#fanboy x cielo

[rae-gar-targaryen]

as blue as your taste (i taste the same) [mickey “fanboy” garcia x fem!civilian reader aka “cielo”]

A/N: For Fanboy’s fangirls, more Fanboy and his cielita linda. (Remember, reblogs make the world go round!). Fic title from I’ll never tell you where, fic vibe inspired by a twittering little birdy who knows only one, two-syllable word (iykyk). 

Pairing: Mickey ‘Fanboy’ Garcia x fem!reader (aka “Cielo;” as always no use of y/n – my readers are written ambiguous, but with a latina!reader in mind.)

Word Count: 3.8k (what a joke I am) of a sun-soaked morning drenched in promise, the taste of coffee, and of your love (beneath your tongue)

Warnings: my writing is its own warning, smut, so 18+ ONLY – p in v sex, unprotected sex (look, it's fic, let's suspend a certain amount of disbelief about what's advisable), touching, fingering, spit as lube, v mild daddy kink (oops i gave away the twittering little birdy reference.)

Summary: Your boyfriend, Mickey, is home and is keen to cater to you early in the morning, whether it’s with a cup of coffee, or all of him. Loving is easy, it’s partial to teasing, tugging, desperation, and softness [part of the Fanboy y Cielo ‘verse.]

--

Hardwood floor, however elegant, bears the inescapable curse of being cold first thing in the morning. And the bedroom floor is chilly and smooth as ice against the flats of Mickey’s feet as he slides out of your shared bed, extricating himself from your snuggled warmth. Your shared bed – something he’d never tire of. 

Mickey cursed his internal clock, burned into his being from the repetitive, intensive military training and the value of routine imbued in every recruit. But if it wasn’t for routine, he wouldn’t be awake at 5:00 a.m., even while on leave. If it wasn’t for routine, he would still be in bed with you. If it wasn’t for routine, he would wrap his arms around you ever-tighter, ensconced in the cloudlike grip of dreamy sleep – his reality, even better with you in his arms.

But he was a man of routine. Except that today there was no barracks check. No drills. Nothing to do with his time in this moment, except to be awake. 

Stretching his arms, Mickey reveled in the popping of his joints and the pleasant tingling burn in his muscles as he made to stand, glancing over his shoulder (not enviously, he swears – but adoringly) at your still-sleeping form, starry-eyed at the sight of you clad and snuggled in his grey sweatshirt. 

The well-loved – not worn out, thanks very much – baggy one he’d worn to your first movie date, when he’d come over to your house with an armful of snacks and a perpetually sunshiney grin. You’d chosen “The Thing” (a horror sci-fi classic – and he could respect a woman of taste), and ended up burrowing into his shoulder, snuggling into the warmth of the very hoodie you were wrapped in now. He couldn’t remember now exactly when it had become a permanent fixture in your home. But now he couldn’t envision it on anyone but you. 

And you hadn’t stirred at Mickey’s departure from your bed – perhaps, Mickey thought, forlornly, perhaps you were used to being in it without him when he was gone for months at a time. The absence just as much a part of your routine as morning laps were a part of his. He shook his head gently, the now grown-in curls caressing his forehead gently at the motion. He refused to let himself dwell on that, when he was home now. When you were together. 

And you had done such a good job of maintaining your shared home while he was away. And as much as MIckey loved seeing you during your FaceTime calls, he would be remiss to say he didn’t also relish catching glimpses of the lived-in domesticity of your space in the background. The sight of your favorite blanket rumpled into the corner of the couch off to the side of your camera. A water glass left on the coffee table. Your golden retriever, Artoo, sprawled on the kitchen tile, snoozing gently while you spoke to your beloved through the little glass screen of your phone. 

It was the least he could do, Mickey thought, to give you some of that domesticity back while you slept. To contribute to your home in ways he otherwise couldn’t while away. 

With that, Mickey slid his feet in preparation over the cool hardwood once more before standing, before slipping quietly from the room, and beckoning Artoo to follow with gently-clacking paws. 

–

The laundry had been started. The dishes from last night’s dinner removed from the drying rack and put away. Artoo had been walked and fed and was now curled atop his cushion with his favorite rawhide chew. And, perhaps most importantly, the softly-burbling coffee maker had filled up enough for Mickey to pour a cup, steaming, and prepared the way you liked it best. 

Slipping quietly back to your bedroom with the porcelain mug generating a welcome warmth that seeped into his fingertips – a contrast to the still-frigid surface beneath his feet – Mickey slid beneath the covers on his side of the bed. Mindful of the fact that you were still sleeping, your features angelic, smooth, and untroubled in that way of deep sleepers, lavender haze cloudy and dreamlike.  

The desire to let you sleep was at odds with the desire he felt as he gazed upon you, his cielo. His morning sky, radiant, even when compared to the purpling, blooming dawn of the expanse outside of your window, casting the room in a sweet morning glow. Bathing your features, resplendent, as though you were made to be seen in the morning light. And perhaps you were. 

It was no secret that Mickey’s days began with you, his name on your lips and his first thought when he awoke, no matter the distance between the two of you. And his nights (when he was lucky), ended with you, too. Lucky to be ensconced in your touch, with the wax and wane of your skylight pull, a siren’s song beckoning him into the bygone era of your devotion, ever lost to time in its eternity. With your breath fanning across his face, and your lips on his. 

And wouldn’t it be so nice to begin his day this way, too? 

Gently, Mickey set your coffee mug on the bedside table nearest him before turning back to you and bending to skate his hand, warmed by the sweet heat of morning caffeine encased in porcelain, beneath his (your) hoodie and along the skin of your waist, tracing up your side and along the ridges of your ribs. 

Bending, Mickey revels in the slight gasp that his touch has emitted from you as you begin to stir, quick to follow the teasing traipse of his fingertips with the skating bridge of his nose, and the sweetest skim of his lips along your neck, trailing up, up to the bridge of your cheek.

What a way to wake up.

“Good morning, tease,” you rasped, twisting in the sheets to separate Mickey’s lips from your neck so that you could crack an eye open, taking in the sight of your beloved leaning over you. “What time is it?” 

Instead of responding, Mickey pressed forward further, closing the gap between you two, to press his lips fully to yours, the softness of his (your) hoodie pressing into his chest as he sucked your lower lip between his. A little something like ardor blooming, aching in his chest as he withdrew in time to see the flutter of your lashes as you opened your eyes fully at his departure. 

“Still early, Cielo,” he murmured, nudging his nose along the bridge of yours, cocking his head to press another kiss to your cheek.

You hmmm’d at Mickey’s attentions, the tingling sensation of goosebumps erupting across your skin – no matter how many times your Mickey has kissed you, no matter how many times you feel his lips across your skin, it garners the same reaction. As though your very person was surprised, pleased, to be the recipient of this man’s love. 

The cool air of the room bit across your face, now that Mickey had retreated from you some. Prompting you to snuggle into his (your) hoodie, and burrow ever further beneath the covers to shield your legs, your slipper-socked feet, from the bite of cold air. 

“I have to get up,” you sighed, wistful that your time beneath the warm cocoon of your comforter was coming to an end. “Artoo needs to go out, and…”

Mickey silenced you with a press of his finger to your lips,

“S’alright, Cielo, I took care of it. And the dishes, and the laundry. I wanted you to sleep in. You know, you work so hard, … and I come bearing gifts,” Mickey passes you the still-warm mug from the nightstand, into your eager fingertips, pleased at the look of gentle surprise that crossed your features.

“You did all my morning chores?” You asked, cracking voice warming with the first grateful sip of your morning caffeine, ever-careful not to belabor too much the loss of the feel of his finger from your lips in favor of coffee. “Oh,” you groaned at the feeling, the taste, of the divinely hot liquid down your throat. “Holy shit, babe. This is amazing.” 

Mickey felt himself flush, a pleasing prickle tickling the tips of his ears and warming his cheeks. Though whether it was at the pleased noise you had made, or the praise that had dripped from your lips, he wasn’t sure. Both were sure to get him going. Coupled with the sight of you in his (your, damnit) hoodie, and he was working his way up to being a total goner.

“Haré cualquier cosa por ti, amor,” Mickey breathed, easing an arm around you as you pressed into his side, sipping happily at your coffee. Anything for you. “I know how you like it.” 

You raised an eyebrow at your boyfriend then, at the perhaps-innuendo, “You do, do you? Careful. A girl could get used to this level of service.” 

“I do,” Mickey assured, using his arm around you to guide you between his legs, allowing your back to rest against his chest. “And you know, as a dutiful soldier, I’m only happy to serve you.” 

You huffed through your nose at that, an undignified little snort, gently knocking your elbow back into the crook of his side. 

“You’re corny when you’re horny, I just want you to know that,” you chided, your voice lilted and teasing. 

“Me?!” Mickey spluttered, indignant. “What a rude thing to say. I bring you coffee in bed, I let you sleep in my hoodie, and this is how you repay me?”

You twist in Mickey’s arms, coming to face him now, resting on your knees and leaning past him, brushing your chest to his as you place your coffee cup gingerly on his bedside table once more. 

“You’re right,” you sigh, mock consternation coloring your voice. “Maybe it’s just me that’s turned on. Hot guy brings me coffee in bed? How can a girl resist?” You slid your arms around your boyfriend’s neck, allowing your fingers to tangle in the curls at the base of his neck and tugging lightly, causing Mickey’s head to tilt, his jaw to jut ever-slightly upward, pleased at the groan that burned its way from his throat to your ears. “And don’t act like you don’t like me sleeping in this hoodie.” 

And you loved him like this, if you were honest. Teasing, sweet, as he is. And slightly at your mercy. 

You allowed your eyes to drag over your boyfriend’s angelic features, his honeytar eyes swirling as he took you in, in kind. The flash of white teeth behind full lips, parted, waiting with bated breath for your next move. Cinnamon burn married with honey sweetness. 

Your lips met his, then. Full and flush. 

And isn’t it just like Mickey to overwhelm your senses, even when you’re the one –barely– in control? If the sight of him at your mercy wasn’t devastating enough, the feel of his silken curls between your fingers was unmatched in its ecstasy, second only to the feel of his lips on yours. The clean, warm smell you associate with him surrounding you, bleeding into the taste of him on your tongue. Paired remarkably with the taste of the coffee he’d made, rich, bold, and wanting. His sweet little hitch of breath, music to your ears. 

“Rude,” Mickey murmured as your lips parted, “a rude thing, you are.” 

“Rude, hm?” You pecked another kiss to his pouted mouth, a mocking, quizzical little question. “So I shouldn’t let you fuck me now?” 

And isn’t just like Mickey … To render you breathless as he flips you beneath him? Teasing giggles punched from your lungs in exchange for the ever-sweet surprise of his display of strength as he surges over you like a tidal wave of want. 

“Don’t fucking tease me, Cielo,” Mickey breathed, lips inches from yours as his molten-whiskey eyes roved your form. “Don’t you wanna be a good girl?” His hands, warm and firm against your skin, steadied your wriggling thighs as he skated his palms along your legs and up, up, up and beneath the loose hem of your hoodie that skimmed along the tops of your thighs. 

As Mickey’s lips met yours once more, heated and heady, the tips of his fingers toyed with the hem of the underwear you had slept in. You gasped at his touch so close to where you (always) wanted him, allowing Mickey to slide his tongue along yours, deepening the kiss as he tugged your panties down your legs, allowing you the slightest of wriggles of your hips to aid him in his effort. 

And if your teasing before hadn’t done it, the feel of your back pressed to his chest as you had chided him, the feel of your thighs beneath his palms was certainly getting him there, the ache that so frequently accompanied his desire for you, rendering him half-hard. Because of course a touch was all it would take, when he (always) wanted you. 

His cherry cola girl, sweetly radiant and resplendent beneath him. Unfairly resonant of some kind of solar goddess in the lavender-gold hue of early-morning sunlight awash on the creme color of your bedroom walls, splashing along the skin of your now-bared legs, beckoning him to paint you with the reverence you deserved – an eternal piece of art worthy of worship. The very notion of you, heavy in his bones, keeping him grounded whenever he was away, even when he was in the sky.

“I’ll be good, M,” you sighed, gripping Mickey’s wrist with wanting fingers, guiding one of his hands over the top of the hoodie, over the curve of your breast, and allowing his palm to rest along the plane of your throat, pressing a sweet kiss to his fingertips. “I’ll be good if you’ll be mine.”

And who was he to refuse?

And for as many times as you had told Mickey that the was sunshine personified, that his smile was dazzling, that he was the source of light in every room – he could say the same for you, of the sight of the golden light of morning dancing in your eyes, causing them to swim with sunshine and pleasure – with your love for him so naked and plain before him. 

Kneeling between your parted thighs, one hand on your throat, the other squeezing the skin of your hip after he had absconded you of your panties. You brought your legs up to wrap loosely around Mickey’s tapered waist, encouraging him to touch you, with an impatient roll of your hips against the warmth of his thigh just barely within your reach. 

Mickey chuckled at your resulting huff of impatience, conceding with sweet sin. 

Pressing his index and middle fingers past your lips, you accepted them eagerly into your mouth, the warmth of you around any part of him enough to make Mickey close his eyes with a groan. 

“That’s good, baby,” he praised as you gently sucked his fingers, allowing them to work gently in your mouth, satisfied with the feel of your saliva coating his fingers before withdrawing them, rewarding you with a dazzling smile as he took in the glisten of you along the skin of his fingers. “Don’t worry,” he assured, leaning forward to press a kiss to your neck as brought his fingers down to run through the seam of your bared pussy, your spit and the wetness already gathered there allowing him to glide his digits along your folds. 

Your love continued to stroke you, one finger probing closer, closer to your entrance as he lavished attention with piteous lips along your neck, a heady, whiskeyed series of kisses with a chaser in the form of nipping teeth. Plucking and playing you as only he could. 

“M, God,” you gasped, as he finally, finally, slid a long finger inside of you, urging, beckoning, demanding, the heel of his hand pressing against your clit as you continued to roll your hips against it. 

Mickey’s other hand traveled up your side, pushing the hoodie up as he went to bare your tits, a light scrape of nails over a pebbled nipple enough to make you yelp, bucking your hips evermore into the hand that cupped you as he continued to finger you. 

“M, please,” you whined, the pressure building inside you painfully exquisite, but not quite enough, “I w-wanna come with you inside me.”

And who was your love if not merciful? Especially when you begged for him, so pretty? So piteous?

 “Y-yeah,” he breathed, shifting to allow your legs to release his waist so he could shuck his boxers down, his hard length prominent, curved. “Gonna fuck you, pretty girl. My good girl.” 

And his pull over you as you reached down to guide his length between your slick folds was oceanic. You’d do anything he asked, if only he’d just — and with a snap of his hips, a groan, and a pitch forward to bring his hands down by either side of your head, Mickey was seated inside of you, rendering you full. 

The surge of him was like the wax and wane of the tides as he began to roll his hips into yours, thrusting at an even, but weighted, pace – every thrust that much harder, harder, harder…

You turned your head to the side to press a kiss to the wrist of the arm that rested there, bringing your own arms up to greedily drink in the feel of your love, skin on skin. 

And, oh, the firm, defined feel of his chest beneath your fingertips was worth any minute spent dreaming about it instead of touching it – because you could touch him now. 

For his part, Mickey was awash at the feel of you around him, silken and warm, like a bolt of eternally-pleasing velvet only he would wrap himself in. The feel of your lips along his skin, of your touch along his torso, your fingers making their way once more to bury himself in his curls, tightening and tugging at a particularly hard thrust of Mickey’s hips. 

And there you were, a veritable garden blooming beneath him, your soft-petaled heart open and bursting with your love as you moaned for him, the sound like honeyed nectar to Mickey’s ears. 

The feel of Mickey inside of you, of the heavy drag of his cock with each flexing thrust was the sweetest torture, satisfying but not quite enough as you urged him for more with your body. Your hands twined in his curls gave a particularly harsh tug as you surged upward to meet Mickey’s lips, catching his lower with your teeth and giving an insistent, but gentle scrape, the bite of someone starved. 

You were so close, so close… Just a bit more… 

“B-baby,” you gasped, “p-please, Daddy, please…” your whimper escapes your lips, the word meeting Mickey’s ears, two syllables drenched in your desperation, your desire. Syrupy and sinful, from your lips to Mickey’s ears. From Mickey’s ears, down his body, tingling along his skin. Your sweet urges, all for him.

And had you ever used that word with him before? Mickey wasn’t sure (and he was sure that if you had, he would recall it) – but the sound of your sweet, breathy moans, the sound of that word was going to play on a loop in Mickey’s mind, burning into his bones in perpetuity. As ever-present as his desire for you. He was sure of it. 

“Please,” you breathed again, dropping your hands to his sides and allowing your nails to drag along the skin of Mickey’s hips and up his torso, your thighs tightening around his tapered waist, soft, sock-bedecked feet locking in place behind him to pull your beloved closer, closer to you. 

He groaned in your ear, a desperate, jumbled rumble from somewhere deep in his chest as he acquiesced to your pleas, surging, deliberate as he continued to fuck into you.

“Say it again, baby,” he urged, inching a hand down to where your bodies were joined, the promise of his precise touch over your clit, where you needed him most a threat enough to make you weep. He gripped your jaw with his other hand, forcing your eyes to lock with his as the cinching warmth of an impending orgasm began to bleed its way through his veins. “Fuckin’ say it again,” he pleaded. 

And it had clicked, just as Mikey’s fingertips brushed your clit, causing the blush of that tightening coil inside of you to begin to burst – he had liked what you’d spilled from your lips, like the dirtiest secret. 

You gazed at the looming glimmer that looked so like desperation behind your love’s eyes, wild and wanton, parting your lips to give him what he wanted – knowing it would result in him giving you what you wanted. 

“Daddy,” you whined, fucking back onto Mickey’s cock with insistent rolls of your hips, and urging his touch along your clit, “Please make me come.” 

And who was he to refuse? 

As the moon in the sky controls the tides, you beckoned. And Mickey had no choice but to follow, rolling his thumb insistently over your clit as he fucked you, a seafoam wave of staticky pleasure overtaking you as your orgasm crested, thighs squeezing Mickey’s sides as the whole of you tightened around him like a viper. 

Pleasantly warm and venomous, your pleasure bleeding into Mickey’s as the two of you joined. 

And like a venom, your desire had spread, bleeding and burning its way through Mickey’s veins as he continued to roll his hips into yours before he spilled himself inside of you, the feeling of him giving you all of himself until he was spent made you want to pen sonnets – an incomparable feeling of secondhand ecstasy at the knowledge that you had given your love this pleasure.  

With a groan, Mickey extricated himself from you – you truly had wrapped around him like a snake, eyes roving over your blissed-out form to confirm that he hadn’t been too rough with you before allowing himself to settle in by your side…

“Soooo,” Mickey sighed beside you, his breath steadying as he came down from his high, from your collective exertion. “Daddy, huh?” 

You rolled your eyes, swatting his arm playfully with the back of your hand, “Please. As if you didn’t like it.” 

The sheets slipped against your skin as Mickey pulled you – still wearing his (your) hoodie, now pulled back down to cover you once more – across the bed, all liquid limbs and pliant bones, into his arms. Pressing a kiss into the side of your head and retrieving your forgotten coffee cup from the bedside and depositing it once more into your waiting fingers. 

“You liked it too, Cielo,” he noted, snickering at your semi-disgusted face at the dissatisfying sip of now-cold coffee. 

“Well, yeah, Mickey,” you replied, ignoring the offending coffee in favor of the pleasure of his now stroking along your hair, the two of you settling back into the lazy morning as the sunlight along the walls began to blaze orange. “You’re still so fine.” 

“And does it blow your mind?”

--

Tagging: @withahappyrefrain  @thegirlwhowritesfics @xbamboowishesx @friendly-neighborhood-blondie @abibliophobiaa @clints-lucky-arrow @inklore @phoenixhalliwell @ohmagawd-life @thematthewmurdock @mrshipsmcgee @p3mybeloved @letmeplaytheliontoo @vestrangel @moonlight-prose @aphrogeneias @levylovegood @thatredheadwriter @2clones-1kamino @zombieaurora @shadeds-library @writercole @ijustwantedplums @justalonelyslytherin @gretagerwigsmuse @fanboysfangirl @siriusfahey @joaquinwhorres @gingerbreadandpaper @the-navistar-carol  @alexxavicry @jadore-andor @fanboygarcia @lavenderluna10 @thedaredevilsgirl @fluffyprettykitty @mickeyluvs @mothdruid  @maxmayfield @eagerforthesky @melinacalhounxo @marvelousmermaid @callmemana @spencer-is-amazing @mxgyver ​ @n3ssm0nique ​@mothdruid   

#mickey fanboy garcia x reader #fanboy garcia x reader #fanboy x reader #mickey garcia x reader #mickey 'fanboy' garcia x reader #fanboy garcia x you #mickey garcia x you #mickey 'fanboy' garcia x you #mickey fanboy garcia x you #fanboy x you #fanboy x cielo #mickey 'fanboy' garcia x cielo #mickey garcia fic #top gun maverick fic #tgm fic #mickey garcia smut #mickey garcia fluff #danny ramirez #danny ramirez fluff #fanboy fluff #fanboy smut

[ryebecca]

"Who cares if she is not the Queen's chosen diamond of the season? She is the sparkle and the beauty of every diamond to me." 👑 ❤️ ✨ | (a Regency Fanboy x Cielo for @rae-gar-targaryen!)

#i hope i did this beloved couple justice! #tgmedit #mickey garcia imagine #mickey fanboy garcia imagine #mickey garcia x cielo #mickey fanboy garcia x cielo #top gun: maverick #mickey garcia #danny ramirez #*myedit #*mymoodboard

[dumbseee]

life saver.

f1 au: in which, you’re a famous singer and you just got out of a very toxic relationship, so when fans starts noticing how close you’ve gotten to a certain formula one driver, they get protective.

carlos sainz jr x singer!reader.

fc: madison beer.

liked by selenagomez, carlossainz55, bellahadid and 3 689 008 others.

y/n: today was my first concert since my hiatus, you guys were amazing and i couldn’t thank you enough for your support! i love you guys so much <3

_

bellahadid: you’re so strong baby!

fan1: we missed you so much!

fan2: omgggg please come to asia!

fan3: she’s the only artist i’ll sell my kidney for

fan4: her new album is devastating, i’m so glad she’s finally happy

fan5: a year without you was too much!

fan6: she looks like a princess and a fairy at the same time it’s amazing

fan7: wtf is carlos doing here?

fan8: @.fan7 he just started following her, that’s weird

fan9: @.fan8 let the boy be a fanboy omg

liked by landonorris, charles_leclerc, lewishamilton and 689 008 others.

carlossainz55: my thoughts will echo your name, until i see you again.

_

fan1: THE?? Y/N?? LYRICS??

fan2: am i dreaming or carlos used enchanted’s lyrics??

landonorris: looking good mate!

fan3: he looks so good wtf

fan4: i’d kill to be that damn dog

fan5: WHY IS EVERYONE IGNORING THE THIRD SLIDE?? WHO IS THAT??

fan6: @.fan5 that looks like his sister tbh

fan7: @.fan5 that must be isa, apparently they’re still seeing each other

fan8: spill the tea carlos, you’re too old to be soft lauching

liked by gigihadid, vittoria, taylorswift and 2 008 689 others.

y/n: no need to ask, he’s a smooth operator.

_

fan1: nah man they HAVE to be dating

fan2: @.landonorris you know something, so spill IT

landonorris: @.fan2 carlos will kill me, are you nuts?

fan3: BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

fan4: @.landonorris you just ruined their whole soft launch thing BSIDODOLD

fan5: @.landonorris run boy because if carlos catch you, you’re done for

carlossainz55: i’ll shave your head in your sleep, lando norris.

landonorris: @.carlossainz55 I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING???

liked by landonorris, carlossainz55, charlottesiine and 3 789 788 others.

y/n: more pictures of our little trip to capri :) (don’t worry everyone, lando is still alive)

_

carlossainz55: well, now we don’t have to hide anymore, i love you mi cielo.

liked by y/n.

landonorris: i BARELY made it, carlos threatened to run me over if he saw me in the streets of monaco!

fan1: BSKDODOOD

fan2: *let’s all pretend we didn’t know already*

fan3: please take care of her, carlos.

carlossainz55: @.fan3 trust me, i will.

fan4: carlos is literally the only man I’ll trust around y/n

charles_leclerc: congrats lovers!

liked by y/n.

fan5: can’t wait for her paddock outfits!!

#f1 au #f1 fandom #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 instagram au #f1 social media au #f1 x oc #f1 x reader #f1 x you #carlos sainz #carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz x y/n #carlos sainz f1 #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz x oc #carlos sainz 55 #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x female reader #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz jr #formula one x reader #formula one #formula one x y/n #formula one x oc #formula one x you #formula 1

[callsigndragon]

Fangirl

Pairing: Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia x waitress!reader

Warnings: None! All fluffy

Wordcount: 919 (a short thing i know)

A/N: Just a little something I had in my head since last night

Translation: cielo means sky

Mickey is in love. Really.

Absolutely in love.

There’s this new waitress that Penny hired a few months ago, and he can’t stop thinking about her.

He’s always ready to go to the bar and ask for another round just so he can have an excuse to talk to you. He has also driven you home a couple of times when you got out really late, even though it wasn’t exactly close to the base.

But he loved talking to you. You were a bit of a nerd yourself. Scratch that; you’re a big nerd. There’s not a show you don’t know or a movie you haven’t watched. It’s like you’re this enormous encyclopedia of pop culture. Conversations with you can last for hours. And he enjoys it; he enjoys talking; he enjoys seeing that little smile on your face when you're talking about something you find fascinating, or the way your eyes shine like stars when he mentions that character you adore.

One day, however, you stop smiling. Happiness doesn’t reach your eyes anymore.

Why? Why don’t you talk about Marvel with him anymore? Where has your smile gone?

Payback tells him that maybe you’re going through a rough patch. Things will return to normal soon, and he will see that smile again.

But Mickey can’t wait for that smile to appear again by itself. Maybe he can help. Maybe he can help you.

At first, you dismiss it, not wanting to worry him. But the more you push him away, the more he insists on knowing what’s happening with you.

One day, tired of everything, he waits until the end of your turn, sitting on the hood of his car, until you come out of the bar.

“Mickey? What are you doing here?” You look at your phone to see what time it is. “It’s really late, you should go back to base and rest.”

“I’m not leaving, cielo. Not until you tell me what’s happening.” He gets up from the car, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Mickey, everything’s okay. I told you already.”

“Bullshit.”

“Oh, come on!” You groan, walking to the bus stop. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“So there’s something that’s bothering you!” He says with a triumphant tone, as if he’s glad that he caught you in a lie.

“Miguel!”

“Nah ah, don’t Miguel me.” He grabs you by the hand and turns you around. “You know I care about you, right?”

You nod, looking at his boots.

“Then talk to me, please. I need to know what’s happening so I can help you.” His tone, more tender than before, makes you feel butterflies in your stomach. He’s so sweet and kind.

“I…talked with this guy the other day. A friend of mine.” You turn your phone around, fidgeting with it. “I told him that I had a crush on this guy… He’s amazing, and lovely. We have many things in common.”

Mickey feels his soul break in two. One part of him feels like he has lost his opportunity. Another part thinks that maybe, and just maybe, you’re talking about him.

And he needs to desperately hold onto that idea.

“Go on, please.”

“Yeah well, he told me that a girl like me should be… less like me, and more like the other girls.”

“Less you? I don’t know who this guy is, but he’s an absolute idiot. You’re awesome, cielo. Any guy would be lucky to be with you.”

You smile sadly. “You think so?”

“I don’t think so, I know so.” He places his hand under your chin, raising your hand so you can look at him. “What other stupid things did this friend of yours tell you?”

“That I should stop being a fangirl.”

Mickey frowns. “Honey, that’s like your whole personality.”

“Yeah… It’s not easy to stop being who you are.”

“Then why do you follow his advice?”

“Because I wanted to impress you!”

“Me?” He cups your face, laughing. “Cielo, do you remember my call sign?”

“Fanboy.” You close your eyes, feeling absolutely stupid. “Yeah, I guess I forgot to mention that part to my friend.”

“Hold on, hold on, let me process this.” He chuckles, licking his lips before tilting his head. "Little miss, you have a crush on me, and you stop talking about everything you like just to impress me?"

“If you say it like that, it sounds like I’m an idiot.” You whine, covering your face.

“You’re lucky I like idiots, then.”

You punch him in the shoulder, and he moves his hand over that spot, trying to sooth the pain. “Hey!”

"I am the only one who can refer to myself as an idiot, idiot."

He snorts, getting the keys of his car out of his pants. “Sooooo, there’s a new episode of The Last of Us. Maybe we can watch it together?”

“Are you asking me on a date, Fanboy?”

“Only if you accept, Fangirl.”

“But we’re getting pizza. And sweets. Lots of sweets.”

“And tissues, because you’re gonna cry a lot.” He says, walking you to his car.

“It’s not my fault that Pedro Pascal is such a good actor!”

Mickey opens the door for you, waiting until you get inside. “Do you have a Latino kink or something?”

“Miguel!”

He starts laughing while closing the door. He’s happy now. Not only can he see that smile on your face again, but he also knows that there’s an opportunity for him.

He got his own personal fangirl.

#top gun maverick #top gun x reader #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun fanfiction #mickey garcia fluff #mickey fanboy garcia x reader #mickey garcia x reader #mickey garcia #mickey fanboy garcia #fanboy x you #top gun fanboy #fanboy x reader #mickey garcia fanfic

[sometimes-i-write-good]

¿Quieres bailar conmigo?

Mickey ‘Fanboy’ Garcia x gn!pilotreader [no use of y/n]

2.6k || Fanboy comes home from leave a day early to surprise you, but you surprise him instead.

===

Genre: fluff

CW: overload of charisma

Author's Note: Fanboy is my favorite Top Gun: Maverick character and I’ve already read everything in existence about him, so I have to take matters into my own hands. || cross-posted on ao3

===

===

The first thing Mickey heard when he turned the lock to your shared apartment was a breakup song playing loudly. Punctuated by your passionate cries. In some form of a miracle, you managed to miss every note, which Fanboy took as a sign that your heart was not truly broken and José José merely possessed you with the urge to put on the performance of a lifetime.

He slipped quietly into the flat. Taking his time to unlace his shoes, set down his bag, and softly clicked the door shut behind him. You were not alerted in the slightest. Too busy in the kitchen stirring and shouting, “Qué triste luce todo sin ti. Los mares de las playas se van.”

Every other line you would spin, working your feet through a quick box step with the occasional fling of your spoon when the emotion built. “Se tiñen los colores de gris. Hoy todo es soledad.” you stepped backwards, closer and closer to Mickey with your hips swaying in a way that made his uniform fit a bit too tight.

“Media naranja…” he let his voice trail off, soft enough for you to hear him. The last thing he wanted to do was interrupt the moment with a spike of adrenaline. He’d tried his best, but he never was good at subtlety when it came to you.

“Holy fuck!” You let out a startled scream, hand coming up to clutch at your heaving chest. “Mickey, I thought I asked you to stop doing that.”

“Aw, mi vida,” he laughed, stepping closer to grab you by the hips and pull you close to him. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You stick your bottom lip out at him in a pout. Far enough out that he can’t help the way his gaze lingers on it. “Don’t think you can kiss it better,” you tell him.

Fanboy hums. He brings a hand up to trail the back of his index finger down your cheek so that he can tilt your chin up a bit further. “Can’t I?” It’s fun to watch your reaction to the question, feeling the slightest strain against his fingers and you try to move closer to kiss him.

“Mickey,” you whine.

He closes the gap between you. “Mi cielo.” His voice is low, raspy. All his attempted teasing seems to take more out of him than you and he’d been away for far too long to let his moment draw out any longer. Fanboy cupped your cheek then pressed his lips against yours, filling in all the passion he’d left you without while he was away.

The last kiss he gave you before he’d left was quick. A domestic kind of peck married couples gave one another as they ran out the door for work. In a way, Mickey had convinced himself on the plane to Virginia Beach, that is exactly who the two of you were. You’d been together so long that being moved around from base to base wasn’t the heartbreaking news that it had once been but rather a fact of life the two of you had to live with. Still, it didn’t excuse the way Fanboy had let his own being late impact the last memory of him you were left with before he’d walked out the door. It was something he fully planned to make up for today.

His tongue ran over your bottom lip greedily. Mickey could, and had, memorized every corner of your mouth and it would never be enough to truly satiate him. The moment your lips parted for him Fanboy jumped on the opportunity to run his tongue along the side of yours. He moved with a confidence you had only ever been able to bring out of him.

You hum in satisfaction, fingers going to hook in the belt loops of his uniform. Sure of yourself. A goddess in control of his futile sense of humanity. Freedom and a prison all in one. There could be worse fates than being locked onto your lips for all eternity. Some Fanboy didn’t care enough to explore. Not when he had your body pressed against him and his lips bruised by the shape of yours.

“Mi cielo.” Mickey murmurs against your lips when he goes to take a breath. A kiss pressed to each of the corners of your mouth. “You have no clue what you do to me.” And then, as though you knew full well what you did to him, you slid your hand around the back of his neck and pulled him to your lips once again.

You’re the one to pull away after a few more blissful moments of kissing. Mickey expected you to be. Yet he still had to take a moment, pressing his forehead to yours, hand cupped around your cheek, with his eyes closed. If he had the choice, the two of you would be in the bedroom right now but you had been in the middle of cooking, and he was hard pressed to pull you away from a task once you’d begun. “I love you.”

Mickey doesn’t need to open his eyes to know there was a goofy grin on your face. “I love you more, darling.” The words brought a heat up the back of his neck, settling on his ears. Years into this relationship and you still could fluster him. Mickey opened his eyes, pressed one more swift kiss to your lips, then leaned back to look at you.

For a moment it felt like the two of you were plunged back into the moment of your first kiss. Two kids in love staring at one another with smiles of disbelief. Fanboy knew a part of him would always be stuck in that feeling whenever the two of you kissed. There was no conceivable explanation for how he got so lucky to be able to kiss you whenever he pleased. To be able to call you his everything.

“Mi vida, when I came in… is that really how you’d react in the case of an intruder?” He asked quietly in a poor attempt to cover a soft laugh. “Scream your head off first, figure out a way to fight later?”

You roll your eyes at him and, even in your moments of playful aggravation, Mickey can’t help the way his pulse quickens. He uses his thumb to trace hearts on your waist. A way

“I’m a pilot, mi sol. There’s a reason I do all my fighting in the air.”

“I can teach you to fight.” When you laugh, he pulls you tight to him. “I’m serious. It’s easy, mi vida, a lot like dancing.”

“I’m a horrid dancer,” you tell him. Mickey shakes his head. You have the tendency to be overtly hard on yourself, but he’d seen you when he had walked through that door. Stunning, if a little out of practice. He knew that if he were to tell you that you’d only dismiss the idea entirely claiming that he thought everything you did was stunning and, while you wouldn’t exactly be wrong, he didn’t want you to shy away from his next offer, “Dance with me?”

“Right now? I’ve got dinner on the stove.”

In a swift series of steps, Mickey had you clinging onto him so that he could position the pair of you right in front of the stove. He turned off the stove with a self-satisfied smile. For every excuse you’d planned to make, Mickey had already compiled a thousand reasons why not to worry. It’s how the two of you had always been. Fanboy had lived up to his callsign in more ways than one. He followed you everywhere fixing one problem or the next, easing your fears without you having to so much as ask. A love language, people would call it, but Mickey must have been the only person on earth who could speak it.

“You’re insufferable.” Your words make him grin. The radio starts up with a new song. “Tú” by Los Elegantes de Jerez, one of his favorites to request at the Hard Deck when Penny had live bands instead of just letting the jukebox play the same music over and over each night. He’d yet to convince you to come out and dance with him, but Phoenix was always willing. Otherwise he was more than content to dance on his own, throwing out flirtatious remarks to try and persuade you to join him.

He steps back just enough to take you all in. You let out a confused laugh.  “What?”

“¿Quieres bailar conmigo?”

“Mickey…”

“¿Quieres bailar conmigo, mi cielo?” He asks again with a bit more seriousness behind it and, when you don’t jump on the opportunity he adds, “Cocodrilo que duerme es cartera.”

“Fine, Mick. I’ll dance with-” You’re cut off with a squeak as Fanboy pulls you close. One arm wrapped tight around your waist, hand resting at the small of your back, and placed his left knee so that it rested against the inside of your right knee. It isn’t nearly as close as Mickey would like to be. He longed to crack open his chest and allow you to crawl inside to take residence in his heart so that the two of you physically portrayed Fanboy’s constant state of existence.

He brought his other arm up with your hand in his and waited patiently as you wrapped your arm around his neck. “Rest your weight into your hips.” He drags his gaze over your face, watching you calculate the right way to stand. Your analytical nature made him fall in love with you. The way your tongue would drag along your lips in deep concentration. It made it hard for him to remember what the hell he was saying in the first place. “The norteño means we have to keep our torsos connected.”

You settled your weight, pressing against him, and Mickey’s breath left him in a nervous exhale. “Not so confident anymore are we, Fanboy?” You laugh, and he ducked down slightly to press a kiss to the hollow beneath your ear.

“You make me crazy,” he said and started moving without giving you a warning. If he had told you to concentrate on the tempo you were bound to overthink and start lifting your feet instead of shuffling in wide arcs wherever Mickey led you. Once he was sure you weren’t going to stop him to start counting the beats he added, “we’re going to to step and swing our hips on each beat.”

Growing up his mother used to tell him how important it was to know how to dance. That it was the easiest way to find your other half that way. A perfect complement. Each move followed his lead. Right and then left. Two halves of a whole collapsed in an embrace Mickey never wanted to free himself from.

“Tú, solamente tú,” he sang into your ear with the fondness of someone discovering affection for the first time. A soulmate connected by the chorus of a song. “No necesito de nadie. Ni puedo dejar de mirarte.” You pressed against him, biting down roughly on your lip, and he could see the tender concentration as you counted in your head. “Hey,” he said, “eyes on me.”

Only, when you lifted your gaze to him, Mickey captured your lips in a tender kiss not once breaking step. These movements were second nature. Natural as ducking and dodging during a dogfight. He knew exactly where to let his smooth movements whirl him next. If he weren’t feeling so selfish, he might have included a spin just to hear your laughter. A sound as weightless as the way you moved against him. Mickey did not miss the way you playfully ground against him with each sway of your hips. The innocent confusion on your face while you watched his breath hitch. His hand stayed pressed to the small of your back. Drew you closer on each beat. Your hand on the base of his neck twirled the hair that needed to be cut before he went back. The gesture made him weak in the knees.

The song had finished minutes ago, but the two of you were still moving. He had been caught in the trance of your everything. Your smile, pulled back with mischievous joy; your eyes, how they lingered on his lips as he sang along; and your hands, how they clung to him even though he had no plans on letting you stray away from him during your dance.

He wanted to twirl the two of you out of this apartment. Take you to the Hard Deck. He wanted to call everyone on the Dagger Crew to the bar. Hell, he’d call anyone in off the streets to watch the two of you dance. Show everyone that you were his. Only he could draw this dreamy smile out of you. Only he could pull you out of your own head. Only he could love you like this.

You leaned forward to kiss him. “Thanks, darling. Can I finish dinner?” He relented. You, with great difficulty, managed to take a step back. Only to come back and kiss him with a ferocity that parted his lips almost immediately.

A different kind of dance began. Your tongue in his mouth, searching desperately for the words he had sung earlier. All you could pull out of him were gentle groans of pleasure. Mickey’s hands gripped at your waist. You were entirely in control. Each step forward led him backwards until he was pressed up against the counter.

Abandoning your hips, Fanboy moved his hands up to your hair. He had always learned in moments like this to let you believe that you could bring him to his knees. That thought might hold more truth to it that he cared to admit. But he could always slide his hands down to cup your face. Your weakness. He would tilt your head slightly, allowing him more room to slip his tongue into your mouth, and expose your neck enough for him to trail kisses downwards. So that when he did get onto his knees for you it was entirely of his own violation.

You noticed the change. You noticed everything when you cared to. “Mickey.” Your voice was muffled by his tongue tracing the shape of your bottom lip. “Mickey.” Once more he captured his own name and you had to pull away to say, “I have to make dinner.”

He sighed. “Do you?”

“Yes, I’m hungry.”

With one final peck he watched as you made your way back over to the stove. “I’ll have to make something more. I wasn’t expecting you today.”

There was no hint of annoyance in your voice. Fanboy could see you bite back a smile. He longed to turn you around to kiss you, but instead let you turn on the gas and stir the soup you’d been making humming José José.

“You do realize ‘El Triste’ is a breakup song, mi amor?” Mickey said, wrapping his arms around your waist, and pulling you flush against him as you stirred the soup on the stove.

“When you’re gone I like to pretend I’m heartbroken.”

“And when I’m home?” He pressed a soft kiss to your neck. “What do you like to pretend when I’m holding you like this?”

He could feel the sigh work its way out of your chest. You flicked off the gas once more. “I like to pretend that we’ll get a chance to eat dinner, but…”

Mickey laughed. “But?”

“But,” you said, “I think we’re ordering in tonight.”

“Are we now?” You spin around to wrap your arms around his neck, grinding up against him, and pulling away with a smug smile. “Oh, mi ciela, vamos a bailar.”

#mickey 'fanboy' garcia #mickey 'fanboy' garcia x reader #mickey 'fanboy' garcia fluff #fluff #domestic fluff #oneshot #top gun oneshot #mickey garcia x reader #reader insert #gender nuetral reader #top gun maverick #top gun fic #top gun imagine #fanboy top gun #fanboy x you #mickey fanboy garcia #fanboy fic #fanboy garcia #fanboy garcia x reader #he is my favorite #i am in love with him #jose jose's el triste has been stuck in my head for weeks

[buckyr00s]

Love Languages || m."f".g

pairing: Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia x Reader

warnings/tags: can be read independently but can also be a sequel to The Meet-Cute; TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF

author's note: Again, this is way longer than I anticipated LOL I said this once and i'll say it again, I have RUINED men for myself in the way I've been dreaming about our sweet baby Fanboy. The standards are now ASTRONOMICALLY HIGH. Big shoutout to @rad-topgunn for helping me get out of my writers block. There's a reason why #rad is the real MVP is a tag I use a lot!

main masterlist || send requests

Mickey Garcia is the type of person who is not particularly fond of flowery, over-the-top, grand gestures. He finds them quite cringey if he’s being completely transparent.

Instead, he firmly believes that multiple tiny, but so very meaningful gestures go a longer way.

He owes a lot to his mom. In more ways than one. But in the love-department, she really set the standard.

She was the one who lead by example, showing her babyboy the importance of compassion, patience, and the constant effort to win someone’s heart.

So as soon as you met him and every day ever since, he’s made it his mission to win your heart, and when he did, his goal has been to keep it.

He’s not really a casual-dating type of person. It might be his upbringing but he is dating for marriage.

So, he holds you and your heart with gentleness. He simultaneously sees the world—his world—in you and wants to give you the world.

He absolutely makes it his goal to shower you in his love and admiration. He sprinkles it all through the day.

There’s something about the challenge of making your heart flutter that he welcomes so openly and takes very seriously. It’s the same feeling you give him every time he thinks of you…which is often. The thought of you feeling butterflies because of him? A source of utter pride and joy.

It's the little things for Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia that amount to a lot.

It's the small reminders that he tells you he loves you.

Words of Affirmation

Mickey is the type of person who refuses to throw the "L" word out liberally. Instead, he'll say in other way.

He is such an observant person. He is one of the best WSOs the US Navy has every seen for that very reason. So, a lot of time, when he sees even the slightest oddity in your mood or behaviour, he'll check in on you. He also just really wants to know.

"How are you feeling?"

"Is everything okay?"

"How was your day?"

He genuinely loves to listen to anything you have to say. Again, being an observant person and one of the best WSOs, he naturally strives to take in as much information as possible. That's especially true because you are one of the most important parts of his life.

And because he's very observant and genuinely very interested, his very much an active listener. Whenever you tell him a story, he'll nod, shake his head, roll his eyes, sigh--all depending on the situation, and all affirming your feelings and experiences.

"Right. Right."

"No she didn't"

"That was not okay,"

And he'll always end these types of conversations with a beautifully genuine smile and a "thank you for sharing this with me".

"Fanboy" is a multi-layered call sign. Mickey is your biggest fan, and will be so encouraging in anything you do.

"Go for it!"

"You've got this"

"I'm so proud of you"

He often uses terms of endearment. His go-tos are "love" and "baby". His favourite, though, is "mi cielo" (my sky/heaven).

Because yours and Mickey's schedule are often busy and conflicting, he definitely leaves little notes around the place for you to find.

"Have a great day :)" he'll place a sticky note on his pillow when he has an early morning and had to run without kissing you goodbye.

"Drive safe!" he'll write on a scrap piece of paper and place it on the overhead sun visor in your car.

"Thinking of you," he'll text in the middle of a busy day to let you know.

That all being said, he was definitely the first one to say "I love you." And when he does say it, he really, really means it.

Physical Touch

Mickey enjoys physical touch but is definitely not a PDA type of person.

He uses physical touch more like a non-verbal communication to comfort or affirm and reaffirm you.

In public, he loves to hold your hand, giving you an occasional squeeze to let you know so many things without even saying a word. I've got you. I'm here. I'm glad you're here too. I love you.

In private, he can be a pretty affectionate person.

HUGS. Especially embraces where he'll just hold you in his arms, his chin rested on your head. The perfect position to kiss the top of your head.

Speaking of kisses...he probably can't choose a single favourite. Other than your lips, he'll enjoy a forehead kiss. A kiss on the neck. A kiss on your hands.

He loves a good cuddle.

His favourite cuddle position is probably when he's on his back. Your legs are intertwined, your arm draped over his torso, and your head on his chest. For him, there's something about you clinging to him that he loves so much. It makes him feel wanted--needed, even.

He's also down for a good spoon. Most of the time, he's the big spoon because he loves to hold you in his arms. Again, he loves the feeling of keeping you safe.

But when he is a little spoon, he enjoys it wholeheartedly. You holding him in your arms gives him butterflies and makes him giddy. He likes it a lot but will probably never admit it to you because he loves holding you and knows you love being held.

Ultimately, him holding you and you holding him brings him great comfort. Especially because when he isn't deployed, physical touch lets him know you are really there. That he is with you and you are with him. Sometimes it all feels like a dream to him. He often wonders how he's gotten so lucky. And if he's dreaming it all. And physical touch grounds him in reality.

Gifts

Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia loves to SPOIL the ones he loves.

He's a big fan--all puns intended--of buying you flowers.

Bringing them home after work with a "honey, I'm home".

Sending them to you in the middle of the day with a note.

"Thinking of you" it will say when he's stationed elsewhere.

"This is your reminder to stop and smell the roses" it will say in a particularly busy day or week.

Fanboy is not just a fan of pop culture stuff, but I genuinely think he's a pretty nerdy guy. I imagine that he's really into learning new things, reading books, watching documentaries. So, you'll often find random books appearing around your shared apartment with little notes attached.

"I remember you talking about this"

"I think you'll enjoy this"

"This reminds me of you"

"This reminds me of us"

In general, I think he'd buy little things that remind him of you. And yes, that includes fan merch like graphic tees and Funko Pops.

But he'll buy big things too. Like a large stuffed toy that he'll say you can cuddle with when he's gone. He'll even give you a bottle of his cologne to spray onto it.

And if you read my first fic, you know this man is a sucker for making mixtapes. He loves music and enjoys compiling songs that remind him of you, of your relationship, and the things he wants you to know and feel.

He'd give you the world if he could. In fact he's made if his life-long mission to try.

Quality Time

Quality time is Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia's primary love language. You can't convince me otherwise!!!

As his callsign suggests, he is a BIG fanboy. He's part of multiple fandoms and most of all he's a big fan of you.

You share common interests, so whenever an event or opportunity comes up, he'll think of you and will ask you if you would like to go with him. It's a win-win for him, to be honest. Spending time with his love and indulging in his interests? Amazing!

"They're in town next weekend! Do you want me to get us tickets?"

"The new movie is out! Are you free to go to the midnight screening?"

When you're both free, he loves to plan vacations with you. Being the amazing nerd he is, going on holidays is never just about going to the tourist-y places, but actually enjoying the local people, areas, food, histories, and cultures.

He is also absolutely content with staying in with you and just spending time together.

Especially because he gets deployed, he cherishes every second he gets to spend with you.

His favourite thing to do is settle on the couch with you, cuddle in a blanket, and binge-watch shows and movies.

He'll also make sure that he documents everything. He loves taking candid pictures of you.

"Say cheese" he'll tell you when you turn around to check why he isn't walking beside you anymore.

"Wait. Stay right there. The light is hitting you perfectly." he'll rush to find the perfect frame.

And even when you two are separated by distance, he'll make sure to squeeze in any free time he has to take a quick video call--or two--with you.

Most of the time, it's when he's commuting from place to place.

"Hi love," he'll glance at you on his phone screen, flashing you with his beautiful smile before quickly turning his attention back on the road.

"Hi baby," you'll respond. "Why is your shirt off?" you laugh at the strange circumstance.

"On my way to the beach. Something about team training," he'll tell you casually before his car comes to a stop at a red light. "Why? Are you complaining?" he'll wink.

What else can I say? The man comes alive when he's with people he loves. Especially you. It's one of his greatest joys.

Acts of Service

Acts of service is also one of his more prominent love languages--I mean, this man has dedicated a lot of his life to be in service of others.

He DEEPLY wants to provide for those he loved ones. And that includes you.

Feeling particularly tired and need a few extra minutes of sleep? He's an early bird anyway, but he will not hesitate to put the kettle on and make you breakfast.

Spent most of the day staring at a screen and working? He'll bring you sliced fruit and a glass of water.

Love washing and drying clothes but hate folding them and putting them away? He's your man.

Again, this man is so perceptive and observant.

And my goodness, he takes INITIATIVE.

There are so many little things that you don't even need to ask him to do, he'll do them for you. Sometimes you don't even know you need certain things until he provides it for you.

He notices that your milk is running low, so when he's free, he'll run to the store and grab it for you.

He notices that you left your little things like a USB stick, a hair tie, your favourite pen in random places in your shared apartment and will put it somewhere you will find it.

He notices when you're having a particularly tough week so he'll do something to comfort you.

He'll set up a little candlelit dinner in your shared apartment.

He'll take you out to ice cream after a long day.

He'll plan out activity dates.

He'll arrange trips and the playlists that accompany them.

His goal is to be someone you can depend on. The perfect life long-partner.

In all things said and unsaid, he loves you.

author's note: LORD WHEN IS IT MY TURN?!

main masterlist || send requests

#mickey fanboy garcia hc #mickey garcia x reader #mickey fanboy garcia x reader #fanboy garcia x reader #fanboy x reader

[bobfloydsbabe]

I, Q and R please for the fanfic asks! 💕

Fe, my love, you wish is my command 💕

I: Do you have a guilty pleasure in fic (reading or writing)?

I don't think so. I used to be so embarrassed that I read reader insert fics, but now I really don't care. I'm not going to deprive myself of good fics just because it's not canon ships or with OCs, though I'd argue that most reader characters are just OCs without a name. However, that's a discussion for another day. I'm getting off my soapbox now.

Q: How do you feel about collaborations?

How does my controlling ass feel about collaborations? Not great. That being said, two of my Top Gun OCs are in a shared universe with another fantastic writer, but she's also one of the few people I trust with my stories and characters.

R: Are there any writers (fanfic or otherwise) you consider an influence?

Okay, fuck. So many, and I will probably forget 98% of them because ✨ADHD✨ but let's go.

@joaquinwhorres (bestie and loml, TAILSPIN IS INCREDIBLE) @rae-gar-targaryen (anything with fanboy & cielo) @mothdruid (THE LIBRARIAN HAS MY HEART) @ereardon (My Girl and A Place Like This are just !!!) @jupitercomet (Bob x Sweet Pea give me all the feels) @sunlightmurdock (TiP and Apollo make me feral) @glodessa (church girl universe, that's all i'm saying) @seasonsbloom (bad habit, dime store cowboy, and the bob fic? absolute perfection) @notroosterbradshaw (the boyfriend/relationship experience is !!!) @yanna-banana (happy little accidents makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside) @lt-bradshaw (there's only one chapter of reverend bob and i'm already obsessed) @chemistryread (the rhett and hangman fics are so angsty i want to fling myself off a bridge in the best way) @demxters (literally anything Elle writes, but her bob and jake fics make me feel all the feels)

This turned into more of a writer recommendation list, but I stand by it. These are writers who inspire me to work on my craft, and I rarely feel worthy of creating in the same space as them. So, now, I'm going to crawl back into my hobbit hole, and pretend I didn't just embarrass myself in front of my favorite writers.

#blue-aconite #answered #fe tag #fanfic writer ask game #these are like all tgm writers #but they're all so good i want to cry #i'm not worthy of creating in the same space as them #fic rec #the great library of helena #<- yes it counts #mail

[mxgyver]

I need you to know I am working on a fanboy x Cielo holiday blurb responsive to your request --

We have:

Cooking together

Sweaters

Gift exchange/Christmas morning

Oranges

Thank you for your patience while I try and make a coheremt alphabet soup out of this 😘😘

AHHHHHH so stoked!! I got excited when I saw the notification for this last night!! I just know it is going to turn out so good.

the thought of Fanboy & Cielo wearing matching/coordinating ugly Christmas sweaters is something that is just so personal to me 🥹

take your time my darling Rae, I will be waiting oh so patiently. Fanboy & Cielo being the ultimate romantic holiday duo? watch out Hallmark 😌

#radiant rae #rae-gar-targaryen #answered #literally buzzing with excitement about this

[punknrasslin]

Hi, hello, greetings & welcome return to PunkNRasslin after a short hiatus. These lockdown blogs will be weekly & focusing on a different subject each week, be it in Wrestling or Music. Which, let’s face it, is what it says on the tin here. Punk & Wrestling, PunkNRasslin. Each week a new insight into what we at PnR like & maybe dislike, although I’ll try & keep the PMA here!

This first weekly blog focuses on my love for a certain tag team in British Wrestling (BritWres if you’re down with the kids). Three letters. Guessed it yet? No not ‘THOSE’ 3 letters (maybe next time) but the 3 that just beat them as my favourite 3 letters in wrestling. Who’s got it? Another clue? Fair enough, 2 best friends standing united. I gave it away right. This first week we focus on FSU! Load Andrew WK into the PA & let’s go!

My first exposure to Mark Andrews & Eddie Dennis was one of two things. The first was seeing Mark on TNA British Bootcamp, which led to him joining the X-Division in the company way back when TNA was easily accessible on Challenge TV Sunday Nights. That was the perfect end to my week in that period to be honest, 9PM Challenge TV. The second was seeing them as a tag team for the first time which, online viewing aside, was at Fight Club Pro in 2017 at the Dream Tag Team Invitational Tournament. Let’s touch on the night 1 match later in this piece shall we?

I don’t know if seeing Bootcamp was my first exposure to Andrews but it was certainly the first time I went ‘OK, I need to get myself off the sofa & to a live show’. The energy in that man, the movset, the agility.. I dare anyone to find a more energetic talent although equally as, there’s a few though. Around this time, just as the finals for Bootcamp were being broadcast, I attended a PCW Charity Show for the now passed on Kris Travis partly due to Mark being booked on the show & partly cause Kris himself was an amazing in ring worker. An idea for a future piece there. The night of the event came, it wasn’t a ‘wrestling show’ in the stereotypical sense it was more friends gathering together to raise some money for a good cause. If you can, go back & look at the talent present on that show. From memory here, Tyler Bate & Trent Seven were in action along side Zack Gibson.

Back on subject, I think I was just more blown away by the fact one man could do such magnificent things in ring. It really, cliche I guess, reminded me of watching Liger on WCW as a teen. I went out soon after & got more involved in British Wrestling shows despite 1) knowing nobody and 2) being nervous as heck! So many journeys, miles & cities ahead of me I booked as many shows Mark was booked on at the time. Through this I discovered his tag partner in FSU Eddie Dennis. I’m not sure if I was biased cause of the mark fandom, but I was as impressed with this taller, harder hitting grappler as I was that night at PCW. And so, the fandom grew. As did my Merch collection actually thank you Defend!

Fast forward to 2017. A journey from Preston to Wolverhampton on a good Friday. A bad idea? Well a broken down train & delayed arrival not withstanding, I managed with little to no worry. Let’s ignore the mini panic when on an overcrowded stationary carriage at Manchester Oxford Road. I got through it & arrived in one piece. That night, stood with new and familiar faces from the now many shows I’d attended, we witnessed together ‘the’ moment that transformed a mid 20’s fanboy into a screaming teenager without a care. The second match on the card was FSU taking on Los Gueros Del Cielo AKA Jack Evans & Angelico. In the first, say ten minutes, we had witnessed flippy agility alongside strikes to rival the best. One moment though sticks in my mind from this night, Andrews deciding during the match to scale the venues scruture & do what can only be described as something impossible to most from a high ledge to the ground below. Magic had happened. That was it, no going back. I was sucked in to FSU I was well & truly part of their fanbase. I don’t think I’ve ever had the courage to say to any of them how much that warm 2017 night sticks in my heart. Or how many times during a low period I put it on to remind myself to be strong. Over that weekend FSU would progress to face The Lucha Bros in a match in London I always regret missing.

Moving on from life altering moments, I think I’ve counted I’ve seen FSU Perform in 4 different cities (Cardiff, Wolverhampton, Manchester, London) not withstanding the other trips to see the boys in singles action. But London September 2017 is another moment that sticks. I’ve apologied many times to those involved in witnessing this many times probably too many! But if you know your FSU History, you know exactly the match & moment I mean. It wasn’t the Mark victory in the number 1 contenders scramble. No it was the seconds after. The heartbreaking (at the time) moment that Eddie turned his back on Mark and was a bad guy. How dare he?! His best friend. How could he?! You stand united you are a unit! No! It’s not supposed to end, EVER! I think I sat at the back of Alexandra Palace after that & cried. It was just so believable & like ‘this is it, no more FSU’. Of course after a fantastic storytelling experience & a match in front of Wembley Arena of all places they did in fact stand united once more a calendar year later. Go back & watch some of the unrivalled promo work during that rivalry, the emotion in Eddie enticing mark into fighting his friend, Mark staying loyal to his buddy & refusing until he’d had enough after months of taunting & torturous attacks. Just remember if you go back to the Wembley Match, those tables are tough!!

FSU of course during Mark/Eddie rivalry did still exist under a different form. Wales’ Rising Star Danny Jones briefly tagging with Andrews for a one night only appearance, but as Heel Eddie nicely phrased it on the night, FSU was never Mark Andrews with Insert Welsh Buddy Here. The team of FSU will be forever known as the Andrews/Dennis pairing.

Nowadays, FSU stands once more. This time as a heel faction in Progress Wrestling. As an old school party hard FSU fan, I’m still a bit in love with this new heel incarnation. It elevates FSU to a new level. It’s something to keep the fanbase interested. Do we want the Andrew WK theme Party Hard again? Yes! Of course! It was part of the whole appeal, it was the ‘boys night out on the Jàgerbombs’ vibe. But do we as fans also see that this is a natural progressive route for the team? Yes, of course!

So in closing, what does FSU stand for to me. It means to me what it means for the others. Friendship Standing United. Standing by your crew until the very end, supporting your friends like family through thick & thin which in these times is irreplaceable. FSU is what it says. Friends. Stand. United.

Hope you all enjoyed that. It brought back some happier memories for me & made me want to relive ‘that’ Ally Pally moment from 2017 again. Only no tears this time I promise! Fantastic storytelling boys!

Matches to check out then;

FSU vs Los Gueros Del Cielo Fight Club Pro Dream Tag Team Invitational 2017 Night 1

Mark Andrews vs Pete Dunne PWG BOLA Stage 2 2016

Eddie Dennis vs Travis Banks Progress Wrestling Chapter 59 2017

Thanks for reading, WHEN IT’S TIME TO PARTY WE WILL..

Jx

Blog soundtracked by.. Tiny Moving Parts

[rae-gar-targaryen]

this is a lil thot here but excuse you the breeding kink and baby fever go brrr.. anyways imagine mickey like finding out you want kids and then going FERAL. i just- that image in my head is one i am PROUD of creating

But it is an IMPORTANT thot. This awakened something, I think. A lil nsfwish so 18+, and there's a cut. (Reference to their conversation about what they'd name their kids from "swallow you like sunshine") ahoy, ahoy this became a whole thing --

--

so deep in love with you (baby love) [mickey “fanboy” garcia x fem!civilian!reader, aka “cielo”]

Word Count: 1.3k (always a nerd, never a blurb) of nerves, honey-sweetness, and the eternity of love’s promise

Warnings: hints of smut, fingering, breeding kink (obvi) and comeplay. mildest of mild hints of choking. 18+, please.

Why were you so nervous?

No, seriously, why were you nervous? You and Mickey had had this conversation before. There was no reason for you to be this anxious, sitting silently during the dinner he had made for you, twirling spaghetti around your fork endlessly.

If Mickey found your silence disquieting, he had the good grace not to say anything, eyeing you with those bourbon-honey swirled eyes of his that drove you absolutely crazy.

You could do this. This is Mickey you were talking to. Mickey, who had stood in front of the censor so the sliding door at the grocery store stayed open while you tried not to slip in a puddle on your way in. Mickey, who wraps his hands around you and puts them in the pouch pocket of your hoodie while you wait for movie tickets. Mickey, who brought you coffee in bed this morning. Mickey, who plays with Bob's kids, talks to them like they're adults, and excitedly talks too fast when he spills to you all the new facts he's learned about cuttlefish after spending an afternoon with them.

You could tell him this.

"Ehm," you cleared your throat, putting down your fork that had a veritable hive of spaghetti twirled to the end of it by now. "M?" You ventured, waiting for his eyes to meet yours across the table before continuing.

"Yeah, Cielo?" He must sense your nerves. He put his fork down, too, waiting patiently for you to continue.

You cast your eyes down the smear of red sauce across your plate that looked vaguely like a bloated bear before, murmuring,

"Ithinkimreadytotry," you rushed.

Mickey cocked his head to the side, eyes swimming with questions, "Sorry?" He asked.

"I think," you exhaled, tilting your jaw to boldly (in your opinion) meet your husband's eye. "I think I'm ready? To start, you know, trying? Only if you are, I mean, I know you leave again soon, so we don't have a ton of time, and it doesn't have to be now, but I'm ready if you're ready and I just wanna have a baby with you, if that's cool--" you rambled, cutting yourself off when you saw Mickey's eyes widen, his hand reaching over the table to press his finger gently over your lips, rendering you silent.

"Baby," he chuckled. "A baby?"

You nodded, slumping back in your seat, deflated, at the toll your rant had taken on your body.

Mickey eyed you again, seemingly not eager to respond.

He nods, pushing his chair back and standing up, making his way around the table and over to you.

"So," he reaches for you, beckoning you up from your seat with the gentle tug of his warm arm around your waist. "Which one do we try for first, hm?" He asks as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, lips trailing the thrumming pulse along the column of your throat. "Vero or Valencia, boy or girl?"

Without giving you a chance to respond, Mickey hoists you over his shoulder, carrying you through the threshold to the living room, gently depositing you on the couch. You gasped at the feel of his fingers tugging at the waistband of your leggings, seemingly perpetually warm, something that emanates from him, tried and true.

And Mickey barely lets you get a word in edgewise, as you open your mouth to respond, he fuses his lips to yours, sliding his tongue into your mouth as his fingers continue to tug your leggings down your legs.

Like a heatwave on a summer's day, Mickey had overwhelmed you, sunshine and molten gold, his hips now rolling into yours on the couch.

"W-wait," you pushed his shoulders, his lips separating from yours, flushed, kiss-bitten, and honeyed. "Now?!"

"You just gave this whole spiel about how we don't have a ton of time," Mickey reasoned, his fingers trailing to your waist as he rolled his hips into yours again, causing you to buck at the feel of him through his sweatpants. "Why not now?"

"M!" You swatted his bicep lightly with the back of your hand, "I haven't showered today. I'm wearing ratty old leggings, for god's sake. I look a mess!"

Mickey hmm'd, a purring little hum of dissent lodged in his throat, like a perpetually displeased jungle cat.

"Agree to disagree, amor," he eyed you as though you were the meal he had been enjoying moments ago.

"First of all," he presses a kiss to your throat, one hand coming up to follow it, fingers lightly wrapping their way around your neck as he feels the effect he has on you in the blood rushing through your veins, beneath his fingers, heated and heady. "You aren't wearing your leggings ... Anymore."

He presses a kiss to your lips, following the gentle gesture with an intentional scraping of teeth, a little bite to his bark.

"Second of all," his other hand at your waist now slips between you to feel the now-soaked lace at the very center of you, plucking it aside to allow him to stroke the seam of your cunt, his touch causing your lips to part in a gasp, your eyes to flutter closed. "You look hot as fuck. Always do."

With that, Mickey slips a finger inside of you, pleased at the feel of your heated walls around him as he plays you to an unheard rhythm, rolling his thumb over your clit. Eagerly swallowing your breathy little moans as he kisses you through his attentions.

"M'gonna fuck you, Cielo," he murmurs, the heat of his body leaving yours as he rocks back on the couch to shuck his sweatpants down. "Gonna give you a baby. Gonna make you come first, though..."

"I want that," you sigh, twining your fingers through the curls you know will be shorn once he leaves, eager to tug, eager to capitalize. Eager to make him yours. "Want everything with you."

...

Later in the night, Mickey takes in the serenity of your features bathed in the white-blue glow of the television as you two take in "The Empire Strikes Back" with unseeing eyes, exhausted and high off of each other. He had put on the movie and grabbed you a chocolate bar after round ... Three, was it?

And he didn't know if it would take right away, really. But he was hell-bent on trying, having fucked you into the couch until you'd forgotten your own name, pushing his release back into you when he had withdrawn, fingers gently sweeping along your opening to urge you through another orgasm, while keeping his spend inside of you.

Now, he's admiring you, the curve of your waist. Imagining the way your stomach will swell someday, the genesis of your collective devotion.

So, really, he doesn't know what compels him to tell you, but he says it anyway --

"You know," your eyes meet his at his words, lips curled in a sweet, sleepy smile, encouraging him to continue. "If you get pregnant this year, Javy owes Payback twenty bucks."

"Excuse me, what?!" You cock an eyebrow at him, seated on your elbows the better to take in what your husband had just said.

"Ehm, yeah," Mickey was sheepish now, scrubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "They were teasing, you know how they are... And, well, I know that I've got it in me, so really, I don't know what they were trying to imply. Just giving me shit, I think."

You put your hand up to silence your husband, biting back a chuckle as you clarify,

"M, do you mean to tell me you wagered with your co-workers about how soon you could knock me up?"

And Mickey, expert at reading you though be was, was grasping to tell whether you were amused or upset. It's a fine line to walk, sometimes, truly...

"Uh, yeah, I guess I did..." He trailed off, glancing at you with apologetic doe eyes.

A laugh bubbled from your lips, a tipsy little thing, telling champagne bubbles as you laughed at your husband's ridiculous antics, tugging him toward you, and pressing your lips to his.

"Claro. C'mon then, daddy," you murmur, kissing him with each word. "We've gotta get Reuben that money."

--

tagging some fanboy girlies (so sorry): @joaquinwhorres @withahappyrefrain @thegirlwhowritesfics  @clints-lucky-arrow @inklore @phoenixhalliwell @ohmagawd-life @moonlight-prose  @levylovegood @thatredheadwriter @zombieaurora @shadeds-library @writercole @ijustwantedplums @justalonelyslytherin @gretagerwigsmuse @fanboysfangirl @siriusfahey @the-navistar-carol @jadore-andor @fanboygarcia @lavenderluna10 @thedaredevilsgirl @fluffyprettykitty @mickeyluvs @mothdruid  @maxmayfield @eagerforthesky @callmemana @mxgyver  @andrewrussgarfield @bioodforbiood  @the-purity-pen @luxuryberzatto @liz-allyn

#my writing #fanboy thoughts #mickey 'fanboy' garcia #fanboy garcia #mickey garcia #mickey fanboy garcia #fanboy #fanboy tgm #fanboy x reader #mickey garcia x reader #fanboy garcia x reader #fanboy x cielo #mickey 'fanboy' garcia x reader #tgm fic #danny ramirez #danny ramirez fic #top gun maverick fic #sinful sunday

[ryebecca]

moodboard roundup! ✨

Since I've posted a few over the last month, I thought I'd list 'em here in case you missed any!

Valentine's Day / Karaoke!Jake 🎤 🎶 🥰 ✨

Camp Counselor!Bob 🏕️ ✨

Spy!Bob 🕵️‍♂️ 🔎 ✨

Regency Fanboy x Cielo 👑 ❤️ ✨

...and I've got a Rooster board planned for tomorrow, so stay tuned for that!

On that note - I have two extra Star Wars x TGM boards that I haven't posted yet (and one's another Bob board). Can I interest anyone in those? 👀

#hi hello i'm here for all of your moodboard needs #apparently i write text posts now #text posts

[rae-gar-targaryen]

swallow you like sunshine when i smile [mickey “fanboy” garcia x fem!reader]

A/N: For Fanboy’s fangirls, I present some reunion sweetness with Fanboy and his cielita linda. Thanks for your patience. More fanboy is coming soon! (Remember, reblogs make the world go round!)

Pairing: Mickey ‘Fanboy’ Garcia x fem!reader aka Fanboy x Cielo (no use of y/n – my readers are written ambiguous, but with a latinx!reader in mind.)

Word Count: 8.6k (WHY OH MY GOD THIS WAS JUST SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE 2K OF SMUT NONSENSE) of reconciliation, of promises, of cotton candy clouds and sweet nothings that mean just about everything.

Warnings: My writing is its own warning, smut, so 18+ ONLY – p in v sex, the vaguest bit of somnophilia, the vaguest bit of breeding kink, touching, biting, vaginal fingering, oral sex (fem!receiving), my usual odd attempts at dirty talk, the barest hint of angst.

Summary: When all the drowsy metaphors about love and fruit have been peeled and devoured, there's just you, your love, a bowl full of summer peaches,  two parentheses with nothing in between (just space) ...for the tongue's imagination. AKA you reunite with your love Mickey on his leave. He’s intent on making up for lost time with you. Every moment with him feels like home.

--

The line crackled in your ear. A tangible noise, a manifestation of the distance and the dated technology that separated you. 

He was calling you from a landline. In some distant airport you weren’t sure you were allowed to know exactly where… But the words before the pause, before the crackle, had made your heart leap in your chest. 

He was coming home. 

“Did you hear me, cielo?” His voice was soft, murmured through the lines and slightly garbled, towers, oceans, and mountains between you. From his mouth, across countries, to your waiting ears. Always low, keeled, and beautiful. No exception, even in spite of the transatlantic call.

“Yes,” you breathed. “I can’t wait, Mickey. I can't wait to see you." 

He can't help himself. He smiles into the receiver, though you aren't there to see it. He knows you'll hear it in his voice, picture this exact smile as the one he reserves for you, graces you with it whenever he sees you.

"Hasta entonces, mi alma."

—

"You're walking a little taller than usual," Reuben teases, walking in stride with his co-pilot up the ramp and into the airport’s gate area. "Excited to see anyone in particular?"

Mickey scoffs, rolling his eyes at his partner, nudging him with a teasing elbow as they close the distance between their plane and the gate. “Don’t hate, I’m sure she’ll give you a hug, too, Payback.” 

“I’m just saying, man, you’re glowing. Isn’t he glowing, Bradshaw?,” Reuben asks.

“Radiant,” Rooster snickers from somewhere over Mickey’s shoulder. “Practically skipping.”

Reuben takes the moment to hold up his phone and take a quick snap of Mickey’s face as evidence. “See? Goofy-happy. Aaaaaand that one’s going on the story,” he types a quick caption that Mickey is sure he’ll see later before swiping on his screen and settling his phone back into his pocket. “You’ll thank me later. You’ll have a memory of this moment to cherish forever,” Reuben’s eyes flash, face lighting up with his toothpaste-ad smile.

Mickey grins at his partner’s antics, playfully flipping him the bird and shoving him once more as they walk through the sliding glass doors and into the gate area with the rest of the Dagger squad, careful not to crush the small bunch of fiery, sunset-hued marigolds clenched in his fist. His gift to you. A paltry peace offering for all of his time away, he thinks, but they’re your favorite flowers. And fitting.

Marigolds represent power, inner-strength, remembrance. 

And not just anyone would wait for him as you have, he thinks. Not any woman would have that fortitude. And you’re his own personal sun, fiery as the blooms in his hand. His day rises and sets on you – the first and last thing to cross his mind each day – especially when he’s away. And he’s thrilled, it’s true. Here he is, seconds away from seeing you,  from having you back in his arms … when an unwelcome little twinge of anxiety shoots through his chest, splicing his ribs to take root somewhere to the right of his heart. 

What if you weren’t there? What if you’d changed your mind? What if it was all too much? What if, what if, what if  — 

“M!” 

All feelings of anxiety are banished at the sound, and Mickey can’t help himself… The happy shriek shatters his thoughts. 

Mickey looks up from the flowers he’s clutching just in time to catch the veritable blur that is you as you jump into his arms and lock your ankles around his waist, burying your face into his neck. The telltale wobble of posterboard met his ears as you dropped the sign you had been carrying, letting it sweep to the floor in favor of twining your arms around his neck. 

The force of your body against his was a welcome jolt. And Mickey was alight. Elated at the feel of your person against his once more. If it wasn’t for you in his arms, keeping him to the earth, he thinks he might just float away back into the skies he’s just left. 

But you were always good at that – making him feel simultaneously good and grounded, while also feeling like he swims amongst clouds. One of your many confounding abilities, he supposes.  

He feels the quick press of your lips to his neck as you’ve burrowed there, and it’s like lightning has cracked through his body at the site, your lips like silken petals along his skin that result in tingling peals. Another confounding thing. Always novel, even if he's felt them on his body hundreds of times. Never enough. Never, ever enough. 

Quick as you’d kissed his neck, you untuck yourself from the space beneath his jaw, reveling in the feel of his warm palms bracing against you, keeping  you aloft, as you untwine your arms from their wrapped bow around his shoulders. Electing instead to cup the sharp curve of his jawline. And allowing yourself to truly take in the face of your beloved, the man you've missed for months on end…

Allowing yourself to recognize his eyes, swimming in warmth and mirroring your own enthusiasm (you hoped). To trace the features of his face, the curves and angles of his jaw, his cheeks – prominently angled as his mouth curved into a grin.

Granting yourself just a moment longer to bask in the radiant sunlight of your beloved’s smile, equal only to the summery golden-warmth of his honeyed eyes. For what was one more moment when you’d spent so many apart?

And you were glad you had. For you were sure your smile mirrored his own in enthusiasm, though few could smile as brightly as Mickey Garcia.

You trace the curve of his fine-boned cheeks with your thumbs before finally, finally allowing your lips to meet his own.

It’s a feeling he’s gone months without, wants to bottle. Like cheap, sticky soda kisses on a summer’s day at the beach – orange syrup and sunshine promise. Or the feeling of dragging your fingers through warm, soft sand … tingling and comforting, silken. Of the sagebrush scent of summer rain, clean and clear, sharp and sweet. Of sunsets and summer peaches, hued and happy. 

He’s just as lost in the feeling of you, as you are in the feeling of him, your lips brushing as though they’ve always been meant for the other’s, facile and complete. His plush lower lip finds its way between yours, and he allows his mouth to smile (always, always smiling with you, isn’t he?) against yours.

As for you …It wasn’t fair, really, how he always made you feel as though you were adrift in the blue-green depths of the ocean. Untethered in cool depths, save for the feel of his hands, his arms wrapped around you – your soul escaping to the sea, ever beneath his blue skies as you found yourself reunited with your aviator. 

Far, far too soon, your lips part. And was the resulting sigh yours? His? Or collective and colloquial, the both of you finally relieved? In tandem. 

“You’re here,” you breathe against his lips, your forehead resting against his. “You’re actually here.” 

“I’m here, cielo,” he murmurs, lips perpetually curved into a smile as they meet yours once more.

A wolf-whistle cracked through the air and the moment, causing you to break apart from your beloved once more, a laugh slipping from your lips as as Reuben’s voice met your ears,

“Get a room, you nerds."

Brushing your nose along the slope of Mickey’s, you press your lips quickly to his once more as you slide from his arms, allowing your feet to meet the floor. Back on solid ground.  

You turn toward your approaching friend, and the current source of your playful ire, swatting Reuben’s arm before he swept you into a hug. 

“Good to see you back, Reuben,” you say, his frame dwarfing your own as he gave you a playful squeeze. 

“You too, pequeña,” he smiles as you wrinkle your nose at this – Mickey and Javy’s ‘little’ nickname for you having stuck, apparently. “You didn’t have to rush to him so quickly, ya know? You could’ve hid a bit. Taken your time, made him sweat. He needs to be humbled,” the teasing lilt of Reuben’s voice warm and pleasant to your ears.

“Don’t be cruel,” you chide your friend. “Or I’ll stop sending you sheet-masks.” 

The pilot drew his hand to his heart, as though shot. “Don’t hurt me,” he gasps. “You know it doesn’t have to be like that.” He glances a wink at Mickey over your shoulder as you giggle at his antics.

“Don’t worry, Payback, you know I come bearing gifts.” And you’re rummaging through your purse now, finding the orange-red wrapper you were searching for. 

It crinkled as you withdrew it from your purse and dropped into Reuben's waiting hand – a 100 Grand bar. A running joke between the two of you at the expense of his callsign. 

“Don’t spend it all in one place, babe,” you reminded as you also plucked a folded piece of notebook paper from your bag and slipped it in his hand to join the candy bar. 

Reuben smiled at the sight of the cartoonized version of himself you had sketched onto the paper – a battle-ready look on his little likeness’s face as he flew their spaceship into a dotted, sketched little asteroid field. 

“The next edition of ‘Fanboy & Payback?’” he asked, mouth quirked. 

“Just a little sneak peek at what awaits them next,” you shrugged, glancing over his shoulder and raising your hand in a small wave as Javy, Natasha and Bob walk by. "The two of you have to blast your way outta that asteroid field to escape the wretched Florgs. Think you're game, ace?"

Reuben laughed.

"Always," he breezed, his confidence seamless, as easy as breathing. Though you knew he'd approach real danger as smoothly, as boldly as your proposed, fictional peril.

You patted his hand that clutched your gifts.

"Thank you, Reuben," you murmur, locking eyes with your love's co-pilot – who, in many ways, felt like he was your co-pilot, too. Your voice cracked with the burbling brook of welled emotion inside of you – the feelings of fear every time you say goodbye clashing like waves with the feeling of relief that your beloved was back, safe before your very eyes.

 "Thanks for keeping him safe up there. And getting him back to me. This isn't enough to say thank you, but …" when had your eyes started welling?

"Hey," Reuben sweeps you into another hug, "it's nothing, alright? We keep each other safe. Nothing to get bent outta shape about, okay?”

You nodded, Reuben patting your shoulder as he releases you. Mickey, ever-patient as you greeted his friend, is quick to fill the space, pulling you into his side with an arm over your shoulder.

“Thanks, pequeña. It’s good to see you. Do me a favor and keep an eye on this one for me while he’s home, yeah?” Reuben juts his chin in Mickey’s direction before leaving the two of you with a departing smile, already unwrapping the chocolate bar you had gifted him. 

“I won’t let him out of my sight, sir,” you called after him, mock-saluting, before turning and burrowing into Mickey’s waiting arms once more, greeted with the sight of a bunch of orange-hued blooms held in fine-boned hands. 

“For me?”

Mickey’s nodded, offering you the fiery marigolds, insides warming at the look of adoration on your face at his gift.

“Thank you, my love,” you murmured. “They’re perfect.” You took the hued florals in a bunch and held beneath your chin to frame your face, striking a bit of a pose for your beloved. “How do I look?” 

“Like an angel, mi alma,” Mickey smiled, admiring the sunset-hue of the petals against your skin, its contrast to your smile. How had you only been back in his arms for mere minutes, and it’s enough to make him feel like he’s never left? That’s the atmospheric pull of you, he supposes. So like his very own sky. 

You’ve wrapped your arms around his neck once more, reveling in the feeling of him against you, thanking him for the flowers and basking in this moment together, when…  

“Told ya,” Rooster whispered into Mickey’s ear as he breezed by the two of you, “Marigolds are her favorite.” 

Mickey nodded in thanks at his friend as he passed. 

“Good call,” he mouthed. 

Rooster grinned before plucking his aviators from the front of his uniform and sliding them up the bridge of his nose, 

“Adios, you two. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” 

You waved at Rooster’s exit, gently holding the flowers as Mickey slung an arm over your shoulder, his duffel in the other.

You bent quickly to scoop up the absconded posterboard, tucking it beneath your arm and tucking yourself back into your boyfriend’s side.

“What did it say?” Mickey raised a brow at you, nodding to the posterboard under your arm. Was that the Star Trek font? 

“Ah,” you shook your head in mild embarrassment, flourishing the board before the two of you with a hollow, reverberating wobble to allow him to see your greeting of “World’s Sexiest Pilot!” in loud, block letters that did indeed match the Star Trek font – and matched his helmet, in screaming electric blue, embellished with silver streaks.

“It’s a bit much now that I look at it,” you lamented with a sigh. “But I know how the guys get. Egos, and all. I didn’t want there to be any question that it was for you.” You were adorably sheepish about it.

Mickey, meanwhile, tossed his head back with a laugh.

“It’s great, baby,” he reassured, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “Though you’re right. Hangman would definitely ignore the design if he thought you meant him.” 

“Oh, well, if you think Hangman would like it…” you made to leave Mickey’s hold, making a show of looking around for Hangman, only to turn back to your besotted boyfriend, shrugging in feigned resignation and easing back beneath his arm. “Don’t see him. Guess you’ll do,” you pecked a kiss to his cheek, your own insides warming in kind as you delightedly take in the flush that blooms across the apples of his cheeks.

Mickey guided you toward the airport’s exit, savoring the feel of your side pressed to his once more as you walked, steps in-tandem as always. 

“Let’s go home,” he whispered into your ear. “I can think of a few things I don’t think Rooster would do that I’d sure like to.” 

–

If you had thought your greeting for your longtime boyfriend was enthusiastic, your golden retriever had put you to shame. Artoo had bowled Mickey over the moment he stepped through the door. 

“It’s my fault,” you choked through your giggles as your boyfriend looked up at you from his place on the floor, as your dog relentlessly endeavored to clean Mickey’s ears. “I told him you were coming home today. And you know that I think he can understand us.” 

It was silly, Mickey thought, watching you watch him play with the dog, to have been worried in the first place. The anxiety of traveling, of seeing you again after so long. The annoying, persistent little jab of fear that he wouldn’t be able to gel back into your lives – that he had missed too much while he was away… that you had developed a routine without him…. Learned only how to live with the absence of him instead of with him… But it was incredible, he thought – How you were able to make it all melt away as you guided him into your shared space. Into your forever home, together. 

Your beachside home smelled just as he remembered it – sun-warmed earth, coffee grounds, and the clear smell of ocean air. The accent wall in the living room was the same earthy, terra cotta color you had picked to remind yourself of gardening all year round, offset by the sweet creme color of the remaining walls and the slate blue of your overstuffed couch. The mirror that hung along one wall still caught the late afternoon sun as it poured in, dazzling the room with beams and prisms of natural light. Your laptop was set up at your workstation in the corner of the dining room table, haphazardly-tossed sketchpad teeming with design proposals. You had left the blender out on the kitchen counter, likely in your haste to get to the airport – the vestiges of your morning protein shake congealing at the bottom. It was lived-in, comfortable, comforting. A space that you had made a home, waiting for him to weave his way seamlessly into when he returned. 

“So?” you padded behind him, having left him with Artoo while you had taken his duffel to the bedroom and waited for him to kick off his boots by the sunroom door. You rested your chin on his shoulder and took in the living room from his perspective. “Does it pass inspection, Lieutenant?” 

Mickey snorted, turning and guiding your arms to wrap around his waist. “I’d need to see the rest of the premises, I think. Specifically, our bedroom?”

Our. 

You quirked an eyebrow at your boyfriend. At his sweet smile and swirling, Bambi eyes. The curls you loved to lose your fingers in, loved to braid on lazy mornings together were long-gone, shorn and replaced with a regulation buzzed-cut that you still loved, even if it meant you wouldn’t have hair to tug when… well….

And you'd pondered on the kind of love you'd read about in novels. The sort of novel a sixteen-year-old girl would sneak beneath her pillow, the better to dream of romance with. Like some sort of amorous osmosis. The fact that the man before you personified that rosy, sunny feeling you’d hoped one day to feel – that you’d found something you could recognize in another. Well, you meant to capitalize. 

“Aye, aye, sir,” you lilted, propping forward on tip-toes to brush your lips along Mickey’s. “You’re not going to make me beg for it, are you?” 

“That all depends on you, cielo,” he rumbled, taking in the sight of you before him through heavy-lidded eyes. “Now lead the way, cadet.”  

With that, he gently patted your rear, ushering you forward, down the hall on slippery-stockinged feet to your shared bedroom that he hadn’t seen in months. You were biting back your lilting, champagne giggles as he chased you down the hall, pulling you into your room with him, and toppling the two of you onto your cloud-like, powdery comforter. 

“Baby,” you gasped as Mickey rolled himself over you, meeting your lips with his own in a firm, honeyed kiss. 

This feeling, so sweet, that you could almost taste it when your beloved slipped his tongue past your lips, deepening the kiss, a true saccharine sacrament. And just what type of sweet it was, and how could you describe it… 

Mickey kissed like …. Like the feeling of warm honey meeting your tongue when you take your first sip of well-loved tea. Or the feeling of sugar between your teeth as cotton candy dissolves on your tongue – cloudlike, yet textured. 

All was sunset-hued as his lips moved over yours, his hands coming up to cup your face, to trace every bit of you, to feel you as he tasted you, caging you into the cotton softness of your comforter as his warmth rolled over you like a summer storm.

And you knew he wasn’t home for good. A sad reality that made you want to savor every moment he was home with you, that made you resolved to taste him, to feel that sugared sweetness as often as you could – 

But, as your beloved trailed his hands to your hips to toy with the hemline of the soft cotton t-shirt that you had tucked into your jeans, you knew you had to stop him… at least, momentarily. Lest he get ahead of you when you had planned for your surprise. 

“Baby,” you gasped again, palms flat against the starchy front of the uniform Mickey had been traveling in, “I know you’re gonna kill me, but you have to give me a minute.” 

With that, you gently pushed, causing his warm lips to part with the skin of your neck – and when had they gotten there? 

“Cieloooo,” Mickey groaned, part in exasperation, part in warning, as his hands cupped your waist, his warm skin burning through the thin material of your t-shirt. He brought a hand back up to caress your jawline with the backs of loving fingers, elongating your neck so he could press another kiss there before tucking your chin down to allow his eyes to search your own. “What could be so important?” 

“I promise,” you skimmed your hands over his cheeks in kind, drawing him in for another full kiss before gracefully extricating yourself from beneath him. “It’s worth it. Get comfortable. I’ll be right back.” 

With that, you closed yourself into the en suite bathroom, your reunion surprise for your beloved tucked into a fabric drawstring bag you had left for the occasion.

You changed into the lacey lingerie that you pulled from the bag, shimmying your way into the straps and lace that adorned your curves. 

Once you were satisfied that everything was in place, you fluffed your hair in the mirror, eager to see your beloved’s reaction. 

Before walking through to the bedroom, you rested your ear gently along the door to see if you could hear him, only to be met with the silence of your home. 

Perhaps Mickey was patiently (impatiently) awaiting your return with a warm expanse of newly-exposed tanned skin and bated breath. Perhaps he would gasp when he saw you, bedecked in your soft, floral lace. Perhaps he would let you take control, guiding his hands to where you wanted – no, needed them most after months with nothing but your memories of him, your own hands, and the occasional clandestine, dirty FaceTime call. Perhaps he would let you ride him, his hands clasped to your hips, guiding you both to your respective peaks as his mouth trailed every part of you he could reach.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

But what greeted you on the other side of the door was not any of your supposed perhapses. 

Instead, your Mickey, having shucked his stiff uniform, which now lay pooled at the foot of your shared bed, had tucked himself into the comforter in preparation for your arrival. His bicep bulged where he had tucked his arm behind his head, all the better to see you with when you emerged from the bathroom… 

And there he was, asleep. 

You chuckled to yourself, gazing adoringly at the sweet sight of Mickey’s chest, gently rising and falling, his eyes closed, enviable eyelashes fluttering against pretty, prominent cheekbones. You  scooped his uniform quietly from the floor and into your closet hamper before turning back to him.

Funny, you thought, as you eased your way in beside him – all thoughts of racy, lacey fun with Mickey slipping from your mind as you allowed yourself to curve around him and bask in his warmth. It was funny how he called you cielo, alma, angelita… when he was the one who looked so like an angel as he slept. 

Your last thoughts were of him as you drifted off. And weren’t they always? But the very real feeling of him next to you, of his chest beneath your stretched arm, breathing easily in the restful sleep of someone comfortable at home … It was perfect. As you held him and cuddled into his side, you were struck with how this was so much better than what your mind could conjure in your nights alone. 

This was tangible, palpable, genuine. 

You closed your eyes against the late afternoon sun and allowed the warm, cinnamon scent of him to invade you, visions of marigolds and planned sunset beach picnics dancing in your head as you gave in to the static fuzziness of sleep.

–

You dreamt of him.

… Were you dreaming? Or was it real? 

He hmms into your neck through the smile you know to be there in the darkness of your bedroom – a sweet and honeyed little noise, like the tufty soft buzz of bee's wings. And there, now … you feel his lips part, warm, silken and amorous, before pressing against the column of your throat. Loving the feel of his kisses along your skin, as only his could feel. Radiant and true. You were sure it wasn’t just a dream now…

For you could feel him everywhere. Through your haze of sleep now rapidly-fading. You were swaddled in the dim lighting of the room and the veritable TV static that was the prickling vestiges of your sleep, and your own climbing, buzzing pleasure at Mickey's attentions.

Your love, on the other hand, was wide awake. Surging over you like a wave at sea, gentle at first, and then all-consuming – as though he were a slave to your moon's gravitational pull. No choice but to cover you, devour you in loving sweetness. 

His warmth surrounded you as he pressed tender kisses into whatever skin he could find in the darkness of your room during the witching hour. 

First was the skin of your wrist and the minimalist sun inked there – a tender question placed at the site of your matched dedication, something to gauge your wakefulness against his own desire. At the pleased hum emanating from your dreamy throat, he continued… trailing his way up your bared arm with intentional, insistent presses of his lips. Urging you into ever-present consciousness with his lips.

Mickey's nose skimmed the regal curve of your shoulder, along your collarbone. Delighting himself in the way your skin felt along the velvet warmth of his own – something he could never fully appreciate in the depths of his own imagination when he was away.

Nothing like the real thing, baby.

And he was content to repeat the process, allowing himself to slide down to begin anew with the skin of your hip, kissing along the ridges of your ribs and allowing himself to drown once more in the feel of you.

Was he the ocean, or were you? Desirous, greedy, wrathful as it was… 

Mickey brought himself up to you, chest-to-chest, as you stirred, reveling in the feel of your chest meeting his own with every heaving inhalation. The soft lace of your lingerie brushed his chest, catching the curves and edges of his skin, tickling and teasing as though you meant it. And perhaps you did, your smile coy, sleepy, sweet.

“Is this for me, my love?” Mickey murmured in the low-light of your bedroom, toying with the bra strap that had slid down your shoulder in your sleep, admiring the contrast of the white lace against your skin. “Te ves como un ángel.” 

“It was your surprise,” you breathed, urging yourself ever-into wakefulness as Mickey bent to kiss your neck, trailing his fingertips from your arm, over your clothed breast, and down, down, down, to rest on your hip.

Mickey's fingertips are honeyed. They drag along your skin, sticky with desire … leaving a tingling trail where he's touched you, enough to drive you to absolute madness, fully awake now. 

With no thought but the desire to see if he tastes as good as he makes you feel – thick honey and cloves, sweetly heavy when you grip his wrist and bring his fingers to your lips, taking them into your mouth – nectar. 

Mickey groans as you suck on his fingers. He is devotional, devout, and ever-enamoured with you, and if the kissing and touching to urge you into wakefulness didn’t leave him half-hard already, the sight of you, eyes heavy-lidded with sleep and stardust, lips pouty and sinful with the feel of his fingers in your mouth, warm, wet, enticing … was enough to get him the rest of the way. And it had been so long since he’d had you, how a man could be expected to wait, he didn’t know.

He smiles into your skin – million-watt, apparent to you through the curve of his lips against your skin.

"I love it. You're pretty," he murmurs. "So pretty, mi cielita linda."

You released Mickey’s fingers from your lips, pressing a kiss to his open palm, and make to guide his hand down your body, your eyes adjusted to the dark of the room now, appreciative of the curve of your love’s body above yours, the curve of his biceps, the feel of his torso against yours. And it had been so long since you’d felt his touch rather than imagined it. How you could be expected to wait, you didn’t know. The promise of his touch against your skin, of his kisses to your neck and shoulders in the darkness of your shared bedroom, was enough to dampen your panties, to urge in the slow, pulsing ache between your legs. 

You guided Mickey’s hand down to your center now, allowing his fingers autonomy to explore you. And for his part, the resulting groan Mickey emitted at the feeling of the damp fabric as he slid a finger over your clothed slit, was enough to cause you to shiver. 

Pleased with himself, and more than a little turned on, Mickey rolled his hips into the bedspread, to alleviate just a little of the tension he was feeling. The two of you had barely touched, and he was ready to bury himself in you, to die if it meant it was with you. 

Gently pushing the white lace aside, Mickey stroked his way along your now-bare slit, pleased at the way your hips involuntarily rolled into his touch, the way your chest heaved just that little bit more at his touch. 

Your silken slickness is a direct contract to the pulsing ache you feel. And he adores you, he abets you, encouraging the pent-up want with pressing, pretty kisses along the line of your throat as he eases a long finger inside of you, beckoning you to him from inside as he curls his finger, allowing you to buck yourself, your clit, against the heel of his hand, your eyes rolling back at the saintly, sinful feel of him. 

“Gotta taste you, amor,” Mickey breathed, pulling down the lacey cups of your bra to kiss along your breasts, sucking your nipple into his mouth as his fingers continued to play with your center. 

You arched your back, urging him down as he kissed his way down your torso, awash in intentional adoration. Chuckling at your chagrin as he withdrew his fingers from your center to pull your panties down your legs, kissing your hipbones as he went.

“Don’t worry,” he soothed, “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Mickey rewarded your (im)patience as he kissed along your thighs, the oceanic pull of you rendering him senseless in his singular desire as he urged himself closer, closer to your center, caught in your orbit, the waves of your desire (or were they his own?) washing over him as he kissed you.

You yelped at a particularly invested nip of his teeth against the skin of your thigh.

"Sorry, sorry, amor," he breathed, sweeping an apologetic brush of his lips over the offending spot, not-so-secretly marveling at the minor indentations of his teeth now adorning the fullness of your thigh – all glittering, mischievous nightsky eyes in the low light of your bedroom. Another sincere, soft kiss to the spot, belying his remorse. "We can stop if you want."

"D-don't you dare."

It was so easy, Mickey thought, to give you what you wanted. To kneel before you and acquiesce to your every demand – simply because you didn’t demand. 

It was easy for him to, he knew, when your gratitude was reflected in starry, wan eyes as you gazed down at your beloved, your expression one of idle worship that he drank in. 

It was easy, when you asked so pretty, breathy moans of “please, please, please,” meeting his ears as though you were inside of his mind. 

It was easy, because you were beautiful. And beautiful people have a way of getting what they want, and Mickey understood you were beautiful – made beautiful as you were, and moreso, if he asked you, because he loved you. 

It was easy, Mickey knew, so easy to give you anything you wanted  … simply because he would do anything for you.

Mickey gripped your thighs now, pushing them apart to better bare yourself to him. He buried himself in the cleft of your thighs, the flash of his hot tongue like electrostatic shock, jolting through you from the very center as he licked a long, loving stripe along the seam of your cunt. 

And if you’d thought the first taste of his mouth on you was heavenly – And how was that, when it was him who was tasting you? You were falling in love with him all over again, with every bit of attention he showered you with as he licked you, wriggling his finger once more inside of you and rendering you senseless at the feeling of him pulling you into his depths. 

The feel of him was like the slow drip and drizzle of honey in tea – warm, sweet, tingling. 

Your fingers scraped their way along his scalp, lamenting once more the lack of hair to tug. Nevertheless, your keening moans in the room sounded unfamiliar to your own ears, but you knew, distantly, that they were coming from your own mouth, building within the finite space of your room as Mickey urged you closer, closer to your peak. 

And the feel of his mouth, of his fingers, is divine… wretchedly and wrathfully so. You cursed your own fingers in comparison, cursed the ache you felt in the months of his absence, for they could never quite match the exquisite feel of his. And yet, and yet, and yet…

It wasn’t enough. 

You needed more. As your chest heaved in tortuous pleaser, as you groaned at his attentions. You realized –

You need all of him.

“Mi cielita linda,” Mickey breathed, sitting back on his heels and taking your thighs with him in warm, prayer-like palms, to continue to press kisses to your legs. "I'm wild for you, amor … Does it feel good? When I touch you like this?" 

A villain.

“Please, M,” you keened at Mickey’s tickling kisses. “Please. I c-can’t… I need you.”

He chuckles darkly, like the slow pour of golden-dark, honeyed syrup, slow, low, and full of the promise of something.

"You're sweet," he murmurs into your thigh, trailing his lips to where he knows you want him most, before withdrawing once more. "So sweet."

With that, he releases your thighs, guiding them down to the soft bedspread on either side of him as he lifts himself to his knees, sliding his boxers down his legs and slipping out of them. You made to assist, slipping your hands down your body and to your center, gathering some of your own slick onto your fingers and onto Mickey’s hardness, stroking him with the evidence of your own desire, reveling in the choked noise that caught in his throat. The way his eyes fluttered shut as he paused in his movements.

“Goddamn, cielo,” He surged forward, caging you with his strong arms as he fell forward, capturing your lips with his own, the taste of you as much a tease as his own mouth. 

Mickey broke from you far too soon, as you continued to work him, leaning past you to your bedside to shuffle in the drawer for a condom when you stopped him.

“It’s fine, baby,” you assured, urging him back to you as you wrapped your legs around his tapered waist, your hand cupping his jaw and guiding his lips to yours once more.

“Are you sure, baby?” He asked, wanting to make sure he understood your intention behind the decision to forego protection. 

“Of course, corazón,” you assured. “I just want to feel you."

And you didn’t have to tell him twice. 

"Have I told you today I love you?" he asked, aligning himself with your entrance, teasing you with his length along your slit and causing you to buck, chuckling at your impatience, your impertinence. That wild streak he loves so much. 

“I love you,” you urged. “Now, please, M, c’mon. Don’t you wanna show me how much you missed me?” 

And that did it.

Mickey slid himself into you, rejoicing in the slick feel of you, in the snug warmth of your tightness, ever as though you were made for him as he began to thrust into you, measured, keeled. In the way he knew you liked. 

"Shit, baby," Mickey groaned. "Fuck."

And he’s so desperate, desperate to feel some part of you that he’d mimic whatever gets him closest. But he needn’t mimic. Because, truly, there was nothing like the real thing. Like the very real feel of you wrapped around him, squeezing him ever-tighter.

Of the feel of your thighs around his waist, your ankles locking behind him, urging him for more, more. Your nails along his back, and your breathy moans in his ear, begging, begging – he swears, for him to fuck you harder.

“Oh, fuck, you undo me, Mickey,” you sighed, relishing in the honey warmth languidly sweeping its way through your veins with each of his thrusts. Following the swirling pathway of Mickey’s attentions, the heated, silken traipse of his body along yours, inside of yours.

And Mickey whispers in your ear, incoherent, dirty little nothings as he fucks into you, his body curled over yours, one hand on your neck, his face pressed into the side of yours and his full lips gently brushing the shell of your ear.

And you were an angel, the way you took it, took him. A silver-screen siren, a hazy dream, sent straight from the kind of grainy, overfiltered pretentious indie flicks he'd loved in college. 

Mickey’s thrusts urged you closer, ever closer to the edge as he rolled his hips into yours, the thrust-and-drag of him heavy inside of you, his fingers circling your clit as you resorted to incoherent murmurings for “more.” 

Selfishly, you prayed, he’d give you an ache you'll remember long after he leaves again – never mind the one in your heart that's sure to follow– but you couldn’t dwell on that now as the staticy pleasure of your orgasm started to sweep through you, tingling your toes to your scalp.

You felt your release surging through you, a wave of pleasure pulling you back to your love, his arms wrapped around you just as you tightened around him with a sweet sigh, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as he kissed you, coaxed you through it. 

His own release followed after  the feel of him emptying himself inside of you one you would never tire of, the anchoring sound of his satisfied groan like music to your ears as you guided him to rest alongside you, pleased at the sweat-sheen glow adorning his warm, tanned skin. Pressing a kiss to his bicep, his neck, and his lips once more.

Out of habit, you made to sweep his hair from his eyes, the soft pads of your fingertips meeting the side of his face instead, admiring every inch of your man in the low light of your bedroom.

"You've got galaxies in your eyes, love," you whispered to him, your thumb brushing a soothing, sweeping line over Mickey's prominent cheekbone. “Always in the sky.”

“Yeah?” he breathed back, his eyes sweeping your face, taking you in in-kind. “You have the sea in yours.” He brought your wrist to his mouth to place another kiss to the sun there. “I’m sorry I fell asleep before. I'll make it up to you tomorrow once I’ve had my coffee.”

You tore your wrist away gently to swat his bicep, the little thwack resounding in the relative silence of your bedroom. 

“Oh, don't be silly,” you chided. “You know you were good.” 

“Oh yeah?” Mickey puffed his chest a bit, pleased at your praise. “Then I’ll take power-naps every time before.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you told him. Noting his hum of agreement. 

–

You lie together, Mickey in your arms, legs tangled, as you gently scraped your nails over his scalp. 

“The curls, I miss,” you confessed, the tickling buzz of short hair a strange prickle against the pads of your fingertips. “But this is cute, too.” 

Mickey’s eyes were closed at your attentions, contented. You were almost certain he was moments away from purring like a large jungle cat, a panther, with inky dark hair and eyes made for targeting its prey (he was good at that, after all, being a WSO…). 

“Glad to know you approve, seeing as I didn’t have much of a choice,” Mickey sighed, taking the opportunity to admire your features in the soft lamplight of your bedroom, the two of you caught in the witching hour, the lurch of a late-night-come-early-morning – grey skies dotted with the final holdouts of twinkling, winking stars. 

“Does your C.O. know how cute you look with the curls, though?” you pondered. “Should I write to my congressman?” 

“You’re too much, cielo,” Mickey hummed, his lips turning in a half smile as he gazed up at you in moonlight adoration.

“You love it though,” you replied, bending to press a kiss to his cheek, your hands never ceasing in their movements.

“I do,” Mickey groaned in satisfaction at a particularly rewarding scrape of your nails through his cropped hair. “I hope our kids end up with one-tenth of your tenacity – ready to take on the entire U.S. Navy over a haircut.” 

You brought your hands down from his scalp to his shoulders, kneading the muscles there as he rested against you. What he assumed was a gift for him – the massage– truly a gift for you, as you took every opportunity to feel his skin against yours. A reminder that he was here. He was home. 

You quirked your lips as you worked.

“Our kids, huh?” You queried. “And when is this happening?” 

“As soon as you’ll let me,” he laughed, the radiance of his smile a secondary source of light in your bedroom, blindingly dazzling, as always. “If it’s a boy, he’ll be a Jedi like his father before him,” he said, voice bold, assured.

“You seem to have thought a great deal about this. And this boy’s name?”

“Vero,” Mickey replied, not missing a beat. 

“Ah,” you kneaded a particularly stubborn knot of muscle in his shoulder, causing him to let out a deep groan. “Great hero, a warrior. Good name for a Jedi. And if it’s a girl?”

“Valencia,” he said, sitting up and turning to face you now, allowing your hands to fall from his shoulders so that he could take them in his own. “Our gift in winter. Something we’d share.” 

And you could envision it, you could. An entire life with the man before you, packing school lunches together, planning summertime road trips. Backpacks, bonfires, the whole nine yards. There was never any question that you wanted your life to enmesh with his – to share everything together. 

Still. Wasn’t it always nice to hear that he felt the same?

“I see,” you murmured, voice hitching a bit with the tenderness of the moment, “And you see that in our future, do you?”

Mickey’s eyes were dark, searching as he gazed upon you, appreciating the filtering purple-grey of twilight through your window and how it played upon your features. You truly were his dream girl. 

“Of course,” Mickey replied, voice emboldened with confidence and warmth. Pressing his lips to yours before confessing, “I’m going to marry you, cielo.” 

–

A few short hours and one doggy walk later found you and Mickey in the morning drive-through queue, waiting to pick up your coffee at the pick-up window, Artoo contentedly sprawled along the backseat, gnawing on his favorite Nyla-bone as the two of you hummed along to your current playlist. 

Mickey laced his fingers through yours, resting your joined hands on the center console as the song changed to Sam Cooke’s sweet warble, begging Cupid to pierce his lover’s heart with his arrow, promising to love her for eternity. 

“A lot of motown on this playlist,” he mused. “Any particular reason?” 

“This one,” you sighed dreamily, “… This one I made when I was thinking of you.” 

Mickey turned to look at you, the sunlight glancing off of the lenses of his flattering, wire-rimmed glasses. His worn San Diego Padres hat fit more loosely than you had remembered, thanks to his closely-cropped hair, and the distinct lack of voluminous curls that he would typically need to wrestle in order to fit the hat to his head. He smiled at your admission, sparkling and cruelly-perfect. 

“Sam Cooke makes you think of me?” 

“A lot of things make me think of you,” you retorted. “Be grateful I don’t serenade you with ‘Lovefool.’” 

“You know I don’t mind your singing, amor,” he breezed, bringing your joined hands to his lips to press a soft kiss to the back of yours. “Even if you sound like a bag of angry cats in a hurricane.” 

You arched a brow at Mickey as he took his foot off the brake, inching you forward to the pick-up window.

“I seemed to recall you saying you’d be nicer to me once you’d had your coffee,” you chided, swatting the brim of his hat and causing it to fall over his eyes.

“Well, I haven’t had my coffee yet, amor,” Mickey adjusted his brim and eased his foot onto the brake, rolling down his window before greeting the barista. “So there’s still time.”

He winked at you before collecting your coffees through the window. 

You scoffed, toggling your playlist over to Curtis Mayfield and rolling your eyes in mock-consternation at your beloved, grabbing the cup with your name on it with greedy fingers and taking a deep, appreciative sip. 

The two of you drove off in the easy silence borne of enjoying your respective beverages. 

At the next stoplight, you offered your cup to Mickey, per your tradition. The two of you swapped cups, him taking a swig of your coffee as you sipped his overly-sweetened cold brew. 

True to form, Mickey visibly grimaced at the pungent taste of hot, black coffee on his tongue, shuddering and causing you to giggle at his overwrought reaction. It never changed, and yet he insisted on sipping your extra-shot Americanos, even though he hated them.

“Cielo, I say this because I love you… Is, like, is your stomach lining okay? This is SO acidic. I just don't understand how you can drink something so bitter.”

“I have all the sweetness I need right here,” you leaned across the console to peck his cheek. "Mhmm," you nodded. "Super-sweet."

"Corny," Mickey chuckled, pressing your coffee back into your hands and navigating the two of you back home. "So, is tonight a movie night?"

"Of course," you replied. "The projector is up and ready. You decide – Alien or Predator?" 

Artoo sighs in the backseat, settling in for the drive home. 

Mickey glances over at you, savoring the sweetness of the cold brew on his tongue, though of course it has nothing on the sweetness that is you. 

On this, you both can agree – coffee is nice. But nothing quite makes you feel alive as the person next to you. 

"You're perfect, cielo."

–

Time is cruel. It passes quickly in joyful moments, slipping like cool water through cupped hands in the desert. In moments you wish would pass, it somehow stagnates, stuck like boots in mud during an uphill climb. 

Mickey’s two weeks home seemed to fly by – no pun intended, really, because you knew he’d be flying away soon. And you didn’t want to resent it. Really, you didn’t. You knew he lived to fly. When you stared at the night sky when the two of you were apart, you’d imagine him up there, watching over you. If you’d catch a falling star out of the corner of your eye, you’d wished for more time. For the sky – beautiful as it was – to stop calling your love to its endless vastness. To allow him to stay on the ground with you, for even just a touch longer.

But the sun rose and set, the same way it ever does. And it rose again on the morning Mickey was to leave. 

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder as the two of you lay in bed together – content to never move, to bask in this moment forever.

His words hang heavy on you, weigh even more heavily on your heart. An ache borne equally of love and pain. Of the promise of a future (which he was clearly planning for), but devoid of togetherness in the present.

"I miss you when you're gone," is all you manage to choke out, voice soft so as not to belay any of the fissures in your heart that are making their traitorous way up to your lips.

Mickey laces his fingers through yours, giving them a gentle squeeze as he pulls you back into the bed, into the warmth of his embrace.

“I know, cielo,” he sighs into your hair, gifting you with another kiss, this time to the top of your head as he takes in the warm, rosy paint of your bedroom walls. “I don’t want to go.” 

“Mickey,” you break from his hold to look at him, to cup his cheeks, the sheets swishing as you turn to face him. “Of course you do. And that’s okay. You’re supposed to love your job. And you… You’ve got your head in the clouds." 

Mickey made to protest, to tell you that he doesn’t love it more than you, when you press your finger to his lips,

“It’s okay, love. I’ll always be here when you get back. We have plans for our anniversary, remember? Disneyland.” 

Mickey had always thought you like the ocean to his sky, parallelled, but so different. Turbulent, soft. Untameable, endless. When, really, you were always with him. 

He removed your hand from his lips, gently guiding it next to his own and holding your wrists together so as to admire the two suns inked on your respective wrists. 

(“Like the twin suns of Tatooine,” Mickey had joked – quick to silence his laughing when you reminded him this was supposed to be a metaphor for your love, and did he really want to equate it to the most uninhabitable planet in Star Wars? You delicately chose to ignore Mickey’s rejoinder that Hoth was the most uninhabitable planet in Star Wars, content that your point had been taken.)  

And whether it was the suns adorning your wrists, or the bunch of fiery marigolds in water next to your bedside, or the theft of his favorite ballcap, you knew Mickey was with you each day. Even if he wasn’t. He was part of your day each day, just as you were part of his, when he affirmed –

“I’ll be back soon, my love,” Mickey rested his head against yours, eyes never leaving your wrists. “We have these because you’re in the clouds with me, remember? You're mi cielo."

--

Tagging:  @withahappyrefrain @spidervee @andallthatmishigas @thegirlwhowritesfics @xbamboowishesx @friendly-neighborhood-blondie @abibliophobiaa @clints-lucky-arrow @inklore @phoenixhalliwell @ohmagawd-life @thematthewmurdock @mrshipsmcgee @p3mybeloved @decadentpaperduck @letmeplaytheliontoo @vestrangel @moonlight-prose @aphrogeneias @levylovegood @thatredheadwriter @2clones-1kamino @zombieaurora @shadeds-library @writercole @ijustwantedplums @justalonelyslytherin @ilovepretttystuff @gretagerwigsmuse @fanboysfangirl @shakira-sasha @siriusfahey @hopefulinlove  @s-u-t @Criminalmindsandmarvel @joaquinwhorres @gingerbreadandpaper @jakexfmc @the-navistar-carol  @alexxavicry @jadore-andor @fanboygarcia @lavenderluna10 @thedaredevilsgirl @fluffyprettykitty @mickeyluvs @mothdruid  @buckyytorres ​ 

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[rae-gar-targaryen]

mi media naranja [holiday!AU - mickey "fanboy" garcia x fem!reader, aka "cielo"]

A/N: For Fanboy’s fangirls - a holiday celebration with Fanboy y Cielo. Lots of callbacks to my original Fanboy HCs  – so if you’ve been following their journey thus far, there will be lots in here for you. Bonus points if you get the references! 

Pairing: Mickey ‘Fanboy’ Garcia x fem!civilian!reader (aka “Cielo;” as always no use of y/n – my readers are written ambiguous, but with a latina!reader in mind.)

Warnings: my writing is its own warning, smut, so 18+ ONLY – p in v sex, unprotected sex, v mild breeding kink, references to oral sex

Word Count: 5.8k of the warmth of a holiday spent together with your beloved, of chestnuts roasting on an open fire, of the cinnamon-orange passion of sharing half of yourself with someone else.

Summary: You spend your holidays with your sweet boyfriend. Mickey takes you home to visit his family, but of course, you make sure to indulge in the magic of the holiday, just the two of you [part of the Fanboy y Cielo ‘verse].

(moodboard courtesy of lovely @ouralcohol)

--

Divided holidays were a challenge. 

You and Mickey had opted to spend the few days preceding Christmas with his mother and his sisters, which meant, of course, holiday travel.

You'd left your beachside home in San Diego, packing gifts and luggage alike to make the trek to Mickey’s hometown. Artoo was set up with your friend for the few days you’d be gone. And it wasn’t as though you weren’t coming back in just a few days to celebrate Christmas with Mickey, just the two of you. It would go by in a flash. So why were you nervous?  

You had met his family before. And, of course, they’d never indicated anything other than that they’d liked you … Still, you’d felt the perpetual need to impress. To ensure that they still liked you, as though their opinion would have changed in the six months since you had seen them for the family’s summer beach weekend.

And the drive was pleasant enough, Mickey expressing to you ad nauseam that he was glad you were coming, 

“You don’t understand, cielo,” he urged. “Every time I talk to my tía it’s like – ‘¿Y tu novia? ¿Y tu novia?’” he parroted. “I swear, it’s like she’s convinced you don’t exist, even though my mom has literally met you.”

You patted his arm in comfort, offering him your coffee cup, which he eyed warily – all too familiar with your penchant for bitter brew. Politely shaking his head in refusal as he turned his eyes back to the road.

You shrugged.

“Oh, I’m familiar,” you assuaged. “My auntie is nosy, too, she does the same. Ever since I was in high school, always asking me where my boyfriend was, judging me if I didn’t bring anyone.”

“And?” Mickey’s eyes darted to you, drumming his hands on the steering wheel in time with the radio (and not at all nervously himself). 

You chuckled, quirking an eyebrow at your boyfriend’s a-little-too-curious tone.

“¿Estás celoso o algo así?” Are you jealous, or something? “Don’t worry, M, I don’t bring anyone around unless I think they’re worthwhile.”

You popped across the console on your elbows, enough to press a kiss to your boyfriend’s cheek, pleased at the blooming flush making its way across his finely-peaked, mole-dotted cheekbones. At his happy realization that you had brought him home to meet your family for nearly every Thanksgiving since you’d gotten together. 

That you had deemed him worthy.

And though Mickey had assured you that it would be a relatively quiet few days, a few meals and a gift exchange with his mom and his sisters, you couldn’t help but wonder – had Mickey deemed you worthy? Had the women in his life? 

So, yeah, you couldn’t help the little prickle of nerves that tingled their way through you as your playlist wound down, the dulcet tones of Sam Cooke’s “Any Day Now,” fading as Mickey turned into his driveway, his mother and sisters waiting to greet you with waving hands and identically-beaming faces. Their smiles were all-to familiar to you – a virtual carbon-copy of the one that regularly greeted you on the face of your beloved. 

And it was foolish to worry, really, you thought, as you were crushed with hugs and ushered inside by Mickey’s mother and his three shrieking, giggling sisters, all wearing variations of the same, slightly threadbare sweater (no doubt handmade and worn annually). Leaving Mickey to carry your bags and gifts into the home while his trio of sisters fawned over you,

“She looks gorgeous, no?” Said the eldest, Luci.

“I told you, she’s got that glow,” from Eiza, the youngest. 

And it was foolish to worry – when they had shoved a glass of ponche navideño in your hands and began filling you in on all the chisme as your boyfriend huffed his way up to his childhood bedroom, laden with bags. 

Hours later, you were packed into the hearth-warm kitchen, virtually up to your elbows in masa as you continued to knead, by hand, the sticky dough for enough tamales to feed an army under the approving (but ever-watchful eye) of your general – Mrs. Garcia. The way her lips had split into a smile when you’d refused the stand-mixer and opted to go manual was something you’d burn into your brain for eternity. 

Maybe approval wasn’t so far off. 

“Bien, mija,” she appraised, as Mickey sipped his punch from the corner he had been relegated to in the the kitchen, watching with honeymelt eyes as the women who shaped his past, his present, and – his eyes lingered over you – hopefully, his future, all worked in tandem to make homemade tamales. Gossipping away and giggling with each other as though you had been their friend for decades. 

“Ma,” Mickey piped up, “you’ve got her making all of this by hand? She’ll cramp up. She’ll have witch's hands by the time we leave. She’s an artist, you know, it’s how she makes her living. How many tamales do you need, anyway?” 

Mrs. Garcia whipped the dish towel that was draped over her shoulder at the back of her son’s head, effectively silencing him.

“Miguelito,” she hissed, “Tradicion. And your cousin Shawn says he’ll eat at least forty, and you know they’ll be here til New Year’s.” 

“Yeah? Well, cousin Shawn is full of shit.” 

Mickey’s sisters rolled their eyes at their brother’s antics, the middle sister, Olivia, bumping her hips against yours, her eyes full of playful mirth as she finished stirring the filling. 

And you could make out the living room through its swinging door to the kitchen, Vicente Fernández warbling away on the record player in the corner, as Eiza finished decorating their tree with a few of the ornaments that you and Mickey had brought – one, an orb with a photo of the two of you and Artoo on your couch at home, she displayed prominently at the center of the tree next to some that were clearly school projects from the kids’ elementary school years. 

It was nice, you thought – to be in a home that felt like a home for the holidays. To see these little pieces of your love’s life that had preceded you and that had shaped him. To let the magic of the season wash over your lives. 

After dinner, you helped Mickey’s sisters store the tamales for the long haul (and the arrival of the cousins) while Mickey did the dishes. 

Sliding on stockinged feet over the linoleum in their kitchen, you sheepishly produced a pink box tied in twine, with a tag that had a roughly-hewn, hand-drawn likeness of the Garcia household that you had seen in photographs, offering it to Mickey’s mother – a box stuffed full of pan dulce and Christmas cookies. 

“Mija, you made these?” She asked, hand hovering over the open flap, debating which to choose. “They all look so perfect.” 

“You should, like, have a baking insta,” Eiza agreed, words muffled by a mouth full of fluffy pink pan dulce. 

“They aren’t alla that,” you huffed, waving your hand as though to wave away the compliments.

“She’s modest,” Mickey assured, taking the box from your hands and setting it on the oaken kitchen table before lacing your fingers with his. “She loves to bake. She makes cookies for everyone in the squad for Christmas and birthdays.” 

“Really?” Mrs. Garcia appraised. “What did you make this year?” 

Rooster was positively gleeful at the sight of the red tin bedecked with snowflakes. 

“Are those what I think they are?” He bent down to kiss your cheek as you pressed the box into his hands. “Our Marigold’s famous Christmas gifts?” 

You had come down to the base to deliver the baked goods in person, on a day the squad had all agreed to meet for a holiday lunch. A cardboard box full of tins, each with their own personalized tag, awaited each of the Daggers. Javy had taken his – with its tag featuring a little drawing of a howling coyote – and absconded with it, thanking you through a sprinkling mouthful of crumbs and peppermint icing. 

Bradley’s, with its tag adorned with a strutting cartoon rooster with its tail feathers made of flames, was full of iced shortbread. Something he had confided to you that his mother had made on holidays past. You hoped he’d like them, not that the recipe you had found online could ever touch Carole Bradshaw's.

Mav had winked, thanking you for the classic chocolate chip, chuckling at the cartoonish aviator sunglasses on the tag.

Chocolate-chili cookies for Phoenix. Peanut butter for Jake. Cinnamon swirl for Bob. Lemon-lavender for Halo. Sweet mochi cookies for Reuben… and so on.

“If he doesn’t marry you, Marigold,” Rooster not-so-quietly announced, gesturing at Mickey with a cookie in his hand, “I will.” 

It was then that Mickey had swooped in, looping an arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to your cheek, waving Rooster away with a, 

“Yeah, yeah… she’ll definitely call you, buddy." Waving at the squad as he spun you and made to take your leave. "Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals.” 

–

Mickey's childhood room was, like the rest of his family home, like the man himself, warm. Belying a coziness you cherished in all spaces, replete with a checkered quilt on the bed that you were certain his mother had made. Posters bedecked the walls, shining with the grins of baseball and soccer players whose names you'd recognized from the backs of jerseys hanging in Mickey's side of your shared closet. Star Trek DVD sets on the bookshelf, nestled next to Tom Clancy novels. Model planes, jets, and Lego sets were intact and displayed – proudly, you were sure –  on the desk. It was all so overwhelmingly Mickey, you were certain you were falling in love all over again, more pieces of himself falling into place in your heart. The nature of him, ensconced by his childhood, filling the gaps in your heart. 

"It's, ehhh," Mickey scrubbed the back of his neck, placing your bag at the foot of the bed on the side he knew you'd preferred af home. "A little geeky, I know. Ma insists on not changing it."

"She shouldn't," you clarified. "It's perfect. It's you."

Mickey beamed at that, coming to your side and surveying the room from your perspective before shrugging his shoulders.

"It's more perfect seeing you here. Honestly, a pretty girl in my room? My sisters never thought they'd see the day," he chuckled, sweeping an arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to your shoulder before gazing up at you through his lashes. "And I gotta say, cielo, it's doing a number on me, you being in here."

You batted your lashes at your beloved before patting his cheek, 

“Easy tiger,” you breathed. “I’m not trying to disrespect your mother, or anything. We can wait til we're back home.” 

"Yeah, about that," Mickey said, extricating himself from you and readying himself for bed. "My mom is probably still laughing at you for offering to sleep on the couch. They know we've been together for a while, babe. It's fine."

"Still," you hissed, shimmying out of your jeans and into your joggers, sliding beneath the covers. "It's… awkward, no? To be in your boyfriend's house, them thinking we’re like … hooking up in here?" 

"If you feel that strongly about it," Mickey slid in beside you, leveling you with his best serious gaze, "you really should make more of an effort to keep your hands off me. Like, damn. Let a man sleep in peace."

You swatted his arm with the back of your hand, scoffing at him as he turned to turn out the bedside light. 

"You're unbelievable."

"Tell me something I don't know, baby."

And it had to be some kind of record, really. How quickly you’d gone back on your own word.

As soon as you and Mickey had turned the lights out, he had wrapped his arms around you, and pressed a goodnight kiss to your lips, you were a goner. The rustle of sheets met your ears through the blanket of darkness that had fallen in Mickey’s room, his fingertips meeting the skin of your waist where your t-shirt had ridden up, his lips meeting yours in kind – a clandestine, weighted feeling that you often felt yourself lost in. 

Mickey would often tell you that he felt a sort of gravitational pull near you – when you kissed him. That he was helpless to your gravitational pull, like the crashing tides. No choice but to worship you.

It was utter bullshit.

Utter nonsense. Because there was no way he could feel that way about you, when it was exactly how you felt about him, as he trailed his lips along the skin of your neck, feeling his way across your skin, through you, over you, the very heart of you. Rendering you slavish, devoted, insane. No choice but to heed to his beck and call, like the routine surrounding the permanence of a rising and setting sun. 

At the breaking little whine shattering its way through your throat, Mickey smiles against your skin, knowing he’s won. His mouth is warm, kisses like rich cocoa against your silken skin as he slips his way down your body, a trail of teasing touches and toying temptations – leading with lips and tongue.  

 He presses his way down your body, pleased at the heavy sigh that pours from your throat like water in the desert as he slides the soft fabric of your t-shirt up your torso, allowing his lips to chase the mapping progress of his fingers – a path he’s travelled many times, but never feels the same, and never renders the exact same reaction from you. 

“Fuck, cielo,” Mickey murmurs in reverence, his tongue swirling your nipple, the heat of his mouth and honey of his lips following. His hands slipping down your waist as he peppers kisses to the ridges of your ribs, the softness of your stomach. Shucking the quilt down to the foot of the bed as he makes his way between your now-parted legs. 

His palms skated the skin of your thighs, your calves, your ankles, mumbling muffled endearments against your skin as his lips traversed to your hips, inching closer, closer, closer to your center. Your chest heaved with ragged breaths, with honeyed sighs, lashes fluttering and fingers lacing through Mickey’s curls as you acquiesced, always, to the pull of him, the swelling ocean tide sure to wash you away into the depths of him.

“You should feel how warm you are, amor,” Mickey’s lips were wistful and wanton, cruel yet comforting, as he pressed  open-mouthed kisses heating the insides of your thighs. A perpetual tease, as tongue followed. “I bet you’re sweet, too.”

Mickey’s eyes met yours as he glanced up at you from between your thighs, glimmering with the dance of mischief and amorous intent. Pleased at the hitch of your breath evident in your chest, the fluttering of your lashes, the part of your lips.

God, you were well on your way to looking as wrecked as he felt. 

Mickey smiled then, a splitting peal of glimmering happiness, before he endeavoured to shatter you – cheeky as he inclined his head to lick a firm stripe along the seam of you, through the dampened cotton of your underwear.

You yelped at the feeling, slapping your hand over your mouth to muffle the too-loud noise that had shattered the relative silence of the room (save for your collectively heavy breaths), eyes wide at the sound that had spilled from you.

You tugged Mickey’s curls, beckoning him up as you hurried to close your legs – the moment shattering as you realized that once again, you had lost sense of yourself. And under his mother’s roof, no less.

“M!” you hissed, shuffling to readjust your clothing as you gently swatted at his pec, the small thwacking sound vindicating to your own traitorous ears as you attempted to recover from the embarrassment flooding through your body, heating your chest and cheeks. “Y-you … I can’t believe you. Zorro. Baboso.” 

“H-hey,” Mickey was cupping his own pec where you had swatted at it, eyeing your fluster and bluster with barely-concealed mirth. “You wound me, baby. I was just trying to kiss you goodnight. I just wanted you to know I love you.” 

“Sneaky little good-for-nothing,” you hissed, no malice in your voice as it spilled from lips that were trying, against your better senses, to tug into a smile. Shaking your head. “What would Ken Griffey Jr. think?” You tugged your shirt down, beckoning with pointed finger to the larger-than-life splashed likeness on the poster of the hall of fame ballplayer, staring down at the both of you, frozen smile ever-affixed. Not judgmental, but not-not judgmental. 

“He’d high-five me for a home run?” Mickey shrugged.

“You’re shameless, you know?” You readjusted yourself under the covers, making a show of pulling them up to your chin, obscuring your body from his view.

“Well, what do you suggest we do instead,” Mickey queried.

“Um, sleep?” 

“Baby,” Mickey’s voice was low, lilting – a slip of a tease in the wintery-darkness of his room. “I don’t, uhhh, think I can go to sleep right now.” 

You arched an eyebrow at him, “I want to go on record as saying that this is a self-created problem, but because I love you …” you sat up, allowing the covers to fall to your waist, bending forward and cupping Mickey’s jaw, urging him to you to press a chaste kiss to his lips. 

“Lie on your stomach,” you eased. “Let’s play the word game.” 

The word game. Something you had invented with your siblings when you were little. When you were too hyper to sleep, filled with the sugar from Christmas cookies and hot cocoa, waiting for Santa Claus, urging the morning to come … you’d come up with the game to pass the time. A game you had passed on to friends at sleepovers, graduating to giggling wine-drunk iterations in college. And now to your beloved. 

One of you would lie on your stomach, while the person that was “it” would pick a word or phrase, drawing each letter on the expanse of the other’s back. If the guesser chose the letter correctly, you would move on to the next letter, until they’ve spelled the word and identified it. Then you would switch 

Now, with the twinkling of stars outside of Mickey’s window and the luminescent glow of the moon to light your way, you rubbed your palms along the smooth skin of his muscled back, perusing your mental catalog for your word. Mickey groaned beneath you, pleased at the feeling of your hands working their way along his skin, his contended exhalations leaving his lips like a purr. 

“Ah,” you began, “I’ve got one. Okay.” 

You traced an “R,” the curving bow of the letter causing a shiver to wrack through Mickey at the featherlight touch of your fingertip, the gentle scrape of your nail.

“Cielo, this is supposed to relax me, not turn me on,” he turned his head to the side, allowing it to rest on his arms so he could glare, balefully, at you through cocoa-swirled eyes. 

“I can’t be breaking the rules if everything I do turns you on. Control yourself,” you replied primly, easing the sting of your jest with a sweet kiss pressed to his tanned shoulder. “I’ll draw again.” 

“It’s an ‘R,’” he supplied, huffing. “Stupid, sexy ‘R.’” 

You beamed, nodding so that he could see, before drawing the next. E. 

As Mickey guessed each letter, you proceeded. Giggling at some of his mistakes, signaling wrong answers with a wiping, swirling motion along his spine, not unlike the sweeping shake of your head, until – 

“Regalo,” Mickey guessed. Present. 

“Bien,” you smiled. Rewarding your beloved with a sweet kiss to his lips, breezy and sweet like honeysuckle in spring. 

“And what present did you get me, my love?” 

“You’ll have to wait to find out,” you eased down next to him, cuddling into his side. “Or maybe my presence is the present. Either way, you’ll have to be good, or you get nothing.” 

“Always,” Mickey murmured, the facile lovingness of your touch, the game, having lulled him some, easing into the routine of relaxing by your side.

Whether he was referring to you always being a gift, or that he was always good, you weren’t sure. And you didn’t ask, his evening-breathing suggesting that he was well on his way to drifting off – one step closer to dancing dreams of swirling ardor. 

–

As you sat around in the morning with Mickey’s sisters in their matching sweaters, waiting to exchange gifts, they eyed you with something like mischief. A look you were all too used to seeing in their brother’s eyes. 

Mickey was in the kitchen, chipperly helping his mother plate the pan dulce you had baked and pouring coffee. The sunshiney nature of early-birdedness seemed to be a Garcia family trait, you thought, as Mickey’s mother greeted you with a million-watt smile and a kiss to your cheek before ushering you to be comfortable by the tree. 

“I heard the strangest thing last night,” Luci began, her lips curling into a grin. “Did you hear it, Oli?” She looked to the middle sister.

“Oh, yeah,” Olivia continued, knowingly. “Some noise coming from down the hall, like a strangled little cat. Very strange.”

“We don’t have a cat,” Eiza piped up, helpfully-unhelpful. 

And if your face didn’t bely your embarrassment at Mickey’s sisters clearly having heard your little yelp from down the hall, you were sure that the heat rushing through your body might melt you, like a shameful wave of lava, bent on your destruction. 

“Ehm,” you began, plucking intently at the very apparent little loose thread at the hem of your joggers… 

“We’re teasing you,” Luci appeased. “Don’t worry. Quite honestly, the fact that you’d choose to be with that little nerd is astounding –” 

“You’re too cool for him,” Eiza finished from her end of the couch. 

“He’s, uhm,” you smiled weakly at each of his sisters, still recovering from the mortifying ordeal of having been put on the spot. “He’s pretty great.” 

“Yeah,” Olivia rolled her eyes. “If you think Star Trek Christmas sweaters and talking about jets and G’s is cool.” 

You shrugged. “I do.” 

Mrs. Garcia and Mickey entered, then, distributing the steaming cups of coffee and reheated sweet breads. Your beloved pressing his lips to your temple as he pressed the warm mug into your hands.

“Buenas días, mija,” Mrs. Garcia greeted you, easing next to you on the couch. 

“Good morning, señora.” 

She knocked her shoulder gently into yours, smiling between you and Mickey, as he began to distribute gifts.

“Oh, M, give out mine first, please?” You urged, the little prickle of nerves from yesterday tickling at your throat (or maybe that was just the warm swallow of bitterly-strong coffee, just the way you liked it) as you were eagerly-anxious to see if his family liked your gifts.

Mickey nodded, passing soft wrapped packages to each sister – their names calligraphed on each tag in elegant, looping letters. Urging each sister to tear into the paper, an extra smile for Eiza as he passed her a firmer, square box. 

Luci cooed over the hand-knitted scarf and hoop earrings, assuring you they were just the pair she wanted.

Olivia had beamed at the hand-painted mug, admiring the white oleander blooms you had painted. Thanking you for the book of poems. 

Eiza shrieked at the pink gamer headset as she unwrapped it, looking up at you with awestruck, eager eyes. 

“Now you can join M, Reuben and me on our Call of Duty nights,” you smiled. “You’ll need some face masks, though. We multitask our self-care.” You nodded at the box, urging her to check as she pulled out a pack of Korean sheet masks (the same that you had separately gifted Reuben). She swept you in a hug, promising to set up a time to play with you. 

Mickey passed his mother a large, flat package, urging her to tear into the paper.

She ripped away the shining green, revealing a canvas with a watercolored likeness of your beachside home. The cerulean of the swirling ocean and the grapefruit-pink of the sunset stippled into in the background. 

“She painted it, mama,” Mickey gestured to you, eyes swimming as he took in the pleased smile on his mother’s face.

“I just wanted you to have something, a piece of our home in yours, until you can come visit us,” you eased. “I hope you like it.”

Mrs. Garcia nodded, reaching to clasp your hand in hers. “It’s beautiful, my darling girl.” 

Mickey’s sisters had gifted you with a stocking full of puppy goodies for Artoo. A set of bath bombs and a new sketchpad for you. Gifting Mickey with some games he had his eye on.

Senora eased her way up from the couch, pulling a small wooden box from beneath the tree and handing it to you. 

You admired the hewn wood, popping the lid on the box to find a handful of recipe cards in what you recognized form letters and cards to be Mrs. Garcia’s handwriting.

“Just a few recipes for you – so the two of you can have them for your home. And start some of your own traditions.”

You thanked her, with teary eyes and a warm hug, all vestiges of worry set aside as you enmeshed yourself into the warm welcome of the Garcia home.

"You make him better, no?" Mrs. Garcia was sitting with you as Mickey packed up the car, his sisters twittering around him about taking leftovers (seriously, Shawn did not need that many tamales) and promising to FaceTime them after you and Mickey opened the rest of your gifts. The snippets of their conversations meeting your ears as you visited with his mother.

“-- I swear, Miguelito, you better marry her,” Luci’s voice caused your heart to lurch a little. 

You turned your attention back to Mrs. Garcia,

"He makes me my best."

–

Artoo was overjoyed at your reunion. He leapt at your feet before you’d even had the chance to exit the car, his tail moving a mile a minute as he bowled over Mickey, licking at his face and his ears.

The two of you had settled into a lazy morning together, Artoo contentedly tearing into the stocking of gifts from Mickey’s sisters from his perch on the couch as you gifted Mickey with a plate of cheesy scrambled eggs – a Christmas morning breakfast tradition in your home.

“I like the shirt,” you acknowledged, beaming at the Mickey Mouse shirt that had been your birthday gift to him the prior year – a tradition of his own making, to wear the shirts you’d gifted him on Christmas. Each year a surprise as to which one he’d pick. 

This year’s – a grinning Mickey hugging Pluto – a splash of color adorning Mickey’s torso. A welcome sight painting the picture of your holiday backdrop while you made chili-spiced hot cocoa as your father had taught you, the sweet tickle playing on your lips as you grinned at your boyfriend.

And it was a cosmic, karmic collision – something in the stars, you think. Watching him play with Artoo, watching him eat his breakfast, watching him pluck packages from beneath the tree, ready to give to you. And maybe it was the magic of the holidays – that tinges everything in evergreen romance, warm and sweet and cinnamon. But you think, perhaps, that it will always feel this way with Mickey – as though he was the sunshine in your wintery sky, iridescent and luminous.

“Here,” you passed a package to your beloved, waiting with bated breath and eager eyes as he set his cocoa cup aside and ripped into the paper, marveling at the bound graphic novel in his hands – 

A full, illustrated edition of “The Adventures of Fanboy and Payback,” their space-exploration adventures that you had invented and drawn now captured fully, rather than in the piecemeal etchings you would stick into care packages when Mickey was away.

“Baby,” Mickey breathed, “you did all of this?”

“Well,” you worried your lower lip between your teeth. “The binding isn’t the best, but I tried. Do you like it?”

“Ah-mor,” he swept you off the couch and into his arms, his lips meeting yours, full and flush. “You literally made me a sci-fi hero. This is the best ever.” 

“I’m so glad,” you murmured, wrapping your arms around his tapered waist and squeezing. “You’re definitely my hero, M. Callsign: Romeo.” 

Mickey chuckled, disentangling himself from you and pressing another kiss to your lips. Assuring you he loved it as he gently set aside the book as though it were made of glass, turning to pick up your gift.

Mickey gazed at you expectantly as you held the small, unexpectedly dense box in your palm, searching his face for any hint as to what could be in the box,

“Don’t –” Mickey started, trailing off as you gently shook the box, “shake it… Fine.” 

You smirked, peeling the paper off the box and peering into it, met with the fiery hue of —

“An orange?” You query, lifting the small fruit from the box, its stippled rind leaving the pleasing, citrusy smell on your fingertips as you examined it. The blazing blue sticker on the side of the rind boasting the phrase, “Sweet Valencia.”

“Por supuesto, cielo.” Of course. 

“Well, you know I love oranges,” you smiled at him. “Thank you, my love.”

“Cieloooo,” he snickered. “If we were to share it. To peel it in half, what do you have?” He pressed you.

You gazed at him, glancing between the orange in your hand and your beloved’s shimmering eyes, dark and luminescent as the night sky.

“A half of an orange. Is this a riddle? What am I missing?” 

“Si, cielo, my brilliant, beautiful girl.” Mickey kneeled before you know, cradling your hand that held the orange in his palms. “An orange half. Mi media naranja.”

Your breath caught in your throat. 

And it was one of your favorite things about the Spanish language, your favorite endearment.  Embodied by the gift your boyfriend was handing to you now, the fiery-hued orb in your palms, perfect. The sweet smell of citrus tickling your nose. 

Mi media naranja. His soulmate. Literally translated, mi media naranja – “my orange half,” in reference to you.

Mickey dropped your hand, turning to pick up the box you had gently set aside, plucking something from the bottom of the box before picking up one of your hands. 

The coolness of metal slid along the ring finger of your right hand.

You tore your gaze down in time to see the coppery rosiness of a simple rose-gold band against the skin of your hand.

“I’m going to marry you one day, mi naranjita,” Mickey assured, looking between the ring on your hand and your starshine eyes. “Until then, consider this my promise to you.” 

With your artist's eyes, you can appreciate the watercolor brushstrokes of the moment, the way in which you saw the world, textured and swirling. Rosy and perpetually-perfect as your lips met Mickey’s, tugging him toward you with a finger crooked in his silly shirt.

“You’re perfect, M,” you murmured into his mouth. “Impetuous … but perfect.” 

You dragged Mickey down the hall, toward your bedroom, your lips fused to his as you made to peel the cartoonish shirt from his torso as you went, reveling in the firm feel of him beneath your fingertips. 

When had the script flipped? You were beneath Mickey now, him rolling his hips into you, the sweet, heavy drag of him inside of you sinfully sweet as you tipped your head back to watch your beloved watching you. The tight heat of you squeezing around him, causing him to roll his eyes back, bucking his hips into you harder. 

“Baby,” Mickey groaned, “you're so pretty it hurts.” He dragged his teeth over the column of your throat, soothing the stinging scrape of teeth with a pretty little brushstroke of his lips over the canvas of your neck. "I'll give it all to you – give you more, more, more …" he murmured into your skin as his thrusts became sloppy.

And watching you come apart, to shatter in his embrace, was the gift you kept on giving. One he’d never tire of as he spilled inside of you as you urged him to, “Please, baby, come inside me,” urging, urging. “I want it.”

He never stood a chance.

You draw your finger repeatedly along the curve of his nose, pressing kisses into his neck and begging him not to move from inside of you as Mickey rests his head on your shoulder, puffing exhalations evening into the deep, easy breathing of the satisfied. 

And as you glanced down at the rose gold band on your hand – the simple little gift that held so much weight, you drifted to the afternoon you had spent with Mickey before leaving his mother’s home. The tour he’d given you around town, narrating the lives of the ghosts of his hometown as you drove past the movie theater where he’d had his first date; the park where he and some friends had gotten drunk as teens. Stopping to climb to the roof of the school building, to watch the late-afternoon wintery sunset. 

"I wish you knew what it feels like," you sighed, carding your fingers through Mickey's curls, his head in your lap as the two of you watched the blaze of orange sunset turn purple like tufted cotton candy.

"What what feels like?" He asked tilting his chin to allow his eyes to prove your form, appreciating the fiery hues of the sky splashed against your skin.

"To love you," you glanced down, meeting your beloved's eyes with a smile.

Mickey's million-watt grin beamed back in response.

And perhaps that's the reason for the setting sun, you thought. It has no choice but to retreat in the face of something so radiant as your beloved's smile, a second fiddle at its own game.

"Oh, I have a pretty good idea, cielito" Mickey sat up, warm hands coming to cradle either side of your face, to appreciate the curve of your jaw as you smile at him -- little reminders how every part of you, delights in every part of him.

At your arching eyebrow, he continued, "After all, I know what it feels like to love you."

His lips met yours, the feel of his kiss like night-blooming jasmine, like petals against your wistful mouth -- eternal against the evening dusk of his hometown's little skyline.

Perhaps traveling for the holidays wasn't so bad.

--

some tags for my usual suspects: @joaquinwhorres @withahappyrefrain  @clints-lucky-arrow @inklore @phoenixhalliwell @ohmagawd-life @levylovegood @thatredheadwriter @zombieaurora @shadeds-library @writercole @ijustwantedplums @justalonelyslytherin @gretagerwigsmuse @fanboysfangirl @siriusfahey @the-navistar-carol @jadore-andor @fanboygarcia @lavenderluna10 @thedaredevilsgirl @fluffyprettykitty @mickeyluvs @mothdruid   @maxmayfield @eagerforthesky @callmemantha @mxgyver  @andrewrussgarfield @bioodforbiood @the-purity-pen @luxuryberzatto @liz-allyn  @moonlight-prose @thegirlwhowritesfics @phoebe-danvers ​@jadore-andor  @marvelousmermaid @spidervee ​@t-nd-rfoot​

#mickey fanboy garcia x reader #mickey garcia x reader #fanboy garcia x reader #fanboy x reader #fanboy x cielo #mickey 'fanboy' garcia x reader #holiday fic #top gun maverick #top gun maverick fic #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley 'rooster' bradshaw #tgm fic #my writing #mickey fanboy garcia #Mickey 'fanboy' Garcia #danny ramirez

[rae-gar-targaryen]

Danny Ramirez for Jerry Lorenzo via Instagram, 2022.09.14

#save a horse and all that #danny ramirez #dannyramirezedit #dramirezedit #fanboy garcia #mickey 'fanboy' garcia #joaquín torres #tfatws #marvel cast #top gun cast #tgm cast #danny baby #fanboy x reader #fanboy x cielo #mickey garcia #mickey garcia x reader #mickey fanboy garcia x reader

[rae-gar-targaryen]

So this is def Cielo x fanboy (Twitter p0rn video alert!)

*nsfw* 18+ only (you understand the vision, darling)

--

The feel of Mickey's hair twined between your fingers is silken -- the feel of his mouth on your breast is even moreso, heavenly and honeyed. His tongue follows, a petal's kiss along the bud of your nipple. Pleasurable fissures rippling along the curve of your spine as he presses you closer, closer to him, the better for your sighing gasps to meet his ears.

"Oh, M," you moan, head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut at the feel of his mouth on your skin. Straddling his hips, you roll over him, reveling in the feel of his hardness beneath you.

And you'd never tire of this, really -- of the way his skin feels against yours, cinnamon warmth and reverent romance. Never tire of the hold of his arms around you. Never tire of his lips, his ardor, the haze of heady pleasure you feel when you're with him.

His lips part from you, a strand of saliva connecting his lips to your skin as he gazes up at you with galaxied charcoal eyes -- finding you a siren, a vision of fluttering lashes and parted lips, personification of the pleasure he is capable of wringing from you.

And he'd never tire of this, really.

As he bucks his hips into you, his hardness rolling along your clothed slit, Mickey takes advantage of the pleased little noise caught in your throat to latch his lips there, chasing your voice as he chases your collective highs -- a sly fox in pursuit.

"I'm going to wreck you, baby," he murmurs against your neck, the parting of his lips as he speaks tickling you. "You want it?"

#fanboy x reader #lovely anons #mickey 'fanboy' garcia x reader #mickey garcia x reader #fanboy x cielo #fanboy garcia x reader #tgm fic #sexy lil asks #tgm drabble #mickey fanboy garcia x reader

[rae-gar-targaryen]

Fanboy and Cielo thoughts incoming --

Fanboy taking Cielo to the Barbie movie. I already HC that Mickey is a GREAT insta bf who always gets Cielo's angles just right. I could see him fixing her hair before ushering her into the Barbie box for her photo moment, pink romper and all! 🩷🌸

"You look perfect, Cielo!"

Mickey shares the photo to his story with the caption "This Barbie is an artist. He's just Ken." (Referring to himself).

Cielo buys the popcorn and the candy, and makes sure Mickey knows he's all the sweetness she needs -- but she appreciates him letting her love her Barbie dreams.

"Come on, Barbie," he says, before taking her hand and walking into the auditorium to their perfectly-chosen seats.

Mickey texts the dagger squad group text to tell them how amazing the movie was. And when Hangman gives him heat for it, he goes "Quiete, dude, you're LITERALLY a human Ken doll."

#just some word vomit for your afternoon #fanboy x cielo #fanboy x cielo vibes #mickey garcia x reader #fanboy x reader #fanboy takes cielo to the barbie movie