#but there are a couple things to note here

[kateschi]

back in action

synopsis: being the wife of bakugou katsuki comes with multiple benefits, one of which is a front-row seat to his scrumptious back.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: i know at least 2/3 of you have seen that figurine

you swear there’s no better sight in this world than katsuki bakugou’s back.

not the view from your honeymoon suite in santorini, not the sparkling ocean from your vacation in okinawa—hell, not even the perfect strawberry shortcake you baked last weekend.

no, none of that compares to the sheer beauty that is your husband’s ridiculously broad, wonderfully sculpted, unfairly muscular back.

the way his muscles shift under his skin when he moves? art.

the ripple of strength as he stretches? divine.

the faint sheen of sweat glistening on his shoulders after an intense workout? a masterpiece.

and, as if the gods of attractiveness hadn’t blessed him enough, the scars that mark his skin only add to his allure.

each one tells a story of battles fought and won, of heroism that the world praises but he humbly shrugs off. to you, those scars aren’t just symbols of strength—they’re proof of his resilience, his dedication, his heart.

so, yes. you are absolutely obsessed with your husband’s back, and no, you don’t care how shameless that makes you.

“katsuki,” you call from the couch, chin propped up on your hands as you shamelessly watch him rummage through the fridge.

he’s in nothing but a pair of loose sweatpants, the waistband hanging dangerously low on his hips, and his shirt? nowhere to be found.

a completely intentional choice on his part, because he knows exactly how weak you are for him like this. “did anyone ever tell you that you’ve got the best back in the entire universe?”

he pauses, a carton of orange juice in one hand and an eyebrow raised in your direction. “you tell me that every damn day.”

“well, I mean it every damn day.”

he rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother hiding the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “you’re such a weirdo.”

“damn right,” you shoot back, grinning when he snorts. “come here. let me look at it properly.”

“what, my back?” his expression is one part exasperation, two parts amusement as he shuts the fridge and leans against the counter, arms crossed. “the hell do you need to ‘look’ at it for?”

“because it’s a work of art, obviously,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “and I haven’t had my daily dose of admiring you yet.”

he groans, dragging a hand down his face like you’re the most exhausting person on the planet, but he still walks over to you without another word. you can tell he’s secretly enjoying this, though.

“alright, idiot. knock yourself out.” he turns around, presenting you with the full, glorious view of his back.

your eyes immediately light up. “oh my god, it’s perfect.”

“it’s a back,” he deadpans.

“no, no, no. it’s the back,” you insist, reaching out to lightly trace your fingers along the curve of his shoulder blades.

he tenses slightly under your touch—his body always reacts before his mind can catch up—but quickly relaxes as you continue your impromptu “admiration session.”

“you’ve got no idea how unfair this is,” you mumble, running your hands down the defined lines of his lats. “how am I supposed to focus on anything when you look like this?”

“you’re ridiculous.” he’s shaking his head, but you can hear the way his voice softens, the way the edges of his usual gruffness smooth out when he talks to you like this.

it’s a few days later, and you're lounging on the couch, flicking through your phone when you hear him coming from the hallway, the sound of his footsteps heavy and deliberate.

katuski’s been in the gym for a couple of hours, and you can already hear the deep exhale he lets out as he moves closer, his breath still heavy from the workout.

"guess who's back," you say, looking up just in time to see him walking into the living room, wearing only a towel around his waist, his body glistening with sweat from his workout.

he pauses for a moment when he sees your face—wide-eyed and full of admiration, already zeroing in on that perfect, chiseled back. his muscles tense as he moves, and you feel your heart skip a beat.

"really?" he says, voice dripping with disbelief. "you still on about this?"

“can’t help it,” you say, setting your phone aside and leaning back against the cushions, fully prepared to watch him, unashamed. "I’m just amazed that someone like you exists in the world."

katuski rolls his eyes, but there's a soft chuckle that escapes him, betraying his indifference. "yeah, well, quit starin'."

"I can’t help it," you reply, your voice a playful purr as you look him up and down. "I mean, who else looks this good after a workout?"

he tilts his head to the side, his signature scowl starting to form, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“quit actin’ like I’m some kinda showpiece, alright?” he grumbles, though you can hear the lighthearted edge to his voice.

you laugh, clearly enjoying yourself too much. "sorry, can’t help it.”

later that week, you and katuski are out on patrol, both suited up in your respective hero uniforms.

it's business as usual—rescuing civilians, stopping some petty criminals, and making sure the city is safe.

the sun’s setting, painting the skyline in beautiful oranges and purples, but you're still laser-focused on one thing: his back.

it's a total accident—really, it is—but when you're standing next to him after you’ve just subdued a villain, you can't help but sneak a glance at the broad expanse of his back.

you feel that familiar pull to reach out, to trace the powerful lines of his shoulder blades again.

“don’t even think about it,” he warns, his voice low and gruff as he catches the glint of mischief in your eyes.

you smile innocently, taking a step closer. "what? I was just going to—"

"not here. we’re in the damn public," katuski growls, his sharp gaze snapping to yours as his fingers tighten around his gauntlet. "you really think I’m gonna let you paw at me in front of everyone?"

you laugh, unbothered by his obvious annoyance. "I’m not pawing at you, I’m admiring you. there's a difference, katsuki."

his jaw tightens as he glares at you, his usual frown deepening. "that’s the same damn thing."

you can’t help but grin, even though he’s clearly not having it.

but, deep down, you know that katuski secretly loves it. sure, he’s tough and grumpy in front of the public, but you both know how soft he gets when you're alone, how he indulges you without hesitation.

so, you take one last daring step forward, placing a hand on his shoulder, letting your fingers brush along the fabric of his uniform.

he’s about to bark at you to stop, but you just flash him a quick, mischievous grin, and that’s all it takes for him to roll his eyes, muttering under his breath, "unbelievable."

and katsuki was right in his reprimand cause you were breaking the headlines the very next day.

for all the wrong reasons.

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[cressidagrey]

Such A Mystery - Part 9

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Colette Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen fell in love at the ripe old age of 12 and never looked back.

Colette Leclerc really regrets posting that particular Taylor Swift Lyric to her private Instagram account, because it made George Russell go insane.  

The rest of the world has absolutely no idea that the Dutch Lion and Charles Leclerc’s twin sister have been a couple for 15 years and are expecting a baby. 

Warnings: 

Pregnancy, Mention of multiple miscarriages, Pregnancy complications, George Russell Bashing (he's probably really nice in real life but in this, he's the bad guy, sorry), Jos Verstappen, We have apparently now reached the time where I also bash Ferrari. I am sure they are super nice in real life too. They are not in this.

Author Notes: Huge thanks to @llirawolf for holding my hand through this. Chapter 8 of...who knows.

It felt like forever. He knew it wasn't. It must have been minutes until the car door was ripped open and Charles slipped in right next to him.

It wasn’t until the doors were slammed shut behind Charles that Max dared to look at the Monégasque.

His heart skipped a beat at the sight. Charles was still in his racing suit just as him, the suit itself streaked with sweat.

The moment the car door closed, the car started riving.

"Merde," Charles cursed. Max could only agree. "I am sorry, that it took this long."

Max gave a sharp, jerky shake of his head. "You don’t have to apologize," he somehow managed to get the words out. "I’m just..." he trailed off, a shaky exhale escaping him. "How could you make it here so fast?" he asked, casting a quick glance in his friend’s direction.

Charles snorted. "Your press officer had a shouting match with Ferrari's,“ he said simply.

If Max wasn’t so focused on not completely losing it, he might’ve been amused with the mental image. But at the moment, he could only shake his head.

Next to him, Charles let out a sigh. "Are you alright?" he asked quietly.

"No. You?" he gave back.

"I don't have a bad feeling," Charles said quietly. “Not worse than it has been for days at least.”

Twin Telepathy was apparently a thing as far as Charles and Colette were concerned. 

Quite frankly, till this day, it still weirded Max out. They just seemed to know when the other one wasn't feeling well. 95% of the time, they got sick at the same time. They communicated more easily with each other than with anyone else, and regardless of what game they played...they needed to be put on opposite teams, because otherwise nobody had a chance against them.

Max was well aware of Colette and Charles' strange connection. Even if he didn’t fully understand it. They both had some sort of sixth sense when it came to the other one, and it sometimes felt like they were talking in secret code.

"What’s it telling you right now?" he asked, his voice barely above a rough whisper.

Charles turned to him fully at that, and Max saw the way his eyes swept over him, taking in every aspect of his appearance.

Max could only imagine what Charles was seeing. He felt like a walking wreck, and there was no doubt his appearance was mirroring that.

"Colette is in pain," Charles finally said, his voice strangely quiet. "She’s scared."

That answer felt like somebody shoved a knife into Max’s stomach. He inhaled sharply, the breath catching in his throat. “Of course, she is,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

Charles seemed to sense what he was thinking, even without being telepathically connected through whatever the hell Colette and him had going on. The Monégasque reached out and took a firmer hold of his hand, the grip almost crushing.

"Don’t," Charles said firmly, his voice leaving no room for arguments. "Don’t go there. We’re gonna get to her as fast as we can."

There was a brief moment of silence, as Max tried to collect himself. He focused all his attention on the pressure of Charles' hand on his, and somehow, it actually helped.

"I feel so goddamn useless," he finally admitted, his voice rough with emotion. "I want to be with her."

"You want to try calling her before we are in the air?" Charles suggested.

That was not a bad idea, not at all. Max let out a low and slightly shaky exhale, swallowing hard. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah, I…” he had to stop and clear his throat. “Yeah, I’ll try to call her.”

His hands were shaking when he pulled out his phone out of the backpack that somebody had handed off to him, already packed. Regardless of all the drama that had gone on in the RedBull garage during the year… if it really mattered, the people in there pulled off minor miracles.

Within minutes, his entire day - hell, his entire week - had been packed for him, with all the essentials of clothes and everything else he would need.

He had almost forgotten about the phone in his shaking hands, but now he just stared at the screen for a moment. His fingers were trembling so badly that just unlocking the phone was a challenge in itself.

Jimmy and Sassy were on his lockscreen...a picture that Colette had once sent him when he had been away for one of his races...the two of them laying on top of her on their couch...

Every other time Max saw the photo, it made his heart do a little funny jump. Now though, it made his chest ache. It felt like a sharp stabbing pain, and for a moment, he just sat there and stared at the picture.

Then he called her.

It rang. And it rang, and it rang again. With each passing second, that horrible knot in his stomach tightened a little more. With every ring of the bell, it got harder to breathe.

Finally, to Max’s immense and enormous relief, the line connected.

"Hey, Maxie. I put you on speaker," Victoria's voice came over the phone, sounding surprisingly calm.

A shiver of something resembling dread ran through Max, at the sound of Victoria’s voice. But he pushed past the feeling.

His thoughts were once again running wild - was it a bad sign that Colette wasn’t the one speaking to him? Or was he just overreacting..?

“Hey,” he forced the word out past the lump in his throat. "How are you feeling?" he asked, pleading for Colette's voice. Was it selfish that he just wanted to hear her tell him that everything was going to be okay?

"Better now," Colette's voice came, sounding slightly hoarse.

The words were like a shot of adrenaline, and for a moment, Max actually felt a little lightheaded. “Liefje.” He closed his eyes, just hearing her voice sending another wave of relief through him. “Are you okay? How is Bébé?”

"Bébé has decided that they would rather be born today, so I would suggest you hurry up," Victoria said drily.

"Seems like the kid already inherited Max's need for speed," Charles quipped. "How are you doing, Coco?"

"I'm good," Colette's voice replied, and Max could only imagine the eye-roll that was currently happening. He knew his girlfriend, and he had no doubt that she had been glaring at Victoria ever since the phone was put on speaker.

"Where are you?" she asked, her voice suddenly turning much softer. "You're coming, right?"

"Coming," he assured her, his heart aching. "We're coming, I promise."

"I know. I’m not worried." She sounded like she meant it, but Max could easily imagine the anxiety in her eyes.

"You'd better not worry," Charles said, and then added, "I’m keeping him from doing anything dumb."

Max shot Charles a dirty look at that, bt he swallowed down the annoyed protest and focused back on Colette instead. “Just…hold on a little longer, okay?”

"It's not like I can go anywhere else," Colette replied, her voice slightly amused. "I’ll keep our little speed demon in there a little lo...." She broke off and let out a quiet hiss of pain, her voice once again cut off by what Max suspected to be a particularly painful contraction.

“Colette,” he said sharply, all kinds of emotions washing over him, one by one. “Liefje, just…just breathe through it, okay?”

There was a second of panting, then, he heard her take a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” she finally said. “Just…hurts like hell.”

He swallowed and clenched his free hand tightly into a fist, fighting against the urge to just jump out of the car and start running towards the airport.

Colette being in pain was not something he could deal with.

He heard her take a few more deep breaths, and he just sat there, waiting and listening and feeling absolutely useless.

"How long until you get here?" she asked after a moment, her voice breathless. He could see her in his mind, his sweet girl, sitting on the bed and clutching her belly as another contraction hit her.

"We're not even at the airport yet," he told her, and damn it, why were his eyes suddenly burning. "We’ll get there as soon as we can, okay? Just...hold on a little longer."

"What your dad said..." Colette said with a shaky voice.

"I know," he said simply, the grief raw in his voice. Neither of them were ever really going to get over the two babies they had lost. They had learnt to live with the pain, they had dealt with the heartbreak an grief...but it was always going to be scar for them.

"Max, if something…" she began, her voice a little wobbly. He could tell that she was crying, by the way her breathing got a little more hitched and ragged.

But she suddenly cut off and gasped, letting out an even breath. Another contraction..."Hey, nothing is gonna happen," he quickly said, trying to soothe her. "Nothing. I'll be there soon. I'll be there before you know, and our child will meet their parents. We will be fine, we will get through this. You, and me. Together."

"If something happens," Colette continues. "If..."

"No," he cut her off, the word coming out as a growl. "Nothing is gonna happen. You will not talk that way. You’re going to deliver a gorgeous and healthy baby, and I won’t hear anything else."

"Max..." she protested, but Max wasn’t having it.

"You’re not going anywhere," he said firmly, putting as much steel in his voice as he could. "You will be fine. Our baby will be fine, and I will be there soon and I will hold your hand and you can threaten to geld me and all of it will be okay. Just breathe.” 

He could hear the sound of her breathing, deep and even. She was trying to steady it, and Max gripped his phone tighter. He didn’t know if he was trying to hold himself together, or if he was trying to hold on to the sound of her voice.

The seconds ticked by, and then another contraction hit, and he heard her gasp out another ragged breath. Max felt like he was going to crawl out of his own skin. The idea of her in pain was like an invisible knife twisting a little deeper in his gut, each time.

"We need to go," Charles said suddenly. "We need to get into the plane." The car slowed down at that moment. "Coco, listen to me. I am going to be absolutely fucking furious with you if something happens to you," Charles told her fiercely. 

"Trust me," Colette’s voice said, sounding slightly tired. "I am very, very motivated to stay alive."

That was good. That was a good sign. If she was still being sarcastic and even a little bit cheeky…it was good.

"Just hold on," he told her again, the familiar feeling of helplessness seeping into his bones. "Just keep hanging on, for me. I love you."

“I love you too,” the words were as immediate and as fast as the sunrise each morning. "Hurry up, dammit."

"I’m trying," he replied, his voice hoarse. "I’m trying. We’re at the airport now. We’ll get there as fast as we can-" he had to stop, when he heard her let out another pained gasping sound, as another contraction clearly hit her hard.

“Goddamn,” he exclaimed, all of his muscles tense with the urge to do something. He wanted to help her, he wanted to be there to comfort her…but more than anything,  he was terrified of losing her. "Liefje, just keep breathing, okay? Breathe and stay calm."

"I’m trying to," her voice was breathless, and he knew that she was probably trying hard to fight the urge to cry out. Oh God, he hated that. He hated seeing her in pain, he loathed feeling this utterly useless.

"Go. Love you," she told him.

"I love you," he told her emphatically, wanting to say something more, but then Charles impatiently gestured at him to hurry up and get out of the car. "I...I’ll see you soon, okay? Just hang on, okay?"

"Yeah," he could tell that she was trying even harder to control her voice, trying to put on a calm and steady front for his benefit. "Just..." she cut off and let out a gasp, another contraction evidently hitting her hard. "...just hurry up before this baby decides to make their way out before you arrive, okay?"

"I will," he promised through gritted teeth. "I will, goddammit, I will, just…hang on."

He heard Colette’s pained panting, and each of her breaths was like a stab in the gut.He hated having to hang up on her

Everything in him rebelled at that. How could he, how could he possibly abandon her like that, how could he let her take on this pain and fear all by herself, without him there to hold her hand...but goddamnit, he had no choice.

He took a shuddering breath and pushed past the urge to scream, to slam his fist into something, anything. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions, ranging from the desperate need to get to her, to overwhelming panic, to anger at the universe for forcing them apart and for putting her through this pain.

Into the plane they went…it was probably the shortest amount of time between entering a plane and taking off Max had ever experienced. 

Before too long they were up in the air, flying towards Nice.

The minutes ticked by, each one passing by like a century. Max would sit in restless agitation at his seat, his mind racing back and forth. Every thought and memory came back to Colette. He just wanted to be at her side, he just wanted everything to be okay…

And instead he would be stuck on this plane for 6 hours.

He would be stuck on this goddamn plane for six hours. Six hours, each one of them filled with the knowledge that the love of his life was giving birth to their child, and he was not there to support her, to hold her hand and reassure her that everything was okay.

It was driving him absolutely insane. He couldn’t take it, he just wanted to be there, with her. He could vividly picture her, sitting in the hospital bed and gripping the rails, her face screwed up in pain as she fought through another contraction. And he was not there to comfort her.

"Maman is with her. Your sister is with her. Lorenzo and Arthur too." Charles said at that moment. “We aren't there but everybody else is."

"How can you be this calm?" Max asked him, dragging a hand through sweat damp hair.

"Don't mistake calm for not being worried," Charles said evenly, his eyes tracking Max's restless pacing of the plane. "I am worried. For her, for you and for the little one. But freaking out isn't gonna do anyone any favours right now."

"I know,” Max said, his voice still strangled tight with stress. He just couldn't get any of the images out of his mind - her struggling and fighting her way through the pain, looking more vulnerable and pale than he had ever seen her...and he was not there.

“Besides, I shouted at Ferrari’s PR and got it out of my system, so currently, I am feeling quite calm.” Charles said darkly. “I imagine that’s going to change again when I am sure that Colette and the baby are alright.”

Max just stared at him. Charles had done what?

If there was a religion that Charles Leclerc believed in then it was Ferrari.

Charles Leclerc was their golden boy. Their Il Predestinato. There was no good-natured fobbing to be had about Ferrari regardless of what issues there had been had through the years, and there had been a lot.

Charles worshipped Ferrari like a malevolent goddess. He didn’t want to hear any criticism of his team and Max had given up on that a very long time ago. 

Charles and Colette both could be the most stubborn people Max had ever match. The only one who could match their stubbornness were each other. 

"You did what?" Max stared at him, utterly flabbergasted. Charles was an absolute Ferrari fan and loyal to the very core…why the hell would he yell at the PR people?

"Why...? What did they do?"

"They weren't even going to tell me that something was wrong with Colette," Charles said darkly. "I knew it. I knew that something was off. But they didn't say anything. It was one of Red Bull's PR Staff that got me out of the cooldown room. Ferrari wouldn't have said anything to me. Ferrari didn't want me to leave either. They wanted to debrief, they wanted me to give interviews,"

Max had to resist the urge to swear. He had been so focused on the fact that he was not with Colette that he hadn't even processed the fact that Ferrari had actually kept her labour a secret from Charles, simply to make him stay and do his goddamn job for them.

"You know that that is not normal, right?" he asked him drily. "I am not telling you that everything is perfect at Red Bull but Christian would never fucking stand for that."

"You know I never expected it," Charles told him, his mouth a thin hard line. "We are the drivers. We are the stars. But we come second. First and foremost, we are assets to the team. What Ferrari wants, Ferrari gets. We drive, we get podiums, we hold the trophies, and we smile for the cameras. Everything else comes second. It doesn’t matter to them. To them, only the trophies matter. "

"That's what they want," Max told him, anger seeping into his voice. "But that's not how it should be. Ferrari is wrong. If something is wrong with your loved ones, they have no right to keep it from you like that. Especially not for the sake of a goddamn interview."

"I know," Charles said, his lips thin with bitterness. "But there's not much I can do about it, is there? We may be the top drivers on the grid, but we drive the car that the teams give us. There's only so much that we can do when the team has power over pretty much every aspect of our career. And believe me, I am going to pay a fucking price for doing what I did. I just don't care at all. It's Colette," he said sharply. "I love all my siblings. I do. I love Lorenzo and Arthur. I would do everything for them. But they aren't my twin. They aren't the second half of me," Charles said simply. "Ferrari be damned."

Max hadn't thought that he was ever going to hear these words out of Charles' mouth but here they were.

"What the fuck did Jos say by the way? What did Coco mean?" Charles demanded.

"He gave an interview to Sky Sports," Max said, fury still embering deep in his gut.

"Of course he did." Charles said, not sounding surprised at all. "What did he say?"

"Confirmed the relationship...and the pregnancy," Max said clenching his teeth. "And if that wasn't enough...he made a...comment about how it had taken us long enough to have a baby."

There was a sharp indrawn breath as Charles absorbed that. "...What?" Charles said after a moment, his voice strangled. "...he made that comment in public? Are - are you serious?"

"I never told him about the two...miscarriages," Max said quietly. "I couldn't deal with whatever well meant advice he was going to have...but I...We lost two babies," Max said weakly. "My father went out there and confirmed our relationship and the pregnancy without talking to either of us. He just made that decision because it's "ridiculous" that we kept it a secret for so long. An it’s making me furious. This wasn't his decision to make. This was ours."

"Yes," Charles said, his jaw clenching. "It was. Your decision. Nobody else’s. He had absolutely no right to do that. Goddamn it, I have never liked that man, but I've never had the urge to punch him as much as I do this very moment."

"You and me both," Max said. The anger he was feeling would have been burning through him like a damn inferno if he hadn't been so worried about Colette.

"This should have come from us," Max repeated quietly. "Not from anybody else."

"It still can come from you," Charles said.

Max paused, looking up at him. "Are you saying we should..." he began uncertainly.

"You want to tell the entire world that you love my sister and that she is having your baby? You have an Instagram account and a phone with an internet connection," Charles said drily. "Tell them the truth. Your truth."

Max opened his mouth and then closed it again. Charles had a point. It was obvious what the news was going to be now if people had seen Jos's interview.

But he wanted to be the one to tell the world. He wanted it to be on his terms. He wanted it to be public but on his public terms. Not his father's.

"Are you ever going to ask my sister to marry you?" Charles asked him suddenly.

The question caught him completely off guard. "...What?" He said blankly, stunned by the change of the conversation.

"You gave her a ring when you were both 18 that you both insisted was only a promise ring," Charles said drily. "Are you ever going to replace it with the real thing?"

He thought back to that ring that still sat on Colette's finger to this day. A simply gold band with a tiny heart-shaped diamond.

He had given it to her in 2016, after his very first Grand Prix win in Spain. He had gone out and bought it that very same day to be exact.

He had bought Victoira a handbag the first time he had scored his championship points...but the first time he had won...he had bought Colette that ring.

"Apparently the baby is only going to have your surname too, because you have an agreement," Charles continued. "Do I actually want to know what that agreement was?"

"We were 18. Both our father's would have probably killed us, if we came to them and told them that we were engaged," Max said with a sigh. The Leclerc's had always been supportive of their relationship but Hervè Leclerc had very much thought that both Colette and him were far too young to get married. 

Jos on the other hand...Max didn't even want to imagine that screaming fit.  "So I gave her that ring and we agreed that..."

"You agreed that..." Charles repeated slowly, silently urging him to continue.

Max let out a deep sigh and dragged a hand through his already messy hair, mussing it up even more. "We agreed that we didn't really need a piece of paper to tell us what we already knew," he said simply. "Colette and I had been together for 6 years at that point, we already knew and accepted that we were going to be together for the rest of our lives. It was just a matter of when. So we decided that we didn't need a damn piece of paper to know that we were committed to each other. We already knew that, without a doubt," Max said simply. "It was a promise ring. To love and to cherish, till death us do part. One day we would do it properly, but till then...that ring was a promise."

Charles stared at him. "Let me get this straight. You have been married to my sister for 10 years?" he asked him sharply.

Max winced. Okay. Put like that, it sounded kinda bad. "We never had the actual wedding," he said sheepishly. "We both know it wasn't necessary for us, so...we kinda just...never got around to it."

"I mean, I did ask your father for her hand in marriage when it was clear that he wasn't going to be there...when we eventually did it properly...but...for us that ring was… It was more than enough," Max said quietly. "I knew damn well that I would be with her for the rest of my life. She knew it. We both knew it. And that ring was a symbol between us that sealed the deal. We both knew that it was going to be for forever and always. It was a promise. A promise to always stay by each other’s side. No matter how badly things fell apart around us. No matter how much the world wanted to tear us to apart. We were going to stay together, come hell or high water. We didn't need a paper to prove that to us or the rest of the world," Max said firmly.

Charles stared at him for a couple of long moments, processing this. Max was well aware that, from an outside perspective, it might sound weird. That they had been so young, but so utterly certain that they were going to spend their lives together.

But he and Colette had been together for years. And he had seen how strongly they had bonded over the years, seen what they had been able to deal with as a team, as one, and how they had come through every single thing that the life had thrown at them together.

"You two are utterly ridiculous," Charles finally said drily. "You didn't get engaged because as far as you two were concerned you already got married years ago."

Max winced a little bit and couldn't really refute it. If he were to be honest, he'd have admit it did sound utterly ridiculous, when Charles spelled it out like that.

But that just...that was how badly they had known right from the very beginning that this was it for them. They didn't need a piece of paper to tell them what they already knew.

"I'll ask her properly," he promised Charles. "I already got the ring. But Colette doesn't want to overshadow Lorenzo and Charlotte and I knew that she wasn't going to want to have a big party while pregnant so I figured I would just wait."

Charles was slightly taken aback by his words, before he gave a small smile. "She'll definitely say yes, you know," he said, the corner of his eyes crinkling with affection.

Max smiled in return. His heart ached with the thought of her. "I hope so," he said quietly, feeling like there was a hole in his chest where his heart was supposed to be. "I really, really hope so."

[littlcdarlin]

My Burning Sun Will Someday Rise

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | read on AO3

summary: Joel and reader finally make it back to the hotel & all that sexual tension is resolved. tags: daddy kink, big age gap (Joel is 49, reader is 23), dbf!Joel, Joel has a lovely belly, Joel is a little mean, praise kink, Joel calls reader "kid", unprotected piv (very stupid, wrap it up kids), creampie, cunnilingus, face-sitting, (resolved) sexual tension, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, forced orgasm (not really? kinda sorta?), smut with a little bit of plot, no use of Y/N, afab!reader, reader has hair

Note: finally, the last part is here! I hope you’ll enjoy it, I had a lot of fun writing this. It’s one in the morning so forgive any typos — I wanted to post today. Thank you for the consistent love on this story, I really appreciate all your messages and comments <3

Joel positively drags you back to the hotel, one arm slung across your shoulder, your hastily packed bags in the other. He’s quiet, and you’re afraid that talking will break the spell, that he will hear your voice and remember who you are, and what he’s planning on doing to you. You’re nervous. Excited, yes, but nervous – you’ve been with people before, drunken hookups with collage boys who wanted to get off as quickly as possible. None of it felt like this, you didn’t want any of them as people. With them, it was about the sex itself, with Joel it is almost entirely about him.

Your thoughts are racing in your head, insecurities bubbling up inside of you, things that didn’t matter when you slept with those other people you barely knew – will Joel mind that you aren’t clean shaven? Does he expect you to be more experienced than you are? Are you even good in bed, or will he be underwhelmed, and secretly think you are pathetic?

You want this, more than you have wanted to be with someone maybe ever. But that want makes you vulnerable, strips you of any nonchalance you might have clung to if Joel was anyone else. He isn’t some collage boy who won’t remember you in the morning, he is your father’s best friend, for whom you are a more than controversial choice. Sleeping with you is a threat to his friendship with your father, and still, he’s ready to risk it, he pretty much told you as much. That gives it a level of importance you aren’t used to when it comes to sex.

When you reach the hotel, Joel hurries past the reception before the kind lady can stop you, and despite your nervousness, it amuses you. Joel presses the button to the elevator impatiently, making your stomach flutter. He’s so shameless in his desire for you, not embarrassed by this open display of wanting to get to his room as quickly as possible. You would have worried about looking needy, but not Joel. He’s secure, and solid, and unflinching.

The doors open, and as soon as you’re inside, Joel crowds you against the wall of the elevator, catching your lips in a kiss, before moving his mouth to your neck. You exhale shakily at the feeling of him sucking on your skin, the beard burn a surprisingly welcome sensation.

"They’ve got cameras," you breathe, a weak attempt at regaining some sort of dignity, while Joel quickly unravels you under his mouth and hands.

"Fine by me," he just answers, "Should ask them for a copy to take home with me."

Your knees threaten to buckle at those words, his admission that this isn’t just a holiday hookup, that he will want you just as much when you have left this paradise and returned to the world outside of your bubble.

"Careful, baby," he says, one hand holding you steady by the waist, his lips ghosting over your jawline.

Baby.

With a sudden ding!, the doors open again, and an elderly couple steps inside. Joel stops kissing you, but doesn’t step away, his hand still on your waist, his big body still close to yours. You offer the couple an awkward smile, and barely register the judgement in their eyes as their gazes flicker over Joel’s hair specked with white, because Joel’s hand starts moving again. He slips it under your shirt, no his shirt, rough fingers drawing featherlight patterns on your sensitive waist. His touch is teasing, clearly meant to get some sort of reaction out of you in front of these strangers. Joel’s getting off on this, you realize, on being seen with you, on people knowing just what he plans on doing once you’ve reached the third floor. You bite the inside of your cheek and do your best not to let show how you ache for him, how his gentle touches are affecting you. If you look at him, you know your resolve will crumble, so you pointedly look at a point over his shoulder, and try not to shudder.

As soon as the doors open again, you and Joel get moving, and a nervous chuckle escapes you when you meet his eye. His expression is hard to read – blatant desire, but also something more gentle, something that calms your nerves. It’s Joel. He didn’t leave you hanging when you needed to borrow a bike, didn’t make you feel stupid or guilty for it being stolen, and he won’t make you feel stupid now. That’s what you like the most about him, you think, as his hand ghosts over your back and he leads you towards his room, the way he makes you feel at ease. Whatever the opposite of shame is, that’s what Joel brings out in you.

You reach the door, and want to push it open, but Joel stops you, tilting your face towards him with a gentle touch.

"You don’t have to do this," he says seriously, "we can just go back to the beach. No hard feelings."

You appreciate his consideration, the way he seems to be aware of a certain kind of pressure or expectation his age creates for you, but the idea of going back now, when you’re so close to what you want, makes you want to weep.

"Getting cold feet?", you ask lightly, and he smiles at you, a fond smile, one that seems oddly out of place given the situation.

"I’m just sayin’, I get it if you changed your mind or something. I assume this isn’t the way you…usually do things."

"No," you say, holding his eye contact. "Usually they’re twenty-five years younger."

Joel’s face is a perfect mask, not sure what to make of your remark. You reach up, your hand gently touching his beard, and your eyes glide over the wrinkles around his eyes from years of laughter, the white in his hair, his warm irises.

"God…you’re so fucking sexy," you breathe, and there it is again, that color his cheeks only turn when you compliment him.

"I haven’t changed my mind, Joel," you say honestly, looking directly into his eyes. "Have you?"

"No."

His voice is deep, and he finally, finally opens the door, eyes still on yours.

As soon as Joel pulls you into the room, his lips are on yours again, your arms wrapping around his neck, as he walks you over towards the bed. He’s bigger than you, much bigger, and it only really occurs to you when your knees give out under you, and you land on the bed, sitting in front of him and gazing up.

He looks imposing, almost threatening, if it wasn’t for that expression he has on his face – something behind the desire. You feel safe in his hands, safe to give yourself over, not just in the physical sense. He looks so capable, so easy to trust. His hand comes up to your face, tilting your head up, and you move easily for him, letting him mold you in any way he wants.

"That couple," you begin as you watch him watch you, take you in, "they knew exactly what we were doing."

His hand travels over your throat, and although he doesn’t squeeze, it’s exhilarating to think how well it fits into his palm. You shudder as he pops open the first button of your shirt – his shirt.

"You liked it," you add, voice breathy as the tips of his fingers ghost over your collarbone.

His eyes snap up to yours, and you give a small smile, almost teasing.

"Didn’t hear you complainin’," he answers, holding your eye contact. "Think I should mark you up, so that the reception lady knows, too."

It shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does, but you press your thighs together to relieve that terrible ache. Joel notices, and smirks almost imperceptibly, opening another button on your shirt. He’s taking his time, building tension by making you wait. He’s good at this, you think.

"But then she would stop calling you my Daddy," you breathe, trying hard not to close your eyes under Joel’s touch. Joel cocks an eyebrow, hands lingering on your shirt.

"Don’t tell me you enjoyed that, kid," he says, voice low, eyes intense. You flush, and wonder if he’ll kick you out now, if you have finally made things too weird to continue, but Joel keeps gazing at you, ever steady.

"Cat’s got your tongue?"

You swallow, and let out a shaky exhale. Joel pops open another button.

"That why you kept repeatin’ it to me? Cause it turned you on?"

He’s teasing you, dragging it out of you despite your embarrassment. He wants you to revel in just how debauched it is what the two of you are doing, and you get closer to giving in with every second. Joel’s fingers trace over the swell of your chest, finally visible now that he’s opened most of the buttons, and a weak sound escapes you.

"’S that it, baby?"

"Yes," you breathe finally, your cheeks burning. Joel’s answering smile seems oddly satisfied, as he opens the last button, lets the shirt glide over your shoulders and slump down on the bed in a little heap of linen. You swallow.

"Yes," he repeats, eyes trailing over your body. You wish he’d hurry up and get his hands on you, but with the way slick steadily leaks into your swimsuit, you can’t really complain. He sure knows how to play you like an instrument.

"Say it, then," he says curtly, a simple order, and you briefly close your eyes. It’s almost too good. His eyes are locked onto yours when you open them, expectant and blown wide with desire. He has stopped moving, and you realize he wants to hear you say it before he’ll go any further.

"I…I want to call you Daddy."

Your stomach curls up with need when you hear Joel groan, his resolve quickly crumbling, as he crashes his lips against yours again. He licks into your mouth with urgency, and it’s possessive in a way it wasn’t before, like he wants to claim your mouth. The thought makes you whimper, and Joel trails one hand over your side and down to the waistband of your swimsuit. You didn’t bother putting on your shorts again, just walked to the hotel in your bikini and shirt. His fingers slide under the thinnest part, right on your hip, and he lets it snap against your body. It doesn’t hurt, but the sound makes you groan.

His hands roam over your body relentlessly, squeezing, and tracing, and feeling the swell of your hips, the dip of your navel, your spine, your breasts. You almost don’t notice him undoing your swimsuit, until he slides off the top part, and runs one finger over your pebbled nipples. Your back arches and your hips twitch towards him, but he doesn’t give in yet, just teases the sensitive nubs while you whimper into his mouth.

Then he unties the little bows on your hips, and just like that you’re bare before him, your swimsuit coming undone with one tug of his fingers, while he’s still fully dressed. He’s disturbingly good at undressing you, something that used to be an obstacle to sex now a sensual part of it. You want to feel embarrassed at the amount of wetness between your legs, but when Joel’s fingers slide over your stomach and down to your throbbing core, he groans into your mouth.

"Jesus, you’re drippin’," he breathes against your lips, breaking away to watch his hand press circles into your clit. You try hard not to twitch under his gaze, his blazing eyes and skilled touch. Another whimper escapes you, as he keeps rubbing and watching your reaction, like he wants to take you in before continuing.

It’s embarrassing how quickly he gets you to the brink of an orgasm, but when your hips twitch towards him with little control, he stops, his eyes meeting yours again. You watch him lift his hand up to his mouth and suck his fingers clean, eyes not leaving yours. It’s the most erotic thing you have ever seen, the way he closes his eyes at the taste, and you wonder how you haven’t come yet.

"I’m gonna eat you out," he says, and it’s not a question. Immediately, insecurity floods your veins – you haven’t had someone do that before, and the men you have heard speak about it said they didn’t enjoy it.

"You don’t…I mean, you can just…", your voice trails off. Joel stops in his tracks, watching your face and cocking a brow.

"You ever been eaten out?"

"No," you say quietly, "and you don’t have to."

"I know I don’t have to," he says, and he sounds almost affronted, like he can’t believe you would think he didn’t enjoy it. "You want me to?"

"I just…know some people don’t enjoy it much," you mumble and look down. Joel’s hand comes up to your face, tipping your chin so you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

"I want you to come on my tongue," he says, "and then again on my fingers."

You almost whine at that, embarrassment seeping out of you easily, and Joel traces his thumb over your lips. You let it slip into your mouth and suck, swirling your tongue around it.

"Alright? You let me take care of you," he mumbles, eyes trained on his finger between your lips.

"Okay," you say, when his thumb slips from your mouth, and then quietly add "Daddy."

"Good girl," he answers, and a wave of heat rushes to your loins. It’s fucked, what you’re doing, completely fucked, but so good you think you might cry. You were scared thinking about it for too long would break the spell you two seem to be under, but the more you do, the more turned on you get. You have Joel Miller in front of you, calling you a good girl and about to make you orgasm multiple times.

"Lie back, baby," Joel says, and you do, sinking into the pillow that smells like him. Joel keeps watching you, and when he kneels down on the bed and gently spreads your legs with his hands, you think you might come from just that sight. But you hold on, because something about Joel wanting to eat you out, not even having taken off his own clothes, makes you curious. 

He kisses your ankle and trails his mouth upwards, over your inner thigh and your hipbone, until you almost tremble.

"Jesus, Joel," you mutter, hips twitching on the bed, trying to get closer to him without your permission. He looks up at you, pressing his thumb to your clit again, and you curse. It’s not exactly painful, but it’s so much, almost too much.

"That what you call me?"

He doesn’t let up, his touch so insistent, you wonder how he expects you to come up with a single word.

"S-sorry," you stutter, grinding against his hand. "Daddy."

It thrills you to use that word, to know it gets Joel off, enough that he chastises you for using his real name.

"That’s right," he answers, and finally he lets up, placing his big palm on your thigh instead. Then, he leans down, and presses his mouth to your clit, flicking his tongue over it. It’s unlike anything you have felt before, and you actively have to will your hips to stop twitching, afraid to somehow hurt Joel. But he notices, ever perceptive, and breaks away, his mouth and beard already covered in your wet.

"Get up," he says, and you feel your anxiety rise again, questions of what you could have done wrong. He waits, but raises his eyebrows.

"You wanna come, or not?"

So you sit up, confused, and watch as Joel lies down on his back.

"Straddle me," he orders, and you move towards his lap, but he shakes his head. "Over my face, come on, baby."

You stare at him. His expression softens when he sees your disbelief, and he gives you a smile.

"Told you I’d make you come on my tongue, didn’t I?"

"Yeah, but Joel, that’s…"

Your voice trails off. You aren’t sure what you want to say – dangerous? Really fucking hot? You’re still sitting by his side, when he strokes one hand over your thigh, a soothing touch.

"I don’t know where you get the idea from that I don’t enjoy eatin’ you out," he says, his voice almost stern, "but you get that right outta your pretty head. Now, will you do as I say and sit on your Daddy’s face?"

Your mind goes a little blank when Joel calls himself that, and you feel helpless to do anything but nod, give him what he really seems to want.

"Words, baby."

His hand trails up your thigh and over your stomach.

"Yes, Daddy."

"Good girl," he answers, looking directly into your eyes, his strong hands grabbing your waist and helping you move, hoisting you up until you’re hovering over his face.

"If I need to breathe, I’ll tap your thigh, alright?"

"Yes," you breathe, quickly adding "Daddy".

Joel’s hands force your hips downward and although the sensation of his mouth under you is exactly what your throbbing clit was begging for, you’re tentative and unsure of what to do – you don’t want to hurt Joel. 

"Move, baby, make yourself feel good," you hear Joel say, voice muffled by your body. You rock your hips forward once, and let out a groan – your clit bumps into his nose, and you feel him lick into your folds. His hands grab your hips, and he starts rocking you against his face, setting the rhythm for you, and and you feel yourself leak onto his face and into his mouth, as you start moving along with him. His beard feels scratchy in the most delicious way, as he lets you fuck yourself on his mouth, his thick tongue darting out.

"Fuck," you moan, "Fuck J-Joel, Daddy, fuck!"

It’s a lot to take in, Joel Miller’s head between your thighs, lapping at you like he’s starving, like he can’t imagine anything better than having you sit on his face. His strong nose keeps nudging your clit, again and again, and your movements slowly becomes more confident, though also less controlled.

Joel’s hands keep encouraging you, and you’re closer than before, right at the brink of coming all over his face, when Joel groans into your dripping cunt. The vibrations send you over the edge, and you practically sit down on his face with all your weight, but he doesn’t stop you, just lets you ride out wave after wave of your orgasm and chant a mixture of his name and daddy.

You get off of him with shaky legs, afraid you suffocated him, but he smiles up at you, looking absolutely wrecked – his hair is tousled, beard and face drenched in your juices, jaw a little slack. He reaches up to cup your face, and you go with his touch easily, laying down next to him. He rolls over until he’s half on top of you, watching your red, panting face, and slants his mouth over yours. You can taste yourself on his lips, can feel his soaked beard against you, and although it should be impossible after just having come, you throb at the feeling.

"So good for me," Joel mutters against your mouth, and trails his hand downward, over your stomach and to your overstimulated clit. You twitch under his touch, your body unsure if it wants to get closer to Joel, or get away from him, and he chuckles.

"She spent?", he asks, his tone a little amused, when you squirm under him. "That’s okay, baby, I’ll give her a break."

Instead, he slides his fingers through your folds, gathering wetness, and finally pushing into you. Your body opens up for Joel more than willingly, and although the stretch is tight, it’s not nearly as painful as you’re used to, you’re too wet and relaxed for that. 

Joel watches your face, your fluttering eyelids, as he pumps two thick fingers in and out of you in shallow thrusts. You whine – you know you’re being vocal, too loud for a hotel room, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when Joel curls his fingers against that spot inside of you that makes you see stars. Your hips twitch upwards, and Joel smirks.

"There we go, baby, there we go," he mumbles, moving his fingers relentlessly, and already you can feel another orgasm building. He doesn’t let up, just lets you whine under him, thrash around, because his touch is almost too much, too good, too intense, but just right. 

"Give me another one, baby, come on," he coaxes, and you think your ears start ringing when his palm starts grinding into your clit with every movement of his hand, the tips of his fingers pressing hard against your insides. "You just let Daddy make you feel real good."

It feels like bursting apart, when you come again, some tight coil snapping and Joel practically wrenching the orgasm out of you with his relentless hand and dirty words.

"Daddy," you groan, your hand coming up to your face, as you bite down on your knuckle. Joel watches you with bright eyes, lets you tremble until he can tell it’s too much, and only then does he slip his fingers out of you. 

You’re weak, exhausted from the intensity of your pleasure, and Joel chuckles when you sigh, watching your glassy eyes.

"Okay if I fuck you now?"

You think you’d let him kill you, if he really wanted to.

"Yes," you breathe, "please."

He finally – finally – takes off his shirt, arms flexing, chest sprinkled in dark hair, his belly protruding over his trunks. You wish you had a camera, or a chisel so you could scratch his glorious body into a block of stone. He’s hard in all the right places, and soft in the rest, and with a jolt you realize you’re allowed to touch now, no longer confined to watching him swim from your deckchair.

"Jesus," you breathe, sliding one hand over his biceps, as he unties the band of his swimming trunks. You know you’re hindering him, but you can’t bring yourself to stop your hand from trailing over his chest, and down to his belly.

"Fuck, you’re so goddamn hot," you mutter when he slides the trunks over his hips. Then your mind goes a little blank, because finally his bulge isn’t confined to his trunks anymore, finally he’s naked in front of you, kicking his clothes onto the floor.

He’s big, just like the rest of him. Long, and thick, and uncut, and dripping in precum, the dark hair at the base of his cock a harsh contrast to the reddish skin. Joel closes his fist around himself, pumps twice, until you tentatively put your hand over his. His cock twitches, and you feel a little overwhelmed with power. Joel let’s go and lets you do the work, your hand much smaller than his. He looks even more imposing like this, as you move your hand up and down his length.

"Wanna suck it," you say suddenly, and you’re not entirely sure where the words come from, but you know they’re true – you want to get him into your mouth, feel him use your face the way you used his. Joel groans.

"God, you’re killin’ me," he answers, eyebrows furrowed, voice wrecked. You squeeze your hand a little tighter, just to hear him make his little sounds again.

"I’ll come if you do, baby, and I’m not sure I have two rounds in me," he says, regret lacing his voice, but his words make you clench around nothing – his age turns you on more than you thought possible.

„And I need to fuck you tonight,," he adds, and wraps his big palm around your wrist, so you stop moving it over his throbbing cock.

"So fuck me," you breathe instead, eyes wide and glued to his. You watch his expression change, something primal take over, and suddenly he’s on top of you, his hips pressing into yours.

"Again," he orders, almost growling.

"Please fuck me, Daddy," you whisper, your stomach clenching and unclenching in anticipation. Joel looks like he might come from just your words, but after a moment of collecting himself, he kisses you briefly.

"Alright, pretty girl, I’ll give it to you real good," he promises, and aligns his cock with your entrance. "You’re so goddamn fuckin’ wet, I can slide right in."

And he does, pushing his hips into yours. You feel the stretch of the thick tip, the widest point almost bordering on painful, and you bite your lip. Joel slides into you slowly, breathing into your mouth and making you feel everything. Then the tip is sheathed inside of you and Joel groans quietly.

"Grippin’ me so tight," he mutters, consistently pushing on, "halfway there, babygirl."

Your pussy flutters around him, clenches and unclenches, as he keeps going, and going. You feel full, and still Joel pushes on, until his hips are fully pressed into yours, and you feel him deeper inside of you than you have felt anything before.

"Breathe, baby," he reminds you, and you let out a shaky breath you didn’t notice you were holding. "Attagirl."

When he pulls out of you again, you make a raspy whining sound, your stomach clenching at the intense drag. Joel’s hands start trailing over your body, yours are gripping his shoulders.

"Look so pretty, all stretched out on my cock," Joel praises you, and God, the mouth on this man. If you weren’t so exhausted from the first two times he made you come, you would be trembling. You groan weakly, as he pushes back in, and starts moving at a quicker pace, setting a rhythm he likes. He punches into you with precision, angling his hips just right, and then he’s nudging against that spot inside of you.

"Ah…Daddy!"

"I’ve got you, sweet girl," he groans, moving both your wrists over your head, and pinning them down with one big hand – he easily engulfs you. You tug against him, testing his grip, and your hips twitch upward when you realize you can’t get out. He’s fully in control now, his cock nudging into you insistently, and you can only take it. You’ve never felt so cared for, as now, getting fucked raw by Joel Miller.

He doesn’t kiss you, but he keeps staring into your eyes, and it feels weirdly intimate. His movements become faster, more forceful, his belly nudging your body with every thrust. You whine, your body unable to do anything except for letting another orgasm build, one you didn’t think yourself capable of. The corners of Joel’s mouth twitch, when he feels you clench, and he fucks you harder.

"Daddy," you yelp at one particularly deep thrust, but Joel doesn’t let up – you don’t want him to. "Wanna come, p-please."

"You wait for my permission," Joel answers. Your belly feels like it’s on fire, tightly coiled with the need to just let go, but Joel wants you to wait, so you will wait. Anything, you think, anything. Joel’s jaw is slack, his brows furrowed, his free hand rough on your skin, but not unkind. You clench around him, and try your best to hold off coming, your eyes falling close.

"Eyes on me, kid," Joel orders, and despite your concentration, your eyes snap open. "Fuck, that’s it, my good girl."

My girl.

Joel fucks you like it, like you’re his. It’s possessive from beginning to end – the way he looked at you when you first wore his shirt, how he wouldn’t back away from you in the elevator. He plays your body like it’s his, dragging the pleasure out of you, and it makes your head spin. You can feel his thrusts go sloppy, can feel his restraint cracking, and your eyelids flutter a little.

"You want it inside, babygirl?"

You didn’t talk about that. You know you should say no. The head of his cock nudges your insides, and Joel’s free hand presses down on your stomach, feeling himself inside of you from the outside with every thrust.

"Yes," you breathe, "yes, please, Daddy, I w-want it."

Suddenly Joel is the one who has to close his eyes, as he keeps fucking into you.

"Fuck, you come for me first, baby," he groans, sliding his hand down to rub at your overstimulated clit. It’s too much, right on the brink of painful, and you thrash under him.

"I c-c-can’t Daddy, it’s…", your voice trails off, lost in the impact of his thrusts, but Joel keeps rubbing tight circles.

"Yeah, you can, baby, you know why?"

You don’t have it in you to answer, so you just stare into Joel’s eyes. You feel something wet on your cheek, and realize you must be crying, crying from how good you feel, how full.

"Cause I said so."

Your pussy throbs, clenches, and Joel moves his finger over your clit faster.

"Come for me, baby, I’ve got you," Joel drawls, and finally you do, your vision going white, your muscles going slack as you let Joel drag his cock in and out of you, the pleasure white-hot.

"Fuck, good girl, that’s my good girl," Joel groans, thrusting into you faster, until he presses into you harder than ever before, and you feel his thick cock twitch and throb against your cervix. Something hot bursts into you, and Joel keeps fucking into you for a couple more seconds, his eyes falling closed. Then, pulls out of you, your pussy fluttering, and he falls down next to you on the bed. You feel like jelly – you couldn’t move if you tried. Joel’s cum leaks out of you slowly, an odd, but pleasant sensation, and you sort of wish he would push it back into you.

After a couple of seconds, Joel pulls you against him, your face coming to rest against his broad chest, and he presses a kiss to your hair. You inhale his scent, and your spent muscles relax further, if possible.

"You did so good," Joel mutters, "so perfect."

His hands trail up your side and arms softly, a soothing contrast to the insistent way he fucked you. Your mind is pleasantly quiet, all caught up in his voice, his scent, his touch, his spent leaking out of you.

"Thank you," you sigh, and Joel chuckles. You smile weakly.

"Wanna get cleaned up, sweet girl?"

"No," you manage, "just wanna sleep."

Joel huffs a laugh, and tucks you more tightly against him.

"I’ll wake you before dinner."

***

When he does, the sun is already sinking. He trails kisses up and down your face – the softest way you’ve ever been dragged back to reality and out of a dream, and the first time you think reality is more fantastic than anything your sleeping brain could come up with.

"Mornin’, sleepyhead," Joel mumbles, catching your mouth in a kiss, his lips moving against yours slowly. You sigh into his mouth, when he pulls away.

"We should take a shower, baby, and you need a pill."

You open your eyes, a little confused.

"A pill?"

Joel raises an eyebrow.

"I mean, I’m not opposed to children, but I think your Dad might be," he says, and you snort weakly. Right, you think, the morning after pill.

"I’ve got an IUD, Joel, don’t worry."

He presses a kiss to your collarbone.

"Back to Joel, are we?"

You blush, and he laughs. It’s blissful, and a little unreal – Joel Miller, teasing you about the debauched, perfect sex you had not two hours ago.

"You prefer Daddy?"

"It’s…got a ring to it."

You can hear the smirk, even though your eyes are closed again, and you’re stretching your tired limbs. You yawn.

"How about room service?", you ask, Joel’s hand softly stroking the hair out of your face.

"Hmm," he mumbles, trailing one hand over your stomach, "or… we take a nice shower, you let me clean you, we have dinner with you lookin’ all fucked out, and everyone downstairs will know what we’ve been up to."

Your eyes open, and although you’re entirely, completely spent, your thighs clench together. Joel grins.

It’s quite the picture – Joel, with an arm around your shoulder ordering two cocktails, the redness on your skin from where he sucked too harshly or his beard burned you. You can see it in front of you, the same waiter as yesterday bringing your food, except this time, Joel lets you use his fork to try his meal, and instead of hurrying down to the beach afterwards, he’ll kiss you slow and long, just because he can, in front of every other guest in this hotel.

„Yeah…or that."

[shybluebirdninja]

Off Road

Summary: Logan drives off into the mountains and doesn’t come back for days, and you’re not sure if he’s ever coming back.

Pairing            : Logan Howlett x Gf!Reader Note                : angst

The first day was always the hardest.

You stood at the window, arms crossed tight over your chest, staring at the empty driveway where his truck used to be. The silence out here was brutal—no traffic, no people, just the wind rustling through the trees and the occasional creak of the cabin settling.

You hated it when Logan left like this, hated the way it felt like the world paused in his absence.

He’d driven off two days ago, early in the morning, before the sun even thought about rising. You’d heard the soft crunch of gravel under his boots, the heavy sigh as he opened the door to the truck. He didn’t say goodbye. He never did when he went on these solo runs into the mountains.

You’d tried to ask once—tried to get him to talk about why he needed to disappear like that—but it never went anywhere. His eyes would darken, his lips would pull into a hard line, and that was the end of it.

Now, all that was left was the gnawing ache in your chest and the cold coffee sitting forgotten on the kitchen counter.

You moved away from the window, your bare feet padding softly against the wooden floor as you made your way to the kitchen.

The cabin was small, just one room with a bed shoved into the corner, a tiny kitchen, and a table that was always cluttered with Logan’s stuff—his dog tags, an old lighter, a few half-crushed cigarette packs he never bothered to throw away.

The air smelled faintly of pine, mixed with the lingering scent of his leather jacket that hung off the back of one of the chairs.

You picked up the mug of coffee, but it was stone cold now, a bitter reminder of how long he’d been gone.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, setting it back down with a little more force than necessary. The sound echoed in the empty space.

Logan was always like this—coming and going like the damn tide, slipping away when things got too heavy, when the world felt too much for him to carry.

You knew that about him when you got together, knew that he wasn’t the kind of guy who could be tied down. But that didn’t make it any easier when he left without a word.

You grabbed the edge of the counter, leaning forward, your breath fogging up the window just in front of you. The sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows across the trees outside.

He said he’d be back in a couple of days, but you knew better. Logan never kept promises like that, not when he was running from his own demons.

The sun was setting now, the golden light filtering through the trees, casting shadows across the cabin floor. You let out a shaky breath, running your fingers through your hair, feeling the weight of the quiet press down on you.

He wasn’t coming back tonight. You knew it in your gut.

As the light faded, you moved to the bed, sitting down on the edge, your hands falling into your lap. The silence was deafening, but your mind was louder—spinning through all the possibilities, all the reasons why he needed to be alone.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but Logan’s caring was jagged, full of rough edges and broken promises.

You remembered the way he looked at you that morning before he left, eyes distant, his jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything, just grabbed his jacket and his keys.

That was Logan—never any grand speeches, no promises of forever. He just existed, did what he needed to do to survive, and you had learned to live with that. Most days, anyway.

The bed creaked as you lay back, staring at the ceiling, your mind racing. You could almost hear the sound of his truck, the low growl of the engine as it disappeared down the dirt road. And in the stillness of the cabin, you realized how damn lonely it felt without him here.

You reached for your phone, thumb hovering over his contact. A part of you wanted to call, to hear his gruff voice on the other end of the line, even if it was just to get a grumbled, “I’m fine.”

But you knew better. Logan wouldn’t answer, not when he was out there in the mountains, trying to outrun whatever was eating him alive this time.

Instead, you tossed the phone aside, listening to it thud softly against the pillow.

Another night alone. Another fucking night wondering if he’d come back at all.

On the third day, you woke to rain. Heavy, unrelenting rain that beat against the roof, a steady rhythm that only added to the weight in your chest.

You threw on one of Logan’s flannels, the fabric soft and worn, hanging off your frame in a way that made you feel like he was still here. But it wasn’t enough—not this time.

The cabin felt smaller, suffocating in its emptiness. You couldn’t sit still anymore, couldn’t keep pacing between the kitchen and the bed, waiting for the sound of his truck.

So you grabbed your jacket, shoving your arms through the sleeves with quick, frustrated movements, and stepped outside.

The rain hit you like a wall, cold and sharp, soaking through your jeans almost immediately. But you didn’t care. You needed to get out, to breathe, to feel something other than the gnawing anxiety that had been eating at you since he left.

The forest around you was dark, the trees swaying in the wind, their branches creaking like old bones. The dirt road stretched out in front of you, winding its way into the mountains, disappearing into the mist that hung low over the treetops.

You stood there for a moment, the rain pouring down, soaking you to the bone, and for the first time in days, you let yourself feel the anger.

“Where the hell are you?” you whispered, voice breaking, the words barely audible over the rain.

He always did this. He always fucking did this. Disappeared when things got tough, when you needed him the most. It was like clockwork—Logan running off to the mountains, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces.

And every time, you told yourself you’d had enough. That this would be the last time you let him break your heart. But then he’d come back, all bruised knuckles and soft apologies, and you’d fall right back into his arms like a goddamn fool.

But this time? This time felt different.

[g4rvez-r3id]

Back To You

Ex! Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU Reader

Synopsis: Spencer finally realizes that he wants you to stay and that he loves you and he proves to you just how much he does.

Category: Angst, Fluff, Smut

Warnings: 18+ MDNI established past relationship between spencer and reader, spencer being a lil shit, reader being depressed, cursing, mentions of Lauren arc, maeve arc, Grey’s Anatomy spoilers 4x17 “Freedom” and 11x21 “How to Save A Life”, heartfelt talks, love confessions, kissing, smut warnings: soft!dom spencer, cunnilingus, spencer is packing, praise, he whimpers (idc WHAT y’all say), unprotected sex, creampie (find a better word for this pls), a lil bit of aftercare and that should be it(?)

Author’s Note: here it is, the long awaited part three! sorry y’all i lowkey struggled to write this lmao, i hope y’all like this end to the 3-parter hehe 🤭 hope it was worth the wait! <3

part one part two

Spencer Reid was utterly bewildered when he headed into work that following week and saw that you didn’t show. That wasn’t like you. You were always at work, no matter what. Sure, you had a few sick days here and there and after your guys’ breakup, you’d taken a couple of days off but you were into work about a day or so later.

He chalked it up to your guys’ previous conversation. The one where he pushed you away. And he knew you needed time to deal with that. So, he went straight to work and didn’t think anything more of it.

But then a day turned into a few. And before he could march to Garcia’s lair and ask to track your phone down because he was concerned — and it didn’t help that his mind first went to you lying in a ditch somewhere — he instead went to Hotch and asked if maybe you were taking vacation time.

Thankfully, Hotch had told him that you indeed were taking vacation time but that you hadn’t gone into why you needed to.

But Spencer knew why.

He’d felt horrible about how things ended in the parking garage. He knew it was his fault. And he wanted to go make it right… with you, he just didn’t know how. And Spencer also worried that going to see you would just make things worse.

All he could think back to was when you guys dated. Things seemed so easy being with you. You understood the workload, since you’d had the same job, you let him ramble and listened to him — even when you weren’t dating anymore. And you were just such a good person and a good friend, no matter the cost. (The cost being his relationship with you when you hid the fact that you knew about Emily’s fake death). He didn’t think he’d ever forgive you for that. But now, since Maeve, since everything, since you were there for him, he was willing to finally push all of that aside and beg for you to come back to him.

He knew you were a hard person to convince. You held grudges like he did, which was why you two were in this mess now. But Spencer knew, eventually, you had to come back to work. But then he thought about it.

The chances of you transferring to a different unit, to a different city, maybe even to a different state because you could stand to see him any longer were high. Like previously stated, he knew you. And he knew from when you two were together that once your mind was made up, there was no changing it.

But he didn’t want you to. He hated that now he was realizing this, but now, he had to march down to your apartment and tell you how you truly felt. That he really didn’t want you to go.

And damn it, he was gonna do something about it right now.

You wondered if you’d ever recover from the hard blow Spencer Reid hit you with. It was like a punch in the gut, the fact that he wouldn’t let you in. It was to be expected, that he needed time to recover himself. But it hurt that he pushed you away, even though you knew that would happen.

Since what happened with Spencer in the parking garage, you had called in sick from work for a week or two. It wasn’t until Hotch literally texted you and asked if you were okay and if you wanted to formally request the month off to do so.

You hadn’t gone anywhere, you weren’t on any vacation and you weren’t seemingly blowing off work. You just needed time and right now, seeing Spencer in the office wouldn’t make it any better. This is what you would do, you’d wallow for a short amount of time and then move on.

Although you wouldn’t really move on. You’d pine silently and wait for the day you stop having feelings. It’s what happened with Spencer before and it’d likely happen again.

So, you sat in your living room, re-watching Grey’s Anatomy for about the third time. The men absolutely sucked in this show. You were wearing your sweatpants and a white tank top with your hair looking like a rat’s nest. You showered last night but unfortunately didn’t have the energy to blow dry your hair so it dried over your pillow covers and you woke up the next morning with your hair looking absolutely atrocious. You slumped on the couch, stuffing your face with chocolate ice cream and frowning at the screen as Meredith shows Derek she’s ready to commit to their relationship by designing a floor plan for their home. What’s the point when he’s just gonna die anyways? Someone always dies and someone always gets hurt.

You only planned in sulking on your couch for another day but you certainly didn’t plan on someone knocking outside your door rapidly.

“No one’s home.” You grumbled as you took another scoop of your ice cream from your spoon into your mouth. The knocking continued once more. “Go away!” You demanded. But the knocking wouldn’t let.

So, you groaned, pausing the TV and getting out of your blanket, putting your ice cream to the side and walking towards the door. You look through the peephole and scoff when you see who’s at the door.

“No fucking way.” You say loudly for him to hear. “Y/n, will you just open the door, please?” Spencer pleads with you. “Why should I let you in when you’ve never bothered to let me in?”

Spencer closes his eyes as he curses to himself. He supposed he deserved that. He says your name again as he rests his palm on the wood of the door. “Please, just open the door. Can we talk?”

“What is there to talk about, Spencer?” You question, crossing your arms and you choose to stand your ground, deciding not to open the door. “Open the door, please. I’d rather your neighbors not hear.”

You roll your eyes and decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. You unlock the door and open it. “You have two minutes. Two.” You lean to the side so Spencer can walk in to your apartment.

You quickly check your watch. “You’ve got,” You click your tongue. “A minute and fifty-four seconds remaining. Make it count.”

“I should’ve asked you to stay.” Spencer started. “I should’ve asked you to stay a long time ago. But Maeve… the whole thing with her… it broke me. And maybe I’m beyond repair and maybe I will never be over her, but you should not have to suffer because of it. I’ve… been… an ass.” You knew it was serious when he cursed. He rarely ever did.

“Strong beginning.” You comment, your arms carefully crossed over your chest in defense. Spencer noted to this being something you did every time you two fought.

“I wanted you to stay. Trust me, I did. And still do. But I can’t burden you with this. With my… pain. You’ve done so much for me already. Taking care of me, making sure that I was okay, being there for me when I was heinous to you after our breakup. We barely spoke a word to one another before then and you knew that but you were still there. I guess I just… don’t know how to do this. I… I was given another chance and I… couldn’t save Maeve. I’m scared that if I let you in… it could…” Wind up the same way. He doesn’t finish but you figure that’s what is about to come out of his mouth.

It made sense now. Why he pushed you away. He didn’t owe you an explanation, because you knew why he did. At least, later you did. But your heart couldn’t cope with the heartbreak and you asked for the time off anyways. You needed it. At least, your heart did. You owed her that much.

Spencer looked defeated as he stood in front of you. Like he couldn’t lose the one thing that seemed to fit in the puzzle piece of the void. He knew he didn’t deserve you. And he would be okay with the fact if you had just kicked him out this second.

Instead, you stood in front of him and your shoulders sank out of defense mode and into a shy tone. You thought to yourself for a moment before you turned back to him.

“Spencer,” You start hoarsely and walk towards him slowly and carefully like he was ready to break like glass. “How come you let me into your apartment after what happened to Maeve? You could’ve let JJ in or Garcia.” The burning question lingered for so long, you had taken the opportunity to ask here and now.

His answer was simple. “Because you’ve seen me in that state before. It’s so easy to mask my emotions in front of JJ or Garcia or Morgan. With you, I knew I could feel anything and not have you look at me out of pity. Because you’ve been there before.”

You swallow at that answer as you walk over to him, face to face with him. (Of course, you’re a tad shorter than him so you have to look up at him a bit).

You extend a hand and caress his face with your palm and he nuzzles into it like a cat to a scratch post and closes his eyes tightly as he grabs your wrist, as if he’s wanting to keep your hand there. Your eyes lilt down from his eyelids to his plump lips and you shake your head.

“Where did we go wrong?” You ask in a whisper. And you’re almost afraid for his answer. You’re entirely aware of where you went wrong. It was your fault, after all. And suddenly, you don’t want to hear his answer as he parts his mouth and looks into your eyes. “Never mind,” You say. “I remember.” Your tone is somber.

And Spencer knows why. Sure, he was upset and honestly, he had the right to be after you kept the fact that their close friend had faked her death and you knew about it but didn’t tell him. But he was willing to put that all behind him just to have you back in his life again.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” He said and you looked up at him with wide eyes at this. “It was a long time ago. And I can’t stand not having you in my life any longer.”

“Spencer…”

“I love you.”

The words fall out of his mouth so easily. “I love you, so much. I know we didn’t get it right last time but I want to, this time. I have always loved you.”

“But Maeve?” You ask.

“She was my past and I’ll always be grateful for the time that I had with her, even if it was short.” He admits but he takes your face into his hands, so tenderly as he looks you in the eyes. “But you… I’ll be damned if you’re not my future, Y/n. I’m sorry for how I’ve been. I’m sorry for how I’ve acted. You’re stuck in my head and I just… can’t seem to get you out of it, not that I’ve ever wanted to, anyways. But, Y/n, I’d go back to you. In a heartbeat. And my head is the most clearest it’s ever been so don’t you dare accuse me of just saying this on a whim. Because it’s not a whim.”

Spencer Reid knew you too damn well. He’d broken your heart in two, sure, but when it healed, it continued to still beat for him. You’ve always loved him and you never stopped. He held the darkest parts of you but he never once tried to fix them, he embraced them.

“I love you.” He said, out of breath. “Will you let me love you again?”

You stare up at him and instead of answering, you lean impossibly closer and your lips graze his and you don’t know who leans closer — you or him — (you later confirm that it was definitely him) and your lips connect.

The coffee taste is familiar in his mouth as his lavender scent fills your nostrils and he holds your face closely as he swallows you whole. Eventually, breathing becomes a chore and Spencer takes this opportunity to set you on the kitchen counter as his lips connect with your neck and you close your eyes as you feel all of him all at once.

Your hands explore his back, trying to shake his cardigan off of him — no matter how sexy it looks on him — and you are successful as it comes off of him and lands on the floor, revealing one of his dress shirts underneath.

You’re too busy admiring his body when he takes a moment, looking at you and taking in your features. He’s been here before. You’ve been here before. He’s home.

Realizing what he’s done, he knows you deserve better than being mauled on your marble counter and looks at you for permission before hoisting you to his waist and finds your bedroom, letting you get down and lay on your bed as you look at him, only in love and admiration.

He begins to unbutton his dress shirt and tear off his slacks and you take this opportunity to shake out of your sweatpants and your hair out of your elastic hair band. He’s left in his boxers and you’re left in your top and underwear.

He stares down at you, eyes full of lust and love and he smirks down at you and God, that should not have been so hot.

Spencer leaned down to kiss your lips and then kissed your neck and your collarbone. He shakes you out of your top and kisses each your breasts and then your bare stomach and then gets to his destination and with nimble fingers, pulls at the waistband of your underwear and pulls them off, flinging them across the room and looks at you as your rest yourself on your elbows so you can see the show.

You feel as his hot breath sigh into your pussy and you tilt your head back, dizzy by the sight in front of you. You had to have been dreaming. Surely, this is God’s cruel way of hurting you even more by making you have a vivid sex dream about your ex-boyfriend. (Or was he your boyfriend again?)

But when his tongue licks a stripe over your entrance, it’s confirmed. You’re definitely not dreaming, but definitely on Cloud 9.

He licks at your hole a couple of times before putting his mouth on your clit and making figure-8s with his tongue and your dig your hands into his messy locks and pull him impossibly closer.

And with his hands, he takes them out of his hair and holds them, interlocking his fingers with yours and Jesus, you might cum too soon from the sight alone.

The one thing you always liked about Spencer in bed was his expertise on sex despite not being very experienced himself. After your first time together, you were surprised to find out he’d only done it one other time because of just how damn good he was at it.

You wanted to hold out for him, but the way he looked at you and then moaned into your pussy, “That’s it,” He said. “Cum on my tongue.” It made you cum. Hard. You gasped out his name as he lapped up everything you gave him.

Eventually, he let go of your hands and let you take breather as he climbed over you and stroked your face with his hand. “Are you okay? We can stop here.” Ever the gentleman, even after giving you an orgasm that made you think you’d gone to heaven.

“You are crazy if you think I’m going another day without having your dick inside of me.” You joked and he lightly chuckled as he removed his boxers and you eyed what you were working with.

Also, another reason you were surprised he wasn’t lucky with the ladies in the past before you. He was well endowed despite being lanky and skinny.

“Wait,” You stop before he can press his cock towards your pussy and he divides his attention right onto you, willing to end this right here and now because you stopped him. “Are you okay? Because if you want to stop, we can.”

His heart swells for you even more. He understands why you’re asking him. But he was true to his word. His head was the clearest it’d ever been.

“I’m the greatest I could ever be right now,” Spencer admits. “I’d only ever want to stop if you wanted me to.”

Your eyes bore into him as you smile at him, caressing his face with your index finger, touching his plump bottom lip with it and you see the essence of you on his face, something that reminded yourself that he belonged to you. And only you. “Ready?” He asks, breaking your focus from his lips and you nod as you gasp, “Yes.”

Spencer breaks his focus away from you for a moment as he slides himself towards your entrance. You gasp out as you feel him sheath himself into you and his fingers interlock with yours beside your head as he bottoms out into you. Your body welcomes him and it’s as if your body remembers his.

“God, you’re tight,” He told as he shut his eyes and tilted his own head back because of how good it felt. How good you felt. “You feel so good.”

“So do you.” You manage to get out and his head is tucked into your neck as you hear his whimpers as he rocks into you, his only wish to make you feel as good as you’re making him feel.

He mumbles into your collarbone, trying to take you to the edge with him with his words.

“You take me so well.”

“You’re so beautiful.”

“I love how you tighten around me.”

The praise had made you rock your own hips back into him as you plead, “Harder, Spencer, please.” You beg and he commands at your wish as he fucks you into the bed even harder now. Your whines are more high-pitched as your nails dig into his back as he rails you and your bed begins to creak loudly.

“Let’s—Let’s cum together,” Spencer tells. “Where do you want it?” You gasp, “Inside, inside, please.”

You beg him, wrapping your legs around his torso and he plows into you even harder and then you feel him shudder and that’s send you over the edge as you feel his hot seed paint your insides.

You stare up at the ceiling as he collapses over your body, his hand still tightly perched into yours and his hot breath panting over your collarbone. Your hand rakes over his now sweaty chocolate locks and you hold him close to your body, not ready to let him go. It’s so peaceful as you both sit there in the silence.

But eventually, all good things come to an end and you whimper as he pulls out of you due to how sensitive you are. You close your eyes in slumber as he leaves the room, muttering something to you before he leaves and the next time you open your eyes, he’s back with a bottle of water and a warm rag to clean you up.

He takes a moment to gawk at your pussy and his cum leaking out of you before cleaning you up. You flinch at the contact at first, but he assures to you that it’s mandatory to clean you up after sex.

When he’s done, he expels the rag into your hamper and tucks you in under the covers, shortly joining you after he does so.

You turn on your side, facing him and going to hold by his torso and Spencer smiles to himself as he wraps his arms around you and quickly leans over to grab the water bottle and you open your eyes as he opens up the cap and puts the bottle to your mouth, wanting you to at least take a sip. You do so and he smiles as he puts the cap back on and then puts the bottle on the desk next to the bed.

Spencer looks down at you, playing with a strand of your hair and shortly rubbing your back soothingly, drawing out mathematical equations on your back and gazing lovingly down at you. When you woke up tomorrow, he’d be right here, right next to you and he wouldn’t leave until you were begging him to.

He meant every word he said to you. He loved you and he wanted to make it work with you again. The past was what it was — the past. And you were his future. He let you go once, over something that you had no choice but to keep from him and he let his pain get in the way of your relationship. No way was he about to make the same mistake again.

Over a few months ago, you two were barely speaking, only talking to each other when your jobs depended on it. And now, he couldn’t go another minute without speaking to you.

He got you back and this time, he had no intentions of letting you go.

[namism]

their love language/s | headcanons

➳ categories: canonverse, gender neutral reader

➳ summary: Looking into everyone's top love language/s with Sanji, Nami, Law, Zoro, Kid, Koby, & Sabo.

➳ notes: thank you for 200 followers!! i don't write headcanons, but here's a special treat for everyone who's ever read, liked, and supported my fics! 🧡

Sanji: Words of Affirmation

Above everything, Sanji is a smooth talker.

He's incredibly good at romancing you through his words that it doesn't take long for you to completely fall head over heels for him.

Canonically, he calls people with different pet names. "Mellorine" is arguably the most creative. If he were with you (or were trying to flirt with you), he would definitely create a personal nickname that only he would call you.

That said, there is no defeating his terms of endearment. All of them are truly endearing.

Also, best believe that he's amazing at communication.

You know how couples need therapy because their communication sucks? Yeah, that's not happening in a relationship with Sanji.

If this man can flirt through words, then he can talk things out with you.

Overall, Sanji is a very romantic person, but he would work out the most with someone whose primary love language is words of affirmation.

Acts of service as second? Sure. Quality time as third? Sure, but overall, words of affirmation takes the cake.

His sweet talking is just something an ordinary person can't resist.

Nami: Quality time/Gift giving

Is this a hot take? Maybe, but Nami is definitely sweet to whoever she ends up falling for.

She values hanging out with her friends and the people she cares about, so it wouldn't be any different if it were with you, the person she's into. Something about spending time alone together is intimate for her.

On another note, Nami would totally be into giving gifts.

Being the treasurer of the ship apart from the navigator, everyone is aware that she's strict with where the Straw Hats' money goes. It's safe to say that this would be the case for her personal savings as well, even though she likes to treat herself every so often.

But being a shopaholic just means that she loves buying things not only for herself but also for you.

Nami would totally buy you gifts if she finds anything that reminds her of you, and you can imagine it playing out sweetly.

Who knew the frugal Nami would willingly spend money on someone she likes? It makes you feel incredibly special because she doesn't casually do that for other people.

Law: Quality time/Acts of service

If you were a member of Law's crew, he would definitely appreciate the one-on-one appointments with you whenever you needed a checkup or anything of the sort.

Call it unethical, but let's be serious—he's a pirate who happens to be a doctor (or is it the reverse?), his epithet is quite literally "Surgeon of Death," and above all else, he isn't doing anything malicious when you come to him.

Instead, it's all sweet and innocent. If Law were to like you, he initially wouldn't know how to act around you, so he's grateful for the quiet moments that you share together alone, no matter the circumstance.

He would enjoy your company and would totally think that being extra cautious and careful toward your health is a good way of subtly letting you know that he cares for you.

He would be the type to do things for you without being asked. Usually it would be medical related, but once he gets more comfortable about showing his feelings, best believe it would be more than just that.

Zoro: Acts of service

Zoro is the type to save people, so he would keep an eye on you every time danger arises.

While he would save any innocent person or civilian in danger, his decision to rescue you whenever you need rescuing comes from a more personal reason rather than simply playing a hero.

Newsflash: it's because he likes you.

He isn't the type to show his interest toward someone through other means anyway, so his best bet is showing it all through actions that you never asked for to begin with.

His feelings would become more obvious the more he does things for you without question, which he would be pleased by because it would mean that you're picking up on his signs.

He would work best with someone whose love language is servitude, especially if you're the type to appreciate the little things that people do out of genuine concern.

Kid: Physical touch/Words of affirmation

When it comes to Kid, he's heavy on physical touch if you already have an established relationship.

Of course, he wouldn't do anything if you guys aren't official yet—even though he's bolder at flirting than the average One Piece man, he wouldn't want to come off as creepy.

Hence, physical touch is the way to go once you're together. He would be the clingy type in his own unique fashion.

If you aren't together yet, he would show his love through words of affirmation.

However, it isn't anything like Sanji's sweet talking in a way that is straight out of a romance film. Kid has his own way of doing things, so he would affirm you through compliments that often have one or two cuss words in them, which end up sounding mean but isn't actually mean.

For example: "Great job, brat. You did a shitty job last time, so it's nice to see you outdoing yourself."

Kid is just that guy, but he can also be sweet if the moment calls for it

If you're into those kinds of things, then dating him would be no problem.

Koby: Acts of service

Koby wasn't dubbed "Koby the Hero" for nothing. This man is deemed a hero even outside of work because of what he does for you.

Koby would be the shy type in a relationship since he stutters as a habit, so he would comfortably express it through actions.

Similar to Zoro, if you need rescuing, then he will be there. He would do things for you out of kindness because he likes you.

His love for you would be innocent and sweet.

On that note, Koby would be the type to do the smallest things for you, so if you're the kind of person who would be driven insane by the smallest acts of kindness, then Koby's your guy.

He would hold the door for you, get a glass of water for you if you're thirsty, check up on you randomly, and ask you to continue speaking if you accidentally happen to talk over each other.

Koby does his best to express his feelings, so he hopes his actions are good enough.

Sabo: Acts of service

In a perfect world, Sabo would make an amazing Prince.

It would seem ironic given how he canonically hated the nobility (including his family) because of the way they looked down on the less fortunate, but if Sabo never left nobility, he would be a Disney Prince.

Sabo does things in service, so it would be no different for him to initiate acts of service toward you.

He would be the type to do things without expecting anything in return.

Similar to how he would drop everything should Luffy or Ace be in danger, he would immediately go out of his way to save you or tend to your needs if the situation calls for it.

It's his way of expressing that he cares for you, and he sure as hell would make sure that you know he's interested.

[s1lu3s]

INSPIRATION ISSUES, rafayel.

warnings: suggestive content +18, masturbation, voyeur, fem!oc. pairing: rafayel x y/n. notes: this is my first shot about him!! hope u like it <3 if you find any mistakes, pls tell me (english is not my first language) comments and repost are appreciated <3 credits for the banner of mdni to roseschoices.

With Rafayel out of town in order to find some inspiration for several days, you stayed alone in the apartment you both share.

Bored and unwilling to do anything, tonight you especially felt very much in need of him.

However, he never let you know when he would be back and you don't want to bother him with your stupid and unimportant concerns.

You wish you had agreed to go with him, but your job as a hunter obliged you from doing so.

And you know you can't let Jenna, or any of your other teammates, down. Both, Rafayel and you know that your rigid morals prevent you from doing so every time he proposes such an escapade from your work.

You close your eyes, sink your head into the pillow and raise your hips as you imagine the same fantasy you've had with him over and over again this lonely week.

“Rafayel...” you murmur, squeezing one of your breasts and stroking your clit in slow circles.

You feel your fluids sliding down your thighs, your breathing ragged and erratic and your pulse rising higher and higher.

You imagine how he would do it if it was here.

Firstly, he would turn you around so that you would focus your attention only on him as he would play with your folds before delivering a single thrust and creating a torturous rhythm that would trigger an unstoppable state of frenzy on you.

You outline your own folds with one finger, which enters easily inside you because of the wetness you have between your legs. So you start to fuck your fingers in and out, feeling how your cunt is stretching them.

“Mph...” lascivious sounds burst from your lips as you change the rhythm of your fingers, curling them when they reach your walls and arching your back while you find that sweet spot that has your thighs trembling and put your eyes in blank while you hit it several times.

The warmth you radiate spreads throughout your body and you begin to feel a slight tingling sensation.

You are about to finish, when you hear a low grunt coming from the corner of the room.

You raise your head and notice a familiar figure sitting. Watching you.

“Oh, please don't stop for me. Go on, show me how much you have missed me these days.” Rafayel's voice is low and demanding, you even are able to catch that it denotes a lustful tone.

You obey. So you reassume your previous action, again directing your hand to the place between your legs, this time, turned, with your back on the mattress and staring back at him through the darkness. Your fluid always helping you to better slide your fingers through your folds, passing near by your needy clit and finally sliding into your walls.

In fact, you were closer for the orgasm you had been searching for. A couple of thrusts curling your fingers and moving them in and out, a thrust with your hips, and your legs begin to tremble slightly.

You squint, catching a fleeting glimpse of Rafayel holding a notebook and pencil and gazing at you.

“You know, these days I had gone looking for inspiration when I realized one thing. You are my source, the engine that gives life to my drawings.” His words are all you need to let yourself be carried away by the final wave of ecstasy. “A true work of art.” He mumbles and continues sketching strokes on the paper for a few more minutes.

For your part, you simply lie back and settle yourself better on the mattress, controlling your breathing and closing your eyes as you feel in the left side a slight movement.

You feel a subtle pressure on your shoulder and hip when he stands next to you.

“I don't think I'll have any more inspiration problems.” He assures you, kissing your hair and lying down with you.

[lycorogue]

I was going to keep this in the tags to not influence anyone, but it became too long and I wanted to include screenshots so we'll just add it here.

I'm focusing on the pics that Nathalie had stashed in her wall safe, as seen in the ending of "Revelation"

First, we have what looks like Gabriel's passport under his original name: Gabi Grassette. This was when Gabe was still in his punk phase and hanging out with the future comedian Harry Clown. We know that Gabi and Harry were college buddies, so Gabe was probably in his early 20s at this point.

Production purposefully had the decade Gabriel was born smudged out. Full disclosure, I don't have a passport myself and I only have the faintest of knowledge of the French language. I'm assuming that's supposed to be his birth date that is smudged, and not the issue date for the passport. Anyway, even with the smudge, we know that Gabriel was born April 23rd in 19_5 (again, assuming that isn't the passport issue date). *Fun side note: Gabe is also apparently 1M79 = 179cm = just over 5'10". No wonder he magically gives himself lifts when he transforms. Bro is self-conscious about being sub-6ft. HA!

Punk became a major musical and fashion influence both in England and France in the mid 1970s. Gabi also looks to be in his late teens/early 20s in that shot. Which means he most likely was NOT born before 1955 (putting him at 20 just as the punk era starts). Being born in 1965 means he was about 10 when the punk era started. Giving him another 8+ years to really get into that style (which, let's face it, never ended).

Here we have a photo of the Agrestes and Bougeoises hanging out in a tiny little apartment. Given the fashion photos on the walls, I'm assuming this is the Agrestes' first home.

The big thing to point out here is the record player. Sure, my own parents held on to their record player well into the 90s, but CD players took prevalence in the late 80s/early 90s. Between the clothes, the record player, the decor, and the subdued tones of the photo, and the white boarder around the photo, this feels very late-70s/early-80s vibes. Someone who is a fashion historian can probably do better than I with this.

Gabi seems to have fully rebranded himself as Gabriel Agreste here, with his signature slicked back hair and glasses. Most likely a rebranding to appear more worthy of his princess of a lover. Andre had already stated in the episode "Adoration" that he changed his name "for love" (presumably he changed it to something Audrey preferred). Being close friends, Gabriel most likely did the same. It's unclear who followed who's lead.

Point being, if the group photo with non-punk Gabriel is in the 80s it is unlikely that his punk phase was ALSO in the 80s. If he was born 1975, and was in his punk phase in his late teens/early 20s, that would put that passport pic around 1995, and the group photo even closer to the turn of the century. That just feels too late for the vibe of that group photo.

For me, that seems to firmly place Gabe as being born in 1965. The show takes place roughly 2014/2015/2016 (I've seen debates of each and don't know if there's an official canon year). For ease of math, we'll go with 2015.

Making our dude 50 at time of his demise (give-or-take, depending on when the show actually does take place). Admittedly a touch older than I was going to give him with a cold read (I was going to guess closer to mid-40s)

This also means that Gabriel was roughly 36 when Adrien was born. Makes sense with the backstory of a couple trying for a while to conceive. Also matches Gabriel being desperate enough to go to China and search for the Prodigious a year before Adrien was born.

More to support this is this photo of Gabriel, Emilie, and Nathalie excitedly finding the peacock miraculous. The photo has a bit more vibrance to it compared to the last group photo. It no longer has the white border, and has a more "modern" vibe that feels more 1990s. Further making me feel like the group shot with the Bourgeoises was from the 80s.

been dicussing it with a few mutuals and we're all in agreement but I've seen some wild discrepancies in the character tags so out of interest:

[trippinsorrows]

wicked games + one

authors note: here we go again. i have no excuse atp. none whatsoever. this is more a prologue than anything, because the following parts will show just we ended up here...

words: 4k

**gif belongs to @dejameflorecer

warnings: angst

Her laughter haunts him.

Once an anodyne for any and all of his bad days, now the source of his bad days.

That same laughter echoes through the hotel room, radiates from the phone in his hand as he watches one of the many videos she took.

“I want to remember these moments,” she once told him as explanation for why she seemingly couldn’t go one date or outing without snapping a photo or recording a video of them together.

The video in question that serves as his punishment is one she took when they were at his place. One of the times where he didn’t take her somewhere special or have elaborate plans. He just wanted to be around her and vice versa.

Roman sees himself sitting back on the sofa, remote in hand, probably trying to decide between the options of movies she gave him.

She then shifts the focus back onto her, and he’s immediately moved by how she’s wearing only one of his shirts, signifying she’d spent the night.

Roman’s chest tightens.

He hasn't had a good night’s rest in months, the absence of her, in all the ways, chasing and overwhelming his every waking moment.

“Ro!” She giggles, moving around again, now on her knees on the sofa as she holds onto him from the side. “Can you at least smile for me? You look like I’m torturing you.”

Present Roman watches past Roman cast an irritated glance to the camera followed by a significantly relaxed one to her. “You know I’m not a camera person like that, Sol.”

She rolls her eyes. So big and pretty. Innocent. “Whatever.” Her dismissal is followed by her kissing his cheek and smiling wryly. “I know how to get your attention.”

A misunderstanding on her part, because she always had his attention. 

Still does.

More movement followed by music playing in the background. 

G-A-N-G baby, let me B-A-N-G, baby

Let me fuck some'

G-A-N-G baby, let me B-A-N-G, baby

Let me fuck some'

He’d heard the song before, played at the gym and club a couple of times, but the song is not the focus. She is. Always. He watches her her climb onto his lap, that sneaky look on her face replaced with a new angle.

The angle of her holding the phone so it’s focused on her ass as she twerks on top of him, cheeks and hips moving perfectly in sync to the beat of the song. 

If that ass fat, better shake that shit (Baow, baow)

Put a hand up if you take dick (Tryna fuck some')

Keep shit P, I'll never be a trick

But the way she fuck, make me spend that shit (Let me fuck some')

A viewing at a different time would probably evoke a different, more physical, carnal reaction from him, but present Roman is too focused on the sound of her laughter when past Roman slaps her ass and tugs her against him.

She bites on her bottom lip, focusing the video back on them as he whispers something in her ear that makes her eyes go wide.

She gasps, smiling and blushing as she turns to him, “Roman!”

The video stops, and the emptiness returns. 

Roman locks his phone, gripping it. His eyes shut, the memories crashing into him like waves of suffocation and devastation. 

He’s not sure why he continues to do this to himself. To torture himself with constant reminders of what will always be his biggest regret in this life. 

The same reason he’s unsure why he’s even doing this.

He needs to leave her alone. He promised he would leave her alone.

But, that was before. 

Before he was informed. Before it was told to him. Not a sure thing. Just a rumor. But a rumor, nonetheless, that resulted in him hopping on the jet and flying to Mexico. A rumor he needs to know is either just that—a rumor—or a secret that’s bound to change everything.

For better or worse remains to be seen. 

It takes another ten minutes for him to exit the vehicle, ten minutes of going back and forth if he should just get back in his car and drive straight to the airport. It’s tempting, but not enough.

He needs to know.

And that’s what he keeps reminding himself of as he makes his way through the mall strip, partially confused due to the fact that it’s all in Spanish. He keeps in mind, however, the name of the shop and the pictures she showed him. Pictures that included promises of him to come see it in person, for her to give him a personal tour of all of her home, one day.

Promises and dreams that lie in the wastelands of what could but will never be.

Bypassing a couple, the woman wearing a bright green bikini top and shorts brings him back to a memory.

She runs over to him, giggling, holding onto her chest, the thin straps of her lime green bikini top failing to properly secure those beautiful breast of hers.

Sitting and straddling his lap, she takes the phone from him. "Let me see."

He watches her eyes survey the photos he snapped, his hand moving to her hips, holding her. "They alright?"

Her eyes flicker up to him. She nods with a small smile, kissing his cheek. "They're perfect."

Roman says nothing but thinks the same.

She is perfect.

Placing the phone down on the towel that he sits on, she moves her arms around his neck. "Guess what I've been thinking about?"

He makes a sound, hands massaging the meat of her hips. "No idea. Tell me."

She bites on her bottom lip, answering in a giddy tone. "Us."

Funny. He thinks the of the same thing. More often than not.

Roman lifts his hand to her chin, gaze softening. "What about us?"

Her eyes alight with elation. "When we're married and have a house full of kids running around."

Her answer surprises him. To some extent. Not entirely. She's brought up marriage before. Voiced her desire for them to one day be wed, but it's always marred by the dark secrets he continues to sit on.

Continues to withhold from her.

Solana nods, moving her hands up and down his broad shoulders. "I want to get married back home in Mexico, but I want us to live here in the states." She explains, sighing in awe. "I want us to have a house in the country though."

He chuckles quietly. "The country, huh?"

Her smile is warm and loving as she leans forward, holding him, burying herself against his safety. "I want to be away from everyone. Just you. Me. Our kids." Solana sighs as he moves his hands up her back and kisses the top of her head. "Us.....that's all we need."

Detaching from distant times, Roman does his best to push away those uncomfortable feelings and heartbreaking memories to stay focused on the task at hand, his dedication eventually bringing him to his destination.

Dulce's.

He stands outside the building, recognizing the outside, the beautiful flower arrangements that line the window. It's all so her.

And for a second, he considers turning around once more. Fears this place of purity and sanctuary will be polluted by him, polluted by the stench of betrayal that follows him wherever he goes.

But, the desire, the almost need to have his question answered is overpowering. Is enough to take him to that next stop.

And Roman walks into the store.

“Buenos días!”

Months.

It’s been months since he’s heard her voice in real time, having to make do with archival footage. But hearing it now, after so long, the happiness in it, it’s….difficult, to say the least. Roman swallows, studying the back of her head as she stands behind the counter, clearly working on a bouquet, the seconds stretching to minutes in terms of how long it takes her to turn around. But, when she does, he’s wishing she didn’t “Cómo puedo ayudarle—”

Solana is silent the minute her eyes land on him, the terror and shock in her pretty brown hues filling him with all the shame. 

She’s far from pleased at the sight of him.

Her mouth parts slightly, and he swears he can see her chest gradually moving up and down, indication of panic. “Roman?” It’s been months since he’s heard his name on her mouth in real time, and it nearly kills him how horrified she sounds saying it. “Wh—what—how—”

Roman didn’t think of what exactly he was going to say when he was standing in front of her, didn’t think he needed to. Now, he realizes that wasn’t the smartest decision. Her very strong reaction to seeing him shouldn't surprise him, shouldn’t bother him. After all, what he did to her…the way he hurt her….he’s surprised the door isn’t slammed in his face.

“I—” Struggling with verbalization has never been a thing for him until this moment. “I needed to see you. We—we need to talk.”

For better or worse, his words seem to trigger her out of her state of shock. Her brows furrow slightly, her hands tightly gripping the counter. “How did you find me?” 

“Solana—”

“How—” Her voice is harder, a new emotion rising: anger. “did you find me?”

He straightens, jaw fixed. “I’ve always known where you were.”

And, it shouldn't come as a surprise. It only made sense after everything he did to her, the pain he caused her, that she would return to her safe space. Be around her family.

That she would go home.

Her expression seems to indicate she recognizes this as well. Recognizes that it was maybe unwise to think Roman, of all people, would not know where she disappeared to. “Well, you’ve wasted your time, because I have nothing to say to you.” 

It’s then that she tries to turn away from him, but he takes a step closer, hating how she leans back against the counter. It’s almost physically painful to see and feel her disgust towards him. “You don’t want to talk to me, I get that.”

Solana’s eyes widen, her voice harsh and unforgiving. “I don’t even want to see you, let alone speak to you.” She shakes her head, reaching and pointing to the door behind him. “Now, I won’t tell you again, get out.”

Roman does his best to shove away the emotions that only seem to come up when he’s with and around her. “Solana, please just—”

“Don’t you get it!” She snaps, gesturing again to the door. “I don’t want anything to do with you, Roman! I don’t want to think about you, I don’t want to remember you.” Emotion imbues her voice and face. “I’d give anything to be able to wipe you and the past year from my memory.”

A slap. Verbal. Painful.

He straightens, reminding himself of his objective. Reminding himself that everything she’s throwing at him is deserved, no matter how much it kills him to know just how she feels about him.

About them. 

“I know I don’t deserve it, but I just need—”

“You don’t get to need anything from me!”

Another fair statement. Understandable. But, it doesn’t negate the fact that he needs to talk to her about this. He needs to know. 

And, it’s only then that Roman allows himself to take her in. Her face and breast both look fuller, a certain glow to her she’s always had but seems….brighter. He’s also just now noticing the way she keeps adjusting her dress. 

Specifically around the stomach area.

He….he doesn’t know what or if anything to make of that. 

Solana, however, seems to notice his gaze that’s focused on her stomach area and clears her throat, moving past the counter to walk away. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you to please lea—”

Roman knows being forceful isn’t the best move in this situation. However, he’s not even sure if there is a right thing to do, but what he does, whether right or wrong, manages to answer his question in the most unexpected way. 

His arm reaching across, serving as a barrier that prevents her from walking away. An effective barrier, but also a source of reveal. Because when Solana jumps back slightly, that movement causes the material of her dress to flatten against her stomach, revealing an unmistakable swell. 

A bump.

A baby bump.

There was already a million and one things going through his mind from the moment Jimmy mentioned to him that he overheard Bayley tell Naomi that Solana was pregnant. And normally, he wouldn’t think anything of it. Would try to come to peace with the fact that not only had Solana truly moved on, but she was starting a family with someone else. A quick turnaround time, but not anything he could judge. Not fairly, anyway.

But, this nagging, insistent voice in the back of the head wouldn’t leave him. Wouldn’t trickle away. Because he knows Solana.

Knows how major her letting him take her virginity was for her. Sacred. Special. 

He couldn’t envision a world where she could just fall in bed with someone else so soon and end up pregnant, at that. And, it’s all of that that led him to his suspicion that if Solana was in fact pregnant, it wasn’t by another man.

It was by him. 

An almost inconceivable thing he sat on for almost a week before feeling an almost requirement to fly down to Mexico and see for himself.

And seeing, he certainly is. 

“It’s true.” His voice is barely above a whisper, shock and a million other emotions swirling around his entire being. He doesn’t even really register the way her face turns red, undecipherable emotions coming over her. “You’re pregnant….”

Somehow, they both seem to snap back to a more logical state, Solana covering her body. “That’s none of your business.”

His eyes snap to hers, and for the first time since stepping foot into her shop, he’s hit with something else other than an insurmountable amount of regret.

He’s hit with anger.

“None of my business?” His voice is leveled and even. “You’re carrying my child, Solana. How the hell is that none of my business?”

“No, it’s my child,” she counters, voice just as firm as his as she reiterates, “my baby, who I will raise by myself. You don’t get to be in their life.”

Just like that, anger morphs into burning rage at her words. It’s one thing to keep him completely in the dark about the existence of his own child but to still think that she can keep him in the dark once the light is on is beyond him.

Roman knows he hurt her. Did her wrong. Broke her heart, and he’ll always live with the regret of that. But, their unborn child has nothing to do with what transpired between them, and it’s unfair to try to keep him away. 

And he responds as such, from that place of hurt.  “The hell I don’t. You’re crazy as hell if you think I’m gon’ let you keep me out of my child’s life.”

A poor choice of words, the wrong thing to say, clearly. 

“Roman….” Her name leaving his mouth is a thing of disbelief, like she’s incapable of comprehending just what she’s hearing. “In what world do you think you have any right to be involved in my child’s life?”

It’s the singular possessive word of ‘my’ that continues to grate his already paltry nerves. “Our child!”

“No!” She yells, jumping an octave and a level of vulnerability. “I won’t let you be in their life, Roman! I don’t care if I have to—if I have to move to do it. I’ll—I’ll go into hiding.”

Roman can’t deny the fear that creeps into him at her threat. Solana leaving and going home to Mexico is one thing, nothing really, because he knew where she was. But Solana disappearing and going off the radar, with their child, is something entirely different.

He won’t have that.

He can’t have that.

“I’ll find you,” a quiet, truthful vow. A promise. “I’ll always find you.”

She lifts her chin, reiterating, “then I’ll keep moving, keep running for as long as I have to to keep this baby away from you.” Her voice breaks, her jaw trembling, as she admits in a quiet voice, “I won’t let her hurt her the way you hurt me.”

His shoulder drop, anger melting away, incapable of remaining in the face of such hurt.

“Solana….”

He tries to step toward her only for her to jerk back, arms almost protectively wrapped around her stomach.

“Do you have any idea how empty I’ve felt?” A rhetorical question, he’s sure, but one that cuts him. Cuts him deep. “How I—how I cry myself to sleep most nights. How stupid I feel at believing you ever cared about me, ever loved me. How–how I try to not think about how this baby got here, the lies she was created from?"

“Solana, my love for you has never and will never be a lie.” And that has and will always be the God’s honest truth. “Baby, I love you.”

“Fuck you, Roman!” She yells, tears leaking down her face. “You don’t do what you did to me to people you claim to love! You don’t even know what love is! You’re not capable of it!”

He swallows. “Solana—”

“You are a heartless monster. You feel nothing for people. You use them for what you need, and then you throw them to the wayside like they’re trash. You broke me!” She looks away, covering her mouth to conceal the sob she’s doing her best to hold in. “You—you don’t deserve to be a father.”

Roman refuses to show her deep her words hit him, the pain she clearly still feels from how they ended, from what he did. He knows he deserves it, that he broke her heart, that he fucked with her head. But still, he never thought she’d be the type to hold their issues with each other against him when it came to a child.

Their child.

He swallows, doing his best to not allow the verbal daggers to consume him, because although deserved, it’s still a devastating, excruciatingly painful experience. One he wasn’t fully prepared for. 

Roman looks down, taking a breath, wanting, needing to be careful with what he says next. “Solana, I—”

“Hermana?”

A new voice introduced into the conversation. Male. Unfamiliar. Unwanted.

A scowl appears on Roman’s face as trepidation overtakes Solana.

“Wes….”

Roman’s scowl falters ever so slightly. Wes…..

He’s heard that name before. 

It takes a second or two for it to hit him. Wesley.

Solana’s brother.

Fuck.

She angles her body more toward him. “Wh—what are you—”

“Roman Reigns?” He’s clearly not listening to her, his suspecting, almost challenging gaze focused on Roman. “What the hell?”

Solana shakes her head, nervously twiddling with the material of her dress. “Wes, plea—”

“What the hell do you want with my sister?” Wesley’s angry question is directed toward an irritated Roman. He doesn’t have time for this shit. Wes takes a step closer. “Leave her the fuck alone.”

“Wesley, please,” Solana implores, her eyes pleading. “It’s not—”

“How do you even know her?” The questions are fair and ongoing but simultaneously increasing Roman’s irritation and Solana’s apprehension. “Why are you even here?”

“This doesn’t fucking concern you,” Roman snaps. To his credit, if it was anyone else, he’d have them unconscious. Or dead. But, this is Solana’s sibling, so he’s doing his best to remain calm. As calm as Roman Reigns is capable of being. 

“Anything concerning my little sister concerns me, motherfucker.” Roman has to smile, has to look away, jaw clenched and flexing. This son of a bitch truly doesn’t know who the fuck he’s dealing with.

Solana must detect as such, pleading with her brother once again, “Wesley, please, just—just give us a minute.”

Roman returns his gaze to the two of them, watching as Wes temporarily redirects his focus from the Head of the Table to the woman standing between them. 

“Solana, what’s going on?” A calmer delivery combined with a suspicious gaze. “How do you know him?”

Roman couldn’t give two shits about Solana’s brother right about now. Doesn’t care that even while carrying his child, she’s still keeping the truth about them, about their prior relationship, a secret. It was always something she preferred.

“I just want to enjoy us. Without all the opinions.”

A shared sentiment during nicer, happier, simpler times.

“I—” She’s clearly at a loss of words, unsure of how to handle said situation. “I—” But, a cardinal, betraying mistake is made the minute she, most likely unintentionally, tightens her grip around her belly. A protective, telling thing, because Roman is also very much aware of the second recognition dawns.

“No…..” Wes eyes widen from the disbelief that accompanies said recognition. “He’s the father, isn’t he?”

Solana sniffles, voice quiet, “I can explain, Wes—”

However, Wesley's attention is completely on the object of all his anger and rage.

Roman

“You son of a bitch!”

A verbal lashing accompanied by Wes charging for Roman who easily moves out the way. An active effort considering his first instinct is to lay this bastard out, because in what universe does he think he stands a chance one on one with Roman Reigns?

“Wesley, no!” Solana’s attempts to settle her brother are all in vain as he once again tries to swing at the Tribal Chief. “Stop!”

“She’s 24, you sick fuck!” And it’s up until this point Roman was doing a well enough job controlling himself, maintaining his composure, all things considered. But, it’s Wesley’s next accusation that all but snaps his self-control. “You fucking predator! You raped her!”

In that very moment, whatever hold Roman had on his temper is nonexistent. He’s blinded and consumed by anger, by rage, because Roman is a lot of things. But that has and never will be one of them.

Both hands formed into fists, Roman doesn’t try to dodge or even avoid Wesley as the shorter man once again attempts to come at him. He’s ready this time.

But so is Solana.

“No!” And just like that, she puts herself in between them, a hand on his chest and her brother’s. She says something in Spanish, rushed, pressured, aimed toward Wesley. And then she’s looking at Roman, eyes begging, switching back to English, “please leave.”

For a second, Roman considers it. Doesn’t want to cause her anymore stress—or pain—than he already has. But that fucking brother of hers twist the knife even more.

“You should be in jail, you rapist!”

“Stop calling him that, Wes!” Solana snaps, urgency and anger filling her voice. “He didn’t rape me! It was consensual!”

“You’re fucking 24, Solana! He’s almost 40! Nothing is consensual about that!” It’s not even the words and accusations as much as the fact that Wes is practically screaming at her that has Roman’s rage growing.

“Watch how you fucking speak to her,” Roman growls, mindful of Solana’s hand still on his chest. 

“Fuck you!” Wesley spats, hate in his eyes. “I should kill you for what you’ve done to her!"

“Wesley, please!”

“Shut up, Solana!” He screams, the volume and force of which make her jump, her eyes filled with shock. “Are you too stupid to even see—”

“What the fuck did you just call her?”

“I swear to God, if you say one more fucking thing to me—”

“What the fuck you gon’ do, huh?” Roman snaps, completely unhinged, seeing and feeling nothing but red. “You ain’t gon’ do shit!”

It all happens fast, so fast, too fast. Because one minute Solana is doing her best to separate two men she loves in two very different ways, and the next, an unconscious, unintentional act occurs. Unfocused, distracted gaze on the other person followed by a set of arms that push and shove her away. 

Solana’s balance is lost from the force of the push, her body stumbling backwards, a set of eyes—horrified, shocked, repentant—filled with abject horror and her name being called with matching said emotion, the last thing she sees before a brief, intense, painful thud against her head against the corner of the counter and the consumption of the dark abyss.

[threadbearsweater]

here to feed the sylus brain worms >:)))) with the word ‘silk’

Sylus spoils you.

It isn't that you weren't able to provide for yourself before. You lived a modest lifestyle and had always afforded yourself the things you needed with a few frivolous purchases peppered throughout to maintain your sanity and sense of whimsy. What's life without a few indulgences, after all?

What are considered indulgences to you, however, are absolute necessities to Sylus. And the first night he spends in your apartment, he's appalled at the fact that you sleep on cotton sheets.

There's not a lot of sleeping that happens that first night anyway. He hardly notices the state of your bed until the passion between the two of you dies away and you're left panting and glistening in the afterglow. You see his face- ruddy and perfect in the sliver of moonlight that cuts through your curtains- and you watch as his peaceful, satiated expression turns into a deep scowl. Sylus rubs his shoulders across the surface of your bed, then turns to prop himself up on one elbow, his other hand slipped across the softness of your belly.

"How do you do it?" he asks disdainfully, shifting his weight as if he can't find a comfortable position.

You think he's being coy- asking how you do it as in how do you make me feel so good? So you smile and cover his hand with yours, squeezing around a couple of his fingers. "I just follow my instincts and let my body do the talking."

His brow furrows and he shakes his head. "You misunderstand me. I mean these sheets." He plucks them between a thumb and forefinger for emphasis, as if he's handling some foreign food he doesn't trust will taste good. "How do you sleep on these every night?"

You scoff and swat at his shoulder, but he's quick to intercept and brings your fingertips to his lips.

"I'm serious, kitten. This bed is an abomination."

He stays the night with you- despite your inadequate sheets, despite the teasing you invoke on him for having such sensitive skin, despite the fact that he'd rather whisk you away to one of his properties and finish the night in luxury. There's something endearing about how he suffers through it all for you, and it's that night you realize just how much he really must love you.

A couple of days later, you find a package at your doorstep, along with a handwritten note.

Life is all about the little luxuries. I want to enjoy them with you. -Sylus

The bastard bought you silk sheets.

You clear out a drawer in your bathroom for him.

[wcnderlnds]

saving the world | peter maximoff

・❥・summary: when the weirdo at the coffee shop turns out to be a superhero ・❥・warnings: none! ・❥・word count: 1k ・❥・authors note: if you saw this posted earlier no you didnt (i messed it up) 😭 but first peter fic of the year lets go!!

The delicious smell of coffee invaded your senses the second you stepped foot into the small little coffee shop you worked at. The morning shift was your least favourite but at least your co-worker always seemed to arrive early enough to get the coffee brewing. It was another task you could tick off your schedule for the day. As you made your way to the back to grab your apron, you noticed the head of silver hair that you’d seen around lately. He was hunched over, flipping pages on some comic book. You guessed he just enjoyed the place — coffee shops always seemed to have the best kind of vibes.

However, as the day went on, he stayed put flipping through the comic book that never seemed to end until you noticed there was a stack of them on the table now. He hadn’t left so did he bring that many with him? Was he really spending his day sitting in a coffee shop? Whispering to your co-worker to take over the cash register, you headed over to the silver haired boy, pot of coffee in your hand.

“Want a drink or anything?” You asked, holding up the coffee in a gesture. “It is a coffee shop after all.”

“No, thanks,” he shook his head, offering you a small smile.

“Okaaaay.” You’d just turned around to go back to the counter when you heard him call out for you again. You span on your heels, turning back around to face him.

“Do you work here everyday?” He peered over the top of the current comic book he was reading, brown eyes meeting yours. “I mean, I’ve been here every day this week and I feel like you’re on every shift.”

You sighed. “Got to make money somehow, huh? What about you? Don’t you have a job? Or do you just like spending all your time at a coffee shop doing nothing?”

“I save the world and stuff, no biggie.”

“Yeah, okay.”

With a laugh, thinking this man was crazy, you headed back to the counter. It was always the cute guys that ended up being a little weird. Unfortunate, really, because he was cute. The silver hair, the deep brown eyes – he had a unique look, one that you were sure had most people swooning. That included you. Too bad he seemed like he was crazy. Saving the world? Maybe in his little delusional brain.

A couple of weeks passed and he was in every day. You’d found out through another brief conversation with him again that his name was Peter. He always seemed willing to talk, like he was surprised that someone actually wanted to talk to him. In fact, he often struck up conversation with you as you worked. It was nice, actually. Maybe he was a weirdo but he seemed sweet. The only problem was that now you were starting to think about him when you were at home. As you’d sit on the couch watching your favourite show, you’d think about whether Peter would like it or not, making a note to ask him. Or finding new songs to share with him. You’d found out he was a big music fan – he’d even brought you a mixtape one day full of all his favourite artists. It had become your favourite thing to listen to.

As you walked into work one day, your heart sank when you noticed Peter wasn’t sat in usual seat. The day progressed and he still hadn’t shown up. Anxiety gripped you, your brain automatically thinking the worst. Something must have happened to him. Why else wasn’t he here? Unless he’d found somewhere else to occupy his time. The thought alone made your heart ache. Damnit, you’d really started to fall for this weirdo who sat in your coffee shop all day.

The sound of the TV in the corner drew your attention, a news piece about the latest disaster in town. Something about how the X-Men had saved the day. You were about to turn away when you saw that familiar head of silver hair on the TV donned in one of the infamous X-Men suits. You blinked, confusion etched all over your features until it dawned on you, his words from weeks ago echoing in your mind. 

I save the world and stuff, no biggie.

He really hadn’t been lying. All this time you’d thought he was just pulling your leg but turns out he really was out saving the world. He was part of the friggin’ X-Men. How hadn't you put that together? He must be a new addition to the team or you hadn’t been paying enough attention lately.

A gust of wind blew the door open and before you could even process it, Peter was stood in front of you, his hair a windswept mess as his gloved hands pulled the goggles over his eyes onto his head. “I’m so sorry I’m late. Was busy….”

“....saving the world and stuff?” You cut him off, a smile tugging at your lips. He grinned, pointing his finger at you jokingly. 

“Didn’t believe me, did ya? I’d never tell a lie to a pretty thing like yourself.”

“Shutup.”

“Ha! Made you blush. So, hey, you think you could get me a coffee? I’m pretty spent.”

His request took you off guard for a moment. He never requested a drink so it took a moment for your brain to process it. “Uh, yeah…”

“While you’re at it, take your break and have a coffee with me. I was going to ask you on a date today but with all of that stuff happening, didn’t really go as planned so… why not just make it happen now, huh?” He folded his arms across his chest, his lips upturned in a cocky grin. He was so damn confident that you were going to join him and… he was right.

You called to your co-worker that you were taking your break, throwing your apron off and into the back. A first date at your work place wasn’t ideal but nothing about Peter seemed normal anyway. In fact, it seemed perfect.

taglist: @marchsfreakshow @ldydeath @bohnerrific69 @evansroses @mistysconcilium @decaf-mother @lacucarachapisser @strawb3rrystar @honeymoon8 @urmomsg1rlfreind

[bropunzeling]

i got the chance to write a bunch of friend fiction for a bunch of friends and am rounding them all up here! includes a couple timestamps & some new fics as well :) hope you enjoy some or all or one of them!

go all the way (matthew/leon, t, marriage bets series, timestamp post stanley cup finals)

The first thing Matthew thinks after they've won is: holy shit holy shit holy shit holyshit. The next thing is: fuck, this thing isn't heavy at all. The thing that comes in a vague, distant third, arriving at three in the morning while he’s watching his parents kiss drunkenly by the kitchen island and Sasha and Sam pass the cup between pool floaties in his backyard, is: Leon’s probably gonna want a divorce, isn't he.

relapse (matthew/leon, e, post-scf, sex pollen, open ending)

Succumbing to a lust curse once is unlucky. Twice is pushing your luck. By the third time Matthew spent a game half-hard in his jock and counting down the seconds until he could drag Leon off the ice, he managed to tell Leon they needed warding charms before dropping to his knees. Leon had choked out an agreement before he came down Matthew’s throat. Then, tonight, they beat the Oilers again—barely, but still—and Matthew walked out of the visitors’ locker room to find Leon lurking in the hallway, wide-eyed and red-faced. And, Matthew managed to note before Leon was yanking him around a corner, without the warding bracelet Matthew had found on Amazon with a 4.7 star rating and a money-back guarantee.

and a star to steer her by (matthew/sasha, t, alternate universe-space, the expanse fusion)

On the outside, the Concolar is a thirty-year-old hunk of junk sewn together with spit and spare parts. One errant chip of lunar ice or debris from a passing ship and she may just decompress or flame up or spin apart into a thousand pieces. That’s just on the outside, though. The inside is where you can see the care in each cobbled-together seam. Where you can notice how smooth she runs, when Sasha and Aaron fix her up and Bob asks her real nice. Where you can see how hard she works to get everyone home. Sasha loves her, of course. You don’t fly a ship like that and not love her.

still had hours (matthew/leon, e, girl!leon series, timestamp after meet me halfway, pwp, overstimulation)

"Coming three times is just fine?" Matthew repeats, crashing to his elbows and crushing her back into the bed. "Jesus. I bet other guys don't get this shit from their girlfriends." "So do better next time," Leon says. - [Matthew and Leon in St. Louis; in Florida.]

shiner (brady/tim, e, pwp, bruising, mild painplay, coming in pants)

"Hey," Brady says. "Let me get a look at that eye."

dick's deluxe (matty/shane pre-relationship, g, visiting seattle landmarks and eating cheap fries)

“Are you sure about this?” Shane asks. “Listen,” Tye says, gesturing at the bright orange neon sign, seemingly immune to the reek of grease that Shane’s been smelling for a block and a half. “It’s a classic, right? We gotta hit up the classics.”

[maireadralph]

Entrapdak Positivity Month prompts for 2025!

Entrapdak Positivity Month revolves around our imperfect couple's birthdays as noted on the She-Ra Wikia ...with the bonus of Valentine's day ;)

As always everything is totally optional, do as many or a little as you wish. The main thing is to have fun, fan fic or fan art, doing everything out of order - YOU DO YOU! <3

The calendar template is from here

[letstrip13]

୨୧ - picnic date

summary: 🍓🧺💐

warnings: none!

word count: 750

author's note: idea from the amazing @mattscoquette she's the absolute sweetest ever and i'm so glad we became friends !! <3 sorry for the wait btw

author's note 2: click here! and click here! i have little announcements about my account

author's note 3: also i just started a thing i'm calling 'mae's sturniolo catch up' so check that out too!! :)

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matt walks next to you, your fingers interlaced together as his thumb rubs the back of your hand gently in back and forth motions. in his other hand is the picnic basket you two packed together.

“where's the spot you talked about?” you smile and swing your arms a little, feeling like a giddy teenager for this date. “we're almost there.”

after some more steps, you both approach a clearing amongst the field of wildflowers you've been walking through. the summer sun beats down on you and you fan yourself with your free hand. after what feels like an eternity, you finally get to your spot and he places the picnic basket on the ground.

𐙚 ࣪ ˖

after setting up the picnic blanket and the food you brought, you and matt sit close and start eating the little heart-shaped sandwiches he helped you make just that morning. well, ‘help’ is a strong word. he just stood there with his arms wrapped around your waist, occasionally taking a topping to eat when he thought you weren't looking, while you did all the work.

the mini sandwiches quickly disappear from the plate one by one and all that's left are crumbs as matt pulls a bottle of champagne and two glasses from the basket.

he opens the bottle with that satisfying pop and pours some out for you then himself. “happy three months, matt,” you say as you clink your glass against his. “happy three months,” he replies with a smile before kissing you.

sure it may not be a ‘normal’ couple thing to be celebrating an anniversary this early on, but the past three months with him have been some of the best of your life. and he felt the exact same way about you. some may even bring up the three month rule; after that you can be sure if you want to continue the relationship or not, and you're more than certain you want to be serious with matt.

you slowly sip on your glasses of champagne and share some strawberries as you savour the moment of just being together right now. the summer's early evening breeze floats past you as the sun casts a golden glow on everything, getting ready to start coming down.

you're both sipping on your second glass, the last of the champagne since you only got a small bottle, when matt downs the rest of his and stands up suddenly, walking away from the clearing. “where are you going?” you call out to him.

he was walking quickly so he made it far in a short amount of time. “i’m getting you flowers,” he shouts back. you can't help but smile at the sweet gesture. he's always doing stuff like this, always paying attention to the little things, part of what makes him such a wonderful boyfriend.

a few minutes later he comes back over and stands in front of you, holding a big, over-the-top bouquet of wildflowers. “for you,” he mumbles shyly. you gratefully accept and kiss him when he sits down. “they're beautiful, thank you.” you take a flower out and put it in your hair.

seeing this stirs an idea in matt and he moves to position himself so he's kneeling behind you. “can i braid your hair?” “yeah, i'd like that. are you putting flowers in it too?” he hums a yes in response as he moves all your hair back and divides it into three uneven sections.

after a little while of him figuring things out, with the occasional small tug and mumbled apology, the braid is finished. he starts plucking random flowers from the bouquet and puts them through the braid. he takes a picture on your phone and shows it to you, looking very proud of himself - like a small child showing off a finger painting.

you look at the screen and you can't deny, it's a messy braid and it's very uneven, almost lopsided. but it's the prettiest braid you've ever seen, all because matt did it. “you did amazing, i love it.”

he sits next to you again and you rest your head on his shoulder. his fingers interlace with yours once more as you look up. the sunset paints the sky beautiful pinks and oranges. there's a few small clouds that if you stare at hard enough, could almost look like hearts.

he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, a loving gesture as you sit in comfortable silence, wishing this day would go on forever.

------------------------୨୧------------------------

𐙚 ࣪ ˖ tags: @chrissturniolosbitch @christhopersturniolo @mattscurlygirly @fratbrochrisgf @d3axplr @junnniiieee07 @rubyjaneaxx @remussbitch @sturnpooks @ribread03 @mattsfavbitchhh @blahbel668 @asherrisrandom @55sturn @joeblzy @ivysturnss @certifiedstarrr @stvrnzwrld @strnlslut @edwardscoldhands @emely9274 @strangelife122 @loveparqdise @meatballlover10 @lovevxle @conspiracy-ash

check out my masterlist for more!

join my taglist!

[out-there-tmblr]

Young zaundads wip (22)

The second section is NSFW. Sexy times where they're both still figuring it out.

***

It's surprising how quickly word of their new market spreads. The alcohol sells – the bottles of wine that the mess hall never stocks, the clear spirits that smell like paint remover to Vander – and the gas masks sell so well that Silco's keeping a waiting list for their next two orders.

Clothing is harder. It's too hard to know what size of clothing will sell, what style or colours. The uncut fabric still takes up a lot of space and requires someone able to sew.

"And we'd need somewhere to store it," Silco complains as they look through the captain's stock. He keeps running his fingers over the fabrics, fingertips grazing over anything smooth or shiny.

"Our place?"

"Somewhere I'm happy for other people to come and see the goods," Silco replies. He firmly believes the safest approach is to make sure no one knows where they sleep.

"We should ask Babette." Silco gives him a doubtful look, so Vander explains, "Her workers are probably the only ones who are going to pay just to look good. If we asked what they want, maybe we could get a selection and take it to them?"

"The captain's docked here overnight. We'll go now, check with Babette and come back."

Babette's working on the riverside this week, in a small fisherman's cottage with the tents set up behind it. They end up sitting in the front room, surrounded by scantily dressed women, waiting for Babette to be free. Vander's trying not to stare at cleavage and high cut skirts, but Silco's actually chatting away to a couple of girls in the corner, nodding and taking down notes.

He's relieved when Babette returns and leads them to a tiny kitchen out the back, with a small but serviceable table. Babette uses a small step to climb onto the chair.

"Vander," Babette says warmly, "and who's your friend?"

"Silco," Vander says, ten futures to face Silco's unimpressed expression. "I grew up on the riverside. Babette's been here as long as the bridge has."

"Longer, dear." Babette ashes her cigarette into a glass bowl. "I came here when they were building that. I remember you running wild in the streets, ten years old and trying to pretend you were grown, pouting when Callie wouldn't let you in the front door."

Honestly, Vander didn't think anyone would remember that but him.

Leaning an elbow on the table, Silco looks at him. Silco doesn't smile but there's amusement in his voice. "You tried to sneak into a brothel at ten?"

"Only to pickpocket my clients. Really, if you're not good enough to lift a wallet on the street, you shouldn't be dabbling in petty theft." Thankfully, she doesn't go into any further details. Vander has no desire to let Silco know about the time he had to run from a potential mark and hide in a barrel of chum for twenty minutes. He stank of fish for days. "Now, how can I help you boys? You didn't seem too interested in another companion."

Now, Silco smiles. "We have a business opportunity for you."

They make a list and go back to the ship. They find what they can and pay for it, and then return with their pile to Babette's back door. There are lots of flimsy fabrics, things that shine and sparkle in the candlelight. Lots of strong, bold colours.

They spread the rolls of fabric over the table and haggle good-naturedly over the price.

***

Vander's grown used to sleeping in beds that are only just wide enough for his shoulders. He's used to turning in bed very carefully, so he doesn't roll out of it by accident. The new bed that Silco buys them is double the width of the company bunks. With a thick wooden baseboard and headboard, with curves etched into the wood. It reminds Vander of the Piltover bridge, the combination of square lines and curves, a mix of practicality and beauty.

"Are you going to keep running your hands over that or are you going to get into bed?"

Vander looks over his shoulder. Despite the sharp words, Silco doesn't look annoyed. He's been sharper than usual tonight, but Vander mostly put that down to the frustration of taking the bed apart to fit it through the fissure entrance and then getting it to fit back together.

It's good and sturdy now. Vander gives the frame a little shake and it doesn't budge. "Nothing wrong with admiring a job well done."

Silco rolls his eyes and starts unbuckling his jacket. They've made the bed with a piece of cotton as a sheet and a few blankets. One pillow each, purchased from the company store. Vander wants to jump straight into it but it's probably better to strip his clothes off first. It'll be smudged with coal dust soon enough.

"You said," Silco says calmly, hanging up his clothes for tomorrow, "you wanted to fuck me when we got a bed."

Vander jerks in surprise, and then hears his shirt seam tear.

"Damn it. Remind me to fix that in the morning," he says reflexively. "And, yeah, I remember saying that. Why?"

"We now have a bed." Silco sounds fine about it but his knuckles are white as he unbuttons his pants. He slides them down and then shakes them out, hooking them on a loose nail in the wall. "So we might as well."

Vander grins to himself. It's such a practical way to approach sex – he doesn't know what else he expected from Silco.

Vander leaves his own clothes folded messily in the corner. "Have you done this before?"

"Have you?" Silco counters.

"There were a couple of girls on riverside. More fumbling than anything else." Vander shrugs. "But I haven't done… exactly this."

Silco fetches a small glass bottle from his jacket pocket. It's orange in a tall pyramid shape. "Babette suggested oil."

"You talked to Babette about this?"

Silco folds his arms across His scrawny chest. "She seemed the most reliable source of information."

Vander wants to tease him but Silco might take it personally and call the whole thing off. "Okay. Did she suggest anything else?"

"That it might be easier to relax lying on my stomach. Remember to use the oil. That the first time was bound to be uncomfortable," Silco admits, watching the bottle in his hand rather than meeting Vander's eyes, "but it would feel good by the end."

Silco presses a perfunctory kiss to Vander's mouth and pushes the bottle into his hands. Then he walks over to the bed, pulls back the blankets and then lies face down. He pulls a pillow under his cheek, and then sides his knees apart. "Are you going to stand there watching?"

"It's a very pretty sight," Vander says earnestly and Silco snorts. Vander isn't any kind of artist, he couldn't explain it if he tried. But there is something breathtaking about The warm lantern light on Silco's white skin, the shadows caused by the curve of his spine. It's something about the vulnerable backs of his knees, the long stretch of thigh, the curve of his ass. Silco likes to sleep with his hair pulled into a messy bun, but there are dark strands escaping, curling around the nape of his neck.

"You really are beautiful," Vanser says, crawling onto the bed and kneeling between Silco's legs.

Silco glares over his shoulder. "Hurry up, Vander."

The stopper is a little tricky to get free. It takes Vander an extra moment to work it out of the bottle and he has to ignore Silco's very judgemental, "Do you need assistance?"

It doesn't smell like engine oil, like diesel and machinery. It's thin and pale, and barely has a smell at all. Out of curiosity, Vander licks his finger but it doesn't taste like much either. Silco is still watching him over his shoulder, but at least he doesn't say anything.

Vander slicks up his cock first, a stroke or two to take the edge off, and then he smoothes the oil over Silco's hole, feeling it tense and relax under his fingers. He pushes two fingers inside to spread the oil, Surprised at the resistance, and Silco hisses into the pillow.

"Okay?" Vander asks, and Silco makes a muffled uh-huh noise, face still pressed into the pillow. Vander adds some more oil, hypnotised by Silco's hole stretched around his fingers. He pushes deeper and his knuckles disappear inside Silco.

Silco gasps, shoulder blades tensing as he holds tight to the pillow. Vander pushes in deeper, and he feels Silco clench around him, how hot and smooth Silco feels around his fingers.

Vander pulls his fingers out and lines up his cock. Silco is hot and smooth around him and tight. So tight. It's like fucking into a vise. "Relax, will you?"

"I'm trying," Silco snarls back at him. "Give me a minute."

Vander tries to stay still, to stop his hips from hitching forward. He presses his palms against the mattress, to either side of Silco's waist and tries to think of anything but how hot and tight Silco is around him. How he can feel Silco clench around him and then relax. How desperately he wants to bury his cock in deep.

"Silco," and it's a whine because Vander's going out of his mind. "Can I–"

"Yes," Silco says and Vander thrusts the rest of the way in. He takes a breath, tries to give Silco a moment to adjust and then he has his hands on Silco's hips, holding him steady as Vander pulls back.

He thrusts back in, fireworks skating up his spine and Silco's moan ringing in his ears. When he pulls back, Silco whines into the pillow. It's obscenely loud, the slap of skin against skin, the grunts that Vander can't stop making, the gasping whines ripped out of Silco. It drives Vander on, makes him thrust harder and hold on tighter, fingers digging into Silco's hips.

It catches him by surprise how close he is, has Vander scrambling to reach under Silco and get a hand around his cock, to jerk him off as Vander chases ecstasy with every thrust. He's desperate and clumsy but Silco is sobbing for breath, dragging in deep, wet gasps.

Then Silco freezes, clenching beneath him and around him. He comes with one last, low groan and Vander's only a few thrusts behind him. He comes deep inside Silco and then collapses onto his elbows, breathing open mouthed against Silco's back.

He can feel Silco's shuddering breaths. Can feel Silco's shoulders hitching as he forces his breathing under control again.

Vander pulls out and rolls off him, and Silco is out of bed, straight over to the flask of water and rag they use for cleaning up. He keeps his back to Vander as he washes his face first. He wipes himself down, front and back, but the whole time he's silent and keeps his back to Vander.

Silco dislikes going to sleep dirty – for any reason – but he usually has no modesty when washing and spends the time complaining that they don't have hot water.

"You okay?" Vander asks, sitting up. He stays in bed because he knows Silco doesn't react well to being cornered.

"Fine," Silco says quietly, facing the wall. He wipes down his chest again, and then fiddles with the rag, wringing it out and then laying it over the flask. "It's fine."

Silco turns the lantern down to a low glow and then comes back to bed.

Vander frowns, worried he might have got carried away. He's usually careful around people, has always had to be, but he forget around Silco. Silco would laugh at him for holding himself back and it's easy to forget the reasons Vander should. "You'd tell me if I hurt you, right?"

"It's not that," Silco says quickly, which proves it is something.

"Did you not like it?" That doesn't feel true, not with the noises Silco was making, but he's to ask.

"It's not–" Silco gives a frustrated sigh. "It was fine. It was good, it just…"

Vander rolls to his side, curves a arm around Silco's waist. He can make out Silco's familiar profile in the almost dark. "Tell me."

"I don't like the way it made me feel. Flayed open. Overwhelmed." In the dark, Silco takes a deep breath. "I don't want to do that again."

"Okay."

"Don't placate me! This was something that you wanted and now I'm saying no. You should at least be honest with me if–"

Shutting Silco up with a kiss feels like a good solution, especially when he kisses back. "I want you. However I get to have you."

"You mean, you like me on my knees sucking you off," Silco clarifies, confident enough to tease.

"I really do."

***

[thehypnone]

Symbol on the Surface Chapter 19

WC: 1,9k

Relationship: SwissAlps

Tags: Transmasc Swiss, Fluff, Fluff, and even more Fluff, Tooth Rotting Levels of Fluff, Baby Fever Warning :3

“We’re not in the Pit. They won’t have to grow up scared and alone in survival mode, but instead here, with us. Surrounded by love.”

Notes: Tysm to @jimothybarnes for being the best beta ever!

Chapter 1 here or on AO3.

Read chapter 19 under the cut or on AO3.

Swiss wakes up to movement on his chest.

It seems like it’s the middle of the night; he grumbles and opens his eyes to look down blearily and he nearly jumps out of his own skin.

Right. He’s given birth yesterday—the pain between his legs only confirms the conclusion, as if three kits cuddled up together right on top of him aren’t enough proof.

“Woah,” Swiss mutters to himself in complete disbelief.

Beside him, Mountain is asleep and so are two of their kits. The third one is awake and the multi ghoul suddenly realises that she’s staring at him with her bright gold eyes—just like his own. He didn’t even know kits opened their eyes right away upon birth.

“Hello there,” he rumbles quietly with a grin as he extends a finger towards the kit to rub her tummy. She lets out a little content noise at that, making Swiss giggle. “You’re so tiny, aren’t you?”

The multi ghoul, of course, doesn’t get a response, but he’s more than pleased anyway. He’s been worried about the kit since he’s found out one of them is significantly smaller than the rest, but now—not even twenty four hours since she’s been born—the tiny ghoulette is proving to make up for size with character.

She tries to grab onto Swiss’ finger, but it appears to be too big for only one of her hands, so she struggles some before using both to wrap around it. Swiss purrs gently as she settles and they both fall back asleep after a moment.

The next thing he knows it’s the morning and Mountain’s sitting up by his side staring at the kits.

“Nghnghn–ow,” Swiss groans when he comes to again.

“You okay?” the earth ghoul asks instinctively, but then catches himself. “Dumb question.”

“Just a little,” his mate giggles sleepily, “I’m good but three demons crawled out of my pussy yesterday, so.”

“They’re such adorable demons, though!” Mountain coos. “You can’t hold that against them.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Swiss sighs with a smile, moving to rub the biggest kit’s fluffy back with two fingers. He twitches a little at that, making his dads’ smiles grow.

Now with the kits clean and in the light, Swiss and Mountain can finally take a proper look at their creations. They’re all fuzzy with fur that is going to go away in the next couple weeks as their bodies adapt to the temperature outside of Swiss’ womb, and because of that not many of their features can be seen just yet.

The things that do stand out, and are making the parents completely enamored, are the kits’ eyes, horns and tails. All the horns are only tiny nubs on the kits’ heads and the tails barely the length of Mountain’s pinky finger—absolutely adorable.

The eyes, though?

Three pairs of beautiful glowing eyes. The biggest kit’s eyes are the exact bright shade of green as Mountain’s, the tiny girl’s are gold like Swiss’—with small purple swirls of her quintessence already showing—and the middle one’s are a gorgeous shade of royal blue.

“I love them so much,” Mountain murmurs with a smile that’s been on his face for quite a while now. They’re all resting; the earth ghoul staring at his children in adoration as they sleep on Swiss’ chest.

“They’re not feeding now,” he notes, looking between the kits and his mate, “I think you should hold them, Omega said skin-to-skin and scenting with both of us is important. Besides, they’re as much your kits as mine.”

“I didn’t carry them inside me for seven months,” Mountain chuckles, but gives it up upon Swiss rolling his eyes. “Let’s see if they even like me.”

Somehow Swiss rolls his eyes even harder.

The earth ghoul expects his mate to pick the babies up and hand them over, but he makes no move to do so, so Mountain takes it as his cue. He’s as gentle as possible when he grabs the first kit and brings her against his own bare chest, then the others. Swiss turns on his side and rests his head on the earth ghoul’s shoulder to still be as close as possible to them.

The babies seem to be hardwired to come close together wherever they are—even asleep. It’s sickeningly adorable; watching three sleeping kits mewl quietly and wiggle in close to each other.

“I can–” Mountain giggles in amazement and disbelief, “I can feel their tiny heartbeats.”

He could cry; and he just might. Ever since the incident with Aeon he’s been terrified of himself, of his strength and size, of hurting more of his pack, his mate, his kits. Now, these tiny creatures are sleeping on his chest safe, right next to a heart that’s basically beating for them.

He sniffles, “They’re so small, how–how the hell did we manage to make them? How can something so small even…exist?” 

Swiss only smiles and nods. He understands what Mountain’s feeling.

The two of them just enjoy watching their kits sleep on Mountain for a while, beaming when one by one their children wake up. At first they’re adorably sleepy, mewling and squeaking, but then they start to move and…sniff around.

 “Why are they so sniffy?” Mountain asks, as if Swiss knows more about ghoul kits than he does.

“I think that’s how they’re scenting,” the multi ghoul says, but it’s more a question than a statement.

“No, I think they’d be–”

“Ah.”

“Rubbing against our necks,” Mountain finishes as the kits are now doing exactly that.

“Yup,” Swiss giggles as the middle kit wriggles up against his very chin. She seems to be appreciating the scratch of his stubble on the top of her head. “It tickles!”

“Try purring,” the earth ghoul suggests as he kicks up a purr on his own, his mate following. The kits keep on rubbing against both their necks, where the scent glands are, but then– “Are they…?” 

“Yes!” Swiss exclaims—but not too loudly—as the kits join in with their own tiny purrs; first purrs of their lives. “I’m gonna cry, this is too cute.”

After a moment, something crosses Mountain’s mind. “I just realized…” 

“Hm?”

“We’re not in the Pit. They won’t have to grow up scared and alone in survival mode,” he explains, “but instead here, with us and the pack. Surrounded by love.”

The multi ghoul’s jaw drops a little, and if either of them tears up at that thought—it’s their business.

The next day, Swiss is still not very mobile, of course. He’s in pain and bleeding every time he stands, so it’s not comfortable in the slightest, but thankfully, he doesn’t have to get up much.

Mountain’s the one to do the kits’ nappies—not only because he’s letting Swiss rest, but also because he’s significantly better at that task. He doesn’t mind, although navigating around the tiny ghoul’s wriggly tails is not making it especially easy.

The third day of the kits’ life, Swiss and Mountain decide to attempt dressing them in some of the clothes they’ve gotten for them; both themselves and from their pack. It’s not easy to choose their first ever outfit, but the parents agree on the bunny onesies of Cumulus’ making.

Dressing the biggest kit is easy enough, he’s quite calm. The middle one goes even smoother, it’s as if she even helps. The smallest one, though?

She is fiercely refusing to get dressed for a while and Mountain is struggling. He wins that battle at the end simply because the kit gets tired. And because the onesie is a little too big for her.

Once dressed, Swiss and Mountain coo over them for a good five minutes before they return to the nest. Both dads are on their sides with the kits between them; simply watching them exist.

“I think we should introduce them to the pack today,” the multi ghoul says quietly at some point.

“Yeah?” Mountain raises an eyebrow. “Do you feel ready for that? We can wait, there’s no rush.”

“Yeah, just…just a quick introduction today, I think.”

“Alright. Yeah, that sounds good.”

With the decision made, Mountain texts the group chat and invites everyone for the little meating in half an hour. Everyone is excited and so are Swiss and Mountain, but they do have to psych themselves up for that.

The pack slowly fills the room and quiet gasps, cooing, and squeals of joy sound out as soon as everyone’s eyes land on the babies. Mountain and Swiss smile proudly—even though both their instincts are quite tuned up at everyone getting in their space. They were invited and it’s their family, though, so they’re not actually worried by any means.

“This is the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen!” Aurora exclaims, clapping her hands excitedly.

“Thank you, thank you,” Swiss chuckles with pride.

Mountain grins next to him. “We’ve made them ourselves.”

“Can we finally learn the names?” Aeon asks as he cocks his head to the side like a curious puppy. The earth ghoul smirks.

“This tiny thing,” he starts as he lifts up the smallest of their kits, “is Arya.”

“This princess is Aelin,” Swiss nods towards the kit currently curled up in his arms and asleep.

“And this little guy’s name,” Mountain presents the last one—his mini-me, “is Amon.”

“That’s so beautiful!” Aurora squeals.

“You guys really went all in with the meanings, letters, elements, and everything?” Cirrus laughs, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Could you…eh, explain? I'm not too familiar with ghoulish,” Copia asks; a little awkwardly.

“Aelin is a water ghoulette and the word means lake in ghoulish.” Swiss starts explaining indeed. “Amon is earth and it means hill, so basically–”

“Little mountain!” Rain supplies.

“Oh my god, are you kidding me, that’s so awfully cute. He really is a little you!” Cumulus cheers, turning to Mountain holding Amon.

“What about that wriggly little creature?” Dewdrop points to Arya.

“Arya is a character from Game of Thrones, a very feisty one, just like this little girl. She’s fire and quintessence,” it’s the earth ghoul’s turn to explain. “The word arya also means day and I just thought it fits the elements.”

“How did you settle on who names two of them and who does one?” Aeon asks.

“Rock paper scissors,” he shrugs, making everyone chuckle.

“We’re so proud of you guys,” Sunshine coos, nearly heart-eyed.

“Thank you,” Swiss and Mountain say in unison, with soft smiles on their faces. They are quite proud of themselves, too.

“Alright everyone, we should go now,” Aether decides soon enough, taking the burden of having to kick them out off of the two dads.

“Let me know if you figure out how you two managed to make them,” Rain teases as they filter out, winking at Mountain, “Might wanna put one or two in Dew.”

The fire ghoul chokes on his spit as everyone else bursts out laughing. The kits do not mind in the slightest; they’re completely unbothered.

Yes, they are going to fit right into this crazy pack.

Taglist: @arkeusruin @skele-bunny @everybodyshusband @ratsummer @jazz-bazz @mac-and-thefox @karmicbias @wine-irytatus @ghoultrifle (if anyone from here wants to be removed lmk, and also if anyone else wants to be added)