#rucking exercises

[howtoruck]

Training grip strength while rucking? I hit San Angelo State Park with 100 lb hand grippers and a 50 lb vest. This is how you build strength you can actually use.

[comatosebunny09]

not quite human [ 01 ] | sylus

— summary: the led in his temple whirls a soft yellow before returning to its usual, tranquil blue. “my name is sylus.” it doesn’t sound as silly coming from him. rolls off his tongue like the steady push and pull of waves against the shoreline. it’s comforting in a way. disarming. maybe you’re not as bad at naming things as you think.

— cw: reader implied to be femme, gendered terms, alcohol, profanity, sarcasm, innuendoes, allusions to robot sex, sylus is an android, futuristic au

— notes: heavily influenced by detroit: become human, @asirensrage, and my own horny, thirsty thoughts. tysm for reading. please enjoy! [ part 02 ]

Stiff.

You crave something stiff to ease the ache between your shoulders, the grind of your teeth, and the pounding in your temples as you step into the car garage’s elevator. 

You let your shoulders drop with an exhale as the doors slip shut after punching your desired floor into the holographic panel. The lift lightly jostles to begin its ascent. You close your eyes against the blaring, fluorescent lights overhead, leaning against the rail, your head colliding with the wall behind with a muted thunk. 

Days like these, you come closer and closer to dropping your resignation letter. You should feel fortunate—you have a job in a world where unemployment is on the rise. Doesn’t mean a desk job is as cushy as it seems. You have carpal tunnel and a splitting migraine as testament to your woes. Plus, you don’t drink enough water. Dumb ass.

The elevator reaches its destination, a tinny, mellifluous voice announcing your floor from the intercom overhead. As if you shoulder the world, you drag yourself from the lift, stalking through the quiet, sepia-toned hallway like something undead.

You picture the bottle of Don Julio waiting for you on your counter. Can practically taste it as you round the bend towards your apartment. But something brown and bulky catches your eye, obscuring your door and slowing your steps.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, squinting as you approach it. You step around the ominous box to scrutinize it further. It’s so huge that it barely grazes the top of your doorframe and is almost the width of it. 

You don’t recall ordering anything, especially something so massive. You scour the box’s surface for any indication of where it could’ve come from—a return address, a telltale logo, a note. Something. When your search doesn’t yield any answers, you sigh, stomping your feet and flailing your arms around like a child.

“I don’t have time for this,” you say through a glower, slipping off your bag. 

The box obstructs your apartment, so you have one of two choices: shove it out of the way into the midst of the hallway for someone else to deal with, or muscle it through your door and deal with it inside. The former seems like it’ll take more effort, given that there’s little to no wiggle room between the cut of your doorframe and the box for you to squeeze into. 

Resigned, you drop your bag and ruck up your sleeves. After unlocking your door with your biometrics, the soft spill of clean linen and lavender from inside motivating you, you prepare yourself to shove this ridiculously huge thing into your home.

Your intentions are good. But it’s so fucking heavy, it barely budges an inch. 

“What the fuck!” you grate, kicking the box as if it’ll solve all your problems. That proves to be a mistake, and you comically hop around, clutching your smarting foot.

You glare at the box when the pain subsides, caught in a stare down with an inanimate object like a cowboy in an old, filmy western. You’re no bitch. Sure, you really should exercise more—you’ve been paying for a gym membership for the past year that you haven’t touched. Maybe this wouldn't be such a task if you had a bit more muscle. But you refuse to be bested by a fucking box. A box that stands between you and a stiff one.

So, you shove, shimmy, and tilt it every way you can until you’ve managed to get it through your doorframe and into your home. I’m proud of myself, you think as you dust off your hands like you’ve done some real work. You only cried twice, had one existential crisis, one meltdown, and you didn’t have to call the fire department to help you this time. You’re making progress.

You slip past the enormous thing, nearly losing a nipple in the process. Kick off your heels, the motion-sensing lights triggering as you make a beeline for your minibar. You snatch up a whiskey glass and your decanter, watching the liquid gold slosh about like a man deprived of water in the desert. 

Panting, you down the contents of the glass in one go. It’s a good burn, a reward for all your efforts, and you sweep some sweat-slicked hair out of your face, leaning against your counter to catch your breath. It is here that you take time to appraise the box, wishing you could burn holes into the damn thing with your glare alone. 

Whoever sent this is trying to fuck with you, you just know it. You haven’t a clue what’s inside, and you’re not even sure if it’s yours. But you put in all this effort to shoulder it into your home. So, you snatch up a box cutter from your miscellaneous utility drawer, brandishing it as you approach the box like a maniac about to carve up someone’s face.

You cut away at the tape securing the edges, cackling like a madwoman. Jared Leto would be proud. You pull and snatch at the cardboard, the sound of the carnage, the only noise inhabiting your still apartment. When you’ve eviscerated the box, packing popcorn and plastic strips strewn everywhere like entrails, you’re met with a white, featureless pod inside. 

It’s half the size of the box it came in, the jaundiced gleam of your entryway light bouncing off its pristine surface. Suspicious, you hop back to squint at it. If it were a bomb, it surely would’ve gone off by now, what with you shaking the damn thing like a vending machine refusing to give you candy. What on earth could this be? And why the fuck do you have it?

Shrugging, you approach the pod, poking at it with a broom and a pot lid held to your face as a makeshift shield. The pod doesn’t respond to your prodding—no surprise there. You toss down your weapons, and with anxiety welling in your throat, you smooth your hands over the pod’s cool surface, searching for an entry point. 

You trigger something in your exploration, a light beep causing you to stiffen. You scramble back as the pod whirs to life, hissing with an exhalation of air, smoke pouring from its seams. 

Fuck, you think, squeezing your eyes shut, this might be the end. And to think, you’ve watched so many horror movies telling you why you shouldn’t touch ominous shit. Oh well. You’ve lived a good life. Although, you’re still low-key upset you didn’t get to try shrooms at least once. 

The smoking and hissing subside, and you cough in their wake, waving your hand to ward them off. You open an eye, the pod’s door fully raised, and as the fog clears, you’re met with the sight of…a man, curled up inside in the fetal position like a Pokémon. 

“Um?” 

You kneel before this being that looks too big to be stuffed into the pod like an action figure, and you study him. 

A riotous mop of white hair sits atop his head, though it’s coiffed in a way that works for him. His eyes are closed beneath manicured, silver brows, peacefully fringed by dark lashes. You next notice his nose, carved in a Roman god’s image. Full, rouge lips sit amid chiseled features, stretched over summery skin. Despite the alarm bells ringing in your head, you poke his cheek, surprised to feel your nail sinking into what feels like flesh. 

“Oh no. He’s hot.”

His physique shows through the tailored hug of his suit, like a man destined to work on a farm, tending to horses, or a fruit stand. Further scrutiny yields something that makes your lips purse. The telltale, blue armband glows on his bicep. You shoot up as if taking a hot poker in the ass.

“An android?” you query under your breath, thoroughly confused. “The fuck do I need one of these for?” 

Tapping your lip, you pace your living room, scrolling through the catalog of your mind for who could’ve possibly sent you a gift from CyberLife. And an expensive one, at that. You’ve seen this model before—a prototype advertised on every billboard and mode of public transport in the city, yet to be released to the masses. Only three of them have been created so far. How’d you manage to get your hands on one of them?

You snatch up your phone, urgently swiping through your contacts. You think maybe it’s your mother’s doing. She’s known for sending you spur-of-the-moment shit. But she can’t navigate her way around a phone without help, let alone figure out how to order you a top-of-the-line Ken doll.

Maybe it’s your father. But he’d rather chew glass than send you anything practical. Your friends, maybe? They could’ve scrounged some money together to buy you a gift. They have been bitching about you needing to get laid, and what better way to orchestrate that than by sending a fucking sex bot?

Before you can draw up the group chat, the whirring of machinery and fans makes you jolt, your phone clattering on the floor. Your attention snaps to the source of the sound, another plume of smoke pouring from the pod to obscure the sight of your new…friend. 

If you die from smoke inhalation, you’re going to haunt these halls and tip every painting in every apartment sideways just to fuck with people. 

When the new cloud of mist dissipates, you’re ramrod stiff and petrified in the face of this skyscraper of a man. 

He smells of sterile walls and clean oil, his face an impassive mask as he takes in his surroundings with striking, scarlet eyes. His model number glows a serene white on his right breast pocket, CyberLife’s triangular logo pulsing on the left. As if it weren’t already obvious he was a bot, a small, circular LED gleams blue on his temple to signify that he’s…on? Operational? Scaring you shitless?

When he’s done processing his surroundings, those sharp eyes land on you. And you would shit yourself if not for the facsimile of a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. It’s like it hurts him. Doesn’t at all look natural amid his insanely handsome features. 

“Um,” you start, waving a cautious hand, “hi?”

“Hello,” he says, the pleasant purr of his voice curdling low in your stomach. “I am a fourth-generation SLX900 Android. I can look after your house, cook, mind your children, and organize your appointments.”

You watch him with your mouth spilling open as he goes through his initialization spiel. He’s broad-shouldered and big, and you bite your lip against a laugh, imagining this hulk of a machine in your kitchen in a frilly, pink apron, scrubbing your dishes. 

“I speak 300 languages, and I am entirely at your disposal as a sexual partner—”

Heat blooms in your face. You wave your hands frantically, signifying that he skips past the intimate bits. You’re down atrocious, but you don’t think you’d ever fuck an android. Not that he doesn’t look breedable. Besides, how do they even—

“No need to feed or recharge me. I am equipped with a quantum battery that makes me autonomous for 173 years.” The android straightens, clasping his hands together behind his back. “Would you like to give me a name?”

The way he recites his lines with such cold, indifferent precision makes a thrill echo down your spine. You know that CyberLife designed these things to be as human-like as possible. You’ve worked with a few of them; their uncanny valley composure gives you the heebie jeebies. 

Despite the calm burr of his voice, there’s something about him—something spuming beneath the layers of circuitry and memory cards and wiring—that unsettles you.

So hung up in your ruminations, you forget that he asked you a question.

“Would you like to give me a name?” he parrots, tone as even as the first time. 

“Um, yeah, sure…”

You tap your chin in thought, studying the incandescent lights overhead as if they can yield you an answer. Names have never been your forte. If it were up to you, you’d call everything as you saw it—Hey, I’m gonna name you Plant. You? Plant 2. And you? Dickhead. 

You don’t know how the name comes to you, but you regurgitate it before you can give it much thought. “Sylus.”

The LED in his temple whirls a soft yellow before returning blue. That terrifying smile reemerges, splitting his face in twain like The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. You flinch, wishing he’d never smile like that again.

“My name is Sylus.” It doesn’t sound as silly coming from him. Rolls off his tongue like the steady push and pull of waves against the shoreline. It’s comforting in a way. Disarming.

He blinks after the grin slips from his mouth, traded for something less creepy. Scans over you as if committing your face to his internal storage. His lips slightly part, hovering over a question. Had you known any better, you’d have mistaken him for being pensive.

“And what might I call you, Miss?”

You give him your name, toying with your fingers like a shy teen. He repeats it like a gentle praise, rolling the syllables around in his mouth. The heat in your skin burns tenfold. Why does everything this guy says sound so fucking hot?

A few moments escape between the pair of you. You’re looking everywhere but at him, suddenly feeling self-conscious beneath his calculating gaze. The light whir of his internal fans competes with that of your pulsing heart. 

You laugh nervously, attempting to break the tension. “So, uh…what do I do with you? Do I, like, water you like a plant? Am I not supposed to feed you past midnight, or…”

He chuckles, the sound of it more human-like than anything he’s said thus far. “I can do whatever you need me to do. I am at your disposal.” 

Don’t know why, but your mind automatically goes to the gutter. Get it together, you hornball. Horny jail for you. Bonk! 

The tense silence stretches for a beat longer. Your newest guest surveys your living room with quiet judgment. “Why don’t I begin with straightening up your home? Would that be a good place to start?”

You blanch. Your living room looks like utter shit. Clothes sit on every surface like your dryer threw up—they’re clean, you swear. Errant bowls and drinking glasses litter your coffee table and kitchen island. A few cartons of Chinese takeout sit on your counter like decorations. You’re mortified. Sure, he’s a machine. But you would die if anyone saw you living like this, machine or not. 

“Heh…I swear, it’s not normally like this. I’ve been working, ya know? Don’t really have time to clean.”

Sylus smirks, a dimple cratering his synthetic cheek. That looks more genuine than that constipated shit he gave you earlier. “Well, that is where I come in, Miss. I won’t judge you for your questionable habits. It’s not in my programming.”

You watch the android step off, bending to turn on your robotic vacuum cleaner before getting to work. He moves around your home with efficient grace, a rehearsed ease as he tidies up as if that’s his sole purpose.

Something warm spills into your belly. You’ve never been one to stand idly by while people take care of you. Never been one to keep your hands clean, always itching to help in any way possible. Burning to feel useful. So, you start picking up your home with your shiny new android friend, working beside him in somewhat comfortable harmony.

Maybe he isn’t such a terrible surprise after all. That logic goes out the window when he picks up one of your thongs, twirling it around his slender figure with a smug shine to his eyes. 

You snatch it from him, telling him to leave the clothes to you, burning like a tea kettle. CyberLife thought of everything, didn’t they?

Crickets chirp beyond your window, chorusing with the steady rustle of the grass and leaves. The moon sits high in the inky sky, stars dotting the violet canvas like spilled milk. The city outside bustles with nightlife, androids and humans walking the streets side by side as if they’ve always coexisted in monotonous harmony.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

[Sneak Peek]

Southern Hospitality

Summary: Sort of a synopsis. An introduction of Terry. This sneak peek will be two parts.

Warnings: Violence, Smut

Terry Richmond entered the basement of his townhome in Charlotte, North Carolina and opened his ruck. After a long, harsh winter, he decided to organize some things to prepare for Spring. Swiping dust off of totes with his calloused hands, he situated himself on his knees for a better look. There, folded neatly on top, were his old cammies. Desert cammies. Ratty and bleached by sand and sun and blemished with the petroleum rain that fell from the oil-well fires in Kuwait.

Terry rose to a standing position again, shaking out the camo pants. He slipped off his black ball shorts and stepped into them, memories suddenly returning. They still fit. He can’t shake the habit of staying in the best shape and active, especially with him being an MCMAP Instructor. During his earlier years as a Marine Raider, he exercised thirty hours a week. He buttoned the top and stroked the embroidery. Honorary pins still clung to the fabric.

Terry delve deeper and pulled out maps of Kuwait and Saudi Arabia. Patrol books. Pictures. Letters. His journal with its sparse entries. Coalition propaganda pamphlets. Brass bore punch for the M40A2 sniper rifle. A handful of .50 caliber projectiles. Terry wondered what he must look like to the late night walker passing by his basement windows: the mad old warrior going through his memorabilia, triggering his unresolved PTSD and looking for trouble.

No, he isn’t mad. Some days are better than others, but he isn’t mad. He’s after something. Memory, yes. A reel. More than just time. It’s almost a year since. Just at the end of April he’d be turning thirty–three. And a year prior he spent it with his fellow soldiers over drinks that lead to him dropping nine inches of whopping girth in seasoned pussy. Flashes of her haunted his mind like the sound of grenades and cries of pain. Then his thoughts drifted to a vibrant thing that wanted to see the world. Using his pleasure stick for her own no good reasons.

And there, amongst many photos with comrades, is the man that saw something in him. His own version of a super soldier. Like a son he never had. Terry blinked slowly as his thick fingers smoothed over the edges of the photograph…

August, 2021:

Lieutenant General Swanwick’s authoritarian voice could be heard over the public address system within the base gym. Terry Richmond was currently lifting a few hundred pounds over his chest with another Marine named Rodney spotting him. Terry was just twenty–nine years old then. Sweat poured from his body and onto the gym floor and his dog tags clung to his chest as if his sweat were glue.

Terry blew air from his cheeks that sounded like the low whistle of an exhaust pipe, “Six…seven…eight—”

“All personnel from MARSOC are ordered to report immediately to battalion headquarters. Get some, Raiders!”

Terry felt his chest grow tighter with anticipation. Deployment was inevitable. Terry rushed to gather himself, throwing on his tank top and buttoning his camouflage jacket. All things in order, he and the remaining MARSOC stationed in Virginia mad their way to Headquarters. He could sense the anxious energy from everyone in that room. Terry’s turquoise eyes veiled with dark lashes never blinked as Lieutenant General Swanwick’s outline of their battle against Iraqi and Kuwait unfolded. Terry gritted his teeth and tightened his jaw.

It’s war time.

On August 8th, the MARSOC arrive in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Terry debarked the plane, the oven heat of the Arabian Desert gripping his throat. In the distance the wind blows sand from the tops of dunes, cresting beige waves that billow like silk through the mirage. The tarmac is filled with American civilian jumbo jets—American, Delta, United. They flew United. The scene at the airfield is how any busy international airport would be, only they were dressed in fatigues and carrying loaded rifles, their gas masks strapped to their hips.

Just beyond the tarmac, artillery batteries point their guns East and North. Fighter jets patrol the sky. During the dreaded twenty–hour flight, their mode of debarkation was debated—tactical or general—and Terry hoped for a tactical approach—live rounds and a defensive perimeter could be the only authentic introduction to a theater of war. They marched in a single–filed line towards a series of large, bright green Bedouin tents. They entered and immediately went to retrieve bottled water and attempt to stay cool by draping wet skivvy shirts over their heads.

“Ya’ll better drink up enough water. I don’t need my Raiders passing out from heat stroke when we gotta keep our eyes open and on our targets,” Swanwick drilled.

His hat remained low enough to cloak his eyes, giving him a no–nonsense look. He meant business. Terry caught his eye while gulping down cold water. Swanwick motioned for him to come over. Terry came face–to–face with the Lieutenant General.

“Aight there, son?” Swanwick quietly said.

“I’m chill, Lieutenant,” Terry replied with confidence.

“Good to hear. Don’t let these fools throw you off your game, Richmond. You’re one of the best. And I need you alive.”

“After a rigorous seven–months to transform into the elite, I don’t plan on it.”

“That’s right,” Swanwick gripped Terry’s shoulder firm, “now, let’s show ‘em who we are.”

Terry cracked a smile filled with hunger for what was to come. He knew just how much the others despised his presence. Some felt he wasn’t worthy or qualified to be among them.

After an hour in the tents, colonel calls a battalion formation and proudly announces that they are taking part in Operation Desert Shield. He explains that the Kuwaiti–Iraqi conflict in not yet their concern, but currently their mission is to protect, to shield, Saudi Arabia and her flowing oil–fields. Low grumbles could be heard throughout.

“HEY. Not every day blood is shed!”

Terry chuckled while kicking away at sand beneath his boots. He was surrounded by a bunch of antsy men. That energy alone could get them killed.

“One step at a time,” Swanwick motioned to his men, “Let’s get to it.”

They dispersed to get a sense of the area, laughing amongst themselves with jokes about going from the Marine Corps to Oil Corps. Beneath the loud sounds of chuckles and belly laughs, they knew that reality was near, and death could be knocking on their door. Terry’s laughter drifted away like the swirling sand that painted his golden skin an ashy color.

As days stretched out, it consisted of sand and water and piss. They walk and drive over the sand and drink gallons of water. Six times a day they gathered for formation and swallowed two canteens per man, and between formation they consumed more water.

Six weeks later and Terry found himself sitting in a chow hall and watching Lieutenant General Swanwick talk closely with other high ranking officers. Terry tucked into his beans and sausages with a steady gaze locked on their table. His skin had browned so deep it was akin to burnished bronze. It made his eyes pop vividly and the ink on his arms more bold and daring.

His eyes were dry and irritated from staring at maps all day, his muscles ached from the makeshift equipment they used to pump iron. He grew tired of sleeping amongst men that couldn’t go a night without jacking off to crumbled polaroids of their women back home. Terry wanted to get in the field. He’d already gotten into several fights and the skin beneath his left eye had just began to heal from a nasty bruise.

Swanwick’s shoulders tensed. What could that mean? Were they heading for battle? He watched the father figure walk away and out of the chow hall. Terry scarfed down the rest of his meal before cleansing his palate with water. He made his way towards the exit in search of Swanwick. He was standing a few feet away, staring up at the full moon. Terry glanced up himself, his eyes taking in the pale white moon. It was beauty surrounded by an impending chaos.

“Lieutenant General…”

Swanwick glanced over his shoulder.

“Richmond. Enjoy your meal?”

“You can only have but so much beans.” Terry complains.

“Good fiber fuels the body.” Swanwick replied.

A stillness surrounded them for a minute.

“What we lookin’ like, Sir?”

Swanwick dipped his head.

“Can’t tell you much…but it’s looking like rifles at the ready.”

Terry’s back stiffened.

“I know that’s music to your ears, soldier.”

“Music to all our ears.”

No showers, no rack, no wadi in sight, no oasis.

Terry needed to feel as if his skills were being used. Tested. He felt trapped. Isolated.

Sergeant James and Lieutenant General Swanwick gathered the platoon in a school circle under the plastic infrared cover. It’s before zero nine and already one hundred degrees.

Their platoon commands three Humvees, and the vehicles are under IR cover. Ideally, weapons, vehicles, and personnel shielded under the netting will avoid detection by enemy infrared devices. Terry wasn’t convinced. Why believe in the effectiveness of IR netting when the drink tube on your gas mask breaks every time you don–and–clear during a training nerve–gas raid? When the best maintenance for the PRC–76 radio, the Prick, is the Five–Foot Drop?

Apparently, press will visit for a few days, and Sergeant James and Lieutenant General Swanwick already recited a list of unacceptable topics. No divulging data concerning capabilities of their sniper rifles or optics and the length and intensity of their training. They’ve been ordered to act like top Marines, patriots, shit–hot hard dicks, the best of the battalion. As the scout/snipers, they’ve been handpicked by the executive officer and the s–2 officer to serve as the eyes and ears of the battalion commander.

“Listen up,” James says, “I’ve gone over this already, but the Lieutenant wants to go over it again. Basically, don’t get specific. Say you can shoot from far away. Say you are highly trained, that there are no better shooters in the world than Marine Snipers. Say you’re excited to be here and you believe in the mission and that we’ll annihilate the Iraqis. Take off your shirts and show your muscles. We’re gonna run through some calisthenics for them. Doc John, give us a RAIDERS workout. Keep it simple, snipers.”

Terry spoke, “it ain’t simple. This is censorship. You’re telling me what I can and can’t say to the press? Why are they even allowed in this space anyway?”

Kuehn, a fellow marine says, “Not our place to say what we can and can’t do—”

“Wasn’t addressing you, Kuehn.” Terry quipped.

“I speak for all of us when I say this. You got a mouth on you, Richmond.” Kuehn argued back.

“Aight now,” Swanwick warned.

The tension between the Marines grew to a fever pitch.

“Oh, so you the voice of war now, huh? You call the shots? How that happen?”

Soft chuckles coming from the other Marines seemed to embarrass Kuehn.

“Shut the fuck up, Richmond! You don’t even belong here!” Kuehn shouted ragefully.

“My reputation for accuracy says otherwise, Kuehn. But you wouldn’t know about that though. Too much piss on your boots.”

The chuckling intensified.

Kuehn approached Terry with his chest puffed out. Terry stood at 6 '3 with his arms folded, towering over a 5' 9 Kuehn. The tallest man there. Terry’s stony eyes never faltered. Beady glacial–blue eyes stared up at him filled with rage. Kuehn’s usual pasty, alabaster skin was sun–burned and red from the scorching Saudi heat.

“You think you’re better than me, Richmond?! Huh?!”

“I know I am, pissy boots—”

“RICHMOND!” Sergeant James shouted.

Kuehn wouldn’t get out of Terry’s personal space.

“Don’t get your ass beat again, Kuehn, get up out my face—”

Kuehn shoves Terry and immediately a fight breaks out. Fists flying with connecting punches and heavy grunts. The circle widened and cheers amongst fellow Raiders drowned out the high ranking officers trying to call it off. Terry forced Kuehn into a headlock and slammed him to the sand, his eyes suddenly burning from the minerals coating his lashes. He repeatedly punched Kuehn, causing him to shield his face with his forearms. It took three men to get Terry off of him.

Terry was ushered into one of the green tents by a frustrated Lieutenant.

“RICHMOND! STAND DOWN!”

Shirt bundled up revealing a taunt six–pack, bottom lip poked out and bleeding from a hairline slit, face dusty and jet black hair stained with sand, he kept his fists balled and his eyes locked on Kuehn as he was lifted from the ground.

“You lost your mind, Boy?!”

Sergeant James marched up to Terry and pressed his face so close to his Terry could smell the nicotine on his breath.

“Swanwick you better get your star pupil in line before I do. You put your hands on Kuehn again, I’ll send you back to Virginia, understand?”

Terry remained silent with fury. Only his heavy breathing could be heard.

“Terry?” Swanwick called out to him, “You hear that?”

“Yes, Sir Serg.” Terry said through gritted teeth.

“You don’t like my orders?”

Swanwick pressed a firm hand against James’ chest.

“I got it, James. We’ll be out.”

James’ lethal gaze never left Terry as he backed away. Terry didn’t falter.

“What was that, Richmond?” Swanwick whispered.

“Self–defense. Kuehn put his hands on me first, Lieutenant. You don’t see Serg talking to him do you? I know what it is…”

Swanwick shut his eyes.

“Which means that you gotta be on your best behavior. I want you to succeed, Richmond. I already know you're the best of the Veteran Raiders. Stop letting them get to your head.”

Terry was released. He fixed his army green T-shirt that clung to his body like a second skin from the sweat. He rearranged the dog tags hanging from his neck. Swanwick grasped his shoulder.

“Terry…”

“I got it.”

Swanwick hesitated before stepping aside while Terry walked out of the tent with his usual gait. Just as he was attempting to simmer his anger, Sergeant James was giving another speech.

“…You do as you're told. You signed the contract. You have no rights, you can’t speak out against your country. We call that treason. You can be shot for it. Goddamnit, we’re not playing around. Training is over. Tell your complaints to Abdul Latif Rashid. See if he cares.”

He bit his tongue. Terry wanted to come to the defense of free speech, but he knew it would be useless. The language they own is not theirs, it is not a private language, but deprived from Marine Corps history and lore and tactics.

The Marine Corps birthday? 10 November 1775, The Marine Corps is older than the United States of America. Birthplace? Tun Tavern, Philadelphia, a gang of drunks and big balls. Tarawa? Bloodiest battle of WWII. Dan Daly? He killed thirty–seven Chinese by hand during the Boxer Rebellion. Deadliest weapon on earth? The marine and his rifle. Terry had to conform to those standards, speak like it.

Reporters are arriving to ask what they thought about the desert, waiting for war. He’ll answer that he likes it; he’s prepared for anything that might come his way. They’re due at their position by 0900. Terry leaves the free speech argument and walked to their straddle trench. He needed to empty his bowels. There’s no seat in a straddle trench, but he’s been punished many times, for hours on end, in the squat position. It reminded him of Korea, where he spent a month of his last deployment. Most public restrooms in Korea had straddle holes, he’d spent many times there emptying the contents of his stomach after walking away from a bar booth.

Terry looked at the sky, blue like no blue he’d known before, and at the desert that would not stop. This is the pain of the landscape, worse than the heat, worse than the flies—there is no getting out of the land. No stopping. After six weeks of deployment, the desert is in him, one particle at a time—his boots and belt and pants and gas mask and weapons are covered and filled with sand. Sand invaded his body: ears and eyes and nose and mouth and piss hole. The desert is everywhere. The mirage is everywhere. Awake, asleep, high heat of the afternoon or the few soft, sunless hours of early morning.

The destination to free Kuwait.

The following day, the press–pool colonel and his driver wait in the Land Rover, the air–conditioning blowing the colonel’s hair into fine white wisps of artillery smoke. Terry nibbled on his full bottom lip, gnawing at the tender spot where he’d been clipped while fighting Kuehn. He wore his blacked–out shades, a white tank, and his camouflage pants with sand–covered boots. They gathered under the IR netting and the reporters introduced themselves. There’s a man from the Boston Globe and the woman from the New York Times.

Terry recognized the woman

Toccara Chester. Broadcast and Political Reporter and Journalist. She’s committed to factual reporting, but known for being competitive and headstrong, which tended to rub people the wrong way.

Terry aligned himself next to Rodney, a friend and fellow Marine. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked around him before focusing his gaze on Toccara. They took turns going down the line, shaking hands and urging them to speak freely, but they know about the scripted preparation. The answers to their questions have already been written on the Raiders faces, though maybe not in their hearts. Toccara Chester looked bored, or at least not very interested in what they might tell her.

She stood before Terry, reaching out a hand to shake his. He glanced down at her almond–shaped nails painted red. She wore a white tank as well, her layered blunt cut hair swept away from her face. Fitted, khaki cargo pants hugged her hour–glass shape and hiking boots in various earth–toned colors were on her feet. The beauty mark on her right cheek made her look glamorous like those old Hollywood actress’. A small smile teased her sultry lips.

“What’s your name, Marine?”

“Richmond.” Terry responded with an unreadable expression.

“I’m Toccara. Happy to be here. Looking forward to seeing how things go in your camp.”

Terry dipped his head slightly, his eyes trailing behind her as she moved on.

Rodney leans into Terry to whisper, “You see that ass on her? Fatter than I expected.”

Terry chuckled softly with a shake of his head. He never took his eyes off of Toccara as he tilted his head to whisper a reply.

“Calm down, Rod. She ain’t fuckin’ you.”

Rodney nudged Terry in his ribs.

“I ain’t have pussy in months! She just might work.”

“Chill, man,” Terry said with a laugh.

After the introductions, the MARSOC dispersed to train and perform for the reporters. Much to Terry’s displeasure. Toccara sashayed up and down that camp, recorder in hand and a camera hanging from her neck. She had a little spiral notepad in her back pocket. Beyond her aviators, Terry had a feeling she was watching him. She was positioned within his proximity too often. Like there weren’t many other Marines on duty. Swanwick and the other officers stood by with a hawk–eyed look.

Terry finished his workout and now he was busy cleaning his sniper rifle. The dainty sound of a throat clearing to gain his attention made him pause. Terry peered down over his shoulder at Toccara with her recorder at the ready, pointed at his face.

“Tryna keep from being interviewed, Terry?”

So, she got his first name, huh?

“Tryna stay on track, Toccara. If you didn’t notice by now, we’re pretty busy.”

“Mind giving me a few minutes of your time, Marine?”

Terry exhaled. Rather loud. She overlooked everything he said. Busy. As in leave him alone.

He turns, craning his neck so she could reach his mouth better.

“Go on.” Terry said.

Toccara tilted her head with a grin.

“Do you believe that your Special Ops will defeat the Iraqi?”

“Yes, ma’am, I believe in our mission. I believe we will quickly win this war and send the enemy crawling home.”

Toccara nodded her head, “Sounds like you’re proud to be here.”

“Ye, ma’am, I’m proud to be here serving my country. Standing up to evil. Take ‘em all down.”

Toccara cracked a smile, “Well rehearsed, Marine.”

Terry clenched his jaw. He glanced to the left before fixing his eyes on her again.

“Where are you from, Richmond?”

“Born in Louisiana, raised in North Carolina, ma’am.”

“Uh-huh, what made you enlist?”

“I joined when I was eighteen rather than go to jail for a few years. Petty stuff. My grandfather was a Marine. And his father. And so on. It was this or a life of wrong choices.”

“What was the petty stuff?”

Terry quirked a brow at her. Toccara stood her ground, seemingly waiting for him to speak.

“Possession. Running behind my cousin.”

“Hm…over a little weed?”

Terry couldn’t help but laugh. Toccara’s high cheekbones shown.

“How ‘bout that shit? But I’m proud of what the Corps has made me.”

“What is it about being a Marine Raider? What struck you?”

“Uh,” Terry stroked his stubble, “This is about freedom, not about oil. It’s about–it’s about standing up to aggression…”

Sergeant James took his time walking around, drawing closer to Terry. Terry caught his eye. Toccara took notice at Terry’s body language. She felt Sergeant James’ presence on her back.

“…Like the president says. Nobody wants to go to war. We just got to be ready. I can shoot out someone’s eye ball from a klick away. Ain’t no better shot in the world.”

Toccara’s expression hardened.

“Are you proud to serve this country, Terry?”

Terry huffed, “Didn’t I answer this question?”

“Not really.”

Her response was met with dry laughter, “Ha…Okay,” Terry shifted his weight, “I’m proud to serve. This is what I signed for. I’m gonna make my pop and mom proud. I’m from Lincoln Heights. My mom talkin’ bout making a parade for me like they do back in NOLA. My mama say the whole neighborhood is behind me.”

“That must make you feel good.”

“Does.”

“Is your mother scared about you being here?”

“She don’t necessarily feel good about me being here. She writes me letters about watching my ass and don’t try being a hero and watch out for my buddies.”

Terry smoothed sand beneath his feet.

“And your dad?”

Terry’s eyes met hers. There was a momentary silence, one that created tension.

“I think our interview is over, Miss Chester. I gotta head back…”

Terry turned to leave. Toccara caught up with him and grabbed his arm to pull him back. Terry exhaled a frustrated sigh. Her beautiful face with wind–swept hair pleased his blue–green eyes despite his annoyance.

“Okay, okay. Didn’t mean to strike a nerve.”

Terry licked his lips, “aight. One more question.”

“Are you afraid?”

Terry blinked slowly at her.

“…I’m well trained and prepared to fight any menace in the world.”

“…so that’s a no?” Toccara sought clarification.

“RICHMOND!”

Swanwick ushered for him to come over.

“Looks like our times up. Hope you got what you needed.”

Terry jogged away.

“I STILL HAVE TWO MORE DAYS HERE!”

Terry rolled his eyes.

The taste of pecans lingered on his tongue. The Times reporter brought a football. Rodney and a few others tossed the ball back and forth, putting on a performance for Toccara. When eye candy is hard to come by so willingly, the men tend to act a fool, so foolish it turns corny. All day while she sauntered about with her recorder held high and hips swaying, none of the Raiders could focus. Terry couldn’t deny her sexy himself. They’re shirtless and revved up with flirtatious energy. The Boston Globe reporter, a frail, young caucasian man with bifocals and a man bun, stood next to Toccara. He’s soft–spoken, eager to hear from them.

Terry sat on the hood of a war machine with his foot hiked up. Toccara’s skin the color of maple syrup didn’t take much time to deepen beneath the blazing sun. She snapped photos from her digital camera. The sun was setting and it was almost time to eat. Terry planned to have a dinner and then use the portable shower. He hated the water pressure, but it’ll do for now.

Toccara tried her hardest to get detailed answers from them, and Terry could sense the irritation in her face as the first day came to an end. Looks like she wouldn’t be getting that juicy story she was expecting. Terry hopped down from his place on the war machine and tossed his empty packet into a nearby bin. He swiped his tongue over his teeth as he strolled with his usual gait towards the chow hall. Rodney had caught up with him, sweaty and shirtless, rocking into him before tossing an arm over his shoulder. His armpit reeked of sweat and musk. Terry pushed him away, swiping the air.

Inside, they accepted their meals and took their seats. Toccara and the Boston Globe Reporter took a seat at a nearly empty table. While the Boston Globe Reporter talked, Toccara stared off into space, water canteen hovering over her lips. Terry continued to eat, drowning out the conversations surrounding him. Swanwick and the other officers laughed amongst themselves, the most relaxed they’d ever been those six weeks.

Terry peered over his cup of water and noticed Toccara was gone, leaving the Boston Reporter to his notes. Terry checked his digital watch.

“Aight, I’m heading for the showers.”

Terry hopped up before getting rid of his empty tray of food. He wiped his hands and made his way out of the chow hall and toward the tent he slept in. He entered, retrieved his towel and wash cloth with the soap he used, and made his way towards the portable showers. It wasn’t a long walk. He made sure it was clear to undress. He quickly pulled his tank up and over his head, biceps bulging and torso flexing. Terry worked on his belt buckle and pants hastily lowering them with his briefs. His soft dick with coiled pubic hair surrounding it met the warmth of the night air.

He kicked off his boots haphazardly and began his shower. The soft droplets of water covered his body from head to toe. Terry scrubbed profusely, ridding his body of the sand and grime of the day. The scent of eucalyptus rose from his soap sponge. It reminded him of his shower times back at home. Just for a second. Terry cleaned every crevice before rinsing thoroughly. He opened his mouth, allowing the water to flood through before releasing it. He knew he was damn near over his limit, but the water felt too good.

Terry turned off the water and grabbed his towel. He dabbed away the water but not completely. It kept him cool at night. Terry wrapped the towel around his waist and slipped his feet into his boots, forgetting to bring his sleep bottoms with him. He took long strides back to his tent, happy to find it empty still.

He slipped on some grey joggers, a fresh pair of socks, and dropped on his makeshift bed. There was a hole above the tent that gave him the faintest view of the moon and stars. As he star–gazed, enjoying the peace and quiet before some of his bunk mates returned, he could hear noise on the outside of his tent. Terry cut his eyes towards the opening of the tent, and noticed the silhouette of a woman.

Toccara.

Terry sat up and slipped on his boots. He had a feeling she was up to something. He gently opened the tent and looked from left to right. Everyone was still inside of the chow hall. Terry walked out and searched around the camp. As he made his way towards the weapons section of the camp, he spotted Toccara with her camera like a typical reporter doing whatever it takes to get the latest scoop.

The low flicker from her trusty camera teased his ears. Terry wasted no time charging up to her. Toccara heard his footsteps and dropped her camera in the sand. She whirled around, eyes wide with shock. Terry furrowed his brows disapprovingly. Toccara’s brown eyes did a quick sweep over his naked upper half. When she met his eyes again, she looked guilty.

“What are you doing, Toccara?” Terry asked with a tone of anger.

“Just having a look. I can do that, can’t I?” She replied sassily.

“Not when it involves taking pictures. Pictures that can compromise our mission.”

Toccara crouched down to pick up her camera but Terry was quicker. He snatched the camera out of the sand and took it upon himself to see what she’d been photographing.

“Terry! Wait!”

“You crazy?” Terry flicked his eyes towards her, “Taking pics of our shit like it’s cool?”

“It’s just guns and grenades—”

“And we’re on enemy ground. They can see this shit if it gets out, you know that, right?”

Toccara remained silent and looked everywhere but at Terry. His eyes were too intense.

“Look at me. HEY.”

Toccara snapped her attention to his.

“I’m deleting every single one.”

“That’s my property,” Toccara said with a grimace.

“And this is my shit, right here,” Terry picked up his rifle, “my rifle, my pistol. My assigned weapons. All of this shit is assigned.”

“Whatever, just hurry up asshole!”

Terry glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was nearby. He walked up to Toccara, his chest almost touching hers.

“Oh, look, he wants to scar me.” Toccara replied with sarcasm.

“You’re dead wrong. Didn’t you sign a consent agreement? I bet you didn’t read the fine print, did you?”

Toccara glared at Terry with her arms folded.

“A fine up to a couple hundred thousand. Sound like something you wanna do?”

Terry cocked his head down at her. Toccara tapped her foot. She was pissed. Visibly seething.

“Sorry, Miss New York Times, but that shit don’t fly over here.”

Terry made sure to delete them all. When he finished, Toccara reached for her camera. Terry didn’t make any moves to give it back.

“You take any more pictures, I’m breaking this shit, aight?”

Toccara’s left eyelid twitched. She flipped her hair from her face with one hand before rolling her eyes.

“I get it, okay? Now give me my fucking camera back.”

Terry hesitated. Toccara pursed her glossy lips. Finally, he held it out for her. Toccara snatched it from his grasp, eliciting a deep chuckle from his lips.

“Little dick, motherfucker.” She fired at him with a vengeful whisper.

Terry cracked a smile, amused by her. He dragged his eyes over her frame before backing away, one hand over his supposed ‘little dick’.

“Have a good rest of your evening, Miss Chester.”

Toccara turned on her heels, marching away. She was mumbling something else that Terry couldn’t make out, and it made him laugh harder. She’s used to getting her way.

Little dick.

Pssst.

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[joelmillerssugarbaby24]

Just for the Night

What yall been waiting for!!! Based on my Tik Tok imagine of Joel and you on patrol….. and there’s only one bed ;) ENJOY!!

You wake from a nightmare, clutching at your chest, eyes filled with tears that dripped to the pillow beneath your head. You sat up in your cot, running your fingers through your hair- your breath coming in short quick gasps.

It was always the same dream.

You, alone. Clickers surrounding you. Mind bending terror.

You squint out the window and note the quiet that only exists in the early hours of the morning. You had patrol today with some old guy who you’re sure would be a pain in your ass, and you decide to enjoy the serenity of the morning before your shift started.

You lug yourself out of bed, groaning at the aches and pains that accompany the movement. You’ve been training lately, hard. You never want to be caught unprepared in a life threatening situation again. So every morning and night you jog, do pushups, pull ups, everything you can to strengthen your body and ensure it never happens again. But this strenuous exercise results in it being a chore to get out of bed most mornings.

You shrug a black tank top on, aware that the heat that that was sure to come this afternoon would be stifling. You hesitate, unsure if you should bother with a bra before shrugging. To hell with it.

You opt for a pair of fitted cargo tan pants, and slip on your socks and boots before lacing them up. Grabbing you ruck sack and sketchbook, you sail out the door letting it slam behind you. You turn to admire your quaint new home with a smile before starting the trek into town.

You were the new kid on the block as they had found you barely alive outside their gates just 2 months ago. You were settling in relatively well though you had yet to make any real friends. You chalked it up to your quiet nature, but you also knew the tendency for cliques to form in a civilization such as this one. This didn’t bother you, though. You were used to being on your own.

You squint as the first rays of sunlight filter through the trees alongside the path, breathing in the crisp morning air, tipping your head back to catch the rays. You weren’t exactly a morning person but this made the early rising worth it. You pass the first of the towns buildings on your right and observe people beginning to mill about, eager to begin work for the day. You still marvel at the normalcy of this place- the relative peace they seem to have achieved. You feel blessed to be a part of it.

You continue your trek until the gate looms over you, blocking out the suns rays and casting you in shadow. You know you’re early, you had meant to be. You toss your pack down near the gates entrance and sit down, back to the wood. Pulling out your sketch pad, you continue your efforts to capture the picturesque opening to the small village of Jackson with your pencil. You weren’t very good, you’d be the first to admit, but you did enjoy it. Sketching brought you some peace, a calm in the storm and being as that was so rare, you relish it.

Immersed in your art, you don’t notice when a shadow looms over you. It grunts and you raise your gaze, shielding your eyes as you gaze up at him.

It’s a man you don’t recognize. He’s tall, broad and sturdy- handsome you’d say. He has chocolate brown eyes with a hidden softness that assess you warily, big thick hands whose thumbs are hooked through the belt loops of his jeans. Your eyes trail up his jeans clad legs, past his fitted black tee that clung to hard defined pecs and along the broadness of his shoulders. Finally your eyes found his face.

“You the newbie?” He asks gruffly, still assessing you with that unreadable gaze.

You shut your sketchbook abruptly, standing, brushing your hands along your pants.

“Yeah.” You answer, slipping your hands into your pockets, matching his intimidating gaze. There was no way you were going to indicate how his presence affected you.

He grunts, nodding before running his eyes along your body, and not very subtly at that. You shiver under the intensity of his perusal, chewing on your lip nervously.

“You armed?”

You nod, patting the revolver that rested in a holster low on your hips. He grunts again before turning and glancing behind, motioning for you to follow.

You obey his silent command, struggling to match his pace. You fall into step alongside him, shrugging your pack tighter against your shoulders, casting him a sideways glance. The silent type. You could live with that. Then he spoke.

“You got any experience with this kind of thing?”

You hum in response.

“Been on my own a while, so yeah I’d say I do”

He glances at you for a moment before returning his gaze to the trees surrounding you, scanning them absently.

“Not much to it. It’s usually pretty barren around here but we need to make sure there ain’t any surprises.”

“What’s your name?” You ask suddenly.

His steps falter for a moment, taken aback before he continues.

“Joel. Joel Miller.”

You nod, telling him your name in response.

You walk in silence for the next hour, scanning the surrounding areas in unison, assessing any noises, hands now and then going to the butt of your weapons. Then you stop suddenly.

“Joel” you whisper, bringing him to an abrupt halt.

He looks at you expectantly, brows furrowed, questioning.

You hold a finger to your lips and point to the line of trees to your right. There, in a cluster of bushes and rocks stands a doe, grazing contentedly. Joel immediately raises his rifle, looking down the scope before you place a hand on his arm, shaking your head quickly. He tilts his head, eyes boring into you. Then you surprise him when you slowly, agonizingly slowly, start to make your way to the doe. You only make it a few feet before she raises her head and you stop.

“Shh it’s all right girl” you whisper, hands raised palms up in front of you.

“Ain’t gonna hurt you”

She assesses you for a moment, head cocked ready to bolt.

You slowly reach into the front pocket of your pants, closing a hand around a sugar cube. You make a habit of having them on hand whenever you run into the horses in town.

Joel watches you intently with wide eyes, waiting to see what you do next.

You take another tentative step, careful to avoid stepping on a stick. She watches you warily as you approach, palm outstretched.

“That’s it girl. That’s it honey. Got a treat for you”

She looks like she’s ready to run before she sniffs the air, eyes finding the palm of your hand. She takes a tentative step towards you and you almost squeal in exultation, but force yourself to be calm. Quiet.

You hesitate before moving one more step, now only a foot away from her. She bobs her head, sniffing around your hand before her tongue shoots out to swipe the sugar cube, and you stifle a giggle. She nuzzles your palm looking for more.

You reach to grab another before turning to look at Joel jerking your head forward in a silent command.

He’s staring at you in amazement, jaw slack. He hesitates for a moment before copying your movements, stepping alongside you carefully as she licks at the second sugar cube in your palm.

“That’s a girl. Good girl. Good baby” you coo, softly scratching the underside of her chin as she chews on the sugar contentedly.

You look at Joel over your shoulder, a broad smile crinkling your features. Then you wrap your fingers around his hand, tugging it toward you and placing another treat into his palm. The doe bristles slightly but you continue to coo to her, placate her. Slowly, you bring Joel’s hand towards her mouth and she snaps the cube up before either of you can blink. Joel chuckles softly, awed.

“Never seen em do that” he says in a soft voice as the doe continues to lick the sugar out of his rough, calloused palm. You giggle at the amazement in his eyes, surprised by the loss of his gruff demeanor as he gazes down at you and the deer. You give her one last scratch before she turns and bounds away leaving the two of you alone.

You can’t wipe the stupid grin from your features as you watch her, heart warming at the special moment.

“There goes dinner” Joel says gruffly, rough exterior hardening again.

You laugh and turn back to the trail, looking at him over your shoulder.

“I’m sure we can manage without her” you retort before starting back down the path, leaving Joel no choice but to follow. With your back to him, you miss the way Joel’s plump lips curve into a smile, his eyes crinkling as he watches you, awed with your kindness in a world of such senseless cruelty. It’s gone in a flash as he strides to your side, shouldering his rifle higher.

You patrol in comfortable silence before Joel suggests a place to camp when the sky begins to darken. Your eyes widen in surprise when you see a cabin loom in the distance. It’s obviously old, but sturdy enough and you follow him inside before he turns to lock the door, sliding the deadbolt into place.

“Probably shouldn’t risk a fire” he grunts dropping his pack and rifle to the ground, nodding to the fireplace.

“It’s hot anyway” you suggest, plopping down on the couch in the corner, a plume of dust rising as you do. He reaches into his pack, pulling out a sandwich and unceremoniously tossing it into your lap before fishing one out for himself. You thank him, opening it and eating it eagerly, not realizing how starved you were before this moment.

He watches you from his place in the corner, his gaze dark and assessing. He eats slowly, his strong jaw flexing, his thumb brushing the crumbs from the corner of his mouth.

You watch, mesmerized, as his jaw works, a heat coiling low in your stomach. You curse yourself inwardly, feeling like a little girl with her hand caught in the cookie jar.

He’s watching you. You can feel it as you finish your sandwich, licking your fingers, still hungry. You take a sip of your water, a few drops of it sliding down your chin to your bare chest. He tracks the water intently, grinding his jaw.

“S only one bed” he says gruffly, shifting uncomfortably on his metal chair.

“Oh that’s fine. You take it I can sleep on the couch” you reply sweetly trying to please him though you have no idea why.

He shakes his head in response, standing, brushing the crumbs from his dusty jeans.

“Nah. Wouldn’t be right. You take it. Better if I’m by the door anyway”

You shrug, seeing he would be taking no argument. Then he settles on the couch beside you, leaning back and you shiver at his closeness, the body heat you can feel radiate off him.

“You sure?” You squeak, trying to get your breathing under control. The enclosed place all of a sudden feels far too small, and you shift nervously. Joel watches you an uncharacteristic smirk curving his plump mouth.

He hums, head tilting to the side as he watches you.

“How old are you?” He asks suddenly.

Your eyes flick to him suddenly, taken aback, and you almost melt instantly at the look he’s giving you. Predatory. Hungry. You shift again.

“25. my birthdays coming up in August.”

He hums again, tilting his head to rest on the back of the couch, eyes fluttering closed.

“Mmm. Thought you were younger”

“I get that a lot” you say, lips curving as you take this moment to ogle him.

His legs are spread, wide open, beckoning, his neck is stretched out displaying the veins and Adam’s apple that bobs when he swallows. His hands are resting on the back of the couch, close enough to your head that if you leaned slightly to the right his thick fingers would brush your hair.

His flannel is unbuttoned at the top, and you peek at it, eyes hungrily scanning his broad chest, his shoulders. You wonder how he would taste.

“Aint polite to stare” he says, eyes still closed.

You jump.

“Im not.. s-staring” you splutter, yet your tone suggests otherwise.”

He chuckles then, the rumble seeming to be a physical presence that caresses you, drags its nails across the skin of your spine. You bite your lip, standing.

“All right. If- if you’re sure” you say shifting from one foot to the other.

His eyes flutter open and he looks at you then, his gaze so unguarded it startles you. His features are relaxed so unlike how they’ve been since the moment you met him. He pulls out a flask from the back pocket of his jeans, twisting the top before taking a long pull and offering it to you. You accept it gratefully, grimacing at the burn when you follow suit.

He watches your throat bob, watches you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Always watching. Always assessing.

“Never seen anything like it. What you did with that deer” he says, chocolate eyes still drinking you in.

“Oh” you say, shrugging, taking another sip of the whiskey.

“Wasn’t anything. Just have a soft spot for animals that’s all.”

He startles you again with a broad smile, and your heart melts at its softness.

“It reminds me of someone” he says, his voice softer now-

“She’d do something like that”

“Oh?” I say, sliding back onto the couch, handing him his flask.

He nods, taking another pull before screwing the cap and placing it on the couch beside him.

“Yeah” he says, not showing any signs of wanting to discuss it.

Someone he lost then. You could sympathize with that. You’ve lost so many people you could t even keep track anymore.

His gaze takes on a distant look as you watch him, eyes drinking in the strong nose, freckles dotting his cheeks, the soft curls flecked with grey that beg for your fingers.

“What’d I say about starin?” He grumbles without looking at you. Teasing.

“What if I want to stare?” you counter, the alcohol emboldening you.

He turns to look at you, incredulous.

“Come on don’t give me that shit. You’re beautiful- young. You don’t want nothin from an old man like me”

You giggle, matching his relaxed pose, leaning your head on the back of the couch, turning it so you’re facing him.

“You’d be surprised” you murmur, shocked by the wave of arousal that’s almost painful between your legs.

He turns his head to face you, brows knit together.

“Is that so?” He asks, a big hand reaching out to twirl a piece of your hair around his finger, tugging it softly.

“Mmhmm”

He hums, chest rumbling. You resist the urge to slide into his lap. When his eyes flutter closed again you decide you can’t take it any longer. You reach out a tentative hand, trace a small finger against the outline of his brow, down his cheek, to the scruffy beard that outlines his jaw. He jumps at the contact, eyes flying to yours, cheeks flushing red.

“What’re you doin?” He asks, breath coming in short pants when your finger traces a path to his chest.

“Nothin” you answer innocently, all of your self-respect flying out the window as you watch his pupils dilate, his plump lips part. The harsh breaths that escape his lips. You’re doing this to him. Affecting him. And the realization is more intoxicating than any amount of alcohol.

You slowly stand, coming to rest between his legs before sliding one knee then the other alongside his hips, straddling him. He watches you, incredulous, eyes wide- grunting when you slowly sink onto his lap.

“I- you can’t- “ his words are cut off when you run a hand through his hair, revellinh in the soft moan you elicit from him when you tug it softly.

“Shhh” you coo, leaning forward to place a kiss on his collarbone. “Lemme make you feel good”

He moans again. He’s so sensitive. From the way this is going you reckon he hasn’t been touched by a woman in years. It emboldens you, intoxicates you.

“Joel” you whisper.

His eyes flutter open, completely black now, locked on every move you make.

Leaning forward you kiss him gently, slowly, asking permission.

He freezes for a moment, hands still fisted at his sides as you kiss his cheek, his forehead, his temples, his neck.

“I know you want this” you whisper to him,

“I see the way you’ve been looking at me”

He grunts again, long and low. Your chest is flush with his and you can feel the vibrations of every soft sound he’s making and your nipples immediately pebble. You’re suddenly glad you didn’t wear a bra.

Slowly, as if dealing with a frightened animal, you take his big calloused hands in your small ones, guide them to your hips. He immediately clamps down, his grip firm, desperate.

“You- you’re drivin me- drivin me crazy.” He moans head tilted back, jaw flexing.

You lean forward, mouth closing around the skin of his neck, sucking.

“F-fuck” he grunts out, teeth gritted so tight they were sure to crack beneath the pressure.

“Take me” you moan in his ear, biting the lobe, hands running beneath the collar of his shirt along his smooth, heated skin.

“Fuck. Y-you little- shit! Actin all- i-innocent-“

His words are intermingled with broken groans, sharp breaths. He hisses when your grind on him softly, his cock already hard as a rock, jumping beneath you. His grip on your hips is hard, bruising.

“Want you” you breath, a soft moan leaving your lips, when his fingers slide to the small of your back. You immediately arch into him, desperate now.

“You like that do huh?” he says, hands slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt, dragging along your back. His rough calloused palms scratch your soft skin and another sharp bolt of arousal floods your core.

“Dirty girl”

You cry out, needing more.

His hands blaze a tentative path to your ribs, fingers grazing the underside of your breasts.

“Damn” he breaths, cupping the soft flesh, eyes locked on your chest.

“Wanna see em?”

His mouth dries, eyes flicking from your nipples to your eyes then back.

“Fuck yes”

You lift your shirt over your head quickly, throwing it to the floor behind you where it lands with a soft thud.

He gasps at the sight of you bared to him, eyes going even darker, brows furrowing. His jaw tightens even more if it’s possible, and his cock jumps against your thigh.

“So pretty” he coos, thumbs tracing your pebbled nipples, watching you intently as your eyes flutter to the back of your head, lips parted with a pornographic moan.

He’s still assessing you, you realize. Drinking in every reaction he pulls out of you. Revelling in it.

“More” you gasp, threading your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck.

He chuckles darkly as you tug your face to his chest.

“So needy” he breathes against your breasts, his hot breath fanning over your skin. You can’t help but begin to grind on him again, desperate for friction, for release from the ache that’s been building in your core since you saw him leaned back on the couch. Then his hot mouth closes around your nipple.

You cry out, a string of curses leaving your lips, full on humping him now as he flicks his tongue over the bud, biting softly, teasing.

“Yes” you moan breathily, surprised at the sultry tone of your voice. “Yes Joel.”

His hands tighten on your hips at your words, turning his attention to the other breast.

You arch your chest further into his face, panting now.

“Need you. Please”

You paw at his shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his naked skin against yours. His hands leave your hips for a moment as he tugs the shirt over his head, throws it in the direction of yours. Then his mouth is back on you, sucking and licking, igniting a fire in your skin you’ve never experienced before.

You run your hands along his back, melting at the smoothness of his skin, the heat of his mouth. Then he pulls his head back and crashes his lips to yours, slipping his tongue in your mouth. You kiss him back fiercely, hands tugging at his hair, your nipples brushing against the hair on chest, pushing you further to the brink of release. You cry out again.

“Just like that baby” he says against your mouth, voice gravelly, strained- “lemme hear you.”

You grind on him against, desperate for his cock, to feel him fill you. It had been so long- too long.

You reach between your bodies as he continues to suck on your neck, and fumble with his belt buckle before sliding it through the loops and dropping it behind you. He hisses when you immediately wrap your hands around the hardness beneath his jeans.

“Fuck, don’t do that. M not gonna last”

“Want it. Want you in me” you purr, struggling to tug down his jeans. He lifts his hips to oblige.

His pants drop to his ankles at you look down at his cock, hard and glistening. Your mouth waters. Then you slowly, agonizingly slowly, sink down onto it, clenching him purposefully as you do.

A string of curses leaves Joel’s plump mouth, his head falling to the back of the couch.

“So tight. F-fuck. Taking me so good” he slurs, almost incoherent with want. Your chest flushes at his praise and you lean forward to capture his bottom lip in your teeth before fully sinking down on him, his balls flush with your ass.

“Yes fuck, god, yes.” He groans, big hands grabbing two grab handfuls of your ass as you begin to move on him, lifting your hips up and down, squeezing him as you do.

Your orgasm is close, you can feel it cresting as the friction you’ve been craving is finally here. your eyes flutter closed as you take him, every inch, bouncing up and down, letting him watch your tits as you do. His jaw is so tight it might pop, and his hands are still gripping your ass, holding on for dear life as he unravels.

“So good” he slurs, head falling back again, hips bucking into yours.

“M gonna come Joel” you moan, tossing your hair back. His big tanned hand covers your throat before blazing a path to your breast, squeezing tight.

“That’s right. Come for me. Lemme hear you”

His words push you over the edge and you come hard, clenching tightly around him, crying out as he continues to pump into you. His hands run up your back, dragging your chest flushed with his as he takes over, thrusts growing sloppy as his own release nears.

“Good girl. Such a good girl baby.” He coos in your ear as his sheathes himself fully in you.

“Wanna come on your tits”

You nod, kissing his neck, sitting up. You cup your breasts, offering them to him. The sight pushes Joel over the edge and he comes with a deep animalistic groan, pulling out and spilling on your breasts. His eyes never leave yours the whole time, pumping himself until there’s nothing left. You stare at each other, chests heaving, lips plump and bruised, eyes still dark with desire.

Finally, he brings a hand to your face, thumb tracing your lower lip, almost reverently. You lean into his touch.

“Such a pretty girl”

He looks wrecked, hair sticking up, eyes shining and locked on your lips, on your chest still painted with him. You lean forward to kiss him. He moans against your mouth.

“Wanna do it again?”

——————-

Lemme know if you guys like :) love yall!!

[sky-kiss]

RxA: Nostalgia

A/n: Been torturing poor Renoir a lot lately so. Have some Renoir/Aline fluff. A little treat for him. Lightly smutty.

~~~~~~~~~~

“We're too old for this.” 

Renoir is unsure if he voices this declaration for her benefit or his own. What he does know is everything aches. Not in the healthy way one might experience after rigorous exercise or in the aftermath of lovemaking, but bone-deep unpleasantness—his hip and knee throb.

Aline’s response is muffled, her face turned into his bicep to block out the light. He flexes his fingers, feeling the familiar pin-prick sensation as blood attempts to flow back into the otherwise numb appendage. “Are we? I'd never have guessed.” His wife presses up on one elbow to survey the room, makes a soft noise of displeasure, and eases back down to pillow her chin on his chest. “We used to be worse.” 

He chuckles, curving a hand over her hip to distribute her weight more comfortably. 

Yes, they’d been far worse—the mattress in the atelier had been their mutual compromise. Threadbare, sheetless, and well-worn, but a vast improvement over their prior sleeping arrangements. Renoir vaguely recalls spending the better part of a decade dozing off in an oversized chair following their trips in the Canvas, hellaciously uncomfortable as they attempted to fold around each other. 

He tugs at a piece of her hair until she lifts her head to look at him. “I recall your…Bohemian solution to the problem.” 

Aline chews her lower lip to fight her smile, shrugging in concession. The memory of her standing in the atelier, bathed in sunlight, looking triumphant and a little wild with half the bedding in the manor strewn about her feet, is a personal favorite. They’d slept in that mishmash of sheets and pillows for…god, how long? He only remembers Verso and Clea being particularly fond of the arrangement. 

Where has the time gone? Three children, the youngest now twelve…

Aline leans in and nips his cheek, soothing the mark with a kiss. “It’s too early for your melancholies, Renoir.” 

“Nostalgia,” he corrects. 

“Too early to argue semantics as well.” 

He smiles, nodding. Aline is correct, of course. These morose fits did nothing more than…

Renoir jerks, letting out a hiss of breath when his wife’s hand slips inside his slacks. She presses up on her elbow, staring down at him, a gleeful unrepentance dancing in her gray eyes as she curls her fingers around his length, squeezing. “You seem young enough, my love.”

He manages an airy laugh, shifting his weight. “Aline.” 

“Mm?” She’s ignoring him now, watching the lazy motions of her wrist and the shallow, instinctual way his hips rock into her touch. Aline makes a sweetly interested noise, slipping down the length of him with the natural grace of a dancer. She straddles his thighs, careful to keep her weight off his bad leg. “Hush now, you wanted nostalgia.”

“The door, Aline.”

She purses her lips, glancing up from unfastening his belt long enough to eye the atelier’s entrance. They’d left it unlocked the night prior—there’d been no damn need to lock it. She makes that humming noise again and continues blithely on. Not a concern, apparently. He prays no one comes looking for them. 

Aline feathers the tips of her fingers along the underside of his cock, smirking at his little jerk. His wife sighs, skating both her hands up his abdomen, rucking up his shirt as she goes. If it is an attempt to appear innocent—only stretching, Renoir, nothing more!— it falls woefully short when she dips her head to take him in her mouth. 

He grits his teeth to keep from groaning. Aline’s hands press to his hips in warning. She will take this at her own pace. He knows better than to intercede, forcing himself to still as she laps at his head, lazily stroking whatever she cannot comfortably take. 

It’s likely crass to admit how desperate he is to paint her like this—the confidence and surety of her form, her loveliness, the curtain of her hair spilling across his skin, the…

She lifts her eyes, pupils blown wide and dark, to meet his. “Care to participate, mon coeur?” 

He shakes his head, laughing, resting his hand on the back of her head. Slowly, carefully, he thrusts into her mouth. Aline groans in approval, the sound shooting through him, pooling like liquid at the base of his spine. 

Renoir grunts, surrendering to the slow-building pleasure, fisting a hand in her hair and falling into her rhythm until he eventually spills over her tongue. He’s left panting, slightly dazed, moaning at the image of his wife wiping his spend from her lower lip with her thumb. 

He tastes himself when she kisses him. Aline nips him once more, patting his cheek before she sits up. “Come along, Renoir. The children will be looking for us so…”

He catches her around the waist before she can get far. And wonder of wonders, she is perfectly willing to be caught. 

[theseshipsshallsail]

OF CLOUDLESS CLIMES AND STARRY SKIES

Summary:

Lew doesn’t question it. Not anymore. Just wonders when the hummingbird-flutter at his core became love, before deciding maybe it always has been, and he was just too afraid to acknowledge it.

He’s often heard it said that beneath every cynic resides a flawed romantic, and loathe though Lew is to give Blanche such credit, he’d be hard-pressed to explain his newfound propensity to be not only awake - but relatively sober - this damn close to the ass-crack of dawn.

Case in point: there’s a burnished-copper glow streaking the eastern horizon; a low, blanketing mist shrouding the dense copse of pines enfolding this, their own private sanctuary. Far-removed from Toccoa’s twisting pathways, the air within the remote forest clearing is equally stifling - alive with mosquitoes and Nature’s yakking chorus - yet the mountain breeze does little to cool Lew’s rising temperature as he noses Dick’s sweat-damp collar aside, mouth grazing idly over the constellation of freckles dappling his alabaster shoulder.

It’s dangerous. Reckless. A blue tickethome just waiting to happen. But Lew? He’s so fucking tired of pretending to be something he’s not. 

Of smothering his true self in the safety of sameness. 

To tell the truth, he’s more than an enticement, is Dick. He’s the catalyst that sparked his reinvention. The highest stakes he’s ever played. It doesn’t make sense, but Lew doesn’t question it. Not anymore. Just wonders when the hummingbird-flutter at his core became love, before deciding maybe it always has been, and he was just too afraid to acknowledge it. 

In any event, needs must when the devil drives. Pre-dawn cardio notwithstanding. Their time alone is stolen - too often spent in the liminal hours between night and day - and flushed with exertion Dick moves with him. Or Lew moves with Dick. Either way it’s instinctive. Chapped lips brush his bobbing Adam’s apple, and Lew’s pulse ratchets with each muttered curse as he scoots backwards, deliberately avoiding Dick’s erection beneath his straining PT shorts: one hand braced possessively on the curve of his hip as he rucks up his t-shirt with the other.

Charting the entire, twilight universe in the gilt-gold shimmer of gossamer skin.

He’d never dare call him beautiful to his face. But he is. All Lew’s blood flows south in an instant, and inexplicably dizzy, the tumble into Dick’s personal orbit feels rather like a gravitational pull as opposed to a conscious choice.

A theory he suspects might prove instrumental in pitching his sorry-self out a C-47 in the very near future.

“Just so you know…” Dick murmurs, the soles of his leather running shoes slipping on the dewy grass. “When you set your sights on beating Sobel’s record, this wasn’t exactly the workout I pictured…”

Legs parting in silent welcome, he levers up on his elbows to watch, so Lew shoots him a cheeky wink as he scatters bristly kisses to his heaving sternum; bunching the grubby cotton beneath Dick’s armpits to better expose the supple curve of his abdomen. “Three miles up, three miles down,” he says, turning his attention to an already peaked nipple. “Don’t tell me you’re questioning my motives?”

Dick shrugs: delightfully unbothered. “Not half as much as I’m questioning my stamina,” he admits, attempting to coax him upwards, only to grow distracted by the drag of Lew’s knuckles along his ticklish rib cage. 

Everything is on overload. Dick’s scent. His responses. The unbridled look in his eyes, and Lew - greedy bastard that he is - chases the glimmers of stardust as the other man arches in flagrant invitation. 

Trusting him at his most vulnerable. 

An exercise in hedonism, yes: but it’s not enough. Lew needs more. Not to come, necessarily. But more of this. The intimacy. The abandon. The means to simply be. Opportunities like such are rare - so the last thing he wants is to jump the gun - yet overwhelmed by a sense of urgency Lew wrestles Dick’s waistband down to mid-thigh; earning a hum of wordless encouragement when his cock springs free, curving thick and glistening towards his navel.  

The rush of adrenaline is powerful, and circling the base of Dick’s erection he strokes from root to spongy tip; smearing the sticky pearls of excitement that gather at his crown. He won’t deny his objective seems daunting, yet nerves ablaze, his tongue soon follows: long, broad, swathes licking, caressing, lapping at his drawn-tight scrotum before sucking a mottled nebula at the crease of his groin. 

“God almighty…” Dick gasps, moaning into the crook of his forearm. “Nix -”

“Don’t you go gettin’ shy on me, soldier,” Lew teases; eager, but ever mindful, as he telegraphs his intent. “You want this?” 

“I want you,” Dick groans, which Lew still considers a miracle in itself.

His permission borders on desperation, and Lew struggles valiantly not to blow his own load when Dick grasps him firmly by the short hairs of his nape. Neither pushing, nor demanding. Simply anchoring himself to the moment as he throws his head back; the edge of a plea diffusing his voice.

“You’re incorrigible.”

Lew scoffs. “Sure, pal. And you’re blushing,” he retorts, ducking a playful swat to the ear. 

Dick grunts - making a garbled chorus of his name - then bites his bottom lip to stifle anything further. Breath hitching, he pinches the bridge of his nose over the sound of an errant whimper, and Lew relishes his battle for self-control as he skims his spit-slick entrance with a thumb.

Concealed as they are, the risk of discovery is low, but not impossible - so ditching all pretense of eking it out his lips form a decadent seal as he relaxes his jaw, taking him straight to the back of his throat. Clumsy, maybe, but there’s wisdom in the flesh. What he lacks in experience he makes up for in enthusiasm, and Dick tenses then slumps in a rough, unordered spasm when Lew laves the thick vein on the underside of his cock: two digits strumming his sweet spot like some obscene Morse code.

“I’m not gonna last,” Dick rasps, scant minutes later.

Like it’s a secret. 

Like it’s something precious. 

And it is, Lew concedes, as Dick rocks faster, the hot pucker of muscle clenching his busy fingers. “Then don’t,” he replies, every single inch of him trembling like he’s been split down the middle and sewn back together all at once.   

Co-dependent? Probably. Does he care? Does he fuck.

Because only the best for Mrs Nixon’s baby boy, so to hell with his stash of Vat 69. Right now, Lew has much stronger addictions to deal with, and sink or swim he doubles his efforts until Dick lets loose a strangled whine; radiant in his climax as he shines, shines, shines brighter than anything gracing the celestial skies above.

[thezeninclan]

“what exactly do you think you’re doing?” 

the question is heavy in the air, unanswered, unwavering— but you ignore it, choosing instead to tilt your eyes down and run your fingers along the lines of his furrowed brow. nanami frowns at you, but there’s no real fight to him. you both know he could break your hold easily, if he truly wanted to. but for now he lets you lead, lets you play. 

“I thought it might be fun-” you say, sliding your eyes toward him. he looks so handsome like this, on his knees. “to try something different.” 

your fingers slide down his chest, over the plains of firm muscle and sinew normally bound back by his jacket and dress shirt. a part of him preens over your touch, barely visibly by the change of his tone. but after so long, you can read each small expression, each small shift in his features as he thinks. 

you part his legs roughly and wiggle between them, watching as his heated gaze rakes down your body. you gently twirl the length of his tie around your fist, leaning forward to press yourself against him as you get to work, twisting the tie around his wrists. you push up against him, knowing he can’t help but get an eyeful of your tits, and you thanked the store clerk who had managed to convince you to buy the tiple mega extra push-up bra that nearly had kento’s eyes bugging out of his head. 

“too tight?” you questioned, looking down at your handiwork. he took a moment to consider before shaking his head, tacitly letting you continue your work.

his belt slides easily from his slacks, and the twitch of his brows as you reach for his trousers doesn’t go unnoticed by either of you. you can see the obvious movement beneath his waist, the way his strong thighs tighten as you brush your hands over them and squeeze. 

the urge to cave, to just give in to the intense temptation of his raw sex appeal and throw yourself atop him almost pulls you down, but you resist— barely. there’s a tension in the air, a constantly reminder that, at any moment, he could break free of this little game you’ve started and remind you who was truly in charge, and it thrills you, makes you bite your lip and look down at him through his lashes.

you unbutton his work shirt slowly, letting the lapels fall open as you slip your hands into it, running your fingers up and down the firm muscle of his chest that goes taut under your touch. the undershirt he wears rucks up easily, lifting up over his breast and revealing the body that you can’t help but take a moment to ogle. your eyes rake over him, lascivious, heated, taking in every smooth curve, every hard line. 

kento is a man of routine, anyone who has ever met him would know that, and his routine has him up at five to go to the shared gym at your apartment. when he returns promptly at six and walks to the fridge for a protein shake he’s soaked with sweat and looking so utterly delicious that sometimes you can’t resist sneaking out of bed and pressing yourself up against him, licking up his sweat, taking in his salty scent. sex releases endorphins after all, same as exercise. after years of this routine he’s hard as iron so that as you run your fingers over his muscled belly it was easy to imagine your fingers touching a sheet of rock. 

your fingertips tease over his pink nipples, feeling him flinch at the coldness of your fingers before you pinched at them gently with the tips of your nails. he was sensitive here, always was, but not as much as when your lips were closed around them.

“you’re such a good man.” you soothed, brushing the strands of blonde hair back from his brow. his cheeks were red, chest heaving, and when he looks up at you, brow firm but eyes wide, he just looks so, so innocent. “my sweet nanamin.”

you pressed your ear to his chest, bedding your head against his firm breast, wanting nothing more than to stay there for the rest of your life. you took a moment to listen to his heartbeat, feeling it best staccato against your ear, his stomach tight with nervousness and anticipation, arms straining against the makeshift bonds. “with you I feel so…so safe, so admired.” you whispered, like the words were a secret for his ears only. “I’ve never felt love from anyone like I have from you. or…or towards you.”

kento beamed up at you, naked eyes so bright that for a moment you wondered if he might cry. it was always funny, to see your sweet partner when he was off the clock. he smiled more, relaxed more, even let his lips take a break from the constant frown he always wore. with you he could be relaxed, at ease. a normal man like any other. 

“I love you.” he whispered against the side of your head, pressing his lips against your hair. 

you worked your hands down to his trousers, fingering gently at the buttons, just firm enough to make his breath hitch. his cock stands at attention beneath the khaki fabric, the wetness pearling at the tip just barely beginning to show through the fiber. 

his arms automatically pull at the ties that bind him, pinning his palms together as though he were giving an offering at a shrine. the cord of his tie was different from the high quality shibari rope that sat neatly in the side table drawer, not nearly as smooth as the buttery soft rope, not as easy to tie. but it works in a pinch, in a spontaneous moment.

“ahhh.” you tease, fingers flitting over the tenting in his trousers. “so you do like this. being at my mercy.”

his tongue ran over his bottom lip. “it’s like a drug.” he said, by way of explaining. “it’s like I can’t get enough of you. even when I fall asleep with you in my arms, wake up to your face. it’s never enough. to be with you is…intoxicating.” you flushed as red as his cheeks, making a smile play over his lips as he leaned forward to kiss you, stopping just far enough to let you know he was silently asking permission. you filled the rest of the space, pressing your lips to his and instantly letting his tongue take residence in your mouth, until you weren’t sure how much time had passed, until you were both panting and sore lipped and breathless. 

you unwrapped your legs around his waist, feeling his cock pressing against your ass insistently. “fuck this.” you half shouted, pulling the knot in the tie free suddenly. “I can’t take it anymore.” 

he laughed heartily, and scooped you up into his arms. “don’t worry, honey.” he muttered against the shell of your ear, moaning softly in the way he knew you loved. “lets go to bed and you can try again.” 

[leifygreeens]

could you write something about your first kisses with the bachelor/ettes? I feel like you're the only blog who characterizes them well ugh

Hey, anon. Sorry for disappearing on you, that’s my bad. I hope this is worth the wait. 

If you're looking for other people who know how to write people like they're people, @maylilithreign, @snailmail444, @babiebom, and @junicult are all great, and I can’t recommend them enough. (Minors do not follow/interact with Jo or Libby, and Bom and Snail don’t want any kiddos interacting with their NSFW stuff, so don’t do that either. Be nice and respect everyone's boundaries.)

Warnings: Cursing (my fault), a little bit of dialogue, and some suggestive moments (also my fault). Enjoy <3

Sam

Out of all of the bachelors, he’s the most nervous

Which is ironic, given the “jump-head-first-into-things-with-no-care-for-my-personal-safety” vibe he’s got going on, but whatever

He refuses to touch you, at first—but not because he doesn’t want to

Sam is an extremely tactile person, so of course he wants to touch you—but he also knows he can be a bit much sometimes, and he doesn’t want to chase you off with his greed or his enthusiasm

So he goes for soft, gentle, and perfectly pliant under your touch as you pull him in

It’s honestly a little jarring, because he seems the type to get desperate (true) and not be able to control himself (also very true)

But this boy is exercising an immense amount of self control to not jump headfirst into getting heavy and fast and yanking on clothes too hard

He does a good job keeping himself contained atta boy, buddy

He thought that once he’d finally gotten a taste of you, maybe he’d finally be able to think about literally anything else

Unfortunately, he would be incorrect

And now that he has experienced it, he’s overwhelmed and dizzy with his want

He keeps his eyes closed and basks in it for at least five seconds after you pull away

He is absolutely heaving, wrecked just from the tiniest chaste press of your lips against his

He’s been waiting for you to do that for weeks

His eyes flutter open slowly, and then his gaze flicks up to you

Licks his lips as he tracks his eyes down your torso and back up

His palm is warm against the back of your neck as he pulls you down for seconds

And yeah, this is more like how you thought it’d be

Does not stop pulling you against him, even though you physically couldn’t get any closer if you tried

Your shirt gets rucked up to your waist untintentionally, because he keeps gripping you and yanking you closer

But the moment he feels your bare skin against his palms, he’s flinging himself backward

Blinks up at you with bright pink cheeks and his hands twitching against your waist

Swallows hard and clenches his jaw

He knows he should let go but he really doesn’t want to

If you lean back in, he drags his hands up slowly, and traces the line of your spine with his fingertips

I’ll stop there lol

Sebastian

This boy. Jesus.

He’s got next to no experience, let’s just get that out of the way now

Is immediately overwhelmed, even before you kiss him

Just the feeling of your palms warm on his jaw as you angle him just so is enough to have him trembling

Stares at your lips through half-lidded eyes until you finally finish closing the distance

Shivers at the slightest brush of your lips against his

He gasps high and can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed by it

Grabs onto your hips for dear life

He is immensely glad that you decided to kiss him while he was leaning on his bike, because otherwise he would have collapsed at your feet he might collapse anyway

Lord help him if you try to deepen the kiss though

If you do, he might actually pass out

Similarly to Sam, he’s going to get desperate after a minute, but he’ll hold himself back

He’ll have way less success with it than Sam, though

Sebastian definitely holds you a little too tight, and doesn’t give you enough space or time to breathe between kisses

Even if you don’t touch him beyond holding his face, when you pull away, he looks absolutely debauched

Like you could’ve sworn your hands were never in his hair but somehow it’s still ruffled?

Nevermind his hoodie sitting askew on his shoulders and giving a considerable peak at his collarbones

Honestly you don’t know how he managed to do all that, but don’t bother asking him because he is not able to think straight at all

His eyes are hardly open, blinking slowly and zoned absolutely the fuck out while he tries to catch his breath

Homeboy is straight up panting

“Breathe, Seb.”

Whines out a “no” all petulantly, pulls you flush against his chest, and dives in again

Alex

Homeboy spent weeks fantasizing about kissing you before he finally worked up the courage

He wants your first kiss to be special, like something straight off the movie screen

But he’s constantly second guessing himself, convinced that no moment is perfect enough to cut it

He’s hoping that the moment will come when you’re on a date or something, and he’s planning romantic shit left and right with the hopes that something will click and that’ll be it

He’s dropping you off at home after another date, and another failed attempt

He walks down your porch and turns around briefly to make sure you get inside safely

You’re watching him go, a knowing smile on your face as you reach for the handle

“Goodnight, Alex. Get home safe.”

You lick your lips, and turn to go inside

That’s what does it. Because of course it is.

The urge, the determination, the sudden desire thick and pooling in his chest that he’s never felt before—he knows without a doubt that if he doesn’t kiss you right now, he’s going to cry

Fuck perfection, fuck the moment, he just wants to kiss you

Practically stomps up your front steps, breath heaving in his chest as he reaches out and pulls you right against him with a hand on your jaw

Angling you just so, and leaning in to seal your lips together

He breathes a sigh of relief

Finally.

Something like satisfaction settles in his chest, warm like honey dripping into a mug of tea

His touch is firm on your jaw, keeping you perfectly angled for him to kiss you how he wants

You hold onto his arms for dear life, anchoring yourself to him as he kisses you so eagerly that your back actually hits your front door

It doesn’t hurt, but that makes you gasp into his mouth, and oof that sound is dangerous for his sanity

Isn’t really rough about it, but he is firm

Hisses a curse or two between kisses, licks his lips a lot because he can’t get enough

Bringing your hands up around his shoulders, you tangle your fingertips in the short cropped hair on his nape

You run your fingernails over his skin lightly, and he shivers hard

Practically pins you against the door in his effort to get closer

He accidentally presses too close, and the tiniest noise rumbles against his lips from the back of your throat

He knows what that sound means immediately, and alarm bells go off in his head

Tears himself away from you and pants for breath

Drops his forehead against your shoulder and props himself up against the door instead of holding you

“Alex?” 

God, your voice is all hoarse from kissing him and it’s putting dangerous thoughts in his head

“I should go home. Before I…”

You agree, but he doesn’t move away

Your eyes flick down to his lips for a split second, and that’s enough

Just one more, he tells himself, and then you’re swapping the air in your lungs again

With one hand spread against the mahogany and the other gripping your hip, he gives you a few more than just the one

Elliott 

Same dilemma as Alex

Wants it to be special, dramatic, memorable, heart-stopping, all the things

And he tries

He tries so hard

And it almost works. 

God dammit, his picnic by the pond next to Marnie’s almost works

The moment is perfect, you’re smiling up at him with the breeze blowing in your hair and the sun in your smile

Until the sun is suddenly gone and the wind picks up into a howl

In almost no time at all a storm cracks the sky open and you two get absolutely drenched

You run to your farmhouse, practically soaked through as you make it to the safety of your porch awning

The picnic is ruined, and he’s super disappointed because he was so close 

Then he looks at you, and he’s never seen such a beautiful sight

Hair glued to your face from the rain, with a wild grin on your face and your laughter chiming like bells in his ears

He drops the picnic blanket heavy with rain water across the top of your porch bench to dry, and sets the basket down

He needs his hands free if he wants to do this right

He’s stepping towards you, shivering from the rain sticking to his skin

And we all know Elliott is a romantic at heart

Wipes the rain off your cheeks as best he can, all while he smiles softly at you

“May I kiss you?”

You nod quickly, immediately hooking your hands on the lapels of his jacket and hanging on

Kisses you gentle and slow

Cradles the back of your head and neck like you’re made of glass

It isn’t a particularly long kiss—maybe a few seconds at most

Breathes quietly against your lips when you part

Looks at you for a few long moments with all the love in his heart, and doesn’t plan on kissing you twice until you’re glancing at his lips again

Elliott brings his hands to your shoulder blades and presses you close to his chest

But he can’t get close enough

Drags his hands down to your waist and grips you tight

You squeak against his mouth when he does, and that’s when he loses his composure

Starts kissing you a little more firmly, tries deepening the kiss a bit

Shivers and gasps when your fingers tangle into his hair, still stringy and wet from the rain

And he doesn’t stop shivering

You pull away, feeling his shoulders shaking uncontrollably, and then you giggle because his teeth have started chattering

“Cold?”

“Extremely.”

You invite him inside to dry off and warm up

He may or may not kiss you again.

Shane

You’d think your first kiss would be nervous and awkward—no.

Shane holds himself back for at least a few weeks into your relationship, worried out of his mind that one wrong move is gonna shatter everything for you two

So once he’s confident and knows for certain that he’s what you want,

He’s not holding back for shit

Homeboy physically can’t stand the tension anymore anyway, especially with how often he catches you staring at him—at his lips

Pulls you in by the back of your neck and keeps his hand there to hold you close

Even when he pulls away to let you catch your breath, it’s barely enough because you’re still gasping into each other’s mouths

He literally does not let you go more than an inch or two

Your lips are 100% flushed and tingling from how much he nips at them

His other hand is firm on your waist and he does not let you go unless you ask him to

Struggles to choose between looking into your eyes or staring at your lips any time you part

So he does both

His hair is usually a little scruffy looking, but something about a kiss like that has him looking particularly disheveled

Shiny pink lips, bruised and angry red from how hard he’s pressing into you

Eyebrows pinched together and it almost makes him look angry

His hoodie is probably pulling at his shoulders a bit because somehow you managed to push it down his arms

Presses his thumb against the pulse point beneath your jaw, just to make sure he’s not the only one who’s losing it

And he struggles to keep it together when he feels your heart thumping wildly in your throat

Recognizes which direction you’re both going and starts switching to chaste pecks

Rests his forehead against yours as you both calm back down

Gets a little teary while looking at you, and huffs a wet laugh too

He’s so happy with you, and doesn’t know how he got so lucky

Harvey

Softest fucking kiss you’ve ever been given in your entire life

Your noses bump together a little before he’s diving in close

Holds you so delicately, because you’re so precious to him

Gives you a few test pecks before he actually goes for it, and breathes in heavily through his nose when he does

It’s the kind of kiss that has you pulling on each other to get as close as possible

He holds the back of your neck like Shane, but he’s much more gentle about it

Will let you pull away however many times you want, but chases after you every time

His eyes are all hazy and he physically cannot stop looking at your mouth

With one hand on your waist, Harvey will dip his thumb under the hem of your shirt and rub back and forth over your skin

You’ve never seen him as focused as he is when he’s kissing you

Doesn’t move to take the kiss deeper, and doesn’t use tongue—but he doesn’t need to

Just the insistent press of lips is enough to get his point across

If his glasses get pushed up or clink against your face, he’ll pull back to take them off and set them down

The tension is kind of overwhelming

Every time he tries to restrain himself or exhibit self control, it only takes one look at your big eyes blinking at him with a flush on your cheeks and he’s getting right back up in your business

You’ve never heard him curse so openly before, but trying to control himself is nearing painful

Dives in, pauses a centimeter away, swears viciously because he’s failing miserably at controlling himself, and then he’s giving up entirely

Couldn’t resist you even if he wanted to

You’ll have to be the one to put an end to it because Harvey cannot

Don’t call his name while he’s like this though because then he won’t give you a moment to speak again

[pup-pee]

i hve come back 2 timblr crying bc im just not having a good day i suppose & its my own damn fault bc i have the mentality of a child & i cant do anything right & just

i keep getting threatened 2 b kicked out & sent back home & its all bc of me me me

bc my habits r bad, my my parents made me awful fucked me up & now im

i fucked up again i thoguht i did good & i fucked up just now just right fucking now i shouldve stirred the food i shouldve but its ok bc i just got lucky

i fucking h8 myself dude y am i crying

going back from the hike i panicked in the car. bc yk, car was deiving 2 fast trying 2 enter & i just gut reacted yelled & i felt so fucking bad. i got yelled @ like a bad dog.

“dont do that. dont ever fucking do that especially in some1 elses car” ik “im srry” “srsly dont ever fucking do that bc what if it wasnt me? i had it all under control” “i didnt know that” “still u shouldnt do that”

i didnt MEAN 2 get scared im srry. i dont understand i just panicked & im so srry & i didnt do it 2 b funny or 2 scare him i just

idk

i feel so bad

& then gettinf called oit when he made a dimb ficking joke like “y r u so quiet” IM SRRY IM PANICKING then i get told that im not & i just

its been going down hill from there bc all i wanted 2 do was idk

idk

going home & just, i tell him “hey im gonna chnage real wuick bc im dirty bc i FELL OFF A DIRT SLIDE” & i JUST he told me no bc i should stretch. which yeah ok so i do that

then he says hes gonna cook food bc i cant cook food

ok do u need anything? “can u make the mac n cheese?” ok i cam do that. oh the pots dirty

well ok ill clean it. but 1st i wanna chnage bc im dirty

so i go chnage, come out, get rucking yelled @ 4 not doing the dishes

i do the dishes EVERYTIME. EVERY FUCKING DAY & NIGHT

i missed yesterday bc we were @ relatives house & we ate there & this morning i got up l8 ok i was not having a good night sleeping & just

HE HAS THE DAY OFF. THE PAST 2 DAYS HES HAD THE DAY OFF.

he calls me stupid 4 not realizing that our relatives family is not here bc i shouldve been talking 2 them yesterday. when? WHEN SHOULD I HAVE. I WAS PLAYING W/THE KIDS. KEEPING THEM COMPANY WHILE U TALKED?? should i have been in the fucking kitchen playing w/them?? what the actual fuck should i b doing bc apparentlyim doing everything wrong

EVERYTHING

i went over 2 take care of the dog & chickens & mayb i shouldve been doing the fucking dishes instead

so whatever whatever i get yelled @

i go in2 my room bc i ask if i shoild just do them & he says no i got it bc yk, im irresponsible & stupid whatever

so i clean my room up a bit trying not 2 cry & i get called oit in2 the kicthen like a kid whos been hiding grades

hes ready 2 give me a stern talking 2. he feels like my parents

cant even talk 2 him bc im staring @ my feet the entire time crying

getting told its ok 2 cry its ok thats good ITS NOT. THIS IS STUPID & I H8 MYSELF 4 EVEN TRYING

im getting told im jjst like my parents, then that my parenets fucked me up, that im mentally younger than i am that im stupid & dumb & im mot making enough improvements on my life fast enougj

in the last month & a half i moved out of my hometown 2 a city. i got a job. im tryonf 2 eat more, drink more. im trying @ least i think i am. im having help & im just not enough

im not enough 4 him how am i enough 4 any1 i fucking h8 my brain

as i did dishes i cried. as i sit here i cry. i will prolly cry some more bc im a weak ass bitch

i just got iver my stupid fucking infection & now theres more snot in my nose im so sad & tired & just so upset @ myself.

bc hes right in so many ways, & i just cant defend myself. so i put my tail btween my legs & whimper on tumblr.

my stomach hurts but im mor hungry but i have 2 eat bc if i dont im gonna get kicked out & sent back 2 live w/my parents & i dont want 2 go back

i need 2 improve more. i need 2 start exercising like him. i need 2 talk like him. i need 2 think like him. i need 2 live like him. or i dont get 2 live here anymore

hes babysitting me

he told me in the car. & hopefully in a yr hell leave me. he says

i dont want anything. mayb 2 read some comics & draw. talk 2 freinds even if im scared, bc thats fun. i want 2 see my cousins & help out in the garden. i want 2 hold the chickens & vacuum the house. & i do those things but i dont need more

i dont rlly want more, but i have 2 do more. or im getting sent a fucking way

how is that even possible

im an adult. mayb not mentallt but physically i am an adult

ik im not, mature. im stupid. ik i am. & i h8 bing stupid & dumb & misunderstanding but im trying so hard

but everything i do just looks like barely any effort or smth i shouldve alr been doing by his standards & i cant talk abck. bc when i defend myaelf. im just like mother

im just like her. hes told me

& theres sm snot in my nose i cant breathe again

i shoudlve never listened 2 my aunt & uncle who told me, im paying equal rent, he can wash a few dishes. u dont need 2 do that anymore

i need 2. bc he works a full time job, & i work minimum wage part time. & i havent even graduated yet

im stopping myself

great typing me high5 u rlly got ur complaining 2day

im going

2 read comics & pretend i was never upset intol i lay on bed 2night

i have work in the morning, unlike some1. should i just stop helping w/the 3 kids? would that make him happy? fuck if ik.

[howtoruck]

Rucking burns fat, builds muscle, and works almost anywhere. Here's how to train like a soldier without a gym, using just a weighted vest.

[sirenmoth]

Little Moments

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x GN!Reader

Synopsis: You have Gaz have a horribly thrown together date at a safe house

CW: Fluff, domestic fluff, military talk, war mention, hurt/comfort, kinda

19:00

Late evening light filled the sky in rays, casting hues of bright oranges, pinks and reds, all blending together as the sun started to set over the horizon. You would've stopped to admire the scenery and the beauty, stopped to take in the last of burning star's warmth and drink in the peace and tranquillity as it set below the treeline. But it wasn't time for that, walking in the middle of nowhere, you were given instructions to hold down a safe house while the other three dealt with other things elsewhere. Told to wait until the team reunited to set up the base of operation.

You have no idea how long you've been walking, the trees all look the same, your legs hurt from the excessive walking on the unstable terrain, nerves on fire from all the exercise, "God, it feels like I'm doing rucks again." You mutter, breaking the silence between the two of you, disturbing the late evening birds singing their final tunes before sleep, Gaz gives a brief chuckle at your attempt at humour and small talk, slowing his pace down for you to catch up, once you reach his side he picks up his pace again.

"It does, doesn't it? Would rather do a ruck march again than this." He adds once you met his pace, continuing the hike with you beside him. "You think Cap sent us alone for a reason? I know we're good at our job, he makes that clear, but I feel like he knows something."

The suspicaion that Price knew something was always present in the back of your mind, that he knew about you two and the relationship you both carefully nuilt and nurtured, was worrying. Having a relationship with a co-worker was one thing, but having a relationship were both are in the military, let alone one of the most elite task forces in the world, was a whole other thing neither you nor Gaz are ready to face.

"I don't know, he probaly would've said something by now is he did." You reply, looking at him in your periphel vision, reaching across to his hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

The rest of the walk was completed in a deafening silence, as you enjoyed each other's company, with the previous conversation still fresh on your mind with worry. Listening to the songbird tweets fade into the croaks and chitters of the forest nightlife. Finally arriving at the location, a small cabin hidden between a few trees, you both decide to split up, with you securing the outside perimeter and Gaz securing the inside, mentally scanning and logging any advantage and disadvantage spots.

The inside of the cabin was nothing special, most safe houses weren't, with its sole purpose to keep its occupants safe and away from danger and supply them with the bare basics a human being would need to survive. Gaz places his weapon on safety mode, and leans it against a wall then removes his kevlar vest, making himself at home on the old ratty sofa in the living room, sighing heavily once his legs get to rest and the pressure is taken off them from walking so much, all too eager to relax after that hike. You follow suit and copy his actions, weapon on safety against the wall, kevlar vest off, sitting down on the sofa, side by side.

Silence once against filled the air, this time comforting, as you lay your head on Kyle's shoulder, his head leaning against yours, taking his hand against and lacing your fingers together once more, enjoying his warmth and company.

You two lived and cherished these moments, relished in the tiny pieces of domestic bliss, not knowing when it will end or be ripped from you. Romance on the Task Force was rare to come by outside the small hookups and meaningless flings, and even more rare for a chance for it to fully bloom and properly look after, being away for months on end and being busy all the time, with little room to attend dates and anniversaries, family and relationship alike, all members are estranged from their normal life in some way due to this, which is why anyone involved with the Task Force, both directly or indirectly, avoided it all together, expect Laswell. Everyone likes hearing Laswell mention the dates her and her wife go on, a small sense of normalcy they will never get.

"What's the status report?" You ask, toying and fiddling with his fingers, closing your eyes to drink in the calm.

"Standard MRE's, supplies, beddings. Y'know, the usual that's stashed in a place like this brings and offers." Kyle replied, moving closer towards you, his knee brushing against yours, "We do have ravioli MRE's though, beef, so I see that as a win."

His last remark earns a small laugh from you, causing the man to smile, beef ravioli was seen as the better choices of food out on the field, people sometimes traded things to a packet, and it was commonplace for tiny fights to happen over it. "Do I have to fight you for it?" You jest, lovingly squeezing his hand. These moments alone are something you both enjoy, just the two of you, alone and undisturbed, Kyle once mentioned he felt like he could live off these moments alone.

"If there's enough, we could have a date, a terrible makeshift romantic dinner." You laugh, the idea was outlandish right now, but not an overly bad idea. There's a time and a place and right isn't the time nor the place for such a thing, but that wasn't going to stop you from pressing forward with the idea," We can hide them from the rest of them, keep all the good food to ourselves. They won't know."

Kyle lets out a genuine, hearty laugh at your proposal, "If you want to deal with a grumpy Scotsman who won't shut up and an overly pissed off Captain, be my guest, I won't stop you."

You sign at his words, knowing he's right. Ghost is fine eating just about anything on the field, as long as it's edible, he doesn't care. Soap and Price on the other hand like having decent, or as decent as packet ration food can get, out on the field, Price says it's a 'rewards for dealing you lot of a bunch of muppets' and Soap jokes that he's 'a growing boy, I need a balanced diet' while flexing, only to get hit in the back of the head by Ghost, who tells him to shut up.

Getting up and stretching, you smile down at Kyle, "Well, you rest up pretty boy, I'm going to see if the radio works. Can't have a broken lien of communication now." Kissing him on his forehead you leave into one of the adjacent rooms, watching the sun finally set outside the window, slivers of light dance around the room as you change and check each radio frequency until you get in touch with either Price or Laswell. Once you do and state your positions and everything is accounted for and checked, you leave the radio on in case of an emergency and turn the volume up so you can hear it from the other room, and head back into the living room.

Entering the living room once against, you notice Kyle is no longer there, thinking he probably went upstairs to claim a room before the others show up, you head towards the stairs to do the same, the last thing you want is to share with anyone, unless it's Kyle. Walking by the open kitchen door, you fail to take note of what the British man has been doing in your absence.

Kyle clears his throat as you walk past, causing you to stop in your tracks and turn to him, now he has your full attention he smiles, takes your hand and states, "I have something to show you," before leading you into the rundown, and frankly probably safety hazard kitchen. There sat on the old, worn out wooden dinning table, were two neatly placed beef ravioli MRE's and the standard issue drink that came with them, laid out as best as possible, opposite each other, the scene mimicked one you would find at any fine-dinning restaurant.

Kyle stands behind you, still holding your hand, anxious but pleased with himself. "Do you like it?" He asks, looking at you with pleading eyes, trying to gauge your reaction, "We haven't had a proper date in a while your idea gave me some inspiration and I thought 'Why not'. We don't have to tell them we took them," he adds on, "I know it's not perfect."

Turning around to look at him, you place a gentle, loving hand on his check, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, "It's prefect. More than prefect, thank you." You reply, smiling as he practically melts in your hands when your words reach his ears. Kyle takes your hand and walk you over to the table, pulling out the chair facing the door out, like the 'true gentleman he is' as he says, before sitting in the chair opposite you, his facing lit up with a bright smile.

The both you talk and laugh as you eat your meal, treating this like any normal date you would have, already forgetting where you are and that you are currently on the job. Even after the food is gone as well as the drinks, you still talk, sitting at the table engrossed in your own world as you discuss recent events, work drama and where and when you should go on your next proper date once this mission is over, maybe a small corner café or a stay at home take out night. The radio screeching startles you both, Price's voice crackles from the other end of it, announcing they'll be arriving in around thirty minutes.

You get up from your seat, taking the empty food packets and bottles from the table to throw away. Gaz resorts the table to what it was and so there's no obvious signs of your little date, you share a look at the fact you both forgot you were in the middle of a mission, nonetheless you have a job to do. Gaz wraps his arms around your waist, you wrap yours around his neck, embracing in the final moments of solace and bliss before heading back into the fray.

[nice-bright-colors]

Monday. 07.08.24

To start off the second half of this year, I’ve generated the following keys to a successful year:

Eat healthy foods, cheat on rare occasions

Sleep better

Drink (1) gallon of water daily

Exercise at least 3 times a week, preferably more if possible

Travel more, both business and pleasure (use those miles)

Get outdoors, absorb sunshine (with caution)

Drink considerably less alcohol

On occasion have orgasms

Socially interact with other people, even if you don’t know them

Work enough to get buy, maybe a little bit ahead (next year you’ll be swamped)

I wrote this list in my head on this morning’s 5.5 mile ruck. Additionally, I also read my horoscope while out there as well.

Sticking with today’s theme of change, I stopped to take a picture of this defensive weed.

And I got a brief visit by a dragonfly…

It’s all going to be alright.

[lpmurphy]

And Then There Was You

Read on AO3

One Two Three

Fic Summary: Who she once was became fuzzier as the years went on; blurrier around the edges, like a scope that was out of focus. But in all of the memories that remained hers, there was him.

Chapter Summary: Riz is cold. Vannak tries to help.

Three: Penguins and Honey Bees

EIGHT became nine. Then she was told she was ten, then eleven, until one day she woke up and was twelve. 

Not only was she twelve, but she was cold.

Snow fell heavily through the woods around them, shining like silver in the slivers of moonlight that peeked through the dense trees. John had been thrilled - in his very John way - when it started to snow. It would cover their tracks, he explained. Keep their location hidden from the other team. 

As far as Riz was concerned, the other team could drag them back to base by their ankles if it meant they didn’t have to be out in the freezing temperatures any longer. John’s moment of excitement was as fleeting as it was rare when Riz bumped Vannak’s hand with her own to sign that it only meant if the other team couldn’t find them, then they wouldn’t be able to find the other team, and somebody better find someone quick before her toes fell off. 

Out of all the training they’d been subjected to over the years, survival training was her least favorite. Not that it made much of a difference anyway. She knew they didn’t quite care to hear her likes and dislikes, so she kept them to herself. Offering them up only seemed like a waste of breath and a sure fire way to end up in trouble. Most of the time, she enjoyed her training; tactical exercises, combat simulations, firearms proficiency, and their lectures with Deja were all parts of her day she’d grown to look forward to. But, if she had to pick something that she absolutely loathed, it was indubitably this. 

The exercise was simple enough. They would drop them in the middle of nowhere with limited supplies, and the objective to find their way back before the other team found them instead. It was Kai’s favorite. Riz was fairly certain that they could drop Kai into the woods and leave her there forever, and she would live happily among the trees fashioning animal traps out of sharpened sticks and tracking prints through the mud. She, however, would not, and knew how to call this what it was in at least 130 different languages; bullshit. Toe numbing, ice cold, frozen bullshit. 

The third night of the exercise passed the same as the previous they’d spent avoiding the other team - with little sleep in the aching cold. Riz laid on her back and closed her eyes, willing her muscles to relax long enough to allow her to force herself asleep, but each remained painfully stiff. Her toes were numb, her shoulders ached from miles of rucking through uneven terrain, and worst of all, she couldn’t get her nose warm, which frustrated her the most. She sank lower into her bedroll and pulled it up over her nose as the wind ripped through the trees again, but it did little to block the biting chill. She groaned. If there was anything she hated more than field exercise, it was being cold. She couldn’t recall a time when she ever enjoyed being cold. But those times became harder to recall, it seemed. 

With a soft sigh, she let the thick fabric fall away from her face and watched a shriveled leaf that clung to a swaying branch flutter in the wind. Spartans didn’t complain, she reminded herself. Neither would she. She just wished someone bothered to ask.

A gust of frigid wind rustled the skeletal branches of the oak overhead and shook the leaf free. She watched it twist away, the gust whipping the few curls that escaped from her bun across her face. She didn’t lift her hand from where it gripped the inside of her bedroll to her chest to adjust it. She’d finally gotten her fingers warm enough not to hurt when she moved them, and she wasn’t going to risk it again because of a bit of hair. She puffed out a breath instead, her eyes fixed on the glimpses of deep purple skies between the branches, hoping to blow the few strands away. A small smile lifted her lips when the puff sent the few curls away from her face. With a pleased hum, she pulled her bedroll tighter around her and watched the thick flakes tumble down, dancing along the winds before they joined the thick shroud that covered everything around them. 

She closed her eyes and let her shoulders drop with a soft exhale. They would move out at dawn, and she and Vannak would swap guard duties with John and Kai before then. She needed to find some sleep, no matter how difficult it proved to be. She would rather be on guard duty, she thought. At least the movement would keep her warm.

She inhaled deeply, allowing the cold air to fill her lungs before she exhaled slowly, relaxing her shoulders, her chest, her legs. She continued to breathe, willing the tension that knotted her body to loosen with each she took. She could do this, she told herself. This was hardly the most difficult thing she’d ever done. She could manage this. 

A new gust blew through and pushed the few curls back across her face, tickling her nose. With a huff, she turned over on her side. At least this way she was facing the wind, she figured. 

“You should be sleeping.”

She blinked against the wind, looking up to where Vannak sat upright with his back pressed against the tree trunk. He watched the treeline while he absently piled the snow beside him into a small tower. She didn’t know how he could do that, especially without his gloves on, but Vannak had always run warm. Where she couldn’t stand the cold, he relished in it. It felt familiar, he would say. He was never sure why. She didn’t question it. She never understood why things felt familiar to her either, or why it always left her with a twist in her chest that she missed as soon as it was gone. He glanced down at her for a moment. She watched his hand twitch beside him before he gripped another handful of snow and added it to his tower, returning his gaze to the treeline.

“So should you,” she whispered. 

The moonlight through the swaying branches threw shadows across his face like wisps of smoke. She watched them throw patterns across his profile for a moment before Vannak’s eyes pulled from the treeline to look down at her again. Something about the way he looked at her made her skin itch like it had suddenly become too small. It wasn’t the studying look Halsey would scan them all with, or the assessing way Mendez watched them all that made her feel like she had done something wrong. He just looked at her. 

He lifted both hands to his mouth to puff hot air into his palms, and she wondered if she was personally witnessing the first time she had ever seen him admit that he was cold. Instead, he reached across towards her. She flinched, anticipating icy fingers on her skin, but his hands were warm when he brushed her hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. He was always warm. Maybe that was the reason she pressed her cheek into his hand, hoping to absorb some of his ever present heat through osmosis before he pulled away. 

He dropped his hands into his lap and looked up again. 

“You had hair in your face,” he explained.

“Thanks,” she pushed herself up on to an elbow. “Why are you still awake? We have to switch off soon.” 

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said plainly. 

She pushed herself, eyebrows knit together in confusion. She watched him return to his snow tower without acknowledgement towards the bizarre statement he so plainly made. Usually, he was the first one asleep. Julia would often joke that Vannak could fall asleep standing up, and on a couple of occasions, he had done just that. But he just sat straight, watching the treeline. 

He must have felt her eyes on him, because he shrugged and added, “I like to listen out here.”

A noise ripped from the woods. A low howl that echoed against the trees, making it feel like it was coming from every direction. Vannak sat up straighter at the sound.

“Did you hear that?” He asked breathlessly.

Riz pushed herself up to sit against the tree beside him. Her shoulder brushed against his as she searched the treeline for the source of the noise. 

“What was that?”

Before he could answer, another howl rumbled from the trees. She looked around, unable to locate it or determine if it was nearby. The sound trailed off, followed by a series of throaty clicks.

“Sounds like a wolf,” she said.

He grinned like she said something ridiculous and shook his head, “It isn’t. It’s a raven. They’ll mimic the howls to attract wolves to an animal carcass. Their beaks aren’t strong enough to break through flesh and muscle on their own, so the wolf shows up and does all the work, and they get dinner without having to lift a talon.”

She laughed softly, “How lazy.”

“Not lazy,” he chuckled. “Just good at delegating.”

She laughed again. The same call echoed from the trees, nearly indiscernible from the real thing. Her shoulder pressed against his again when she looked up at him, bringing with it a brief moment of warmth before she shifted.

“How can you tell?” She asked. “It sounds the same to me.”

He sat up and turned to look at her like she had said something stupid, which made her grateful that her cheeks were already flushed from the cold. “It’s a completely different pitch, Red. Honestly, can you not hear that?”

“Really?” She sat up as well, straining to listen to the sound again, but she heard no difference. When she returned his puzzled gaze with her own, concern creased his face as he watched her. The earnest way he watched her with sheer bafflement made her wonder if she needed to report for a med exam when they eventually returned. But all concerns for her hearing faded when his lips twitched up.

“No,” he laughed. He blocked her fist before it could connect with her shoulder and pointed to the treeline. “It’s in the tree right over there. I’ve been watching it for a while.” 

She rolled her eyes, ignoring his pleased laughter, and leaned back against the tree. She squinted into the dark, “Where?” 

“Right there! Look!” 

Nothing but inky blackness and the shadowed silhouettes of pines swam into her vision, “I can’t see it!”

“Right there,” he said exasperatedly, continuing to gesture into the trees. She tilted her head to follow his finger. “Not there! Look at where I’m pointing.”

“I am!” She said indignantly. She followed the trajectory of his finger and shook her head,“I still don’t see anything.” 

With a huff, he grabbed the side of her bedroll and tugged her to him sharply. Her shoulder collided against his chest, her face nearly flush with his so that she was looking down his outstretched arm. She was immediately welcomed by his warmth, which she felt climb all the way into her cheeks. 

“Look,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. 

She followed his finger to where a glossy black bird sat perched in one of the pines. It shifted on the bough with a series of guttural clicks before it opened its beak and another howl pierced the dark. Vannak dropped his hand back into his lap and she huffed out a laugh at the sound. 

“Good to know you’re that easy to trick.” His own chuckle rumbled in his chest against her shoulder. His fingers lifted hesitantly, the same as he would before he began to sign, like he was thinking of the best words. Instead, they toyed with the snow again. He shook his head with an amused smirk.“Really, Red. That was too easy.”  

“That was mean.” She did her best to sound angry with him, but the shake of laughter in her voice betrayed her. She never stayed annoyed with him for long. She hadn’t realized that her shoulder was still pressed to his chest, her cheek just brushing his own. A tinge of disappointment fluttered in her chest when she pulled herself from the glow of his body heat to press her back against the tree again. It was the warmest she’d felt in days. 

“What can I say?” He shrugged, flashing a grin down at her. “I’m a mean guy.” 

His hand lifted from the snow to fiddle with the zipper of her bedroll. She watched him roll the metal over in his fingers, pressing each of his fingertips to it before he would twist it again. They were both silent for a moment, their eyes fixed on the bird with its strange calls. Her eyes pulled from the bird to look up at him. Even sitting down, he was still a head taller than her. A small smile lifted his lips as he watched the bird in a moment of contentment that felt few and far between. They didn’t get many. Something about it made her mouth tug up too. She lowered her head to his shoulder, searching for some of the warmth that had seeped from her when she pulled away.

“No,” she said softly. “You’re not.”

He tensed, his whole body stiffening the moment her head rested against his shoulder. He looked down, that same soft look that she didn’t quite have a word for crossing his face momentarily before he looked up again. The wind pushed through the trees and rattled the branches. The raven ruffled its wings with an annoyed croak before it took to the skies. Vannak’s gaze followed it upwards above the trees before it turned on the currents, and disappeared into the dark. The gust dislodged her hair again, but before she could untangle her hands from the grip she kept around the heavy fabric, warm fingers brushed against her face.

That unrecognizable look remained on his face as he tucked her hair behind her ear. His fingers didn’t move from her face. She watched him, trying to read the expression he wore when he traced his thumb along her cheek like he was trying to commit the shape of it to memory. She couldn’t find a name for it when his eyes fell to her lips, nor did she want to. It didn’t need to be analyzed or identified, or translated until she could find a meaning within the brush of fingertips. She just knew that she liked it. No one looked at her quite like he did. 

He cleared his throat. His eyes pulled from hers to return to the skies, his hand dropping into his lap, that moment of contentment fading away. The hard expression he usually wore returned as he inched away from her and left her with a sinking feeling that settled into her stomach like a heavy stone. She told herself it was because she found herself cold once again, not because she was just starting to notice the different shades of brown in his eyes before he looked away. She pressed her back against the tree again, feeling colder when her own eyes returned to the sky. 

“What else have you seen?” She asked, desperate to fill the silence that had fallen between them.

It seemed to do the trick. She leaned back against the tree, watching the thick flakes that tumbled down while she listened to him list the different animals he’d spotted between the trees. They twisted and turned gracefully, spinning like ballerinas dancing along the winds before they came to rest on the forest floor. That familiar ache returned to her chest at the sight of their dance. She wasn’t sure why. She was never sure why. It never made it any less worth feeling, she’d decided. She pulled her eyes from the skies to watch the treeline, focusing instead on the barrage of information that followed each animal he listed; a few deer. An eagle. A fox peeking out at them from the brush curiously. 

“They remind me of you,” he said, turning his head from where it rested against the tree to look down at her, “Foxes.”

“Why?” 

He shrugged, “They just do.”

A cold wind swept through the trees again, biting against her skin and sending a shiver down her spine. She let out a small gasp, clutching her arms tightly to her chest as the chill settled deeper. The trees swayed overhead, whispering to one another as it whirled through the boughs, sending the snow that had collected upon them tumbling to the forest floor. Collapsing against the weight of itself, snow tumbled from the branch above her and toppled onto her shoulder. She cursed under her breath and shook it off before she shifted away from the cover of branches. Vannak looked over when her shoulder collided with his own, watching her reluctantly remove her hand from her bedroll to brush it away. Another shiver wracked her body, the puff of her exasperated sigh visible between them. He pushed her hand aside gently to brush it away himself, allowing her to pull her hand back into the limited warmth of her own body heat.

He kicked his legs out of his own bedroll and stood, shaking off the snow that clung to it, “Here. You can use mine, too. I’m warm enough.” 

“No,” she said firmly, shaking her head. She knew the cold didn’t gnaw at him the way it did her, but no one was completely immune to freezing temperatures. Not even him. The frosty air stung her cheeks as she pulled her hand from her bedroll to push his own back toward him, her fingers stiff with cold. “I’m okay,” she added, her voice steady despite the shiver that betrayed her.

He raised his eyebrows, skepticism creasing his features, “I can hear your teeth chattering.”

“I’m fine,” she offered him a tight smile, though she wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist with a gentle tug back towards the ground, tilting her head towards where he had been sitting. He watched her warily before he lowered himself back down to sit beside her. She nodded her head towards the underbrush, “What else have you seen out here?” 

He added to the list of the different creatures he’d seen, along with the ones he’d heard from deeper within the thicket of trees that surrounded them. A variety of owls; each of which had distinct hoots that made them easy to identify, he explained. She didn’t believe it. An owl was an owl, wasn’t it? But she listened anyway, shivering as the cold crept back into her limbs. His eyes flicked to her again when he felt her shift to watch her tuck herself deeper into her bedroll. He cleared his throat, still piling and shaping the snow beside him.

“You know, a lot of animals actually huddle together for warmth. They’ll share their body heat in order to survive extreme conditions,” he stated. Something edged his voice that she hadn’t ever heard from him before he trailed off, the misshapen tower toppling over under the weight of itself. He glanced over at her before he cleared his throat and added,“Of course, penguins do it. Everyone knows that. But so do animals outside of arctic climates, like flying squirrels and honey bees. Actually, honey bees will gather over a patch of honeycomb to keep larvae warm enough during the winter. They generate the heat equivalent to a forty watt-.” 

“Get to your point,” she interrupted. 

He rolled his eyes, earning a small smirk from her as he glanced down. His lips twitched into a smirk of his own before he looked back at the trees. The moment of amusement fell away, settling into a straight expression like he was thinking, weighing his next move. He lifted his arm, but paused, his hesitation hanging in the air before he finally wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him. She stiffened at the contact, but the heat that radiated from him enveloped her once her back pressed against his chest. For a moment, the chill of the night seemed to disappear.

“My point is,” he murmured, his voice low, “if you don’t want to freeze out here, we have to stay close."

His breath tickled her cheek, just as warm as the rest of him. She sat stiffly, not allowing herself to lean into him, his arm still wrapped around her. She knew he was right - it was one of the first things they were taught about survival training. 

“I told you,” she muttered, although finding it difficult to remain steadfast in her protests. “I’m not cold.” 

“Bull. You’re shivering,” He pulled at her shoulder again, his voice a soft whisper, still edged with that tone she couldn’t identify in any language she knew. “Come here.” 

She let him guide her back against him until she was pressed to his chest. It felt like she put her back to a roaring fire, a comforting feeling that made her almost feel too warm. That too warm feeling settled into her belly when she lowered her head to his shoulder once more, waiting for him to pull away - but he didn’t. She swallowed down that fluttering feeling before it could grow any further. This is just what they did, she told herself; they watched out for each other. He’d do the same thing for Kai or Nora, though she wasn’t sure why the thought of one of them pressed to him in the same way made her stomach clench. They all took care of each other, watching out for each other as often as they could. Vannak had always watched out for her; like when John and Sam had to pull him off of Karim after he broke his nose in the showers because he made fun of her freckles. Or how he always swapped with whoever was assigned rear guard during tactical simulations so he could cover her, and slipped her whatever bit of chocolate he got from his MREs during field exercises. Siblings, they called each other. Brothers. Sisters. She assumed that’s just what siblings did for each other. But Vannak didn’t feel like a brother. He never had. She wasn’t sure what he felt like. She just knew that it was different.

A soft chatter floated in with the winds. She looked back to the tree where the bird had sat without lifting her head from his shoulder. 

“Is that another one of your ravens?” 

“No, that’s a fox, I think,” he said. She could feel the vibrations of his words, a buzzy feeling that tickled her cheek. “They’re really interesting, too.”

“Yeah?” She yawned. “Why?” 

She listened as he explained how the animals used magnetic fields to hunt, his voice a steady, low rumble that seemed to vibrate through her. She hadn’t realized her eyes had drifted shut until his nudge brought her back. He lifted a finger to his lips when she blinked up at him before he lifted two fingers to his cheek and pointed them towards the underbrush. Look. She followed the gesture through the haze of snow to where a pair of glowing eyes stared back. A smile spread across her face as she caught a flash of copper moving through the underbrush before it vanished again. 

As his arm dropped, he draped it over her instead of pulling it away, the low rumble of his voice a gentle drone against their quiet surroundings. She turned over, pressing herself against his chest, determined to soak up every bit of his warmth against the night’s chill. He fell silent when she turned with a soft sigh and pressed her cheek to his chest, listening to rapid pounding of his heart under her ear. His arm stayed firm around her, hesitating only briefly before he draped his own bedroll over their laps. 

He must have been cold too, she assumed, when he wrapped his arm around her shoulders again and pulled her closer. It must have been why he tucked his chin against her head as he spoke in a low whisper about the owls he heard in the trees. Like penguins; just sharing their body heat against the cold. A necessity for their survival. She wondered if penguins or flying squirrels or honeybees felt safe the way she did when they huddled together. They must, she figured. It was the safest she’d felt in the woods since they arrived.

She meant to ask him if he was cold too, but she was asleep before he finished explaining the vocalizations and ear morphology of ural owls.

[allylikethecat]

January OTP Prompts

I saw this prompt list this morning and decided that I was going to attempt to write 500 words every day for the month of January, each little drabble based on the corresponding prompt. We'll see if I'm actually able to stick to it, but it seemed like a fun little writing exercise for the new year! Here is the first one.

1. Sparkle

Matty’s eyes sparkled in the low light as he grabbed George’s wrist. “Come on,” he said, gently tugging George to his feet, the throw blanket that had been tossed over his legs falling to the floor. “Follow me.” 

“Do I have to?” George complained playfully, pretending to be put out, pretending like he wouldn’t follow Matty to the ends of the Earth if asked. Matty’s lower lip was swollen and shiny with spit from the way he had been chewing on it, deep in thought as he had sat fully captivated by the book he was reading, some romance-fantasy guilty pleasure he had seen on TikTok. 

“Geeooorge,” Matty whined, drawing out the syllable as if he truly believed that George was capable of denying him. His eyes glittered in the flood lights of the backyard as he stepped into the cold, wrapping his arms around himself, tugging the cardigan he was wearing closer to his body. It was oversized on him, falling off his shoulders and skimming the tops of his thighs, making him look soft and cozy. Making him look like George wanted to drag him back to the bedroom and take him apart. When George wore it, it was a hair too tight on him, clinging to his shoulders, the buttons barely meeting across his chest, in a way that Matty’s eyes grow dark, his tongue darting out to lick his lower lip predatorily. 

George wrapped his arms around Matty, pulling him close so that they were standing pressing together, Matty’s back flush against George’s chest, George’s arms wrapped around him, the fibers of the shared cardigan downy against his fingers. He let his hand slip between the buttons, rucking up the wash worn cotton tee shirt Matty wore underneath to press his hand against the smooth heat of his stomach. Matty shivered as George traced his fingers along what he knew to be the lines of his rose tattoo, savoring the new softness he found in the holiday weight.

The sky erupted in sparkling light as fireworks burst across the inky night, red, blue, purple, green and gold streaking across the sky. 

“Happy New Year,” Matty said softly, the sparkling fireworks reflected in his dark eyes when he turned in George’s arms so that they were now standing pressed chest to chest. He stood up on his sock clad tiptoes, and pressed his lips to George’s, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, pulling him down and closer as he licked against the seam of his lips. George parted his lips easily, letting Matty inside, the taste of the champagne he had been sipping earlier on his tongue.  

“Happy New Year love,” said George when he pulled back, breaking heavily. He brushed Matty’s curls out of his eyes and kissed him again, pulling him impossibly closer, as if he tried hard enough they could become one. A wave of gratitude bloomed in his chest, he was thankful that he got to have this, that Matty was by his side, in his arms to ring in the New Year, that he was still able to sparkle and shine despite the adversary he had faced in his life. 

“I love you,” George whispered softly, his lips dragging against Matty’s own.  Matty giggled. “I love you.”

[noodyl-blasstal]

What happens in the green room...

My (very last minute, oops!) AU roulette. Naddpod called me on this one!

Jaina asks Moonshine to do her make-up before a show with their band. What could go wrong when the object of your affection is sat in your lap and you're only in the first few steps of the formal courting process?

Read below or on Ao3

--

Jaina tries to breathe steadily. This was fine. Absolutely fine. So maybe she’s only on step 3 of her 27 stage courting process, and maybe it has already been six months, and maybe she isn’t sure that Moonshine actually knows Jaina is trying to court her or that she would reciprocate if she did… but everything is going to be okay. It is totally fine that Moonshine’s straddling her on the sofa right now. Jaina’s having exactly 0 feelings about the strong thighs pressed against her own… or the way Moonshine’s short hems dig in slightly at the swell of her legs. It’s not a problem that Jaina wants to smooth down the material where it has rucked up, it’s fine that she wants to ruck it up further and kiss away the divots left behind. She doesn’t, of course, she’s a master of restraint, it wouldn’t be proper, and Moonshine deserves proper.

“You look real tense, Jaina, everything okay down there?”

Now Moonshine is looking at her with concern… reasonably, because Jaina is currently sitting as still as possible and desperately trying to ensure she gives Moonshine enough space. Despite her rigorous exercise regime, her stomach has started to shake with the effort of holding her back rounded enough so that she doesn’t push herself against Moonshine. She really wants to push herself against Moonshine. It’s okay though, she’s a master of restraint.

Jaina nods curtly. “Of course. I’m totally fine.”

“Uh huh” Moonshine doesn’t look convinced. “You’re shakin’ like a leaf. I think maybe you might be more comfortable if…” Moonshine’s arm wraps round her, pulls her closer, presses her against Moonshine’s ample chest, Moradin she’s so warm, she smells so good, all spice and earth, wild and wonderful. “There, much better, now close your eyes.”

Jaina does it immediately. She’ll do pretty much anything Moonshine asks of her.

“Now hold still.” A hand cups her chin, tugs her face closer to Moonshine’s.

"Are you sure we've got time? We're on soon aren't we?" Jaina wants to wriggle free and run, she wants to stay here and never ever move again.

"Hush up, you said you wanted make-up, so you're getting it. You're allowed to want things! Also, we have an hour, we've already sound checked. Just enjoy it!"

Jaina shuts her mouth, there's no point in arguing. Moonshine's right. Jaina wants this. Moonshine might not be quite so amenable to Jaina's wants if she knew how many of them were focused on her, but the make-up? She was going to allow herself that.

"You can relax your hands, you know?" Moonshine taps one of them softly.

"I haven't. I. I'm not sure what you mean." Jaina's hands are clamped firmly to the chair.

"I can't say the view's bad…" Moonshine prods Jaina's bicep, "...but I don't want you to pull a muscle before we go on, the guitar won't play itself."

"Where else would I…" Jaina opens her eyes in alarm as Moonshine grips her wrists.

"Here." Moonshine plonks Jaina's hands down on her thighs and pats one reassuringly. "There, make sure I don't fall. Now, close your eyes."

Jaina does, and there's the lightest sensation of something brushing her eyelid. She chances a quick peek, and is rewarded with Moonshine looking down at her, studying her, hand moving over her cheek, Moonshine's teeth gripping her lip in concentration. Jaina is going to memorise everything about this, it's so many steps away from where they are supposed to be. She hasn't gifted Moonshine the spore collection she made for her, or the presentation about the benefits of choosing Jaina as a partner. She hasn't even mustered the courage to send the formal courting intent letter. But now Moonshine's pressed against her and Jaina's hands are on Moonshine's thighs and she can't resist holding on. It's for Moonshine's safety afterall, Jaina was keeping her in place, keeping her safe, just like Moonshine asked.

"I said keep 'em closed. I'll do the other lid and then I'm going to do your eyebrows." Moonshine leans forward and cups Jaina's chin in her calloused palm. Jaina loves the reminder that Moonshine isn’t some soft noble. Moonshine works with her hands, she works hard, it's one of a long list of things Jaina admires about her. She closes her eyes obediently, relishes the touches instead, it's rare she gets to feel studied, feel precious. Moonshine always makes her feel precious.

There's only one thing getting in the way of this perfect tender moment, whatever Moonshine's doing to her eyebrow tickles. Jaina tries and fails to hold in a snort.

"Something funny there, Bronzebeard?" Another ticklish pass of whatever torture device Moonshine is using.

Jaina summons as much of her willpower as possible and tries to sit still. “No no, I’m fine.”

“Uh huh.” Moonshine manages to press herself even closer, Jaina couldn’t possibly say if her grip on Moonshine’s thighs tightened before or after. “You sure?”

Moonshine’s question is quiet, so quiet that Jaina could lean forward if she wants, it would be perfectly reasonable, upstanding, honourable in fact, to want to hear the words spoken by the object of one’s affection. She nods instead.

Moonshine’s hand keeps her chin in place. “If you’re sure.” Her voice is honey, it’s low, it’s sultry, it’s sex. Jaina wants to hear it every day of the rest of her life, wants to see how much lower it can get, wants to know exactly what sounds she can pull from Moonshine.

The same sensation on the other eyebrow ruins her. As soon as the first swipe is completed Jaina’s shifting in the chair involuntarily, laughter and apologies mingling into incomprehensible mush. Moonshine doesn’t stop though, her thighs clamp tighter around Jaina’s.

“You gotta match. Don’t tell me a venerable warrior can’t handle having her eyebrows tickled?”

Jaina snorts another inelegant laugh, her leg involuntarily bouncing. Moonshine just whoops, lifts herself onto her thighs before sinking down again once Jaina stopped wriggling.

“It’ll take more’n that to unseat me.” Says Moonshine. She smiles down at Jaina, all teeth and smugness.

It’s probably not a challenge though. Jaina should be more disciplined, she doesn’t need to make everything a competition…

“How much more, would you say?”

“Why don’t you find out.” Moonshine replies and tosses her make-up bag onto the table.

Jaina rolls to the side while the bag’s still in the air. Moonshine’s quick though, anticipates it, shifts her weight the opposite direction. She’s magnificent, she’s perfect, and she’s going to lose. Jaina uses her grip on Moonshine’s thighs to tilt her backwards, Moonshine tries to wriggle away, but Jaina is too fast, lifting her own hips up to destabilise Moonshine further, then tilting sideways, rolling her off and onto the sofa beside her. She wins!

Jaina isn’t anticipating that Moonshine pulls her along for the ride. Before she can fight back, Moonshine’s fingers are skittering deftly along her sides to find the most ticklish spots, she exploits them mercilessly. Moonshine’s hands are all over her, her heavy breath in Jaina’s ear, body flexing and rising below Jaina’s. It’s everything she wanted, she can’t enjoy a moment of it. It’s war.

Jaina’s still laughing and breathless as she flips herself into Moonshine’s lap, later she’ll have the presence of mind to regret that she didn’t take time to savour the roll of their bodies together, the way it felt to lock her legs around Moonshine’s, but in the heat of it there’s no room for anything but winning. Jaina always wins, she has to, only disappointments come second. She grabs one of Moonshine’s hands, pins it to the cushion behind her. Then Jaina’s lost in Moonshine below her, the way she’s stopped fighting Jaina’s grip on her, the way she’s tilting her head up towards Jaina, her lips slightly parted, her eyes flicking to Jaina’s lips. It’s the perfect time to grab her other hand. It’s the perfect time to win. Jaina lets out a triumphant “Ha!” as she pins Moonshine’s other arm above her head..

“I win!” She’s flushed and she knows it, her hair’s mussed and she’s panting, but she’s the victor.

“I didn’t know we were wrasslin’, but I sure am happy here.” Moonshine’s breathing is heavy too. It’s gratifying to know that Jaina was a worthy adversary for her, even if she was bested.

It’s then, while Jaina’s caught in the secretive smug thoughts that Moonshine jerks her hands suddenly. Jaina slides forward, maintaining her grip, but she’s close enough to Moonshine to feel each breath.

Moonshine looks her dead in the eyes. “I reckon I could pin you.”

“Please.” It’s out of her mouth before she can stop it. Moradin, she’s completely disregarding all the rules. Moonshine has made her leave her better judgement so far behind her that she’s not sure she knows what the moral thing to do is in this situation. How could being closer to Moonshine be wrong?.

“Oh, you’d like that, would you? Me holding you down?”

“Yes.” She breathes it, can’t even bring herself to whisper it, barely dares speak it into existence.

She’s almost unaware of the motion as Moonshine rolls them from the sofa, straddles Jaina, pins her hands above her head. Jaina goes easy, doesn’t fight it, she can’t look at anything but Moonshine’s smiling, gap toothed face, can’t look away from the curve of her neck, the tilt of her full lips. Jaina wants to kiss her, more than anything she wants to kiss her. She can’t of course, it’s not right, Moonshine isn’t even aware she’s interested in courting her, she hasn’t had the chance to consider Jaina’s offer, has no idea what Jaina can provide as a partner. But it can’t stop the fact that Jaina wants and wants and wants.

“Looks like you’re at my mercy.”

Jaina nods, tenses every muscle to stop her from rocking her hips up, from pushing her head forwards hopefully.

Moonshine drops low over her. “Do I win something?” She’s so close the shape of the words ghost over Jaina’s skin.

Jaina can’t think, can’t bargain, want and need and guilt are roiling inside her and the guilt is slowly losing the battle. “Anything.” Hopefully Moonshine won’t notice how unsteady her voice is.

“I can think of something I’d like.” Moonshine releases her wrist, Jaina doesn’t move an inch. Moonshine’s hand cups her face again, make-up bag long forgotten but the tenderness still in her touch. Her thumb catches Jaina’s lower lip, drags along it. Jaina’s hips roll, involuntary, automatic, a mortifying lust filled motion. Moonshine grins. “How about you?”

Jaina nods, her traitorous lips kiss Moonshine’s thumb, pressing gently against the pad. She doesn’t want to stop, even as she tells herself she should. “Will you?”

Jaina doesn’t know what she’s asking, doesn’t need to because Moonshine’s lips are on hers, tender at first, a soft press, leaving her time to stop… she should stop. Instead, her hands are pulling Moonshine closer, her lips are parting hungrily, it’s everything she’s wanted and wanted and wanted, and Moonshine wants her right back. At least, she hopes Moonshine wants her, but why else would she be kissing her? No, she needs to pay attention, she doesn’t want to miss this, she wants to remember every second, every inch of Moonshine’s lips against hers. Maybe she can have what she wants, maybe it isn’t necessary to be constantly deprived.

Moonshine pulls away abruptly, Jaina strains upward, chasing her lips. Moonshine kisses her gently, just once more, brushes their noses together, but then pulls back again. “We shouldn’t…”

Ah. Of course. It was too good to be true. Jaina knows better than to get caught up, knows better than to think Moonshine would feel the same, but she had, and now Moonshine was hurt. “Oh. Yes. My apologies, Moonshine. I didn’t mean to cause any offence. I understand if you don’t feel able to forgive me, I can recuse myself from the band if necessa…”

Moonshine raises an eyebrow. “Lemme finish, we shouldn’t do this right now because any minute Hardwon and Bev will come barrelling through this door and we’ll never hear the end of it if we’re late because we’re necking.”

“Yes… that would. That would be embarrassing.” Her reply is tentative.

“But, I think we should pick this back up after the show.”

“I would be.” Jaina pauses. She’s not entirely sure what an appropriate reply is here. It’s too late entirely to revert to the usual procedures, but shame is welling in her stomach about the lack of formality she observed. “I would be amenable to that.” In fact, she already has some of the formalities prepared, she just needs to present them to Moonshine. “Why don’t you come back to my place?” There, that was perfectly acceptable.

Moonshine smiles broadly, “I didn’t think you’d be the type. Now c’mon, or Bev’ll be in here asking when we’re getting married.”

Jaina assumes that’s supposed to inspire fear in her, not longing. “Yes, a good point. That would be terrible.”

“Hey, you didn’t get a chance to see your make up yet.”

Jaina was far more interested in the distraction than the make-up it had distracted her from, but she goes obediently to the mirror. She’s flushed still, but the magic is plain to see.

“You… I…” Jaina’s jaw is broad, clear, and strong. Her eyebrows are bold, her lids faintly shimmering.

“Uh huh. I sure did, didn’t I? Frankly I can’t believe you ever doubted me.” Moonshine’s stood behind her, Jaina likes the shape of them together in the mirror.

“I have never, and I would never.” Jaina replies solemn and serious.

“You wouldn’t, would you?” Moonshine smiles, gently tucks a few strands of Jaina’s hair behind her ear. “Now, let’s get gone before they come a knocking, or not knocking as the case may be.”

[fierceawakening]

Laughing that I’ve just discovered “rucking” (walking with a backpack for weight) is an exercise trend when I just started a job wherein I walk a little over a half mile to and from the subway stop each day while wearing a backpack with my lunch and supplies in it

sure, okay 👍🏽