of disappearance, and the film engages in conversation around sex and gender, through the innocent questions of her young son. The movie is gorgeously made, and outrageously sharp and witty in its commentary on society’s views on sex, morality, religion and family. And once again, I don’t think it is well-known outside of the domestic and international award-circuit audiences it was promoted to (last I checked, it was available to domestic audiences on Netflix).

Sometimes, even the domestic audience might miss the queer representation in their regional media when it is indie enough to not get aggressively promoted. The Hindi-language anthology movie from Netflix, Ajeeb Daastaans (2021), featured a story where two women from different caste and social class meet at the workplace (the sapphic story, Geeli Pucchi, starts at 1:17:05, if anyone wants to check it out). It served biting commentary on the intersectionality of queerness, misogyny, caste and class. And once again, I’ve never found a person with whom I could discuss it with (other than my mom, with whom I watched it).

And sometimes, even when a massive show with queer representation is well promoted and well received by critics, it still manages to fly under the radar in Indian queer fandom spaces. Amazon Prime India spent a lot of coin on the show Made in Heaven (2019) – and it was worth it. The show follows the lives of two wedding planners, Tara and Karan. Karan is closeted (except to his close friends) for most of the show, but after he makes some powerful enemies in his line of work, he gets publicly outed, which puts him on the path of dealing with his family’s shades of acceptance, queer rights activism, and reconciling with an old friend. The car scene in episode 9 made me cry, and yet I’ve never read a word about this show from Indian QL fan blogs here on Tumblr.

Following every film and TV show that releases in one language, across all modes and platforms, and keeping an eye out for queer representation is hard enough. Doing it in multiple languages is downright impossible. And then personal preferences come into play. Personally, I enjoy nearly all genres of media, but I am primarily an angst monster, so I seek out and watch sad shit on the regular. All four examples I’ve listed in this section are good queer representations, but they are deeply sad, rage-inducing, heartbreaking and realistic. If one wanted to watch an Indian queer romance that’s inside the bubble, I’m not sure if they can even find one – I have certainly not come across any. Even the queer Bollywood movies designed for a box office run, paying homage to iconic Bollywood romance sequences, were still outside the bubble. When a niche audience like the QL fandom collides with a complex media-churning machine like the Indian media industry that is fundamentally not designed to cater to them, all we get is a lot of puzzled looks and question marks.

A Thought Experiment On The Future Of Indian QLs

Now that I have established the challenges, I want to engage in a little thought experiment – if we were to receive a steady stream of Indian QL content, what would it look like, and how can the fandom engage with it?

If we are looking for content from a stable production entity for Indian queer media, like Thailand’s GMMTV, Japan’s MBS Drama Shower, and Korea’s Strongberry, we would be waiting for a long time, at the very least a decade or two. What we could get are small indie queer shows like Romil and Jugal, squirreled away in a streaming platform exclusive to India and only accessible internationally via VPN. Another example is the list of sapphic shows @twig-tea shared with us a while ago, here. These are gonna be low budget, probably-not-great-quality shows reminiscent of early GMMTV.

Another variety of QL content we could get are the Bollywood queer romance films and TV shows. They will be cheesy and tropey and romantic, and might interact with the bubble, but probably mostly from the safety of an upper middle class setting. This means they would eventually run out of fresh perspectives they could tune into in their limited scope and the stories might turn stale and repetitive (I’m deriving this from the general state of things in the Indian media landscape over the last couple years). International access might be a little easier than the previous case, but not as easy as going to YouTube and hitting play.

The third and final variety are the gritty dramas with heavy social, cultural, religious, gender and class commentary that Indian cinema industry has always made, and has upgraded in the recent years to include queerness. Once again, the access will be hard, but if we are looking for queer stories that also show the audience what it is like being queer in India, beyond the glitz, the glam and the colors of pre-packaged Indian experience often sold to the West, this is where we will find it. Most of it will be sad, but we are a sad bunch who constantly make sad shit, so it will be on brand for us.

And all of these different varieties of content are gonna need to be picked up and promoted by the Indian folks in the QL fandom who are tuned into these regional industries. India not being a cultural monolith that is easy to package and ship is precisely why we have all these beautiful and crazy and sometimes even contradictory styles of media that are offered for us to explore. And therefore, the fandom engagement on Indian QL content would also vastly differ from the fandom engagement for Japan, Thailand and Korea. A dedicated fandom captain might not emerge, but rather, a collective group of folks tuning into and promoting finds from their regional industries would be the way to go. In addition, if this content is not available in English, we would need fan subbers to provide translation expertise to even make it accessible, something we see often for Japanese media on Tumblr.

I know from observation that watching media in a different regional language could sometimes be as foreign to Indian audiences as watching media from other countries. The language, traditions, mannerisms, social mores and food would all be different from region to region, but I guess it would be a good litmus test to observe how well the fandom acclimates to a culture that is so eye-wateringly diverse and not as constantly promoted to them.

When I was texting @waitmyturtles discussing how we can approach answering this question (remember when this all started with a question, some two thousand-ish words ago? Yes, that question), at a point in our conversation I exclaimed "Ugh, everything in India is too complicated!" This long-ass post of mine is in no way the complete account of why things are the way they are in the Indian queer media landscape. But all I know for sure is that it’s not simple. And I really do not want anything related to India to be simple, because being unbearably frustrating and complicated is not a bug, but a feature of India. The road to Indian QLs is unique, but I will do my best to check the paths and share and recommend them to my friends whenever possible. And I invite my fellow Indian QL fans to do the same.

[stararch4ngelqueen]

hey! just hopping on the period train here…can we get tender, soft, tooth-rottingly sweet ghost with a reader on their period? reader has cramps and will 100% try to overexert themselves if not directly managed lol. Anyway love your work🤍🤍🤍

The unintentional period train 😆 I’ll try, haven’t written about Ghost in a hot minute.

It’s not as grand as I’d like it to be, but I think it’s pretty good for a quick half hour ✨let’s say this is at home too for convenience sake

—

Simon wouldn’t be aware you were on your cycle at first, which makes the most obvious sense.

You; his sweet, bombshell of a woman, had a tendency to hide what irritated you. Physical or not.

Moving into a new house was a bit of a process, one that had a lot of challenges to overpass before enjoying the rewards. You believed their wouldn’t be as many boxes, or as many things to haul off the moving truck and through the front door.

Simon would then assume something was wrong by the amount of breaks he’d find you taking. Moments you’d catch your breath, stand completely still with a hand along your side, or sitting down in the passenger seat of the truck.

Try as well as you like, it’s his job to be concerned about your well-being. Exertion was a high price to pay in the military; sore muscles, lack of proper sleep, etc.

You weren’t in the military anymore. Pushing yourself wasn’t necessary inside your new home.

You figured this pain would go away. Exercise was always a factor to lessen cramps. An annoying tale, but sometimes effective.

Sometimes.

The more boxes you hauled, the quicker you’d walk, the more you’d pace yourself was met with more pain on your end.

“Go rest.” Came his voice from behind you, startling you after you settled some kitchen appliance boxes on your new marble counter.

“I’m fine,” you quickly state, turning your head to meet your husband’s gaze. “I’m okay—“

“That’s an order.” Simon states, leaving little to no room for doubt or denial. You’d frown, but he didn’t care, maintaining his ground with a firm brow and stern expression.

“Simon—“

“Now.”

You scoff, glaring up at him as if he asked something vile from you. Again, he didn’t care.

“Fine,” you bite back a bitter tone before leaving towards your bedroom. “You can finish unpacking all by yourself.”

Simon expected this, seemingly unfazed as he watched you go. He didn’t mind the attitude, he would’ve found it funny. He kind of did, but you didn’t see his smile.

He’d find you later curled up on a bare mattress, yanking blankets out from their boxes to wrap yourself up in. Your head settled on a pillow, his pillow, he recognized after a second glance.

He approached, proceeding to pull off your socks and shoes for you.

He pulls the blankets back after crawling into bed, per your irritation, only to apply a warm bottle compress along your tummy.

“M’sorry,” he murmurs into your ear, proceeding to lay the blankets back over you. Your raised hand stops him, your fingers grasping along his wrist.

Your quiet plea encourages him to join you in bed, clutching your body like a gentle wall of support. Occasionally, his hand would remain over the compress, moving it around along spots you desired it the most while his other massages the back of your neck.

“I’ll start unpackin’ in the morning,” Simon murmurs, his head settled ontop of your head, breathing in your sweet scented shampoo.

Your mouth opens to persist, but he beats you to it.

“No no, don’t wanna hear it. I’ll unpack the rest of the frame, an’ the sheets, give you a proper bed to rest on.”

Your silence meant you were listening, which makes him assume you’re growing irritated by his unique form of ‘persistence’.

“Sickness an’ in health, love,” He kisses underneath your earlobe, hearing your small sigh.

“I’m not sick.”

“You’re cranky.” A faint rumble of a chuckle erupts from his chest. “Often times I’d hear ya say you would get lobotomized back in the day for this type of behavior.”

“That’s what I used to tell Soap just to mess with him,” you faintly muse, nearly falling asleep from his rough hand providing the most gentlest of massages along your nape.

“Get some shut eye, sweetheart. Talk about your self diagnosis in the morning.”

-

I don’t know how to end this 🧍🏽‍♀️this is not proofread. Back on the grind.

[mothman-writes]

Chapter Eight: Interrupted - Through The Lens (N. Sebastian)

!! This contains 18+ content, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !!

Description: Things heat up as tension between Noah and Talia begins to grow, but they can't seem to get a moment alone.

Warnings: Sexual tension, interrupted sex, semi-public sex, oral (m! receiving), bathroom sex, dry humping, non-penatrative sex, mutual pining, mutual orgasms, stolen moments, desperate sex, teasing, panties.

Word Count:

Taglist: @dragoncopper @clickmedead @renegadebirch @geminigirlfromfinland @ami-gami @pipidoll @lacy1986 @concrtlimits

Chapter Eight: Interrupted

One

Noah Sebastian

December 2nd, 2022

When Noah wakes up on December second, there are three things he notices in the hazy space between sleep and consciousness.

First, he notices the warmth of Talia's breath fanning against his neck, where her face is buried like she's trying to burrow into his skin. Each exhale sends a tiny shiver down his spine, and he has to fight the urge to shift closer — an instinct that's become as natural as breathing since they stopped pretending this was casual.

He notices the scent of her shampoo — lavender and honey — second, mixing with the lingering smell of hotel soap and something uniquely her that he can't name but would recognize anywhere. It's become his favorite way to wake up, better than any alarm clock or coffee.

And last is what really confuses him: the weight of someone else's body beside him, taking up far more space than Talia's slight frame should account for.

His brown eyes snap open, squinting against the pale morning light filtering through cheap hotel curtains. He turns his head carefully, trying not to disturb Talia, and settles only slightly when he finds Nick passed out next to him. His best friend is sprawled on his back, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes, mouth slightly open as his soft breathing mingles with the rest of the room's occupants.

The rest of the room's occupants.

Noah's gaze travels further, taking in the disaster zone their hotel room has become. Folio is curled up in the armchair like a cat, still wearing yesterday's clothes, while Jolly has claimed the entire length of the couch, his long legs dangling over the arm. There are empty pizza boxes stacked on the dresser, energy drink cans scattered across every surface, and someone's guitar propped against the wall.

When had that happened? The last thing he remembers clearly is getting back from the venue, Talia's hand in his, both of them finally ready to have the alone time they'd been craving all day. But somewhere between walking through the door and now, it seems like the entire band had decided to have an impromptu sleepover.

Noah nudges Talia awake gently, his thumb tracing small circles on her shoulder blade through the soft fabric of the t-shirt she'd stolen from him. He feels her lashes flutter against his skin like butterfly wings, the sensation so delicate it makes his chest tight with something he's still learning to name.

He pulls her a little closer on instinct when he hears her hum softly, the sound vibrating against his throat as she mutters something incoherent into his collarbone. Her voice is rough with sleep, all honey and gravel, and it does things to him that probably aren't appropriate given their current audience.

"What was that, doll?" he asks softly, his voice barely above a whisper to avoid waking the others.

Talia lifts her head slightly to look at him through heavy lids, her hair a beautiful disaster of dark waves against the white pillowcase. Her mascara is slightly smudged beneath her eyes, and there's a crease on her cheek from where she'd been pressed against him, but she's never looked more beautiful.

"'M so cold," she murmurs, already burrowing back into the warmth of his chest before he can respond.

Noah glances around at their unexpected roommates again, then back down at Talia, whose fingers are now fisted in his shirt like she's afraid he might disappear. A laugh bubbles up in his chest — soft and incredulous and tinged with the kind of fond exasperation that comes with being in a band that treats boundaries as suggestions rather than rules.

He nudges her again, “Roll over and I’ll spoon you.”

Talia does as he asks quicker than he expects at her stage of awakeness, with such obedience it makes him throb in his sweatpants. He bites back the words good girl that sit on his tongue.

Slowly, he wraps an arm around her waist and shifts impossibly closer, curling around her protectively. He’s aware of how hard he is — morning wood — and tries desperately not to press into her too much. 

Talia melts into the bed, pulling the covers higher over them as she presses back into him, her back against his chest, her ass tauntingly close to him. 

And then she starts rolling her hips back into him. Slow, torturous movements that make him bite his lip and bury his face into her shoulder. 

Noah’s hips start moving on instinct, every part of him seeking friction now. He loves how the curve of her ass fits perfectly against him, craves more of it. His hand moves to grip her hip, pulling her hips back into his. 

He nips at her earlobe gently as he moves to whisper in her ear, “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

Talia opens her mouth to respond, but before she can, the door opens. Both their hips still as Matt comes around the corner, something like exasperation written on his face.

“So that’s where everyone is,” He mutters, scanning the room. “Alright, ladies, it’s go time. You have press in thirty.” 

Jolly shoots up from the couch, suddenly awake, “Dude, what the fuck? Why didn’t you wake us sooner?”

Matt shrugs, like the answer is obvious, “I couldn’t find you three. I should have known you’d be in here.” 

The room erupts into chaos as Nick groans dramatically and rolls off the bed, nearly taking half the sheets with him. Folio stretches like he's trying to touch the ceiling, joints popping audibly, while everyone starts the familiar dance of grabbing phones, checking the time, and muttering about needing coffee.

"Thirty minutes?" Nick's voice cracks with disbelief as he stumbles toward the bathroom. "Matt, you're a sadist."

"I'm efficient," Matt counters, already moving to kick Folio's feet off the armchair. "There's a difference. Now move your asses."

Noah feels Talia tense against him as the reality of their situation hits — they're pressed together, both still aroused, surrounded by his bandmates who are now very much awake and very much aware of their positioning. Her fingers tighten on his forearm, and he can practically feel her mortification radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"Jesus, get a room," Jolly mutters good-naturedly as he stretches, catching sight of them still tangled together under the covers.

"This is our room," Noah shoots back, but there's no real bite to it. His voice comes out rougher than intended, still thick with want and frustration.

Talia finally shifts away from him, the loss of contact making him want to pull her right back. She sits up, running her hands through her messy hair, and Noah has to resist the urge to reach out and smooth down the pieces sticking up at odd angles. Even disheveled and embarrassed, she's gorgeous.

"I should go get ready," she says quietly, avoiding his eyes as she slides to the edge of the bed.

Matt glances between them, something knowing flickering across his face. "Actually, Talia, you've got time. Press is just for the guys today — radio interviews and some promotional stuff. You can sleep in if you want."

The irony isn't lost on any of them. Now that they have no choice but to be apart, suddenly she has all the time in the world.

Noah watches her stand, his shirt hanging loose on her frame, hitting her mid-thigh in a way that makes his mouth go dry. She looks back at him over her shoulder, and the promise in her eyes makes his heart race all over again.

"I'll be here when you get back," she says simply, but the words carry weight — like a continuation of everything they started last night, everything that got interrupted this morning.

As the guys file out, grabbing clothes and grumbling about the early hour, Noah steals one more moment. He catches Talia's hand as she passes the bed, pulling her down for a kiss that's soft but charged with everything they can't finish right now.

"Later," he whispers against her lips, and it sounds like both a promise and a plea.

"Later," she agrees, and Noah forces himself to let her go, knowing that with their luck, later might be a lot longer than either of them wants to wait.

Two

By noon, Noah is over it.

Over the press run. Over the back-to-back interviews with the same half-hearted questions — What inspired the album? What challenges did you face producing it from home? As if any of it could be summed up in neat sound bites. As if he hadn’t answered those questions a hundred different ways in a hundred different cities already.

He’s tired. His stomach has been growling for the last hour, and his throat carries the familiar, raw sting of tour exhaustion — the kind that creeps in just before it takes you out completely. He wants a hot shower, a dark room, and Talia.

God, he misses her.

Misses the sound of her laugh — that soft, throaty sound that bubbles up from her chest when something genuinely amuses her. Misses the way her nose scrunches when she smiles wide, like she can’t help how happy she is. Misses the way her presence settles something in him he didn’t even realize was unsettled.

As the final interview drones on, his mind wanders in spite of himself. What is she doing right now?

Part of him — the part that's been quietly desperate for her all damn day — hopes it’s something dirty. Hopes she’s tangled in the sheets, hips grinding against the bed, whispering his name like a secret she wants to savor.

But he knows her.

Knows she’s probably curled up under the covers, editing photos or watching some comfort show she’s seen a dozen times. Maybe texting Harper, or slowly flipping through that dog-eared book she picked up in Portland, the one she said she wanted to read but hadn’t had time for.

Now she does. Now that he’s gone.

As soon as the interview ends, Noah is out of his seat, out the door — but not without a flash of Southern charm and a polite thank-you to the host. He’s still himself, even when his patience is fraying.

It feels like an eternity before he’s finally stepping back into the quiet of their hotel suite — the one-bed upgrade they’d managed to score last-minute. The air smells like her, like lavender and hotel linen and something soft he doesn’t have a name for. The music drifting through the room is low and familiar — Mazzy Star. Fade Into You.

His heart aches a little. Of course it’s that one.

He rounds the corner and finds her exactly as he pictured her — tucked into bed, legs folded under her, laptop practically pressed to her face. She’s wearing one of his hoodies, sleeves swallowed by her hands, hair messy from whatever bun or braid had long since fallen apart.

“Hi, stranger,” he says softly, his voice rough with fatigue but threaded through with warmth. The smile he gives her is one he doesn’t offer anyone else — soft, lopsided, worshipful.

Talia looks up, and her whole face changes. Her mouth curves, slow and sweet, like she’s been waiting just for him. “Hey yourself.”

“I brought food,” he says, holding up the takeout bag like an offering. “Mac and cheese.”

She stares at him like he's just offered her the world on a silver platter. The laptop disappears in half a heartbeat, abandoned to the sheets like it's not worth half her monthly rent.

"Noah Sebastian," she breathes, already moving across the bed toward him with that fluid grace that never fails to undo him completely, "you beautiful, perfect man."

But then she stops just short of reaching him, head tilted like a cat who's spotted something particularly interesting. Her eyes have gone darker, pupils dilated, and there's something predatory in the way she's looking at him now. Hungry.

"Though…" The word drips from her lips like honey, voice pitched low and warm enough to make his pulse stutter, "do you really think food is what I'm craving right now?"

Noah's throat goes dry. He sets the takeout bag down with deliberate care, like it's made of glass instead of paper, then takes a step toward her. When he cups her face, his thumb finds the soft spot just below her cheekbone, and she leans into the touch like she's been starving for it.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he murmurs, voice roughened by exhaustion and want in equal measure. His thumb traces the curve of her lower lip, and she parts them slightly, just enough to make his breath catch. "You know that?"

She looks up at him through those impossibly long lashes, and the innocence in her expression is completely at odds with the way her hands are already moving to his belt loops, fingers hooking into the denim like she owns him.

"Is that a problem?" she asks, tugging him forward until he's forced to brace one knee on the mattress or risk falling into her completely.

The motion pulls a low sound from his chest — half groan, half surrender.

"God, no."

She rises up on her knees so they're suddenly chest to chest, the scent of her shampoo mixing with something uniquely Talia, something that makes his head spin. Her arms wind around his neck, and when she smiles at him — sultry and sweet and utterly adoring all at once — he thinks he might actually die right here in this hotel room.

"Good," she whispers against his mouth.

When he kisses her, it's with the desperation of a man who's been holding his breath all day. Soft at first, almost reverent, but then her teeth catch his lower lip and he's lost. She tastes like the peppermint tea she drinks when she's stressed, and underneath that, something warm and essential that he's been missing like a phantom limb.

The careful control he's been maintaining all day — through interviews and handshakes and polite small talk — finally snaps.

With one fluid movement, he's pushing her back against the pillows, swallowing her soft gasp as she lands. The sound goes straight through him. He's over her in seconds, one hand braced beside her head, the other gently capturing both her wrists and pinning them above her head.

"Noah — " she starts, but whatever she was going to say dissolves into nothing when he kisses her again, harder this time, all pretense abandoned. She tastes like coming home.

Her legs wrap around his waist like they belong there, heels digging into the small of his back as she pulls him down. When he rocks against her, feeling the heat of her even through layers of fabric, she makes this small, desperate sound that nearly undoes him completely.

His mind fractures into a thousand different wants. He could keep her pinned exactly like this, work her apart with nothing but his fingers until she's trembling and breathless beneath him. Could tease her for hours, bringing her right to the edge again and again until she's so wound up she can't think straight, can't do anything but feel. Could bury himself in her — slow and deep and desperate, like he's been wanting to do since the moment he walked through that door.

But then she makes that sound again — half whimper, half plea — and every coherent thought evaporates.

His hips roll into hers again, deliberate and slow, dragging a gasp from her lips that he feels all the way down to his bones. Her back arches off the mattress, chasing the friction, and he does it again. And again. Each movement sends heat spiraling through him despite the maddening layers of denim and cotton still between them.

"Noah—" His name falls from her lips like a prayer, broken and breathless.

He can feel her through his jeans — the damp heat of her, the way she's already soaked through whatever she's wearing under his hoodie. It's driving him out of his mind.

"Take your jeans off," she gasps, rolling her hips up to meet his next thrust, desperate and hungry and completely undone. "Please, I need—" The words dissolve into a moan as he grinds against her again, harder this time.

The need clawing at him becomes impossible to ignore. He releases her wrists reluctantly, immediately missing the way she looked pinned beneath him, and his hands move with practiced efficiency — belt buckle sliding free with a soft metallic sound, button popping open, zipper rasping down. He only pushes the denim down far enough to free himself, his erection straining against the thin cotton of his briefs, already dampened at the tip.

Before he recaptures her hands, his fingers find the hem of his hoodie. He pushes it up slowly, revealing inch after inch of soft skin until he finds what he's looking for.

Pink cotton. The same dusty rose shade that's been blooming across her cheeks since he walked through the door.

"Fuck," he breathes, the word barely audible.

His hands return to her wrists, pinning them above her head once more, but gentler this time—like he's holding something precious. When he settles back over her, the thin barriers between them feel almost cruel. The heat of her seeps through cotton and cotton, and when he rocks against her this time, she arches so beautifully he thinks he might lose his mind.

The sound she makes — part moan, part sob — goes straight through him.

He could get used to this view. Hell, he could worship it.

"Look at you," he murmurs against her ear, voice rough with wonder and want. "So perfect. So ready for me."

She turns her head toward his voice, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with need, and he knows he's completely, utterly lost. Whatever control he thought he had dissolved the moment she whispered his name like a prayer. Now there's only this — her beneath him, soft and warm and his, the rest of the world forgotten beyond these four walls.

He keeps that slow, devastating rhythm, each roll of his hips deliberate and merciless. The friction is exquisite torture — cotton against cotton, heat against heat, driving them both toward the edge with agonizing precision. Beneath him, Talia dissolves piece by piece, her composure unraveling like silk pulled too tight.

Her breathing fractures into desperate little gasps that match the rhythm he's setting. Her fingers flex against his grip on her wrists, not fighting but grasping, like she's trying to anchor herself to something solid as everything else falls away. All that sharp intelligence, that quick wit—it all narrows down to this singular, burning need.

"Noah." His name breaks from her lips like a sob, and the sound of it sends electricity racing down his spine.

He doesn't stop — can't stop. His own control is hanging by a thread, his hips beginning to stutter as heat builds low and urgent in his belly. It's been too long, and she feels too good, and the way she's looking at him like he's everything —

The release crashes over him without warning, white-hot and overwhelming. He buries his face in her neck, muffling his groan against her skin as he spills into his briefs, warm and sticky and completely worth the mess they'll have to deal with later.

For a moment, they stay suspended there — hearts hammering, lungs working overtime, the taste of salt and satisfaction heavy in the air between them.

Then gravity reasserts itself, and they collapse into each other like puzzle pieces finally finding their proper place. Her head finds the hollow of his shoulder. His arm wraps around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer. Their legs tangle beneath the sheets until it's impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

Sanctuary. That's what this feels like — not just the physical tangle of limbs, but the quiet aftermath, the way her breathing gradually syncs with his, the way the frantic edge of need settles into something deeper, warmer.

They stay like that as minutes tick by unmarked. As the Mazzy Star album loops back to the beginning. As the mac and cheese grows cold and forgotten on the floor.

Until eventually — inevitably — the world starts to creep back in. Phone notifications. Schedule reminders. The soft knock of responsibility at their door, patient but insistent.

But not yet. For now, there's only this: her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest, his lips pressed to her temple, and the rare, perfect stillness of having exactly what they need.

Three

The backstage area buzzes with controlled chaos — crew members hauling equipment, sound techs calling out levels, the distant rumble of fans already gathering outside the venue. But tucked away in the narrow corridor between the green room and the stage entrance, Noah has Talia pressed against the concrete wall, one hand braced beside her head, the other skimming the curve of her waist.

"We shouldn't be doing this here," she breathes against his mouth, but she's the one who pulled him into this alcove, fingers twisted in the front of his shirt.

"I know." He kisses her anyway, slow and thorough despite the time crunch, despite the fact that anyone could walk by and see them. He can't help himself — not when she tastes like mint toothpaste and something uniquely her, not when the afternoon is still humming between them like a live wire.

Her hands slide up his chest, and he feels the exact moment she melts into him, tension bleeding out of her shoulders as she gives in to this gravitational pull they can't seem to escape. The kiss deepens, turns desperate, and he's losing himself in the soft sound she makes when his thumb finds the sliver of skin where her shirt has ridden up.

"Noah Sebastian, what the hell—"

They spring apart like teenagers caught by parents, both breathless and flushed. Jolly stands at the mouth of the corridor, guitar slung over his shoulder, expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement.

"Sound check. Now." Jolly jerks his head toward the stage. "Matt's already pissed because you were late, and if you miss your cue on Dethrone, he's going to lose his shit entirely."

Noah runs a hand through his hair, trying to look less like he was just devouring Talia. 

“Two minutes.” Noah says. 

“Now.” Jolly repeats, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that reminds Noah of a father.

Talia straightens her shirt, cheeks pink but chin lifted in a stubborn way he’s already memorized, “Go. I should probably be working too.”

“NOAH!” Matt’s voice booms from the stage, sharp with irritation.

“Fuck.” Noah leans down and presses a kiss to the corner of Talia’s lips. “I’ll see you soon.”

“I know.”

He turns away then, hustling after Jolly in double time towards the wings. As he steps on stage, he throws a look over his shoulder to see Talia adjusting her lens a few feet a way.

Always there. Always ready. 

Four

At most times, Noah would hate an equipment malfunction. That meant delays, it meant longer nights, it meant stress and chaos spiraling through every carefully planned moment of a show.

But tonight Noah finds this setback to be a blessing. Because this time, it means more time with her.

And who is he to complain about that?

The announcement had crackled through the venue's ancient PA system fifteen minutes ago—something about a blown fuse in the lighting rig, twenty-minute delay minimum. While Matt paced the hallway barking orders into his headset and the crew scrambled to fix whatever had gone wrong, Noah had found himself searching for the one person who could make waiting feel like a gift instead of a punishment.

He'd found her in the green room, camera abandoned on the battered couch, looking lost in the sudden stillness after hours of controlled chaos. The moment their eyes met across the cramped space, he'd known they were both thinking the same dangerous thing.

Now they're locked in the green room bathroom together, the flimsy door handle turned with more hope than confidence. It smells of industrial bleach and whoever's hairspray is still lingering in the stale air, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the way Talia's breathing has gone shallow and quick, the way her pupils are blown wide in the harsh fluorescent light that flickers intermittently above them.

Noah has her pinned against the door, his mouth moving along the line of her throat like he's trying to memorize the salt-sweet taste of her skin. The door rattles slightly under her weight, and somewhere in the back of his mind he registers that anyone walking by could hear it, could put two and two together. But then she makes this soft, breathy sound that goes straight to his cock, and rational thought dissolves entirely.

One of her hands is buried in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp in a way that makes him groan against her collarbone. The other has found its way past his belt, fingers dipping teasingly into the waistband of his pants, and the combination of her touch and the knowledge that they're stealing this moment makes his blood run molten.

"Let me take care of you," Talia whispers, her voice rough with want and barely contained desperation. Her fingers trace the line of his hip bone, so close to where he needs her most that his hips buck involuntarily.

And suddenly, the world tilts. Noah finds himself spun around, pressed against the door that moments ago held her captive, the cool metal against his back a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his skin. Talia is sinking to her knees in one fluid motion, and the sight of her — eyes dark with lust and want, hair already mussed from his fingers — nearly undoes him before she even touches him.

She stares up at him like he's something sacred and sinful all at once, and when she catches her bottom lip between her teeth while fumbling with his belt buckle, chills race down his spine like lightning. The metallic clink of the buckle seems impossibly loud in the small space, echoing off the tiled walls.

His hands shake as he reaches down to help her, fingers clumsy with desperation and the knowledge that they're running on borrowed time. He can't tear his eyes away from her — not when his pants slide down his thighs with a whisper of fabric, not when the cool air hits his heated skin, not when his cock springs free, hard and aching and so desperate for her touch it's almost painful.

Talia wraps her hand around him, and the first contact makes his head fall back against the door with a soft thud. Her palm is warm, slightly rough from years of handling camera equipment, and she gives him a few slow, teasing pumps that have his hips jerking forward involuntarily.

"Fuck," he breathes, the word barely audible, and her eyes flicker back up to his — dark and knowing and absolutely wicked. Then she takes the tip of him into her mouth, and Noah's entire world narrows to the sensation of her lips wrapped around him.

Her mouth is warm and wet and perfect, her lips like heaven as they stretch around him. The first gentle suction makes his knees nearly buckle, and he has to brace one hand against the door frame to keep from sliding down the wall entirely. The fluorescent light above them flickers again, casting intermittent shadows that make the moment feel stolen from reality itself.

Noah lets out a soft groan that he tries desperately to muffle, threading his fingers through her dark hair and guiding her further down. The silky strands slip between his fingers like water, and when she hums around him — a low, appreciative sound that vibrates through his entire body — his hips begin to move involuntarily.

She takes him deeper, her throat relaxing around him, and soon he's hitting the back of her throat with each shallow thrust. The wet heat of her mouth, the way her tongue works against the underside of his cock, the sight of her on her knees looking up at him through her lashes — it's too much, all of it too much.

He won't last long. Not like this. Not when every nerve ending is on fire, not when he can feel her moaning around him like he's the best thing she's ever tasted, like she's getting as much pleasure from this as he is.

And then they both hear it — voices in the green room, muffled but distinct through the thin bathroom door.

"...seen Noah?" one voice asks, and Noah's blood turns to ice water even as Talia's mouth continues its devastating work.

Another voice answers, clearer now, definitely Folio: "Probably off sticking his tongue down Talia's throat somewhere. They're so in love, it's disgusting."

The words hit Noah like a physical blow, not because they're wrong, but because they're so completely, terrifyingly right. His fingers tighten involuntarily in Talia's hair, and she pulls back just enough to look up at him, her lips swollen and slick, eyes wide with the same realization that's currently short-circuiting his brain.

They're caught between panic and arousal, between the very real possibility of discovery and the fact that neither of them wants to stop. The voices outside continue their casual conversation, completely unaware that the subjects of their teasing are mere feet away, hearts hammering and trying not to breathe too loudly.

Then there's a knock at the door — so loud and sharp it might as well be gunfire in the suffocating silence they've been drowning in.

The sound ricochets through Noah's skull like a physical blow. Talia jerks back instantly, releasing him with a soft, wet sound that makes his whole body shudder with unfulfilled need. She's on her feet before he's even processed what's happening, one hand smoothing down her hair while the other swipes at her lips — erasing the evidence of what they were just doing with practiced efficiency that somehow makes this feel both more real and more dangerous.

Noah's hands shake violently as he fumbles with his belt, his fingers refusing to cooperate while his heart hammers against his ribs like it's trying to escape. His pants feel foreign on his body, the fabric rough against oversensitive skin, and he has to bite down hard on his bottom lip to keep from making a sound that would give them away completely.

"Yeah, just give me a second," he manages, and his voice comes out surprisingly steady despite the fact that his entire world just tilted sideways. There's a pause — eternal, suffocating — before footsteps retreat down the hallway, casual and unhurried, completely unaware of the chaos they've just interrupted.

The silence that follows feels different now. Charged. Electric with the ghost of what almost happened and the promise of what's still hanging between them, unfinished and desperate.

When Noah finally looks up, Talia is already watching him. Her lips are swollen and pink, her hair slightly mussed despite her efforts to smooth it, and there's something wild and untamed flickering in her dark eyes that makes his breath catch all over again. But it's the smirk that's slowly spreading across her face that nearly undoes him — wicked and knowing and absolutely unrepentant.

He feels that same expression pulling at the corners of his own mouth, dangerous and conspiratorial, like they're sharing the world's most delicious secret.

Two realizations crash into him simultaneously, with the force of cold water and lightning:

They've just gotten away with something so deliciously, recklessly wicked that his pulse is still racing from more than just interrupted pleasure.

And this — this stolen moment, this desperate hunger, this complete loss of control — it's only the beginning. Whatever's building between them isn't going to be satisfied by stolen minutes in bathroom stalls. It's going to consume them both, and Noah finds himself both terrified and thrilled by just how much he wants to let it.

---

So, a miracle has happened. We haven't left for our trip yet. I decided to post what I have of chapter eight last minute. I hope you enjoy, it's the filthiest thing I've written so far.

As always, thank you to Halen, Wolfe, and Stella for everything they do for the fic.

Chapter Seven | Chapter Nine

Masterlist

You can find the offical playlist here.

You can find this on AO3 here.