#just kidding my love for him goes the hardest

[luveline]

hotch x reader with new baby girl, honestly i have no ideas just anything with girl!dad aaron lovey fluff is all i want, he’s just so lovely ily jadey 💕

thank you for requesting! fem, 1.4k

Hotch is so hungry he genuinely wonders if it is acceptable to collapse and beg you to make him a sandwich. He probably would if Jane hadn’t tired you out so fiercely that morning; learning to crawl is hard on both the baby and the mom. 

It’s not his turn to make dinner, but he is, because he doesn’t really care who’s turn it is. He has the tortellini on a low heat, the veggies toasting to a golden brown in the oven. 

He wonders if having a baby isn’t what you thought it would be. It’s certainly not how Hotch imagined it, because Jane is gorgeous and he couldn’t be more in love with her, but she’s also very hard work. Hard work you often perform alone. You don’t seem upset, only tired, and so making dinner is his pleasure. It’s as he’s finishing up that he wonders if he should’ve offered to put Jane down instead. 

He’s trying so, so hard to be the best father and husband that he can be. He might always find it difficult (but it's an effort he’s always willing to make). 

“Dad?” Jack asks. 

“Yeah?” 

“Dinner almost done?” 

Hotch wraps an arm around Jack’s front despite his wriggling. “Almost,” he says into Jack’s hair, “did you wash your hands?” 

“I always wash my hands. Did you wash yours?” 

Hotch laughs. Steals that extra second with his arms around Jack before he pulls away. “Of course I did. I’m gonna go make sure everything’s okay in babyland, okay? And then we’ll fill in your homework diary.” 

Jack nods and goes back to colouring. In babyland, the living room, outfitted with toys and swings and sleepers, you and Jane are slouched on the floor. You’re leaning against the front of the couch with Jane in your lap while she looks up at you. At eight months old she’s more than fond of a cuddle. Her eyes are wide with love and awe alike as you rub the bridge of her nose with your pinky finger, the closer you get to her eyes, the more they squint closed. You repeat the motion over and over again. “You’re feeling sleepy,” you whisper in a funny tone, “you want to nap badly. You’re gonna sleep for a long couple of hours so mommy can have a bath.” 

“Mom can have a bath,” Hotch says. 

You don’t startle, but your surprise is evident in the way your hand slides up her back. “I’m kidding around.” 

“No, it’s okay. You go take a bath, I can have her.” 

“She might not like that.” 

Jane has clingy syndrome. “Does it matter?” he asks sincerely. If she cries, she cries, and he will try his hardest to comfort her. 

You smile slowly, and sweetly. “Okay, I’ll be quick. I don’t want to miss dinner.” 

“Dinner’s ready when you are.” 

Hotch crouches down to begin the transfer. “Hello, little love,” he murmurs, sliding his fingertips carefully behind her back. She’s warm, her onesie soft. “Can dad have a kiss?” 

Jane is a quiet baby. It’s normal that she might not start speaking for a few more months, but beside the occasional ‘bababa’ or giggly laugh, she doesn’t have much to say —not unlike her father. Her communication lays instead in affection. Her emotional intelligence is in the highest percentile, certainly. 

Not that Hotch is prone to bragging. “There’s my smarty,” he hums, pulling her gently into his arms before he stands. She looks at him with equal parts curiosity and annoyance. 

He can guess what she’s thinking. Why is dad picking me up? 

She looks for you with a wobbly lip. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, can’t dad have some time with you? You’ve favoured your mommy all day.” Hotch brings his free hand to her cheek to stroke it. She loves it, immediately tipping her face into his hand, tickled and huffing as he leans down to kiss her nose. “Please, can I have a kiss?” 

He kisses her cheek. She gives a spitty one back. 

You slink away while she’s distracted and he carries Jane to the kitchen, turning the oven off with one hand, and pushing a chair out with his foot to sit. Jack’s eyes brighten with her arrival, colouring pencils pushed aside. “Hi, Janie.” 

Jack waves at her. She waves back. 

He shifts Jane further into his arms to press lazy kisses over her ear. “My baby,” he murmurs, nearly inaudible against the hum of the washing machine in the utility room and the gentle patter of rain on the windows. “She’s my smart girl. Just like her brother.” He strokes her head back to see her and her baby-lashes. “Hm? You’re my smart girl, aren’t you?” 

She tucks herself into the curve of his neck.

“She knows how to wave already,” Jack says, “when will she be able to say my name?” 

“Pretty soon, bud. Babies tend to learn things in little jumps. She’s making sounds, the babbling she does? That’s a stepping stone. Next she’ll say mama, and then mom, and then we can teach her all sorts of words.” 

“Like crawling to walking.” 

Hotch smiles as Jane leans back against his hand. “Exactly. Jane isn’t the only smarty-pants, huh?” 

Jack smiles in return. “You look happy.” 

“I am happy. So happy, because I’m so lucky to be your dad.” 

“Is it weird?” 

“What?” 

Jack shrugs. “Being a dad.” 

“No, it’s never weird. Sometimes weird stuff happens. Like when we all panicked thinking we couldn’t fine Jane just to realise I was holding her,” —Jack giggles ferociously at the memory— “and, you know, sometimes things get pretty gross.” 

“Like spit up.” 

“Exactly. But being your dad isn’t weird. It feels like the most natural thing in the world. I’m lucky…” He kisses Jane again indulgently. “To have ended up with another child as perfect as the first.” 

“Dad,” Jack says, squirming and pleased at once. 

“What?” Hotch laughs. He has spent a long time proving to Jack that he’s not as serious as he was, a long time trying to keep his promise, and he can see now that it worked. Jack shakes his head and goes back to his colouring as a smile apples his cheeks, not for a moment surprised that his dad loves him without hesitation. 

Hotch beams to himself, absolutely full to the top with love as he lifts Jane up just enough to make her smile too. “Oh, nummy!” he says, taking a big pretend bite of her belly. 

You take a long, long time in the bath. He ends up serving Jack’s plate when his son hints that he’s hungry, and giving Jane another couple of ounces of milk. She grows sleepy on his shoulder. With some soft taps to her spine and a handful of loving shushes, she falls asleep there. 

Sentimental, he thinks, Aw, my girl, and begins to rub her little foot through her onesie. 

You find him standing in the kitchen, hip to the counter. He’s not doing anything besides holding Jane, Jack’s plate abandoned at the table and his cartoons playing from the living room. Hotch should’ve put Jane down for a nap in the bassinet in the living room, freeing his hands to tackle the mess of dishes he’s made preparing dinner, but he honestly hadn’t thought about moving. He’d been perfectly content to hold her and rub her wiggling foot. 

“Sorry I took so long,” you whisper. 

“No, no, you take as long as you need. You look better.” 

You ease between Hotch and the counter, situating yourself in a snug corner to see Jane’s face more clearly. You look at her with love, and then you lean up to kiss his cheek. “I knew you’d get her to nap. You’re amazing.” 

“She likes all the same stuff as you and Jack,” Hotch whispers with a soft laugh.

You pause for a second. Careful, you bring your hand to his cheek, a gentle fist turned with knuckles inward as you stroke his cheek with your index finger. “Can I take a photo of you?” 

“What for?” he asks. 

“I wanna remember it. And it’ll be nice one day to show Jane.” 

“To show her what?” 

“You, Aaron. Show her how much you love her.” You drop your hand to his shoulder for a squeeze. “You’ve gotten even kinder since she was born. Did you notice?” 

It seems you’re feeling sentimental as well tonight. Your long bath has washed away the stress of a longer day. 

“Okay,” he says, too in love with your smile to disagree, “but just one.” 

[minkkumaz]

blonde yungyu theme goes harder than my love for him

[katierosefun]

modern family is all fun and games until you get to the scenes where you burst into tears because the once-vaguely homophobic dad now refers to his son's husband as family, and also the academically gifted daughter realizes that her dorky, clumsy dad was always really proud of her and just never surprised because he just assumed she could do anything, and also the eldest daughter who eloped comes crawling back to her parents' room and whispers that she still wants her parents to be present for her wedding, and also the anxious queer lawyer character admits that he was terrified that his husband would just leave him alone with their baby daughter, and also that the once-vaguely grouchy dad looks at his stepson and tells him that what makes a family is who sticks around, not who you're blood-related to and anyways what was i saying

[odinsblog]

“I first started noticing the journalists dying on Instagram. I'm a journalist, I'm Arab, and I've reported on war. A big part of my community is other Arab journalists who do the same thing.

And when someone dies, news travels fast. Recently, I pulled up the list that the Committee to Protect Journalists has been keeping and looked at it for the first time. There are 95 journalists and media workers on it as of today.

Almost everyone on it is Palestinian. Scrolling through, I started to get angry. These were the people carrying the burden of documenting this whole war.

Israel is not allowing foreign journalists into Gaza, except on rare occasions with military escorts. These people's names are being buried in a giant list that keeps growing. What I want to do is lift some of them off the list for a moment and give you a glimpse of who they were and the work they made.

I'll start with Sadi Mansour. Sadi was the director of Al-Quds News Network, and he posted a 22-second video on November 18. That was a report from the war, but it also gave me a picture into his marriage.

Sadi's wearing his press vest and looks exhausted. He's explaining that cell service and the Internet keep getting cut off, and it's often impossible to text or call anyone, including his wife. So they've resorted to using handwritten letters to communicate while he's out reporting, sending them back and forth with neighbors or colleagues.

He ends the video with a picture of one of these letters from his wife. In it, she writes,

‘Me and the kids stayed up waiting for you until the morning, and you didn't come home. We were really sad.

I kept telling the kids, Look, he's coming. But you didn't show up. May God forgive you.

Come home tomorrow and eat with us. Do you want me to make you kebab or maybe kapse? Bring your friends with you, it's okay.

And give Azeez the battery to charge. What do you think about me sending you handwritten letters with messenger pigeons from now on? Ha ha ha.

I'm just kidding. I want to curse at you, but we're living in a war. Too bad.

Okay, I love you. Bye.’

A few hours after he shared that letter, Sadie and his co-worker Hassouna Saleem were at Sadie's home, when they were killed by an Israeli air strike that hit his house.

His wife and kids, who weren't there, survived.

Gaza is tiny, and the journalist community is really close. Reading the list, you can see all the connections between people. Like with Brahim Lafi.

Brahim was a photojournalist, one of the first journalists to die. He was killed while reporting on October 7. He was just 21, still new to journalism.

On his Instagram, you can see that in his posts just a few years ago, he was still practicing his photography, taking pictures of coffee cups and flowers. Then he started doing beautiful portraits and action shots. You can really feel him starting to become a journalist.

Clicking around on Instagram, I found a tribute post about Brahim from his co-worker Rushdie Sarraj. In this photo, Brahim staring intently at the back of a camera, his face lit up by the light from the viewfinder. He looks so young.

The caption reads, My assistant is gone. Brahim is gone. Rushdie himself was a beloved journalist and filmmaker.

And I know that because he's also on the list. He was killed just two weeks after Brahim. I read the tribute post to him too.

I saw this over and over again. Journalists posting tributes, who were then killed themselves soon after. And a tribute goes up for them.

And then the pattern continues.

Thank you.

Something else I saw over and over on the list, journalists later in the war who had become aware that they could be making their last reports. They'd say it at the beginning of their videos. And those were the hardest to watch, especially when it was true.

One video like that was posted by Ayat Hadduro. Ayat was a freelance journalist and video blogger. Her videos before the war covered a wide range from what I can tell, interviews about women in politics.

She even appeared in a commercial for ketchup-flavored chips. She clearly liked being in front of the camera. Once the war started, Ayat's pivoted to covering bombings and food shortages.

On November 20, she posted a video report from her home. You can hear the airstrikes hitting very close to where she is. It's scary.

‘This is likely my last video. Today, the occupation forces dropped phosphorus bombs on Beit Lahya area and frightening sound bombs. They dropped letters from the sky, ordering everyone to evacuate.

Everyone ran into the streets in the craziest way. No one knows where to go.

But everyone else has evacuated. They don't know where they're going. The situation is so scary.

What's happening is so tough, and may God have mercy on us.’

She was killed later that day.

Targeting journalists, in case you didn't know, is a war crime. So far, the Committee to Protect Journalists has found that three of the journalists on the list were explicitly targeted by the IDF, the Israeli military. Investigations by the Washington Post and Reuters, Human Rights Watch and the United Nations have also raised serious questions in these three cases.

And the Committee to Protect Journalists is investigating 10 other killings. When we reached out to the IDF for comments, they said, quote, the IDF has never, and will never, deliberately target journalists. That's the answer they always give in these situations.

Meanwhile, dozens of seasoned reporters have fled Gaza. Journalists who worked for Al Jazeera, the BBC, the New York Times, the Washington Post, Reuters, Agence France-Presse. So many media offices were demolished in Israeli airstrikes that the Committee to Protect Journalists stopped counting.

It's not just individual lives that have been destroyed. It's an entire infrastructure.

Thank you.

The name on the list that was hardest for me to look at was Issam Abdullah, because I'd crossed paths with him once. Issam was a Lebanese journalist, a video journalist for Reuters for many, many years. He had just won an award for coverage of Ukraine.

I'm Lebanese and still report there sometimes, and I'd worked with Issam a couple of summers ago. He helped me film a sort of random story in Beirut. I was interviewing this entrepreneur who had started a sperm freezing company after an accident where he spilled a tray of hot coffee on his private area, burning himself.

I know, ridiculous. It was a really silly shoot. Right after we said cut and started to rap, Issam started this whole bit about being in his late 30s, reconsidering his own sperm quality and everything he now realized he was doing to hurt it, and no one could stop laughing.

It was a really good day that felt good to remember and to remember him that way. Issam was killed by the IDF on October 13. His death was one of the three that the Committee to Protect Journalists has identified as a targeted killing.

He was fired upon by an Israeli tank while standing in an empty field on the Lebanon-Israel border with a small group of other journalists. Everyone was wearing press vests with cameras out. They were covering the Hezbollah part of this war.

A few other journalists were injured in the attack, which was captured on video. The IDF says they were responding to firing from Hezbollah, not targeting the journalists. But multiple investigations, including by Reuters, the United Nations, Amnesty International and the AFP, found no evidence of any firing from the location of the journalists before the IDF shot at them.

The journalists in the group and video footage confirmed that there was no military activity near them. I had only met Issam once, barely knew him, but it affected me so much when he died. I know that he understood the risks of his job, but somehow it still felt so random and unfair that he would be struck down like that, following the rules, wearing his press vest and helmet, and a pack of reporters on a sunny day in an open field.

I find myself thinking about him all the time. His last Instagram post was commemorating another journalist, this iconic reporter Shereen Abou Aql who had been killed by the IDF. When I first saw that post in October, I thought how ironic because a week later, Isam also was killed by the IDF.

But then, after spending time reading the list, I realized how common this had become. I still haven't finished going through the list and looking up the people on it. I keep finding things that stick with me, like the funny way this one radio host would cut off a caller who was rambling on for too long.

A tweet from reporter Al-Abdallah that quoted Sylvia Plath. It read, What ceremony of wars can patch the havoc? I'm going to keep going down the list, even though this story is over now.

Just for myself. My own way of bearing witness. Which is, in the end, all that these journalists were trying to do.”

—DANA BALLOUT, The 95. Dana sifts through a very long list—the list of journalists killed in the Israel-Hamas war, and comes back with five small fragments of the lives of the people on it. Dana is a Lebanese-American, Emmy-nominated documentary producer.

[starlostseungmin]

husband!jeongin

✰ notes: this is 2 days late but jeongin’s here!! thank you so much to that jeongin biased anon who read my husband minho headcanon and for giving me this idea!! i appreciate you so much <33 not proofread. DO NOT FORGET TO REBLOG, COMMENT AND LEAVE TAGS! thank you <33

seungmin , chan , lee know（ jeongin ）han , changbin , felix , hyunjin.

ꔛ

Husband Jeongin who tripped when he got down on one knee just to propose. You laughed at him but said yes at the end. He got embarrassed so you gave him the sweetest kiss on the lips which he gladly returned passionately.

Husband Jeongin whose Hyungs got emotional the moment he’s officially married. Chan and Hyunjin cried the most. 

Husband Jeongin who got a full sponsor from Chan throughout your wedding to your honeymoon because he was generous and loves to spoil Jeongin. You too. 

Husband Jeongin who is clumsy and gives you secondhand embarrassment but the amount of love still remains. He tripped at the bowling alley after rolling the ball on your date. Not once but twice. 

Husband Jeongin whose idea of dates consists of watching movies at the cinema, shopping, eating at your favorite restaurants, and spontaneous travels. 

Husband Jeongin who scams you with his cuteness just to make you buy him some stuff, especially his type of shoes and he feels like he’s on top of the world when you do. He goes for the weird ones with style. 

Husband Jeongin who buys you your favorite albums even though he jokes around that you’re cheating on him with another group rather than his own. 

Husband Jeongin who loves shopping and stealing kisses inside the fitting room cubicles while you are changing. You weren’t used to it as it leaves a blush on your cheeks. 

Husband Jeongin who loves taking selfies with you. In this marriage, you are the photographer and he’s the model but at the same time, he loves taking pictures of you, especially candid ones. 

Husband Jeongin who loves food, and rates them with you based on their tastes. 

Husband Jeongin who takes you out on a night stroll while eating ice cream you two bought from the convenience store nearby. 

Husband Jeongin who is the reason for your cuteness aggression that makes you want to smooch and cuddle him all day. He can’t resist any physical touch from you anyway. 

Husband Jeongin who can’t cook to save his life so you taught him how to yet still fails. You both just laugh it off. 

Husband Jeongin who respects your beliefs and never judges them. 

Husband Jeongin whose love languages are gift-giving, quality time, and physical touch. 

Husband Jeongin who lets you sleep on his shoulder, on his lap, or just use his body as your pillow. He doesn’t mind and doesn’t say anything but initiates cuddles to make you more comfortable. 

Husband Jeongin who gets angry when someone upsets you and is the type of person to do something back so no one could touch you again. 

Husband Jeongin who can’t keep up for a long time being not okay with you after an argument and proceeds to apologizeーhugging you tenderly as he whispers that he loves you. 

Husband Jeongin who doesn’t want to be away from you for a long time and misses you the most when he goes abroad to work. He’ll call you when he gets to the airport or when he’s not busy. 

Husband Jeongin who loves kids but doesn’t pressure you to have one with him.

Husband Jeongin who tries his hardest in this relationship to give you the love you deserve but you insist that he doesn’t need to put in a lot of effort because he is already enough and the heartwarming things he does with you are considered as reassurance. 

Husband Jeongin who is a baby and still a baby for you even if he insists that he’s already a grown-up. His Hyungs would argue otherwise. 

Husband Jeongin who has a precious smile and adorable laugh. He has a lot of cute sides and whines like a kid in a good and acceptable manner. 

Husband Jeongin who is always true about his feelings for you and never lies. 

Husband Jeongin whom you love the most in the world and swore you’ll protect him at any cost. 

Husband Jeongin who promised to love you forever and never hurt you which you’d do too. 

✰ taglist: @notastraykid , @ameliesaysshoo , @l3visbby , @reignessance , @lix-ables , @skzfelixlove , @rachabreathing , @hyunverse , @minluvly , @sleepyleeji , @starseungs , @midsoulz , @oddracha , @armystay89

©️ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐌𝐈𝐍 , 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒.

[miley1442111]

hi! can you do something with aaron and like a younger next-door neighbour and they're kinda secretly and newly dating and something with Jack goes wrong and reader helps fix it so aaron is just so in love and asks if he can tell jack and it's just super fluffy and cute!

Anyway, thank you so much, i love your writing!!!!

i love this idea so much!

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telling him- a.hotchner

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a/n: i got nothin.

summary: jack can't go to school, so you swoop in and become aaron's hero, he asks two pretty important questions.

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader

warnings: none

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Aaron didn’t know what to do with himself. He’d left the BAU. Jack was 11. He had a pre-teen who he’d just moved across the country and changed his entire life. 

What the fuck were they doing in San Francisco?

Aaron was a lecturer now, on law in Stanford. Jack attended a new school, much to his dismay. 

And then there was you. The gorgeous woman who lived next door to them. You were a lecturer as well, nuclear physics but you were often mistaken for a student, considering you were only 25. You’d been very kind to him since he started work there, and even had had them over for dinner a couple of times. 

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

“I don’t wanna go!” Jack exclaimed, arms crossed. 

“Jack, I have work in 45 minutes, my students are taking the bar exam, and you know your babysitter is out of town, you have to go to school,” he sighed, feeling helpless. Doing this alone had been the hardest part. He had to leave the family he had, the entire team, and his life behind.

“But they’re mean!” he sobbed into his dad’s chest. “They make fun of me for not having a mom…” 

Aaron’s heart broke. He didn’t want to send his kid into school if he was being bullied, and he made a mental note to speak to his teachers. 

“Hey guys,” your kind voice filled the house from downstairs. Aaron had given you a key just a few weeks ago. “Ready to go?” 

Aaron looked at the time on his watch, it was exactly when you all carpooled to school, then work. 

“Up here!” Jack shouted down to you as he cried into his dad’s shoulder, ruining his suit. Aaron could hear your footsteps up the stairs and he braced himself for any judgy looks. 

Judgy looks which never came.

“Poor Jack,” you sighed, rubbing his head. “What’s going on?”

“The kids at school laugh at me because I don't have a mommy anymore,” he cried, getting up and giving you a hug. You sent Aaron an empathetic look and hugged Jack back. 

“That is awful Jack, how about this. You come to work with me and your dad, my lectures don’t start ‘till later so you can hang out with me and I know someone who works at your school, so if you tell me your teacher’s name I can get the lesson plan for today and we can work through it in my office, does that sound good?” 

Jack nodded his head furiously and hugged you harder, his tears subsiding. 

Aaron’s heart could’ve exploded. You were so kind. You two had only been on a few dates in recent weeks, you hadn’t told Jack yet, but you were so caring. 

He mouthed a ‘thank you’ in your direction and you shrugged. ‘It’s the least I can do’. 

Aaron ran into his room, pulling on a new suit jacket to replace the one soiled by Jack’s tears, grabbed his briefcase, and followed you out to the car. You’d called your friend at his school and gotten the information so Jack had his school books in his bag. You drove them to the Stanford campus, explained to your supervisor who told you it was alright, and departed for the day, Jack’s hand in yours. Aaron walked over to his building, and you stayed in yours, sending him updates throughout the day. You made the majority of your lectures for the day either study lectures, or just cancelled lectures so you could keep a close eye on Jack. You even allowed three of your most responsible students to teach Jack some maths. 

At the end of the day, Jack fell asleep on the couch in your office while you were busy cleaning up your lecture hall. 

“Hi honey,” Aaron smiled from the door. 

“Hi love,” you smiled back. “How was your day? Did anyone faint in the exam hall?”

He crossed over to you in three quick strides and pulled you into his arms, kissing you deeply. You were so kind, you’d taken care of Jack all day for him, you’d made him feel less alone in the most isolating time of his life, and you were his. Well, maybe, he hadn’t exactly asked yet. “No one fainted, but a few did vomit before coming in.”

“Poor them,” you sighed. “Jack was fine all day, no issues.”

“Have I told you how wonderful you are?” He smiled and you chuckled. 

“A few times, sure,” you teased. “But I don’t mind hearing it again.”

Aaron smiled and moved one of his hands to cup your cheek. “You’re wonderful.”

You smiled back at him, pecking his cheek. “Well, good thing we have a date on Friday.”

“I want to tell Jack,” He admitted. “About us.”

You nodded. “You’re sure? It’s only been a couple of weeks.”

“I’m sure. He loves you anyways, what’s the worst that can happen?” He asked, pressing kisses to your neck as he spoke. 

“Umm- He could hate both of us because he feels like we’re replacing your and Haley’s relationship, he could start to resent you if we break up, he could hate me, the list goes on-”

“Don’t let it,” he smiled. “I have spent my whole life making calculated and deliberate decisions, even if I knew those choices wouldn’t make me happy. I want to be happy now, with you and Jack,” he admitted. In recent months you’d taught him the value of being slightly selfish, despite his altruistic tendencies. 

“Alright, whatever you say love,” you smiled and kissed him again, then went back to your desk to gather your things. 

“I also want to ask you something,” he stated and when you turned around you saw a bouquet of your favourite flowers in his hands. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

You chuckled softly and smiled, the sweetness of the moment warming your heart. “Yes, Aaron, I will be your girlfriend.”

He grinned when you accepted and his hands wrapped around your waist as he pressed your lips against his  in celebration. 

He was happy, truly happy. For the first time in a long time. 

And it was all thanks to you.

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criminal minds masterlist :)

navigation for my blog :) (criminal minds, obx, the bear, marvel, top gun, the hunger games, challengers :)

[penkura]

No One Better

Note: Ahh I didn't know how to go about this, but here it is! It's another in the OP Men as Dads series, but this one is ONLY Zoro and his son. I just had this idea after seeing this OC template on Pinterest, and I had to do it, I couldn't not. I have thoughts floating around for other characters in this same vein of calming down their children, and I will post them separately like this most likely! For now, please enjoy Zoro being a wonderful, soft dad to his little boy. 🥹 I want to have his babies so bad, where is my irl Zoro omg

Your son may be Zoro’s child too, but he’s a big crybaby when either of you are missing from his sight. He could be happily sitting in your lap or on Zoro’s chest, but when Keitaro notices one of you isn’t around, he immediately pouts and begins to cry. At first it’s legitimate tears, until he learns that he can get you with crocodile tears because that’s your baby boy, of course you’re going to run to him when he cries! You figured it out quickly when he instantly started to smile and coo at you the first time he cried crocodile tears to get your attention, Zoro didn’t believe you for a few weeks until your ten-month-old did it to him too. He just loves you and Zoro so much, he wants you both around him all the time.

Zoro is able to calm him down very easily, just by talking to Keitaro gently. An older woman on an island you stopped at was surprised to see how easily Keitaro calmed down and went from nearly sobbing to happy little giggles when Zoro just took him from you and started asking him what was wrong, why was he so upset all of a sudden (he couldn’t see Zoro standing nearby, that was the problem). The woman was highly impressed and said her own husband hadn’t been that good with their children, it made you smile and thank her for the compliment, since you knew Zoro would never.

Keitaro is big enough to sit up on your lap during a party between your crew, the Heart Pirates, and the Kid Pirates when the three of you run into each other. Members of your (now permanently) allied crews coo and fawn over your son, the youngest of all the crews, and he adores the attention he receives from all these new people. Once everyone goes back to drinking and playing games, you choose to stay to the side with Keitaro, keeping him from the alcohol and making sure he stays happy while everything goes on, and he does, looking around at everyone and giggling when he sees Luffy do something funny.

Keitaro is happy and calm until he realizes he doesn’t see Zoro anywhere, making your nearly year old son start to pout and fuss. You try your hardest to calm him down when he really starts to cry and kick his legs because he’s frustrated, quietly speaking to him and placing kisses on his little head to help.

“Hey, little guy,” you feel beyond relived when Zoro comes over, resting his arms on your thighs and getting nose to nose with your son, which starts to calm him down, “What’re you crying for?”

Keitaro slowly calms down, looking at Zoro cross-eyed at first before his eyes fully focus on him, starting to smile and coo again as he puts his tiny hands on Zoro’s face. It makes Zoro smile in return as he takes your son from you, intending to give you a small break.

“Let’s give mama a few minutes to enjoy the party too, yeah?” Zoro gently tosses your son in the air a few times, Keitaro letting out squeals and giggles in response.

You slip away to the girls for a while, Ikkaku giving you a smile and telling you how lucky you are with Zoro, causing you to look back at them with your own smile. Keitaro has his thumb in his mouth as he lays against Zoro’s chest where he can see you, content and slowly falling asleep, while your husband rubs his back to help him relax.

“He’s really the best dad to Keitaro, I couldn’t have asked for anything better.”

[hotpinkstars]

GIRL DAD OR BOY DAD? - sunday, boothill x reader

- or more clearly, to what gender would they want to have more, and general headcannons of them as papas ☺️

- brainrot brainrot brainrot BRAINROT AHHH... i love these guys and i can do a part 2 for others later but godd theres absolutely not enough dad stuff for these men (especially sunday... if there is its all yandere) so never fear novas here! ahem anyways enjoy

- warnings none! pure fluff!!! wc 711

Sunday is so a girl and boy dad.

Reason why I say this is because he likely needs an heir to take over his position when he gets too old to do so, but he also wants a baby girl he can spoil as well.

Don’t worry! He loves both of his kids the same! They’re the greatest things that have probably ever happened to him and he cherishes them with his whole life. He thanks the stars above every single day for the opportunity he received to be a father to multiple beautiful children, and thanks you for granting him the chance. 

Dunno, but I could see this man wanting a handful of kids. He wants at least one girl and at least one boy, but I could see him shooting for 3-4. Will he be around to care for them? Not all the time, but he tries his hardest (and he definitely has the resources to care for that many).

Considering they’re half halovian and half human, they look pretty much just like their father! Some have your eyes, but they all have his hair. His hair and his gorgeous wings. They have your features though, such as your face, body type, etc.

His favorite part of the day is when he gets to collapse on your shared bed, his kiddos following behind him to cuddle their dad, and most of the time you all fall asleep together. Normally, you wake up just you and him because he’s good about putting them in their own bed once they fall asleep.

Once his kids get older, he’ll teach his son(s) combat and good form. He wants them to protect, and wants to raise them to be strong and independent. With his daughter(s), if they ask to be taught combat, then he won’t see much of an issue with it. He also wants to teach them independence, but in a more subtle form. 

Just expect that his children as teenagers are going to be the prettiest kids around holy shit. They’re obviously enrolled in a private school due to their fathers high status but they always come home and list the compliments they’ve received that day. Thankfully you two have raised them well enough for them to realize that it’ll be bad if all of these get to their head and stroke their ego too hard…

Supportive father asf! All I’ve gotta say here

Don’t play Boothill is SO a girl dad hello have you met the man

He’s so excited when his little girl is born ahh he’s always dreamed of being a father to a girl and his dream has officially come true!!

Obviously, if you had a boy, he’d love him the same. He just wants children of his own tbh lol

His daughter knows western culture fresh out of the womb my friend. It’s like she was born for little cowboy boots and the cutest little cowboy hat. She’s even got a western name, he brought it up and you liked it, so the name you two settled on was Cassidy.

She has his hair! It’s absolutely gorgeous once it starts coming in- a pearly white color with little black streaks stemming from the roots. She has your eyes and your face, and his slimmer body type (before he was turned into a cyborg. This isn’t canon I actually have no clue what he looked like pre cyborgification lmao).

Oh lord, your daughter is so spoiled. On every mission he goes on he’s always bringing something back for her. It could be a super fancy necklace or even just a little trinket he picked up from a street vendor, but she has a whole shelf full of the things her daddy gives her.

She thinks it’s so cool he has a metal body. She asks about it alot but she’s really fascinated with it tbh. She likes to call it “daddy’s special feature!” and he always melts to that sentence gosh

He probably teaches his daughter how to use a gun when she gets older. He, similar to Sunday, wants his daughter to learn self defense tactics and learn how to fend for herself when necessary.

She totally has his accent. Change my mind period.

[davidtennantgenderenvy]

On David Tennant and Aging

So, I’ve seen a lot of posts in response to Tumblr users’ habit of affectionately calling their favorite middle aged dudes “old men”, David Tennant in particular, saying things like “clearly you’ve never met an actual old person”, “omg you talk about these guys like they’re 80”, “please be normal about people aging”, etc. And on one hand, all of these statements are objectively right and true! But as someone who’s always been really fascinated by and found a lot of beauty in getting older (which I’ve explored in some of my writing on A03 because nobody else is going to do it for me), I’d like to provide a bit more nuance on how I think this label applies to David in particular.

David, obviously, in literal terms, is not “old”, at least not to me- I don’t personally consider people old until they get past 60. 52 is middle aged, simple as that. And yet, when I see David stuck with the “old man” label, it still somehow feels weirdly right, for a number of reasons.

It annoys me so much when people say David “hasn’t aged a day since Doctor Who”, because, well…

He clearly has. A lot. He’s got forehead creases, deep crows’ feet and eyebags, and I think that post-Fourteen we’re gonna see him rocking the grey temples a LOT more. He also has the voice of an older man now, his upper range is still there but the default is much more deep and rich, with a gravelly, rumbling quality that just goes straight through you. I personally think Broadchurch was when David finally started to embrace looking his age- Alec Hardy just wouldn’t have been served by Ten’s fresh-faced boyishness.

Obviously, these are the kinds of changes you’d expect any 52-year-old man to have, but something about David just makes it all seem a bit more… intense? The expressiveness of his face combined with his almost gaunt frame makes his wrinkles very prominent, and when he works his voice to its emotional extremes, his lower register can sound positively ancient, to devastating effect.

David, I think, is someone with an old soul- I don’t think he could be as good as he is at playing ancient characters like Crowley and The Doctor if he weren’t. He has lived so many lives, given so much of himself to so many characters, often incredibly tragic ones, and I think it wears on him. David also has five kids. FIVE. Do you know how exhausting it is to be one of the hardest working actors alive and be a present, loving father to even ONE child? But David somehow does it anyway! Nowadays I see him and my heart breaks because he looks so tired, so weary and fragile. But he’s all the more beautiful for it to me because I know that that is because he is kind. He’s a deeply empathetic person who feels and lives to the absolute fullest, and that story is written so clearly on his face, along with every other story he has ever been a part of.

There’s other things about David that make the label endearingly fitting- his utter hopelessness when it comes to technology, for instance. And he’s just got that warm, wise, grandpa energy too sometimes- look at that above Fourteen picture and tell me I’m wrong!

I once showed my friend who’d only seen David in Doctor Who and Harry Potter a picture of David from Around The World in 80 Days. It was a particularly emotional scene, and his face had just the most beautiful expression of compassion and sadness, every wrinkle on full display. And she said, in a less than complimentary fashion, “he looks so old!” Which, of course, offended me quite a bit at first. But to me, referring to David as old almost feels like a badge of honor, something he’s earned by living fully and selflessly, working hard and being wise and compassionate beyond his years. I think David himself is secretly more than a little insecure about the fact that he’s getting older. There’s sadness behind every jovially self-depreciating remark he’s made about his age in the past year, particularly in comparing himself to Ncuti Gatwa. I know how much David struggles with his impostor syndrome and how people perceive him, and I can clearly see in his eyes the fear of being discarded, the anxiety he feels about if he’ll still be as loved as he was back in 2007 now that he’s closer in age to King Lear than he is to Romeo. So I hope David knows it’s a privilege to watch him grow older, to watch his soul and talents deepen with the crinkles around his eyes. If I, in my silly goofy tumblr girl-ness, call David Tennant an old man, it’s because it’s a label that suits him beautifully- even if it isn’t TECHNICALLY an accurate one yet.

[macfrog]

the sweetest con cowboy like me chapter fifteen

well. this is it. we made it, kids. thank you so, so much for reading for all this time. for all your patience, and kindness, and loyalty. i will carry this pair, their story, and all of your love for them with me forever. love you guys. xx

pairing: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

summary: every cowboy deserves his ride off into the sunset.

warnings: age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), lotsa guilt from reader, dreamy love sequence & mention of unprotected piv/creampie, more greys anatomy spoilers, reader's dad is either Bald or has a Receding Hairline (you choose), more sex - this time reader and joel sixty-nine, face sitting, oral (f and m receiving), more (inferred) unprotected piv, making dirty, hot love ALLAT, cursing, a little smut n a lotta fluff n a droplet of angst at the end

word count: 10.8k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🧡

“How the fuck did this take you three minutes? Three?”

“I’m telling you. I’m a genius.”

You snort. “Shut up. You only passed Math ‘cause you were fooling around with that nerd – Thomas? Was it Thomas?”

“Timothy. And you don’t need math to do a sudoku puzzle, loser. You just need brains. Logic.” Anna taps two fingers against her temple, tilting her head.

“Logic,” you murmur, shaking your head.

Sal’s is quiet today. He’s out of town for his father-in-law’s funeral and made the genius decision to leave the two of you in charge. Since opening at nine, you’ve had four customers. The to-do list left for you was completed by ten, and since then, you’ve been hunched over your phone at the cash register, messing around on some puzzle app Anna made you download.

It's a Wednesday. Nothing exciting ever happens on Wednesdays.

Anna’s behind you, tearing apart and flattening the cardboard boxes you spent all morning emptying. “That level,” she clicks her chewing gum wetly between her teeth, scent of mint over your shoulder, “that ain’t even the hardest one. Ooh, no, babe. Three goes –”

“Shh!” You bat her arm away, curving your hand over your phone screen. She snorts and wanders off through the back, wad of cardboard under her arm.

Anna wasn’t your closest friend in high school, and you sure didn’t stay much in touch past the odd Facebook post update when you left. But working with her, and her dad being your dad’s buddy – she’s sort of become one of those people you just can’t shake.

Like a stray puppy. Or…an annoying hangnail.

She’s nice enough – talks a lot of crap sometimes, but she cares for you. You’d go as far as saying you two have grown pretty close since you came home. Still, the acidic sting of resentment sits on your tongue, anytime you think of her involvement in the unravelling of your little lie. Think of your dad calling hers, Hank asking her where you were.

Think of the fact that, if she hadn’t been honest with him – I don’t know where she is, Dad – nothing would’ve gone wrong.

That’s not fair. If you’d never touched Joel in the first place, nothing would’ve gone wrong.

It’s just – she had a hand in pushing the first domino.

The bell above the door jingles and you lift your eyes from tiny numbers and blank squares to meet a familiar pair of hazel. An Alanis Morissette T-shirt under a denim jacket. She tucks her thick, soft hair behind her ears and smiles, then skips around the counter and links her hands at your tummy; her ear flat against the nape of your neck.

“Why so clingy?” you ask, and Sarah straightens up.

“Just excited to spend some time with my favorite person. That allowed?”

Your eyes scan her up and down as she leans against the counter, stealing a gummy from a jar beside the register. “Been staying with you for nearly three weeks now, you ain’t sick of me yet?”

She shakes her head, jaw chewing, cheeks swollen with a grin. “Are you done yet? I wanna make sure we get good seats.”

“We will,” you assure her. “It’s only, like, three p.m.”

“But it’s Barbie,” she says, “and I wanna get some snacks before we head in.” She holds the decapitated gummy worm up, eyebrows high, before pulling it between her teeth until it snaps. She drags the withered red tail over her tongue.

“That thing you just mauled,” you gesture to the masticated shape in her fingers, “candy. Snacks. Just take some of that.”

“You won’t even buy your date movie theater candy? Damn. Mom’s a cheapskate. Wish I could say my dad’s a lucky guy.”

You shove her off, disguising your laugh with a shake of your head. “You are on thin ice, I’m not even kidding.”

Sarah’s laughing, reaching for another worm. “You know what that sounds like?”

“Hm?”

“What you just said.”

“What’s it sound like, Sarah Miller?”

“Something a mom would say.”

“Alright,” you stand, “get out. Get outta my store.”

The door opens when you point to it, Texan heat sweeping in to swarm the one rickety fan you have in here. The brass bell trembles, and beneath it, a man in a tucked shirt and jeans, glum face and tired eyes.

You blink at him and he blinks back, and no words are spoken between you, but your dad understands to move, to keep walking – and you understand to let him.

“Shoot,” Sarah whispers, twisting her gummy around her finger. “That was awkward.”

Three weeks of staying with them – Sarah and Joel – also means three weeks of zero contact with your dad. The most you’ve heard from – or, rather, about him is that, last week, Joel bumped into Hank at the gas station, and the old man mentioned that he and your dad had grabbed a beer the night before.

What’d he say? you asked Joel, dragging a dish towel around the rim of a glass.

He shrugged, flicking his hands dry over the sink. Said the Rangers aren’t doin’ too good. I said, Yeah, that’s cause a’ –

No, Joel. What did he say about me ‘n my dad?

He waited a second to let the offense of your interruption soak in. Took the towel from your hand, replaced the glass on the draining board. Nothing, he said, I don’t think he knows.

It sat with you the entire night. The three of you watched a movie, occupying either side of Joel’s couch, though you’re sure you don’t remember a word of it. The image of him sat center-stage in your mind until you pulled yourself against Joel’s body in bed that night. Sat in his recliner, flicking through TV channels, the only sounds in the house that of Ice Road Truckers, the ticking of the kitchen clock, and his own fucking breathing.

Alone. Not even Hank to talk to about – well.

You’ve done your best not to think about him. And it works, most days, when you’re with Joel. Helps to go do stuff: ride shotgun while he picks up supplies for work or grabs groceries. Helps to play pretend like his house is yours, too. Tidying when he’s not home, lighting candles and sinking into a bubble bath for him to find you in when he finishes. Helps to be at Sal’s, with Anna. Sudoku and her fucking Tinder account to keep you both occupied.

Most days, you forget to consider the lonely shape of your dad at all – but that seems to hurt all the more. Like forgetting to tend to an open wound; instead, letting the infection blister and bubble so that, when you do bump it again, the pain feels sharper. Hissing at you, poison seeping from flesh.

His showing up, waltzing straight into the store – feels less like a bump, and more like a pair of hands diving straight into the gash, tearing it wide open again. Blood and poison gushing all over the checkered floor.

Anna materializes between two aisles, hands on her hips when she stands behind you. “Y’all still not really talkin’?” she asks.

You and Sarah shake your heads. The three of you watch the shape of your dad’s skull over the shelves, bobbing from bay to bay. Door hinges to fence paint. He painted the fence last summer. He doesn’t need fucking fence paint.

“Nope,” you reply. “’s been, what, two and a half weeks now?”

“Yeah,” Anna mutters, the slope of sympathy in her voice. “My dad’s been talkin’ to him about it. They’ve spoken, like, almost every night on the phone.”

“Oh, fuck,” you hiss, head falling into your hands. “Are you serious?”

“Not about you and Joel. Just about the fight.”

Your jaw slowly slackens, eyes thinning as your gaze slides over to your friend, a saddened expression on her face.

Sarah nods, like an accessory sat on the dash of a car. Bobbing bobbing bobbing, until her brows drop and she turns to you, finally realizing. “Wait, what?”

Anna blinks between the two of you. “What?” she asks, lips pressing together.

“You know?” Sarah asks, glaring at her.

Anna snorts. Neither of you break. She quickly quietens and clears her throat, bending to stuff more cardboard under her arm. “Well…” She sucks in a deep breath. “At rodeo night, when you left your phone on the table, me ‘n Kara wanted to leave a bunch of selfies for you to find later. But when I went to grab your phone, you had a text from him. Joel. Something about someone winning you over like he did, or something. I can’t remember. But that was the first thing.”

Sarah’s face sours at the mention of her dad’s flirty text, scoffing as she swipes another gummy from the jar. “Real fuckin’ subtle, Dad,” she murmurs.

You sharpen your gaze at Anna, blurring the brown curls and low brows from your peripheral. “Uhuh…?”

“Then, there was the lying to your dad about where you were. That Monday – you said you were at mine. You weren’t. Your dad called my dad to ask, ‘n my dad asked me why the hell you’d lie. I figured, What a weird coincidence, right?”

You slip off your stool, legs feeling more liquid than bone. “Oh, Jesus…”

“But then…then, I saw how you were when he called on the way to Frank’s. In the car. You were…fucking weird. And then Joel punched that dude – that basically confirmed it. I don’t think either of your dads would do that for me. It felt…it felt personal. He took your hand ‘n dragged you outta there, and it felt like…somethin’ else.”

You’re leaning against the counter, head in your hands. Struggling to even listen to her piece it all together. Were you this fucking obvious, the whole time?

Anna answers for you. “Yeah,” she says, nodding, “I didn’t catch two fucking boyfriends cheating on me, and not pick up some detective skills, babe.”

You stand straight, composure slowly building over shame. “And your dad doesn’t know? My –” you flick your head across the store, lowering your voice, “– my dad hasn’t told him?”

A laugh spurts from somewhere deep in her chest. “Hell, no. Are you tryna give him a second heart attack? No. He just thinks you were somewhere you didn’t want your dad to know – a boy’s or something. Which – well, I guess you were.”

You nod, half-appreciation, half-resignation. Alright. Now shut up about it, would you?

“But listen,” Anna says, apparently not as good at mindreading as she is at secret-revealing, “y’all gotta work on being sneaky. You’re, like, really bad at it.”

“Yeah,” you sniff, “thanks, Anna.”

You grip the edge of the counter and try to draw your eye away from your dad; a little angry that he’s here, and yet, a little more thankful that you’ve had at least a tiny glimpse of him. Desperate for him to come over, to acknowledge your mutual existence in the same room, and yet – petrified that he does.

He keeps his back to you, though you notice him turning every so often, looking at you from his peripheral. Nope – your black shirt and blue jeans are still behind the counter. He turns back to the shelf.

“Hi, sweetie.” A woman in a pink blouse approaches the counter. She lays down a couple pairs of plyers and you ring her up, asking if she found everything okay. Choking a little when you inhale the scent of her perfume.

“Beautiful day for you to be in here workin’, huh?” Her rosy cheeks fill as she hands you the cash.

Oh, yeah. It’s a beautiful day to be stuck selling plyers to pink women in pink blouses smelling of pink perfume, while my dad – still reeling from the revelation that I’ve been sleeping with his best friend, by the way – pretends to peruse the store.

“I’m almost done,” you reply, blunt enough to deflate her expression only a little, sliding the paper bag stamped Sal’s back across the counter.

She nods in thanks and slinks off, suffocating aroma following her. And like a magician, when she disappears off to the side, your dad stands in her wake. A few feet from you, keeping his distance, watching carefully before he dares to move. Waiting for your go-ahead.

When you lift your chin, beckoning him forward, Anna takes Sarah’s arm and yanks her away, shoving some shredded boxes into her arms. “You wanna help me?” she asks the nosy Miller, tossing something of an alarmed glance back at you and your dad.

There’s a funny feeling behind your eyes when he steps up, empty hand resting hesitantly on the counter. “She coverin’ up the smell of a dead body or som’?” he asks.

The air pushes from your lungs, a laugh barreling with it. Your hands clasp on the surface opposite his. A scorch of white heat at the nape of your neck. “Very vibrant, huh?”

“Very.” He clears his throat, shakes his head a little, and takes a deep breath. “I figured this might be as good a place as any to find you. I didn’t want you to think I was…cornering you, or anything, if I showed up at Joel’s.”

“I wouldn’t – I mean, maybe. But, y’know…this is fine.” Your arms cross defensively, the baggy material of Joel’s shirt wrapping snug around you.

Your dad seems to know. Evidence being that it’s you, in a shirt all too big – a shirt he’d likely see his best friend in, too. It forces your arms tighter, sucking in the scent of Joel to combat the dizzying feeling of nerves.

“I’m glad to see you’re alright,” he says eventually, fingers drumming awkwardly. “I just wanted to know you were fine.”

“I am fine. I promise. Just – working a lot.”

He nods, looking down to his feet. Twists the toe of his boot into the linoleum.

“I’m glad to see you’re alright, too,” you offer, the words fluid and spilling from one to the next – something forceful in their nature.

Your dad’s eyes lift at the same time that his cheeks do. Relief. “Thanks, kiddo. I actually – I was hopin’ that maybe we could talk. If you’re free. I don’t know what time you get off today.”

“I finish in ten minutes,” you say, and hope seems to paint across his face – washing away instantly when you add, “but I’m going to the movies with Sarah.”

He’s nodding again, eyes fixed back on his boots. “Right, right.”

“…But maybe once we’re done I can swing by?”

“Oh, well – I’m workin’ late again. I’ll be out by the time…Yeah. Sorry, hon.”

“That’s okay.”

“Late one again tonight.”

“This, uh – what’s his name again? Kel–?”

“Kelman, yeah. Yeah. How ‘bout I call you tomorrow ‘n we can work somethin’ out? You and Sarah, you enjoy your night.”

You lean back from the counter, slowly more confident in your ability to hold yourself upright. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Dad.”

His lips press together in a flat attempt at a smile. “I’ll leave you to it. You mind if I…give you a hug?”

And then you’re the one awkwardly, forcedly smiling. Your teeth gritting behind taut lips. “Not at all,” you whisper, and wander carefully around the counter to where he stands.

He opens his arms and pulls you against his chest, your head tilting to rest your ear on his shoulder. You hook your arms under his, feeling his wrists crossing at your spine. Like two statues, two figures of stone fixing their crumbling bodies in an embrace, suddenly disjointed and ill-fitting. Your heart hurts beneath layers of rock, swelling in attempt to reach for his, shrinking back crestfallen when he feels too far.

He kisses the side of your head, pulls away, and taps your cheek once. “You know,” he says, letting you withdraw from his grasp, “I really miss you.”

You nod. “Miss you, too.”

“Let’s talk soon, alright?”

“Yeah.”

And then he’s leaving, drifting back out into the summer sun, rock disintegrating as the light catches him again. More human, less monster-under-your-bed. He’s just your dad again, just that swaying, bumbling man who used to sprinkle rainbow flakes over your ice cream and double-knot your laces.

The shadows of Sarah and Anna appear at your elbows, the three of you watching your dad sink into his car. You still feel made of rock, splitting somewhere down the middle as you stare at his figure.

“Well?” Sarah asks.

He turns right out of the parking lot, disappears behind a hedgerow.

“Yeah,” you reply, turning in a daze. “We’re gonna…gonna talk.”

“That’s good, right? That sounds…promising.”

You shrug. “I guess.”

Sarah places a gentle hand on your arm, drawing your attention to her kind eyes and infectious smile. “We should probably get goin’,” she says, and you agree.

“What movie are you seeing?” Anna asks, filling your spot behind the counter as you turn, making for the back of the store.

“Barbie,” Sarah tells her.

“Nice. She paying?”

“Obviously. Mom duties.”

You kick the door closed on their giggles.

Two days pass without a word from your dad. No text, no call, no visit to Sal’s when you’re on shift the following day. By Monday, you’ve convinced yourself that the entire thing was a dream, a hallucination conjured up by your imagination in attempt to rid you of some of the guilt still chewing at your heart. Bat it out of your brain, like swatting the rear end of a wild animal let loose indoors.

Guilt which is only remedied, only soothed by Joel. By the feeling which overcomes your chest when you look at him – lungs faltering, heart leaping. The peace of falling asleep in his safe embrace, the heat from his body enough to keep you comfortable all night, and then waking up tangled in his sheets – the smell of bacon and eggs twirling through the house, the distant sound of his humming drawing you downstairs to his side.

Late nights on the porch, watching the sun bleed heavily into the sky. Your ankles in his lap, a guitar over his thigh. Thumb gentle on the strings, soft timbre of song lulling you to some place far from reality: the same rosy, dreamlike state you’ve mostly occupied since he dragged you through his front door, kicked your shoes and all of your worries to the side, and made you forget that anything bad had ever happened.

The most comfortable you’ve ever felt in your life, the most loved – a world where your every word is heard and weighed, rolling around Joel’s palms and slotting carefully into his back pocket. A world where his lips on your neck as you make dinner, where the crook of his arm catching you as you pass by, is all normal. Where I love you and I love you, too become the last words your sleepy ears hear at night, right before you sink into a shared sleep.

All of it becoming as natural as the pale moon switching for her golden sister at dawn. As instinctive as breathing.

“Have you ever made love to anyone?” you ask him one night, the aftershock of an orgasm still soaking into your skin.

Joel pauses, hips slowing between yours. “Yeah,” after a couple beats, “sure.”

“What’s it feel like?” you ask, honestly. Combing his dark hair through your fingers. “I’ve never…No one’s ever…”

“Baby,” he says. “We’ve done it. I’ve done it to you.”

Your body tenses and then melts around him. One blink and suddenly the world softens, seems to bow into the background – the only sharp object Joel, the twinkle in his eye piercing through the haze like blinking white stars in thick, dark clouds.

You whisper, “Can you do it again? So I can feel what it’s like?”

He pushes himself up, one elbow planted by your ear, the other hand lifting your thigh. Hooking it over his waist, lowering his arm again to cage you under his body. He nudges your chin with his nose, lifting it to line your lips with his, hold every part of your body as close to his as he can.

Deeper, in every sense of the word. Slow, hard. Eyes on you the entire time, watching the way your face contorts and your jaw slackens, holding the shape of your head in his hands, swallowing his own moans and grunts to make space between you for yours.

“Look at me, baby, eyes on me,” he says, and by instinct, your eyes roll forward, focusing or half-focusing on the slick hair at his forehead, the red flush climbing his neck, seeping into the skin under his beard. “You feel it? Feel where I’m goin’?”

And yeah, you whine, you do feel it. Feel him dragging you further away from this world and into the next – somewhere a plain away, somewhere new and different to anything you’ve ever known before. Where physicality is a language, a fluid conversation between the melding of his body and yours; where there are a million words swirling around his pupils, hypnotizing and entrancing and drawing you in until you’re tumbling headfirst into the inky pools.

Where I love you sounds like the groan Joel can’t hold back, feels like the pulsing flood as he snaps between your legs. Where making love is as simple as the squeeze of his hand around yours; the shove of his plate over the kitchen table, offering you the last bite of grilled cheese or simply admitting that it was yours before he’d even taken the first. That addictive laugh of his when you stall the fucking truck for the fifth time: You asked me to teach you, baby, I’m tryna teach you. Foot on the gas, c’mon. You got it. That’s it – now, slow. Slower. Try to feel it. No, really feel it.

Feel it. Really, try to feel it. Can you feel it? Do you know the difference yet? The difference between everyone who was before, and the one who is now? Do you finally get it?

“I feel it,” you cry out, and his frame holds yours together as you fall apart.

It feels like – you.

How did I ever know anything before I knew you?

“That one’s nice,” Joel says, his voice jumping the short distance between his lips and your ear.

You tilt your head, body moving with his when he lifts his hand to swipe through some more of the images. The spacious living room, newly refurbed kitchen, the view of downtown Los Angeles.

He adjusts the blanket draped over your legs. “Washer dryer, walk-in closet,” and then, leaning in closer, whispers, “a balcony. That’s cool.”

“Hm,” you turn to face him, your body shelled by his in the corner of his couch, “I bet you like the balcony, cowboy.”

He smiles plainly in response, squeezing your nose between two knuckles. Yeah. Lots you can do with a balcony.

A sharp gasp from across the room pierces the sweet moment. You and Joel turn in its direction, its owner wide-eyed and blinking at the TV.

“Wait a second,” Sarah yelps. “George is the John Doe?” She gasps again when Meredith announces the same news to her friends onscreen. “Shut – the fuck – up!”

“Language,” Joel clips, chest rumbling between your shoulder blades.

“Oh, like you didn’t have the exact same reaction. George is the…Oh, that sucks. Are you kidding me?” She fishes her phone from the waves of blanket surrounding her, thumbs rapidly typing, eyes shooting from screen to screen.

You snort, turning back to your own phone in your hand, when a text appears at the top of the screen.

Dad: Hey kiddo. Sorry to keep you waiting, work been hectic. Off the rest of today if you’re free to come over.

Your thumb latches onto the message, holding it for Joel to read, too, before letting it disappear off into your notifications.

He tightens his hold on you, burying his nose into the cotton of his own hoodie over your shoulders. His breath pushes heavy and thoughtful across the material. “Still seems as calm as the other day.”

“Too calm,” you admit, “it’s freaking me out.”

“What can he do, you know? You’re here, he’s there. Your dad ain’t an idiot, baby. He knows stayin’ angry about it’s only gonna push you further away.”

“Sure made ‘im feel like an idiot…”

Joel catches the comment and pockets it before it gathers enough weight to bruise. “Well,” he clears his throat, “it’s up to you. I ain’t letting you do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“Mhm,” you reply, and wait for more words to fall to your tongue. An answer, a response. A decision that you know you don’t feel equipped or even rightful to make.

“Do you want to go talk to him?” Joel asks.

“I…I want to make things right. I wanna fix it.”

“Okay. And will talking to him do that?”

You turn to face him, frowning. “I don’t fucking know,” you mutter. “Will it?”

He smiles sympathetically. “Wish I knew, darlin’. Would it help if I came? Sat outside in the truck, waited for you? It gets too much, you decide you wanna leave – we leave.”

“You ain’t scared to be near him again?”

He gulps back a laugh, Adam’s apple bobbing awkwardly before he allows himself to answer. “Only thing scary about your dad is the sunlight reflectin’ off his damn head. No, I ain’t scared.”

You study him a minute longer, eyes roaming from the lips you could sketch every score of from memory, the beard you’re sure has forever altered your prints from the number of times you’ve run your fingers over the bristles. The eyes which know every secret, every whisper, every thought behind your own.

You sigh, smiling dumbly as he wraps his arms tighter around you. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Joel pulls up by the curb, parking politely at the end of your driveway rather than alongside your dad’s car, like he usually would. Like he used to.

You crane your head, looking past the shape of him to survey the unassuming house. Quiet, still. No sign of hurricane or earthquake, no tremors of rage or words like rocks raining down on the truck roof. Your thumb plunges into the buckle of your seatbelt, the webbing whipping over your shoulder.

“Sure you’re okay?” Joel asks, watching your fingers lift to the door handle.

“Mhm,” you reply, distant. “’s just my dad, right? What’s the worst that could happen?”

His eyebrows lift, agreeing. He takes your hand in his and holds it to his lips. “Whatever it is,” he mumbles into your fingers, “if it happens, you come straight back out here, you hear? I ain’t moving.”

The urge to stay exactly where you are and let him carry you off back to his place overwhelms you for a brief second. To stay in the safety of the truck cabin, stay within touching distance of Joel. And as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone. Overcome by the memory of that stony hug in Sal’s, the vacant, lonely eyes boring into late-night TV.

A sharp chap over your shoulder shocks you back to life. You twist in your seat, looking down at a face wrinkled by curiosity and wisdom, sheen of lipstick curved in a mischievous grin. You roll the window down, mirroring her smile.

“Joel Miller,” Rita calls, lowering her ring-adorned fist and pointing over to her car. “Help me with these groceries.”

“Afternoon to you, too, Rita,” he calls back, and she raises two thin, penciled eyebrows. His sigh trickles into a chuckle as he snaps the door open, leaning into you. “I ain’t moving,” he mutters, swinging out of the truck.

“Sure looks like you’re movin’,” you call back, letting Rita pull on your door to let you out.

“How are you, darlin’?” she asks. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

You hop down beside her, helping her tug the shawl around her arms back over her shoulders. “Yeah, I’ve, uh…I’ve been busy.”

She nods, and then her eyes drift to somewhere behind you. “They go in the kitchen, son.” She points to her house. “I’ll come help you unpack ‘em.”

Joel’s face twists, eyes wide, hands outstretched. You swallow back a laugh when he looks to you, an almost teenage expression which asks, You seein’ this? as he turns back to the Nissan.

“I better go,” Rita says then, giving your arms one last squeeze. “You take care, now. Tell your dad I’m askin’ after ‘im.”

“I will, Rita.” You turn on your heel and saunter around Joel’s truck, giving him one last twirl as he hoists two bags under his muscled arms, rolling his eyes as you spin.

You pull the weight of yourself up your drive, passing past versions of yourself as you near the front door. She’s stumbling towards her dad’s car, a bucket of soapy water sloshing around between her knees. She’s sat on the curb, waiting for Joel’s truck to roll up, praying she never hears another Marty Robbins song again.

She’s naïve, still. Knows no better, knows no worse. Chasing a high, chasing the thrill of being caught and the thrill of nobody ever knowing. A relationship built entirely on lies and deceit. A love woven with dark threads of shame and anger, a tattered mess in one corner where the edges fray and loosen.

And you think: you’ve never felt more jealous of anybody your whole life.

The front door clicks open easily, like the building welcomes you home with a relieved sigh. You follow sunlight into the hallway, feeling it easier to walk through than before – less dense, less suffocating. Less guilty. An honest thief, back to return the bleeding heart she dragged out the door with her.

Secrets like shards of broken glass on the floor, debris from that day. And as if he hears the crunch of your footsteps, your dad appears at the bottom of the hall.

“Hi, hon.”

Eyes wide with a misplaced shock, you say, “Hey.”

“You okay?”

“’m good.”

“Good. Come in, come through.” He beckons you forward, a smile only half-forced on his lips. “You want a drink or anything?”

You follow him into the kitchen, politely accepting a glass of water when he offers it.

He turns with two steady palms on the island, watching as you drag a chair free and sit at the table. “How’s Joel?” he asks, swallowing roughly.

The words come delayed, your open mouth lying in wait. Your body selfishly trying to hoard the information, protective the second the image of that six-foot, two-hundred-pound man crosses your mind. “He’s fine. He’s out front.”

It sounds like a warning, though you don’t mean for it to. Just conversation. He’s helping Rita with her groceries. She’s asking after you, by the way. But your dad seems to sense the natural amber tone of it – the sparking of a flame, daring to catch. He’s waiting for this to go south.

He nods, accepting the fact of it. His own failed attempt to separate the two of you only drove you closer together. Only made you want Joel more.

But then he’s nearing you again, pulling out the chair opposite yours. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, settling with a sigh. “Glad we’re…we’re talkin’ again, at least.”

Your head angles. “Are we?”

His body jerks, flinching from the sting of the question. “Well,” his head wobbles, jowls quivering, “I sure hope so. I was takin’ it as a good sign that you’re here.”

“I’m here,” you repeat, “but that doesn’t mean I’m staying.”

“No, I know. I know. Joel’s out front, ‘n all that.” He looks down at his hands, clasped in his lap. Holds his tongue behind his front teeth, waiting for the next turn of conversation.

You lean forward, elbows on the table, softening your voice. “Dad?” you say, and he looks up. “This whole entire thing – I think…I think we oughta try and understand each other, a little better. Hear each other out.”

“I am tryin’, hon. I’m really tryin’. You dealt me an awful lot to hear out ‘n understand.”

You rock back, sinking against the hard chair. Tracing the wood grains in the table, nails digging between. Shame coiling like a snake beneath your tongue, taking up too much space in your mouth. Its venom dripping between your teeth, acrid and sour; tendons in your neck jumping with the bitterness of your dad’s tone.

He sighs. “Be honest with me a second.”

“Huh?”

He waits a beat, watching you carefully. Opens his mouth, pauses, and then speaks. “Who instigated it?”

Your finger pushes harder into the surface. Digging new divots. “Um…kinda both of us. Was sort of a two-way thing from the get-go.”

His lips twist, almost imperceptible. He looks behind you to the patio outside. You can’t read what’s in his eyes. It makes you say more, say things you reckon you’ll regret later – but something to fill the silence between you. Something to let him sink his teeth into.

“There was flirting. Lotta flirting. And then it…it just sort of snowballed.”

“Snowballed.” He looks uncomfortable, lifting his hands to cup over his face. “I just didn’t take him as the type,” he says, muffled into his palms.

“As what type?”

He drops his hands, hitting his thighs with a slap, and looks you dead in the eye. Sad, almost. “Arthur Kennedy type.”

“He’s not.”

You say it instinctively. Your ears hear it at the same time your dad does. He looks at you blankly.

“He’s not,” you repeat, a little looser. Less hasty. “Look,” you sigh, “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but…everything that we ever did, I wanted to do. I already told you. There ain’t nothing we did that I didn’t ask him to. I swear to you.”

You think back to the cookout, how angry Joel was at the thought of Arthur Kennedy hanging over you. How pissed he’d be, hearing your dad line him up against that old leather boot of a man. Comparing, contrasting. Here’s how you measure up, son. How much of a phantom Arthur Kennedy has been, your whole life, and how much of a sanctuary Joel is in comparison.

Your stomach twists at the thought. A tight knot, wound by a desperation to clear the name of a man whose worst offense was doing exactly what your dad would’ve told him to: leave.

“This whole thing,” you go on, “it’s a mess, alright? It’s – totally fucked. And we shouldn’t’ve lied, shouldn’t’ve been keeping things from you, but then…what did you expect?”

Your dad cuts in like a bullet: “I expect the two of you not to do what you were doin’.”

“No, I know that. But we did it, right? It’s done now. I meant, did you really want us to sit you down in the living room ‘n say, Hey, Dad – guess what?”

He grimaces at the thought.

“Didn’t think so. We didn’t even know what it was. We had no idea what it’d turn into. But you gotta hear me out: it wasn’t just…some fling, or whatever you’re thinkin’. I swear, Dad, it wasn’t.”

He still doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t lift his stare from the table. You feel like a little kid, desperate to make him love you again. Desperate to make him listen. The space between you fills with the bored tick tick tick of the kitchen clock. Each second hurting a little more than the last.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m sorry that I hurt you. I’m sorry I let you down, but…I’m not sorry that I did it. If I could go back, knowing everything I know – I’d do it all over again.”

The words roll across the table to him like billiards. You lean back again, watching them as they rattle from his side to yours – your sentence delivered back into your ears. You nod, a sure thought in your mind.

I’d do it all over again. All the covering, all the hiding. The aching, the wishing and wanting. Staring at Joel’s empty hand, dying to slot yours into it. Dying to put any part of yourself near him; your head under his chin, your arms linked around his waist. Knowing you two would feel, knowing everyone else would see, just how perfectly you fit together.

The chasing your own tails: Did you lie well enough? Do they suspect anything? Did we leave any evidence? Disturbed sheets, a collar still upturned. Can they hear us? Have they noticed we’re missing? We’re always fucking missing.

You’d do it all over again. You know what it cost, now, sat directly opposite the price. His polite smiles like veneers over rotten teeth. The tremble in his lip when he opens his mouth to speak.

And it was worth it. Joel. He was worth it all, in the end.

All over again.

“Do you know that every time I look at you, there are…probably four versions that I see?”

You frown. Did he hear what you just said? All ov–? “What?”

Your dad laughs to himself. “When you walk outta that door, I see a little pink backpack over your shoulders. Gym bag in your hand, maybe. I see missin’ front teeth, I see those little clip-on earrings you used to love so much.

“And – and when you’re mad at me, when we fight, I see you at fourteen. Growing pains, y’know? I still remember you slamming your bedroom door in my face, all ‘cause I wouldn’t let you go to that girl Molly’s birthday party.” He looks up, smiling at your perplexed expression.

“I don’t even…remember that, hardly.”

“Long time ago now. My point is,” he continues, “you’re twenty-three. You’re grown. And I just can’t figure out how to make those other versions…grow with you. You still feel like my kid. Still that little girl with the pink backpack.”

“But,” you clear your throat, trying to swipe her from your own memory, “I’m not. I’m not her anymore, Dad. And I think maybe you gotta give me the space to be someone different, now.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, nodding. “I know, I know. I just didn’t think this new version of you would…y’know. Be with Joel, ‘n all. That is something I did not see comin’.”

“You think I did?” You spit a laugh. “If you told me when I came home that this is what was waiting for me…that I was gonna fall…”

Your teeth close around the sentence, dropping your dad’s eye. But it’s too late.

He stares back at you like the sun. “…Fall in love with ‘im?”

And you cower. You wince, almost. The last secret. The last thing he doesn’t know. “I don’t…I don’t know, I –”

“You love him. You do, don’t you?”

Your thumbs run circles around one another, fingers locking until your knuckles hurt. “I don’t know,” you mumble, wishing for the tenth time since you sat down that Joel was beside you, in front of you, around you.

“’s what Anna seems to reckon.”

Your eyes flit up. “Anna?”

He hums. “She is her father’s daughter. A damn meddler. She called here, last night.”

“Oh, Jesus,” you groan, head falling into your hands. “Ignore her, please. Ignore all of it. She doesn’t –”

He holds a palm up. “Now, hold on. You don’t even know what it was she said.”

You huff a sigh, twisting your hand in the air. Go on.

“She reckons you do love him. Reckons he loves you back. More, if that’s even possible, she said. Told me all about the way he stepped in front a’ that boy at Frank’s. About your face when he picked you up from rodeo night, how ecstatic you were. The difference she sees in you.”

“Difference,” you scoff, glancing out to the backyard. “What difference?”

“Same difference I see, probably. Same difference Bill said he saw, too: you’re happier. Even I can’t deny it, hon. It’s damn hard – you never make nothin’ easy on your old man – but…but I am willing to try.”

The hurt begins to slowly fizzle away. Cooling, washing from your skin like foamy waves. Curiosity left to shine through.

“You may not understand this ‘til you have kids of your own – if you have kids of your own – but there ain’t a thing in this world that I love more than I love you. And when you love somethin’ that much, you’ll do anything to stop it from getting hurt. Anything. That’s all I want you to know.”

A silence falls between you, thoughtful and waiting. The clock’s ticking grows sharper again. It seems to consider the same as you: there should be more to this. More to be said, to be convinced. More yelling, even.

But you arrive at the same conclusion, at near enough the same time: there is nothing more. Cards flat on the table, eyes pouring all over them. To question it, to second-guess any of it, would be to tempt fate.

“Anyway,” your dad sits forward, clasping his hands on the table, “tell me what’s goin’ on. What’s been happening in your world?”

You shrug. A little, shy thing. “Work. Been hanging with Sarah a lot. And I, uh, I had a job interview last week.”

“Oh, yeah? Where?”

You shift awkwardly in your chair. “For, uh…that one in LA. They called to offer it a couple days ago.”

A smile pulls across his lips. Growing, growing, growing until he’s grinning back at you. Pride, little bit of surprise. Whole lot of amusement and joy. “You take it?” he asks, figuring he knows the answer already.

“Not yet,” you reply. “Think I’m going to, though. ‘s too good to say no.”

He lifts his eyebrows in agreement, looking down at his hands. Shoulders lurch some under the weight of your news. “There goes that little backpack,” he mutters to himself, and you smirk.

“Can’t hold her back forever.”

“I never had a hold on her in the first place. You were walkin’ on outta that door the minute you found your own two feet.”

You snort. “Good! Good for me. Let me go out into the big ol’ world; let me go fuck it all up ‘n come home for dinner once I’m done.”

“I intend to,” your dad says, nodding along to every passionate word you say. And then he asks, “How’s Joel feelin’ about it all? About LA?”

Your shoulder jerks in a half-shrug. “He’s fine, I guess. Says he’ll miss me, but then – we haven’t exactly had the most typical relationship up until now. Survived a lot I reckon would break any normal couple…”

It’s the first time you think you’ve ever said it. Couple. You’ve thought of it – flicked through the words you might use to describe him. Your boyfriend, your partner. None of them seem to fit exactly who he is to you. None of them strong enough to carry the weight of what’s shared between you. He’s Joel. He’s your Joel. Nothing will ever come close.

Your dad hears it, too. The newness of it. The crisp shape of the word, not yet thawed to this new world. Your tongue still learning how to pronounce it, how to pair it with the image of Joel.

“Guess he can fly out ‘n visit whenever, right?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, “and I’ll be back here, too. Christmas ‘n all.”

Your dad smiles. Relieved, assured. Light slowly returning to his eyes.

“We’ll be fine,” your chest swells, “so Joel says. I trust ‘im.”

You both quieten, sitting back in your chairs. What once felt like a room ablaze, flames tearing the skin from your body as you dragged your heels through it – now feels like a gentle warmth. Waves wrought with enough power and force to destroy you, now seeping off with the change of the tide. Bumps on the horizon.

“Speaking of,” you say, making to stand, “I should probably get goin’.”

“Yeah. Yeah, hon.” Your dad follows, arm on your shoulder as he walks you down the hall.

The sun intrudes, tosses herself into your arms as you pull the front door open. In her golden-rayed wake sits that dark truck, same as always. The same dark tee, the same dark-speckled-gray hair. Arms folded, stood against the body, waiting. Eyes on the house, on your figure as you step down onto the doormat. Joel straightens when your dad follows you out, chest sucking in a ragged breath.

They look at one another, and that’s about it. Something of a nod from Joel – not quite returned by your dad. You figure that might take some time to come back around. And that’s okay. You can make peace with it.

You turn back. Your dad’s looking down at you, hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun.

“You know,” you take a deep breath, “the only times he’s ever hurt me, are the times he’s left. The times I haven’t had him around.”

And then you step back, the magnet in your chest telling you it’s time to return to its partner.

In high school, your English teacher tasked the class with writing a short story. Any genre you wanted, any word count up to two thousand. The boys mostly dicked around, wrote action-packed, blood-and-guts garbage. One girl wrote something you’re sure you’d seen in a Hallmark movie before.

But you – you spent two weeks straight, writing. Awake until all hours of the night, hunched over your laptop, sunbathing in the blue hue of an open document. Fingers hammering rapidly into your keyboard.

A man and a woman meet in Central Park. She – hair the color of rust, spilling down her shoulders and lifting at the ends, twisting around the fingers of the blustery wind. A red glow around her third finger where gold once lived. Sat on a bench, alone. Hiding, perhaps. And he – sharp suit and tie, clean-shaven, a steel-blue gaze that might cut glass. Missing the city traffic by taking a walk through the park on his way home. Fleeing, perhaps.

He notices her trench coat first. Bright red, a poppy swaying in the breeze. A little hopeless, a solemn wilt to it. The quickly dampening fire of her hair in the rain, the opaque sheen of polish chipping from her nails. And he thinks he recognizes the constellation of freckles painted across her cheeks. Thinks he might’ve mapped them, once, in some kind of past-life.

She looks up and realizes she recognizes the cut of his gaze. Piercing through her, splitting her in two. Thinks she might’ve felt it before, the opening of her soul to someone who looked just like him – a little more baby-faced, a little more spirited. In some kind of past-life, too.

She stands, and he slows, and they meet somewhere in the middle. Words exchanged; body heat transferred through hugs. Is that really you? You look so different. It’s been years. He doesn’t ask about the lack of jewelry on her third finger. She doesn’t ask about the gray circles beneath his eyes. Just, You wanna grab a coffee? and, Yeah. Yeah, I do.

They sit at the window, watch the yellow taxis and the black umbrellas and the trembling traffic lights. They talk about life then, life now, and silently agree to forget about the part in the middle. They look at each other the same way they must have before they lost one another, before life and love and everything else got between them.

They agree to meet again in a week. They swear that they will not fall back in love.

They know as well as each other that they’re really promising to do just that.

Love – twisted and turned over and over, until it’s a different shape altogether. We started as one thing, and we watched it shift into something completely different. Clay in the potter’s hands. Didn’t you think it might fall apart? There was a moment I thought the heat of the kiln might break us. I’m glad it didn’t. I’m glad we’re made of tough stuff.

I’m glad I found you again, in that park. The pissing rain and the wind so strong I felt it lifting the sense from my mind. In that hardware store, in that bar filled with weed and bad intentions. I’m glad you split me open, glad you could see the good that was still inside. I thought I’d lost her for a minute. Thought she’d forgotten her way home.

Let’s go get a coffee. Let’s pretend it’s always been this way.

Let’s fall in love. The rest will take care of itself.

It takes three weeks in total to properly pack up your things. Two days after you accepted the job, you bought boxes and tape, and began to dismantle the identity you’d spent twenty-three years creating for yourself, a little bit at a time. Taking apart the pink-walled museum of your life, artefact by artefact.

Joel has helped as much as you’ve let him. Laid back on your bed when you’ve dismissed him one too many times, raised his eyebrows and laughed with you whenever you come across some old, forgotten piece of memorabilia. Something ceremonial to it, something innocent and fun. Like a little graduation for all the parts of yourself.

Soon, as the last of the summer sun dampens outside, your room lies vacant. Empty of any real evidence of your being here. Bedsheets and pillows folded, packed away; framed photos and posters unpinned from the wall and wrapped up safely. Drawers and closets barren, left with a selection of your less-loved, less-worn clothes. A wardrobe built from stuff you’ll only ever wear when you come back home to visit, if even then.

Joel’s sat on the bare mattress, looking around your room. You’re stood opposite, leaning against your half-empty dresser. The sun filters feebly through your turned shades, averting her eyes.

You look over at him. Golden, like the sunlight outside. Warm, like the breeze through the trees. Yours. Yours yours yours.

“What?” Joel asks, his eyes having finally found their way back to you. He smiles at your focused expression.

“Nothing. I don’t know. Just…”

“Talk to me. Tell me.”

“You are – this is…” You sigh. “This is good. I think it’s good. Not just all the stuff we did. But you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you tell him. “You’re good for me.” You grip the wooden lip tighter, swaying nervously when you add, “But I think it was always gonna go this way, wasn’t it?”

He sniffs. Shoulders jerk in a weak shrug. “Yeah, I think so, baby.”

Your eyelashes flutter, soothing the prickling feeling of tears forming. “I don’t – I don’t know if I want it to.”

“Yeah,” Joel says through a groan, pushing himself up, “you do.”

You shake your head as he approaches, and his hands cup your cheeks.

“Hey,” he whispers, pulling your body tight against his. Your face buries in his chest; your tears wet on his shirt. He shushes you, rocks you gently back and forth with a hand on the back of your head. “Listen to me.”

“Joel –”

“Listen to me.” He pulls you back, swipes the tears from your cheeks as quickly as they fall. “We’re fine. We are going to be fine.”

“I don’t want to leave you –”

“I know, I know. But you want to go do this. And that’s okay. Both of ‘em, at once.”

Your head shakes again. Like an instinctive reaction to the thought of being separated from him.

Joel smiles softly. “I am going to miss you like hell. You got no idea. But,” he pulls your head back to face his, tucks your hair behind your ear, “I want you to go. You gotta go after this. Right?”

“I know,” you whisper, lungs lurching for breath. “I just – wish it didn’t mean leavin’ you.”

“Darlin’…” Joel coos, pulling you in again. “You know how much I love you? What do I keep tellin’ you? We’ll be alright. It’s you ‘n me, right?”

You nod, salty tears slipping between your lips onto your tongue. When you look up, you notice the same expression on Joel’s face. He blinks his own away before they fall.

“’s you ‘n me,” you repeat, and he pulls your lips together.

You roll your tongue onto his, letting him taste you – all of you. Your mouth, and your thoughts, and your tears, and your pain. You let him take it all, let him hold it for this moment as you breathe him in, let his body fill yours in every way.

Your hands are in his hair, your chest pressed against his; he’s every thought on your mind and every beat in your heart. He’s the blood thrumming through your veins, he’s the oxygen filling your lungs; he’s the words between your teeth and the flesh around your bones.

And he pulls you, and you follow, his shirt in your fist, over to the bed where he lays you gently and falls on top.

“When’s he get back?” he asks, taking your bottom lip between his teeth.

“Later,” you mumble, your fingers picking at the hem of his shirt.

He pushes back, letting you tug it up up up over his shoulders at the same rate he peels your tee from yours, both tossing each other’s clothes to somewhere else in the room. Jeans undone, shorts dragged from your hips, underwear discarded until you’re naked under him, and he’s naked over you, and there’s nothing and no one between.

Joel cradles you, holds you close as he presses a palm roughly against the underside of your thigh, opening your body to him in a way only he’s mastered. In a way you only would, for him.

His hand cups your sex, fingers nudging between your folds, pushing in when your jaw slackens and a wanton moan echoes from your throat across Joel’s tongue.

“Yeah,” he coos, wrist jacking between your legs, “’s my girl. Gotta get you warmed up, huh? Get you nice ‘n wet.”

Your back arches, arms linking around his neck to pull him closer, pull him deeper. Hold him tight enough to you that your bodies feel one, feel connected at the meeting of Joel’s hand and the most intimate part of you; the meeting of your tongues between teeth.

And you gasp, the nudging of his fingers against the deepest part of your body, the messy circles of his thumb on your clit. The shape of him, solid and warm against the seam of your thigh.

You reach down for him, wrapping your fingers around his cock, and his breath hitches. Teeth bump into yours. You’re fucking irresistible to him.

“Darlin’,” his voice is low, daring you to keep going, “you wanna cut this short ‘fore we’re even started?”

You breathe a laugh into his jaw, hot and needy. “You get to play with me,” you whine, “I wanna play with you, too.”

Joel growls, seizing his movements, leaning back in what you take as him granting full access to his body. But then he says, “Turn around,” in a strict voice you’ve come to know as meaning one thing, and you pause.

You peel your eyes from his dick to blink up at him. “Turn –?”

“– around, now.” He takes your waist, hoisting you up until you’re straddling him, holding you inches above his body. “Turn.”

“What the fuck are you –?”

“Many times do I gotta tell you? You said you wanted to play.” He twists your waist until you follow his movements, swinging one leg over the other. He grabs your hips, tugging you back towards his face. “So, play,” he mutters, lowering your cunt down to his lips.

You gasp, falling forward and hitting the mattress between his legs. “J– fuck me. Are you s-serious?” You moan, hips rocking against the feeling of his bearded chin at your clit. “You’re like – a fucking – horny teenager. Oh, fuck.”

Your head falls forward, hands splaying out over his thighs, before your eyes refocus and you notice the hardened shape of him, tip oozing precome all over the hair-spattered plain of his groin. Your hand lifts, shakily taking hold of him again, and you lean down.

Elbows hooked over his thighs, you bring his tip to your lips, letting a thick bead of saliva fall and drip down the length of him, meeting your closed fist to be dragged up and down.

Joel’s hips almost buck. He holds it, manages to catch it, but you spot it. You’ve done this too many fucking times not to notice the reaction you draw from him.

“’s good,” you whisper, circling your hips on his face, tongue slipping across his cherry-red tip. “Feels so good.”

He responds in the form of a deep groan, rattling from his chest through your clit, shocking like lightning up your spine until the very same noise is thrown from your lips. You push down, tongue molding around every vein and the slow curve of his cock until your lips meet the thick brush of hair at his base, his tip kissing the very back of your throat.

Your throat which jumps, jolts at the feeling of something intruding – before you’re retreating again, pulling him from your body, warm, wet spit linking the two of you when you come up for air. And then you sink back down, head moving up down up down up down as his stomach tenses beneath your chest.

Joel’s palms keep a heavy hold on your ass, his tongue lapping between your folds like they’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted – like he might die if he doesn’t get his fix of you. And you think, they are, and he might, as your cheeks hollow and you bow down over him again.

You establish a rhythm, two waves swirling between one another: your hips rocking, Joel’s lifting ever so slightly as you suckle on one another. Your hand fisting the parts of him you can’t quite reach, not without choking; Joel holding you fixed to his jaw, letting the tip of his tongue hook around your swollen clit, then dragging it down until he’s letting you ride the wet muscle.

The approach of your first orgasm, a tiny spark catching to life in the pit of your belly, incites you with a need to open up further for him. Your throat taking more of him, your thighs slackening as you drive your cunt harder against his mouth.

“’m so close,” you whimper, lips curving around his cock. “So – fucking – ah, keep doin’ that. Right th-there.”

His hands hook around your thighs, tongue darting across your clit. His nose nudges somewhere between your folds, quickly becoming coated in the slick you’re leaking all over him.

“Joel,” you say, fists pumping his cock. Your voice a warning: it’s coming. You’re gonna – Fuck, you’re gonna come.

His voice is looser, more of a shrug of the shoulders when he pulls away from you. He inserts two fingers, curls them like before, like he knows drives you fucking insane. “Let go, babygirl,” he murmurs, lips immediately returning to position. And then, muffled and rough: “Come all over me.”

“Fuckfuckfuck,” you pant, hands squeezing around his cock, feeling that same spark ignite into flame, your entire body bursting with heat.

Your high rips through you, battering through each vein in your system, each nerve electrified. You collapse between his legs, his rough pubic hair sticking to the sweat on your chest, hips rutting wildly against the sharp cut of his jaw.

The mattress absorbs most of the desperate moan which streaks across your tongue, nails digging hard into the flesh of Joel’s thighs. And you hear the deep sound of his voice, the thud thud thud of a chuckle against your clit: the cocky fucker laughing to himself as he unravels you for what feels like the thousandth time.

“Alright,” Joel says, more to himself than to the fucked-out shape of you between his legs. He sits up and shifts you carefully down the bed, settling you face-down on the mattress and lifting your ass to meet his hips. “Okay?” he asks, kneeling behind you.

You feel his tip between your legs, slotting happily somewhere in your opening. Waiting for your response. A response you don’t feel able to give, as much as you’d like to; your lips puffy and confused, words jumbling behind them in a tangle of bliss and love.

“Baby,” Joel says, hand slinking down your back, pressing gentle circles into the nape of your neck. “You okay?”

Your head lifts, glancing over your shoulder to see his hairy torso, his thick arms caging over you. He lifts your chin with two fingers, cranes your neck up until you’re looking into his eyes, heavy lids blinking dumbly.

“Just fuck me,” you whisper, and Joel slips his tongue into your mouth.

You used to dream of coming back home. A few years away, doing whatever you wanted, wherever you wanted. Dreaming things up and then chasing them until they happened. Tiring yourself out, lungs gasping for breath and eyes always searching, always looking for a new target to pin up. But always coming back.

Austin, Texas. Its jagged skyline, the streets lined with a vibrant glow and star-spangled bunting. The river like a silver-bellied snake slithering through. Home.

You dreamt of living out your days here, once your blood had slowed and your mind settled. A quiet life in the country, a big wooden house with a wraparound porch. Two little rocking chairs, so you and whoever your husband turned out to be could sit and watch the sky fade from red into orange into white and then dull gray into deep blue.

Breeze kissing your cheek, his lips kissing your knuckles.

Joel.

Home.

You tell him, and he smirks. “That so?” he asks, wrapping his arms a little tighter around your naked body.

You nuzzle your cheek into the palm of his hand, breathing in the sweet scent of sweat and sex sitting in the air. “Mhm. You could play guitar until the stars come out.”

He hums in agreement. “Sounds like a pretty good dream. Tell you what: you go to LA, do what you gotta do. By the time you come back, there’ll be a big ol’ farmhouse, wraparound porch, rollin’ fields for the dogs. Coffee ‘n sunsets. How’s that sound?”

“And you’ll be there?”

He smiles. Scoops you in one arm and rolls you onto your front, chest to chest with him. His fingers ghost down the curve of your shoulder. “Baby,” he whispers, “I built the damn thing.”

It forces a laugh from your chest, something you’ve gotten used to by now. Joel and his ability to steal a giggle from you, the dumbest moments seeming the funniest. “You’re gonna build me a damn house?” you ask, chin resting between his pecs.

“That what you want?”

Your head rocks left to right, considering. “I just want you. That’s all.”

“Then you got me. I’m all yours.”

In his hazel eyes lives every moment you’ve ever shared. Every conversation, every kiss, every fight. Every minute he’s spent looking for you or at you, every minute you’ve spent looking back at him. It’s all in there. You see it like a movie reel, frame by frame.

It lands like a slot machine on that first night. Cleaning up after pizza. Shoulder to shoulder by your kitchen sink. You wish you’d just kissed him. Even with your dad right there. Wish you’d lifted your heels and put your lips on his, just for the fucking hell of it. Just to condense all of it, every second of longing and hurt and pain into one fleeting moment.

Wish you’d pulled him into you, against you, the weight of his body like an old friend. Welcomed it with open arms, like you’d spent your entire life missing it, waiting for it to come back to you. Let yourself feel your own heart, peeling between the cage of your ribs, reaching out for his. Always reaching for him.

Wish you’d looked him in the eye, tears softening the tufts of graying hair, vignetting the smirk only you can tell is there. Looked at him in that knowing way, that language only you two know; the glint in your eyes translating a thousand messy words into three. Just three – the simplest, lightest words you’ve ever known.

I love you. Let’s skip to the good part.

[innerfare]

Random Shanks Headcanons 

Summary: A random collection of Shanks headcanons

CW: None // SFW

———

Has a fake arm that he uses for gags. Only he and Yasopp find it funny. Beckman once tossed the arm overboard after Shanks ‘lost’ the arm in a pot of Lucky Roux’s stew, only for Shanks to enter the mess hall the next morning with another attached to his body. 

Can do magic tricks, especially good with coins and cards. A very skilled sleight of hand artist. Also not above using these tricks to cheat while playing cards. (Inspired by the coin game w/ Luffy flashback). Cheating is the only way he can beat Beckman, who’s by far the best player on the crew. But he doesn’t even cheat to win, he just likes the thrill of getting away with it; also enjoys the thrill of getting caught. There was a rabbit loose aboard the Red Force for a solid month after the captain tried to learn how to pull it out of a hat.

The best beer pong player in the New World, probably the entire world. Would challenge all of his enemies to a game of beer pong to settle their disputes if he thought they would respect the results of the game. Good at drinking games in general (has a little too much experience).

Is an infamous gossip. If a member of the crew wants word to get out about something, they just mention it to their captain. 

Enjoys playing matchmaker. Always acts as a wingman for his crew when there’s a pretty bar maid. The only one he never tried to fix up with one of his crew mates was his darling Makino. 

Are soap operas a thing in the One Piece universe? Because if so, he has a favorite that he never misses an episode of (fights hardest on Thursdays so he can be home in time to catch the latest episode of Search for One Piece, a pirate drama based loosely on Roger’s life. He particularly enjoys the harlequin character). 

Loves meddling in any drama that comes up aboard the ship. Sometimes even starts drama just for entertainment, like the time he told Lucky Roux that he saw Limejuice sneaking steaks from the freezer, or when he robbed Beckman blind and left traces of a turkey leg at the scene of the crime. 

Thinks childish pranks are the funniest thing in the world. Pranks prospective crew members to see how they respond; screens them based on whether they find his jokes funny. Beckman insists this is not the best way to do things but Shanks persists. But Shanks isn't just being childish. He's making sure everyone who joins his crew has a good nature as that is, in his opinion, the most important thing. If you can't trust your crew, you're dead in the water.

Was definitely posing when the government snapped the photo for his wanted poster but pretends it was completely candid. Has a habit of comparing his wanted poster to the posters of his enemies.

He also uses his wanted poster to fish for compliments, especially from his crew. “That’s a pretty good picture, isn’t it?” “I don’t look half bad in that, do I?” “The real reason the marines are hunting me- the sight of my wanted poster makes their wives swoon.”  

Refers to himself as, “that handsome devil.” 

Smells like body odor and weed, but in a Matthew McConaughey kind of way (that is to say, it works for him). 

Animals and babies always like him. He insists the trick is to act uninterested. 

He is genuinely good-natured, but he definitely uses his sense of humor to disguise how terrifying he truly is. Is a pro at lulling people into a false sense of security. Definitely slouches on purpose to seem less intimidating.

Secretly paid off Luffy's "treasure tab" at Makino's bar. Didn't do it just to be kind to the poor kid but actually because he believed Luffy when he said he'd pay it back in full and did it to annoy Luffy a decade or two down the line. (When Luffy finally goes back to pay Makino and she informs him Shanks already did, Luffy blows a gasket.)

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[fushipurro]

firefighter Toji !!! also hi, I hope you don’t mind me coming into your inbox to share some little thoughts and you can ignore this if you’d like !!

I’d love to hear your thoughts on that, the idea of him cracking jokes about saving cats from trees or even starting to call you his damsel in distress if you ever ask him to help you with something, even if it’s as simple as opening a stubborn jar

or how baby megumi would be so proud to tell everyone his dad is a firefighter and always wants to wear his dads hat that is too big for his little head !!

omg i love these ideas, and i don't mind at all!! i'm really happy you sent them cause now you got the ball rolling for me to go ham :3 i hope you enjoy these thoughts and i'd love to do more in the future ♡

☆ content: mostly sfw (nsfw under the cut, MDNI), domestic fluff, suggestive themes, foreplay, rough sex, chokeplay, creampie

☆ firefighter!toji who at first thought saving cats from trees was just something you'd see on TV, but realized soon after joining the force how often of an occurrence it actually is. the two of you started keeping a tally sheet because of it, always asking when he came home from a shift "how many cats did you save today?" he soon starts to text you photos of the cats he rescues knowing how much you love them and would want to see. if he's able, he'll take selfies with them just for you.

☆ firefighter!toji who started calling you his damsel in distress for fun, but quickly made it into one of the more common pet names he'll use for you. if he catches you struggling with anything, he'll be right behind you, smirking ear to ear asking, "does my damsel need some help?" you swear he purposely tightens all the jars in the house so you have no choice but to ask him to "save you", his beloved damsel.

☆ firefighter!toji who always comes home wearing his uniform jacket and hat just for you and megs to enjoy. he loves watching megumi struggle to wear it, and even more when you're right there taking pictures of it to frame on the wall. toji keeps one of these photos tucked away in his wallet and another of you in a nice cocktail dress and heels wearing his jacket after he had to bring you to the station during one of your dates for a sudden fire call.

☆ firefighter!toji who megumi always draws pictures of in school, always excited when his father comes around to show him off to his classmates. if he's able to, toji will sometimes pick megumi up from school in one of the rigs, throwing his hat on the boy and letting him play with the lights and sirens as they leave the lot. when christmas comes around, the station always dresses toji up as santa to toss candy to the neighborhood kids, megumi right there with him to help as his favorite little elf.

☆ firefighter!toji who loves when he can bring you the station to show you off for all the pancake breakfasts and warm weather grilling events they host. just seeing you in those beautiful sundresses always brings a smile to his face and even more when he sneaks you off to his rig to see how you look underneath the fabric.

☆ firefighter!toji who loves when you visit the station in your free time to deliver baked goods or a homecooked meal if he's had a busy day. you can't help but feel your core heat up seeing him in his uniform pants, topless with a sheen of sweat from working out, and when he slides down the pole just to meet you? you can bet you'll have him all to yourself at a moment's notice behind a closed door until the dispatch alarm inevitably goes off.

☆ firefighter!toji who has to try his hardest not to break his pager when it goes off during sex, swearing it always happens right before one of you climaxes. he never does though, not when he knows there's lives to save and every second counts but boy does it frustrate him. as he flies out the door, he always manages to kiss you and to wait up for him. when he does come home after a call, he's quick to express just how pent up he is, turning it into an intense lovemaking session that leaves you marked more than normal and needing to be carried around after like the damsel you are.

the two of you had just finished enjoying a nice dinner together and were enjoying the rest of your evening deep into some foreplay. toji originally wanted to take his sweet time catching up with you and your body after some busy shifts. the recent holidays had kept him away more often and he missed you more than words could say.

he barely had his shirt off, biding his time worshipping his damsel's body before even thinking of pleasuring himself. with that said, his cock strained against the fabric that held him back from plunging right into the clothed heat he was rubbing himself against. toji had his hands wrapped around your breasts, tongue flicking over each bud drawing you closer and closer to your high until all of a sudden, ~BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP~

your bodies froze instantly, going silent as he listened intently to whether or not his station was being dispatched and the nature of the call.

"fuckin' hell." he growled, reaching for his shirt. you stood up as well, throwing on your silk robe and going to gather his wallet and keys to remote start it for him.

when he met you at the front door, you reached up to kiss his scowling face, handing the man his belongings. "good luck, be safe, and i love you, toji." the three phrases you always tell him before he leaves as a blessing of sorts.

"love you too, y/n. i'll be back as soon as i can." he cupped your chin, staring deep into your eyes with a cold and desiring expression. his voice went low, causing your body to shiver with anticipation, "don't play with yourself before i'm home, i intend to finish what we started."

after he left, you waited by the window to watch him speed off before returning to your shared room. it hit you now being back in the sheets that he had unintentionally edged you and you ached for that sweet ecstasy to take you. but he gave you his orders, and all you could do was lay there staring at the ceiling, twiddling your thumbs to distract yourself from the heat pooling between your legs.

it was an agonizing wait, but once you heard the front door slam, you shot up to see the man already making haste towards you from the bedroom door.

"welcome home, toj─" his lips crashed into yours before you could finish your greeting, the force pushing you back against the sheets. you were familiar with how rough he can be, but this already felt more intense.

toji's body desperately clinged to yours in any way possible. his knee pressed against your exposed core, one hand holding your jaw to give him more access to mark your neck up. your fingers found purchase between his raven locks as you felt a knot tightening at your waist.

"fucking," he started to speak between starved kisses, undoing his pants as fast as humanly possible. "yet another guy who thought," he fisted himself a few times, lining the angry tip up to your entrance. "deep frying a frozen turkey was a good idea. fuck─"

a groan left both of your mouths as he pushed his way inside. he hooked his arm under your knee, drawing it upwards to give him better leverage to reach nice and deep to your g-spot.

"can't these people stick to stuffin' their birds in the damn oven safely?" he can feel your body clench around his cock, inviting him further as his pace grew. it didn't go unnoticed by the man, "oh? did my sweet girl hear something she likes?" he laughed through his nose with a smirk that reached ear to ear, his gaze like that of a predator. "bet you want me to stuff you, huh?"

you nodded your head feverishly, clinging to the sheets until your knuckles turned white.

"use your words, princess." his voice low and cold, betraying the way his body yearned for yours. "lemme hear my damsel beg for me to help."

"fuck fuck, please toji! i need you~" you whined, raising your hands above your head and rubbing your face against your bicep as your mind went crazy with lust.

toji reached for your other leg, throwing them over his thighs until he was perfectly between you. upon doing so, he leaned down, coiling his hand around your throat and pressing into the sides.

"eyes on me, sweetheart." your breath hitched as waves of pleasure coursed through you. "need to see that pretty face of yours when i stuff you full of my cum."

the vibrations from your moans ran right through his fingers and straight to his core. your high washing over you like a tidal wave with his length trapped in a vice grip. oh how toji wants to compare this force of yours against the jaws of life, betting you'd come out on top without a doubt.

he continued pumping you through your high, overstimulating you once his thumb hit your pearl. your fingers clawed at the veins running through his arms, eventually freeing your throat for you to breathe. toji moved his grip down to your waist to steady himself, chasing his pent up orgasm as another came under you that unraveled him. a deep growl leaving the man as you moaned his name freely.

he accomplished his goal in stuffing you, as evident from the thick glops of seed spilling out from inside you around his cock. "so good f'me, y/n." you could tell he was finally starting to relax from his earlier frustrations as his tone softened up.

"toji~" you mewled, looking up at him, panting in an attempt to catch your breath.

the man leaned down over you, caressing your face. he could see the red handprints forming over your body, sure to bruise later. "i know, baby. let me make it up to you, okay?" his lips came down to place gentle kisses over all the angry welts forming with praise in between. "you're such a good girl, my sweet damsel."

after that rough bout, he kept the next few rounds slow and sensual, moving you to the bath as he cleaned you off and carried you back to a clean bed. once there, toji pulled you against his chest as he whispered to you all the details from the turkey incident like a bedtime story. his fingers caressed over your stomach while his words lulled you into a deep slumber before he followed after. the next morning, toji made sure to bring your favorite breakfast to you in bed as you stirred awake, peppering you with kisses to start the day.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

You Make Me Wanna 4

Warnings: dark elements, noncon, age gap, best friend’s dad trope other dark elements. Proceed with caution.

Note: Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

You don't hear from Faye. You don't expect to. Can you blame her? You're much happier with your absentee dad than an overbearing brute like hers. And it's fair to assume you snitched her out, why would she suspect her own father of tracking her phone? 

That's deranged. Truly. Once more, you're thankful that no one really cares enough to be strict with you. Sometimes you swear your mom forgets she even has kids. 

She's on the porch that day when you leave for work. You have the green grocery store blouse on with a pair of thrift store slacks that don't breathe. It's hot out and many of your neighbours are hiding inside with their window fans and raggedy old AC units buzzing. Some kids run through a sprinkler at the end of the street and two men drink cold ones on their stoop.

The block can be shady but it's home to you. The few times Faye came around were fleeting. She only stopped by to pick you up or drop you off. You often caught the look in her face, that one of judgment but pity. 

You don't hold it against her. She can't help the gap between you. You've accepted your place. You'll ruin your arches slaving away as a cashier and she would have stopped talking to you anyway once she finished school. Frankly, you're surprised she hasn't already. 

A honk makes you jump. You stop short as a car pulls up in front of you before you can cross. You back up as you recognise the finish. You cross your arms. What the hell? 

You go to circle around the back of the car and he shifts into reverse. You huff and he rolls forward as you go back the other way. You stop and stomp your foot. The window rolls down on your side. 

"Mr. Marshall, I'm on my way to work," you grit.  

"You? Work?" He says. 

Your rage simmers and you measure your breath. He's not going to ruin your day. You stand still and stare over his car. 

"Some of us have to," you sniff, "isn't that what you always said?" 

"Didn't realise you listen to me," he scoffs. 

"Are you going to let me pass?" You snip. 

He's quiet as he idles by the corner. He leans over the passenger seat to see you better, "you got home safe." 

"Don't act like you care," you retort, "alright? If you're looking for Faye, I haven't heard from her. Besides, don't you have GPS?" 

"I didn't say anything about Faye," he insists. 

You curl your fingers as your frustration mounts, "then why are you bothering me?" 

"I'm on duty. Was in the neighbourhood," he says coolly. 

"Right, sure," you mutter and check your phone. 

"Gonna be late? Hop in." 

"You're not serious. After last time--" 

You stop yourself. Why is he doing this? He just wants a rise out of you but why? Why do you matter to him? He only ever thought of you as a bad influence for his angel of a daughter. They can both piss off. 

"You really don't let things go," he chuckles. 

"Speak for yourself," you sneer. 

"So... this your neighbourhood?" 

You turn on your heel and cross the other way. You're done. You're not going to stand there and be mocked. Maybe if he ever asked instead of glaring and growling, he'd know more than he assumed. 

You don’t look back and he doesn’t follow. You’re happy at least for that. You get your fair share of jackasses at work, one on the way is too much. 

🌙

Your shift drags on. You’re thankful for the air conditioning but not the work. Customers barter over the cost of potatoes or complain that you’re out of their preferred seasoning. You try to look like you care but that’s the hardest part of the job. 

The dinnertime rush peters out and you lean on your till. Brandy goes to stock the shelves with Ricky as Ariel texts away on her phone. The monotony is set to drive you crazy, that and the dad rock wafting from the speakers and droning through the mostly empty aisles. 

You pore over an Archie comic as the seconds tick by. You’re only taken away from Riverdale as you sense a shadow at the end of your lane. You stand up and close the magazine, tucking it back on the shelf. You nearly let your disappointment bubble out to sigh as you recognise your customer. 

Walter sets down a glass bottle of root beer and one of the ready-made meals from the deli. You don’t say a word as you push them across the scanner and to the other side of your till. You hit total. 

“Cash or credit?” 

He doesn’t answer. He steps close to the other side of the till and looks over easily at you. You squint back with derision. 

“Sir, you gotta pay--” 

“Is it any good?” He points to the tray of rice and fixings on the far end of the till. “The General Tao chicken? Don’t want crunchy rice.” 

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I can put it back on the shelf if you don’t want it.” 

“If you had to recommend something--” 

“I don’t eat that stuff. Too pricey,” you focus on keeping your eyes from rolling back in your head. 

“Sure, still cheaper than the burger joint across the lot,” he takes out his wallet, “long day. I’m starving.” 

You tap the machine to signal him to pay. He taps his card and you print his receipt. You place it on top of the tray of chicken and rice and reach for the Archie comic once more. 

“So you haven’t heard from Faye?” He asks. 

“I knew--” you stop yourself, “no, Mr. Marshall,” you lean back and open the book, fluttering through to find your page, “she isn’t my daughter.” 

He lets a breath out heavily through his nostrils. He grabs his soda and the chicken. You ignore him for the antics of Jughead, his existence lingering just along the edge of your vision before slowly stalking off. 

You can’t help but wonder why he’s looking for Faye and if she’s okay. 

[sehnsuchts-trunken]

Red or Blue

Tangerine x reader <3 based on this lovely prompt

it's kind of a slow burn, which is so unlike me, but- welp. whatever? ig? no triggerwarnings anyway, they don't even kiss

masterlist

(he's genuinely so fine i am unwell)

"This is all your fault", you huff, crossing your arms as you stare at the array of candies in front of you.

"How's any of this my fucking fault?", Tangerine seethes, trying to keep his voice down somewhat (which is already better than what he does most times), but hardly succeeding.

"If you'd listened to me, I wouldn't have been backed into that corner in the first place and Lemon wouldn't have had to come save me", you bite back, narrowing your eyes as you pluck a bag of gummies off the shelf. "Ergo, he wouldn't have got hurt."

"Lemon likes the red ones better", Tangerine grunts, taking a step closer to you as an elderly couple turns the corner and pushes their cart into your aisle. "And 'ergo' what the fuck do you mean, love? I wasn't the one to fucking break his leg."

"You don't use ergo like that", you correct, tilting your head back to him as if that nickname hadn't just sent your heart into cardiac arrest. "Also, I'm pretty sure Lemon likes the blue ones just fine."

"Yeah, just fine, but he likes the red ones better, that's the difference."

Tangerine reaches for the bag of red candy and his arm brushes your shoulder, immediately restarting your heartbeat with a deafeaning thump.

"I thought the red ones 'made his stomach feel funny' yesterday", you argue, even though you can already hear the way your resistance is crumbling as his eyes meet yours again, some of that feral fighting instinct in there that you recognise from missions.

"That was the green ones, love", he corrects, plucking the bag of blue candies from your grip and shoving it back into the shelf. You gasp in outrage. "Just listen to me for fucking once and take the goddamn red candy."

You put your hands on your hips and narrow your eyes at him.

"Oh, since when is the fucking problem me listening to you?", you seethe, your lips still parted, ready to shoot a whole tirade at him in the middle of this 24/7 supermarket when you're suddenly interrupted by a hearty chuckle to your left.

Tangerine's head snaps around a nanosecond before yours does.

"I'm sorry", the elderly lady says, her hair white as snow and her arm looped through what you guess to be her husband's. "I didn't want to interrupt you two, I just- I can remember how stressful that was, being young, just married, dealing with the little ones..."

"I'm sure if we'd had these twenty-four hour stores when we'd just had children, we would have stood right there arguing too", her husband laughs.

You blink at them helplessly for a few moments. What the fuck is happening? Hello? Marriage? Kids?

"It gets better", the woman chuckles. "We're happy and stress-free now, aren't we?"

Her husband hums in agreement and presses a kiss to her temple.

"And you look like a lovely couple", she goes on, smiling at you. "You'll manage this stage too."

This stage.

Oh, dear lord.

She's talking about this stage of being married. This stage of having young children. Because you're standing in a 24/7 supermarket candy aisle with Tangerine, arguing about which colour to get for Lemon, which she seems to have interpreted as a nickname for your son.

Your fucking son. Your and Tangerine's son. In your marriage.

"Oh, um", you stutter, brushing a hand through your hair as you stare at the couple, doing your hardest not to cast even a fucking glance Tangerine's way. Your cheeks are stinging with heat. You don't need him to see that. "Actually, we're not-"

"Not married yet", Tangerine interrupts, his hand flexing and clenching around his bag of candy. Any train of thought you'd previously had shatters completely and your head whips around to him after all - is that a faint dust of pink on his cheeks? Is it really what you think it is? Fuck, should your heart be hammering this fast and strong and loud?

"Ah", the woman grins. "How times have changed. We'd had to get married as soon as I was pregnant."

"Are you engaged, then?", her husband asks, raising his eyebrows and smiling pleasantly.

They're so calm. Meanwhile, your heart is doing somersaults in your chest.

"Uh", you say, not all that intelligently.

"Yeah", Tangerine rasps, his voice hoarse somehow. "Few months now."

You blink wordlessly at him. What the actual fuck is he doing? There's no reason to lie. None. You're not undercover.

"That's nice", the woman smiles. "Well, have a good night then."

They're already half-turned away when she looks back over her shoulder.

"Oh, and for those candies", she adds with a conspicuous grin. "Just take both. Let your son decide which he likes better when they're side by side."

You swallow.

"Uh, thanks", you mutter, unsure if they can even still hear. "Good night."

Tangerine drops the bag of candies into your cart. Then he's quiet. And you're quiet.

Too quiet.

For too long.

You don't know what the hell has just happened.

"Tangerine", you breathe, your voice low, and your eyes settle on him slowly. "Since when are we engaged?"

He grunts and drags his eyes away from you, grabbing your bag of blue candies off the shelf again and putting it in the cart with the other one.

"Since fucking never, love", he grumbles, just before his hands close around the handles of the cart. "But I wasn't about to say that, was I?"

"No?", you guess with a frown as you force yourself to move, to trail after him down the aisle. "Because?"

Tangerine turns to look at you like you're mad.

"Because they could've been fucking spies, love", he snarls, as though that's obvious and you're somehow dumb for not thinking of it.

"You're not serious."

He can't be serious.

But he stops the cart and turns to look at you, way too close and way too tall, and if you'd thought you had seen a blush on his cheeks before, it was definitely gone by now. There's that familiar dangerous glint in his eyes instead. Somehow, that puts you more at ease.

"Do you see me bloody laughing?", he seethes, his fingers clenching so hard around the handle that his knuckles turn white.

"I don't think I've ever seen you laugh", you mutter and swallow hard at the way his eyes fixate on yours. "You really made up a whole ass lie for an eighty-year old couple because you thought that they could be spies?"

Tangerine huffs and turns back, pushing the cart with even more ferocity now.

"Yes, love", he grunts.

Your stomach drops. You don't know why.

Instead of dwelling on it, you fiddle with the rings on your hands and fall in step with him.

"Well", you hum. "If you ever do buy me a ring, I don't want it in blue or in red."

[prettiestlovergirl]

hii! its tots fine if no but could you maybe do some fluff with basketball player luke and like him tryinh to teach you how to play?🙈

i read basketball & fluff and my one tree hill obsessed heart started singing. YES, ABSOLUTELY I CAN DO THIS <3333 have to preface this by saying that i know like nothing about basketball, though. i am a strictly baseball-hockey girl myself sdjfhskdjfh. my knowledge is limited but i will do my best, hehe. she's short and sweet. enjoy, my lovely! 𓆩♡𓆪

"you might be the worst player i have ever seen, and i once watched grover try to play." your boyfriend, luke castellan, chuckled unhelpfully from behind you.

you and luke had been going out for a couple of months now and honestly? you'd never been happier. he'd made you feel so welcome your first week of camp and every day since, he'd made you feel safe and cared for.

you were basically luke's dream girl. you were funny, caring, charming, and you had very quickly become his safe space. your one big flaw, however, was that you couldn't play basketball for shit.

the two of you had been playing horse on the camp court and you were failing... miserably. luke already had H-O-R-S and you... had no letters. yeah, you were that bad.

"in the words of annabeth: statistically speaking, you should have at least gotten one by now." he grinned, his smile only growing wider when you turned around to glare at him.

"oh, fuck off! not all of us are basketball superstars!" you huffed, but you couldn't help but laugh along with him. this was part of why you cared about him so much, he could always make you laugh despite yourself.

"if this is the best you can do, i don't think we can see each other anymore. makes me look bad." he laughed, quickly getting up from the bench he was on to avoid getting hit with the ball you tossed at him.

"i'm kidding, i'm kidding! c'mere." he laughed, beckoning you toward him with that easy smile you loved. "i can't do it, basketball is not one of my many skills! quit on me, castellan, i'll only slow you down." you sighed dramatically.

"alright, drama queen. you can, just trust me." luke stated, rolling his eyes at your dramatics. "square your shoulders, to the basket." he instructed, watching as you begrudgingly did as told, lips formed in a little pout.

"now, you gotta bring the ball up right past your nose like this, okay?" he instructed, demonstrating exactly what to do with his own arms, ball in hand as you went through the motion with him.

"bend your knees a little." he corrected, holding the ball out for you to grab before stepping behind you. "relax your hips..." he murmured, gently placing his hands on you and leaning down to your ear to make sure you could still hear him... and also to be a romantic sap.

"and... just shoot." he stated, eyes watching you while you eyed the hoop suspiciously. "that's it? just shoot?" you asked, voice a little breathy as you turned your head a bit to look at him. "just shoot." he repeated with a nod.

"well, here goes nothing." you sighed, bending your knees a little more before bending a little and letting the ball fly out of your hands and... right into the net.

"holy shit" you breathed, grin breaking out onto your face as you turned to look at your smiling, slightly cocky boyfriend. "told you so." he smirked, grunting a bit on impact as you flung your arms around him with a laugh.

"okay, maybe you can be right sometimes." you relented, sighing dramatically like it was the hardest thing you'd ever have to admit. "that's very big of you, babe." he chuckled, eyes shining with adoration as he looked at you.

"now, do it a few more times and maybe you'll catch up to me." luke hummed, jogging leisurely to go pick up the ball from it's spot by the bench.

"nuh uh, castellan. i'm going out on the high of making that one shot, i'm retired, 'm too good to keep going." you stated, shaking your head and turning on your heel to leave.

"quitter!" he called after you, grinning as you simply flipped him off and kept walking. "see you before dinner?"

"duh, you owe me a victory kiss."

ᵈⁱᵛⁱᵈᵉʳ ᵐᵃᵈᵉ ᵇʸ @ᵐᵘʳᵘᶠᶠⁱⁿ

[jade-of-mourning]

sorry sometimes i think about mako and my heart hurts so much. this kid raised himself and his brother on the streets in homelessness and utter poverty from eight through fifteen, promptly after seeing the violent death of his mother and father. he turned to the triple threats because they couldn't survive as a pair of wretched kids without any adult support, and the environment forced him to turn into the exact character that killed his parents in a terrible twist of irony. and after sheer-fucking-luck hits and they aren't homeless anymore, their livelihood wavers on the outcome of what's a literally game to everyone but them; and after things are finally starting to look up and their team is going places and things just might be okay, his gradually stabilizing world unceremoniously expands and everything goes to shit.

and the city that chewed him up and spat him back out, ruined him as a child and took away his ability to stay afloat in a true sense of normalcy as an adult — when it's on the verge of destruction and falling to pieces before his eyes, he gives himself to save it with the full expectation to die. he went from the kid who didn't and couldn't care about anything outside of himself and his brother, to finding redemption for his younger self in his police work despite its injustice against him, to willingly sacrificing himself to a world that had never loved him.

he's a desperate people pleaser, socially and emotionally stunted for the adult he had to be as a kid, unable to navigate interpersonal relationships easily yet still trying his damned hardest. he's intensely and entirely devoted to the things that matter to him and for so long it was only him, bolin, and ensuring their survival — yet by the end, that devotion has expanded to protecting the rest of the world. he starts out entirely self-reliant and ends in trusting the people he cares about to know their own needs, to be able to take care of themselves, to be okay without him despite having spent so much of his life defined by his role in others' well-being.

just. what the fuck i'm such a big fan of this fictional guy and i'm unashamed about it at this point. also let him cry please (if you won't i'll do it i'll let him cry)