#the amount of times i felt a warm fondness making this... <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[irndad]

hii dollface, would u write smtg abt hotch being jealous?

like he's trying to hide it from making the team notices when he saw some officer flirting with r?

no pressure in writing, lovey. change it however u want or ignore it if u dont feel like writing it (i completely understands u 🤍)

my love this has lived in my brain so relentlessly <3 i hope you love it!!!! thank you for requesting!! wc: 1.7k

It is incredibly easy to like her.

She’s charismatic in a way that’s almost universally appealing, and he’s memorized the shape of her wide grin. She smiles with her whole face, and Aaron hasn’t really spent too much time trying to make people smile. He’s had success in some ways, but when she smiles at him there’s something in his chest that burns in achingly lovely way. 

At first, he had assumed her kindness was a way to win him over. In her first week, she had noticed there was a rip in his tie (which he’s not sure how could even happen) and she’d whipped out a pocket sewing kit, repairing it. 

He tries not to think about the fact that she’s beautiful. She is, though, in spirit and in appearance. He’s an expert in controlled presentation, but to some extent she must know that’s he’s fond of her. 

When they’d first met (which he can still picture in his minds’ eye- her oversized sweater tucked into her tailored pants, the purple lipstick adorning her beautiful smile) he’d tried to keep his distance. It’s easy to romanticize her, and being her friend felt a little impossible when seeing her as more felt so inevitable.

This plan did not go well, and Aaron had officially tossed it when one day, the babysitter for Jack fell through when he was halfway around the world. She’d picked him up from school and tended to him, and Aaron had come home to a blanket fort on his kitchen floor, and a happy little boy who wanted her to come over every day. 

So it's a little hard to ignore how much he adores her. 

She doesn’t normally want to come out to the scene and they usually don’t require it, but they’re going out to a place she spent most of her twenties, and she knew people in the local PD, so Aaron had asked her to come. 

She’d done so without complaint, although he knows she doesn’t sleep well on the jet. No one knows where the nicer pillows and blankets came from, and Aaron would prefer it that way. 

Anyway. 

The bullpen of this department is chaotic and a certain caretaking is living at the edge of Aaron’s consciousness, a protective desire to keep her from the loudness and violence that she’s typically protected from. 

He’s still thinking this, when he hears her voice over the chaotic hum of the department. 

“Oh my god, Logan!”

Her voice is joyful, and when Aaron turns to see who she’s looking at, it’s an agent. He can tell that he’s not a police officer for many reasons- the fact that he’s got a long, shaggy haircut and a 5 o clock shadow and a leather jacket on his shoulders. The local police would be too strict, and he must be some kind of different authority to be allowed to be here.

He hears the stranger call her name back, and they hug. 

It’s a quick thing, but imbued with deep fondness. Aaron’s not sure he’s ever hugged her for more than a second- just a congratulations when his commendation came in. She’d smelled like roses. 

Now, she’s hugging Logan. 

“Hotch,” she says, a smile still in her voice, “This is Logan! We went to graduate school together. He’s brilliant, I can’t believe he’s down here.”

Her voice is seeped in admiration, and Aaron feels an ugly amount of what can only be described as jealousy. 

“Great to meet you. You’re the unit chief, yeah?”

“SSA Aaron Hotchner,” he offers the man a curt nod, “Have you met the team?”

He goes through the motions of introducing him to the team- he greets Reid with a warm smile and tells him that he’s read his papers. Logan compliments Emily’s shirt, and Morgan’s watch. 

He’s incredibly charismatic.

Is Aaron charismatic? He doesn’t think so. His team, who probably adore him as much as anyone could, still note that he can be harsh, prickly. He never smiles, he knows. He lacks expressiveness. Logan is all fluid movement and easy conversation, and when he takes the jacket off, Aaron sees a great deal of tattoos on his forearm, his sweater sleeves slid up. 

He’d smile for her. 

What should be a good thing, but hurts- Logan is an excellent consultant profiler. He’s thoughtful and helpful and she has an easy rapport with him. Aaron- he’s so bad at talking to women. 

She makes Aaron feel like he’s good at it though. When they drive together, the conversation is easy and feels nice. It’s like sunbathing, basking in the light of her attention and intention. 

With the help of the man that Aaron has decided he hates, the case is finished up quickly. 

He can’t shake the thought they’ve probably dated. It’s not his business- this crush, although this word feels inadequate for the intensity of the way she makes him feel. It’s a private thing he’s never going to act on- he’s older and her superior, and besides- 9 stab wounds and a lifetime worth of issues is a million times less appealing than someone like Logan. Young, exuberant probably not too afraid to ask for what he wants.

“Drink tonight?” Logan asks the team, and a chorus of yes’s and please’s echo through the emptying bullpen. 

“Raincheck,” she says to Logan, “I’ll see you next time I’m in town, yeah?” She beams at him, hugging him in a quick-but-too-long-for-Aaron’s-taste motion, and the string in Aaron’s chest that feels like it’s been pulled all week threatens to pull him under.

After everyone files out, she offers to help him fill out paperwork in his office. It’s just like her, so kind and sweet. Spending her free time filling out reports to make his workload go easier.

About a half hour of amenable silence passes, before Aaron chooses to speak.

“So, you and Logan.”

“He’s great, right?”

Regrettably, Aaron agrees.

“He seems very kind.”

“Yeah, he and his fiancee are really fun. They travel all over, kite-board and do tons of adventure stuff, he’s pretty awesome.”

A moment passes.

It’s like a balloon losing air, the feeling of relief taking the place of panic.

“I thought you two were romantically involved.” He doesn’t know how to verbalize things casually. If he lets it up, he might do something dangerous like tell her that he wants to be someone who romances her, wants to be the person who kisses her after dates and holds an umbrella over her head when she’s caught in the rain. He wants to be what she comes homes to, and it’s a confession living in the back of his throat, threatening to escape at every moment. 

She sucks in a harsh breath, and he wonders if it’s a misstep to have told her- it’s not a confession, really. It sounds like one though- why would he care? What makes it his business?

“Not that that’s relevant to me,” he stammers, “You’re free to engage with whoever you’d like-“

“I know, Hotch.” She doesn’t grace him with his first name, but her voice is fond and warm, her doe eyes meeting his. He likes it, he decides. 

“I’m not seeing him,” she continues, her body shifting to face him, “I think he’s a little…casual for me.”

He thinks of Logan’s leather jacket and unshaven face, rugged appearance and compares it to how he presents himself- clean cut and sharp lines, his suits tailed to fit him like a glove. 

“You prefer something a little more…dignified?” He hears himself say with more confidence then he feels- her implication is clear, but he wonders if he’s mishearing it. 

She tips her head back and he hears her lovely laugh ring through the air like something sacred, and he waits to hear her response. 

“I don’t know, I just know that I’ve been liking this guy for a while,” she muses, looking down at her fingernails, “But he hasn’t seemed to pick up on any of my hints.”

On one of his braver days, he’d told her that he liked that purple lipstick. He hasn’t seen her without it since. She’d always been so kind to everyone that it was hard to notice when her treatment towards him was special, but he thinks it might be. How quick she offers to help with Jack- gives away a Saturday evening to spend with him, even though she sees too much of his face at work.

Her friend from grad school offered to get drinks, and she’s here, telling him what she looks for in a guy.

He tries to be logical about the whole thing, but it’s a bit hard- she’s funny and warm and Aaron loves being around her- loves her company enough to maybe ask for more of it. 

“If this ‘guy’ did like you,” he murmurs, intentionally not meeting her gaze, the precision of which is boring a hole into the side of his head, “How would he go about that?”

He’s not sure what the point of being coy is now, but he can’t seem to stop. He does look down to her and meet her eyes. 

“I think I’d probably corner him,” she says breathlessly. They’re quite close together, now. He wonders if she likes his aftershave. She tugs a hundred through her hair, a nervous but incredibly attractive gesture, “Y’know, if everyone we worked with went to get drinks, and it was just us. If he was amenable to that.”

“If he was amenable to that.”

A rush of emotion licks up his spine- it’s fun, flirting with her. The creep of warmth on her cheek, how her fingers are brushing hers. 

“I think he might be.”

Purple lipstick, rose perfume mixing with the scent of expensive aftershave- he thinks he might be able to kiss her, now. He’s never been good at knowing when to take the jump, but this is something he can do. He can let her know that he wants it. 

She reads him well enough, it turns out, and she kisses him. It’s a surprise and he is so rusty at this and yet- his hand stand on the small of her back, pulling her in and he can feel her lovely smile against him. She’s warm and joyful and she’d kissed him, and all he could do was lean in-

“I think he might be too.” She says, significantly less color on her lips, and more on his, he imagines.

She doesn’t have to wonder, though. When Aaron kisses her again, he decides- he will make her incredibly certain of his affections. 

[mia-maybank]

I Have A Feeling You Got Everything You Wanted: Part 3 - George Clarke

George Clarke x Fem!reader (2.2k words)

The sidemen charity match , a gorgeous ex-boyfriend with a mullet and his entire friendgroup scattered around the stands to avoid ... what could ever go wrong?

warnings: alcohol consumption, throwing up (not graphic more just mentioned), a sickening amount of pet names bcs I can't help it??

series | masterlist

I'm so sorry this took a while to get out, I started my A-level exams this week and moved house so its been hell :') Thank you guys for being so patient!

Also I'm thinking this series is gonna be around 6-8 parts but if there's any other moments or headcannon type stuff people would like to see around this series I would love to do lil bonus chapters as well!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The others don't notice our entrance into the changing room at first, too busy playfighting, jokingly arguing with one another and Chris attempting to waterboard Stephen with his half-empty water bottle. Both teams seemed to have congregated to the Sidemen FC changing room, the plentiful blurs of black and red only amplifying the sickening swirl of nerves in my stomach.

Harry is the first to notice us, and whilst he makes a valiant effort at a poker face, his widened eyes give away how despite being one of the group that ran into me on the stairs, he did not expect George to bring me back here.

Will spots us next, his hands dropping to our linked pinkies with a furrowed brow before he bounces over to us without a second thought.

"Ay, Y/n! Long time no see mate" he calls out before pulling me into a bone-crushing hug that I quickly reciprocate, feeling something in my heart heal slightly from somebody being so openly affectionate following weeks of being touch-starved.

His greeting announces my presence to the rest of the group, and the chaos trudges to a halt as the others turn their attention to me. My head swims with anxiety, and I feel the sudden need to bolt from the room and find somewhere quiet and lonely and safe to hide, away from the shell-shocked stares of my ... found family? friends? ex-friends? I wasn't quite sure where we stood anymore, our friendships balancing on a delicate scale that had been accumulating dust for the past 2 months and is now going to tip one way or the other.

"Y/n where the fuck have you been?" Theo barks out, making me recoil slightly, anticipating the angry ramble that The was well-known for when he felt strongly about something. To my surprise, he instead pulls me into a bone crushing hug, and the relief hits me like a freight truck when I realise that I'm not being stared at with judgement, but rather soft smiles and relieved expressions from the rest of the group. "I thought you'd died or moved to another country or something stupid like that" Theo murmurs, accompanied by a small sniffle.

"Theo Baker, are you crying?" I half-tease, half enquire in concern as he turns away from me, clearly trying to hide the tears in his eyes and the way his ears have turned red from embarrassment of being caught. "No, fuck off, I forgot how annoying you are" he responds, making me laugh lightly, a sound I haven't made in months, as he adds on "you're seriously never allowed to vanish like that again though, that was terrifying".

As soon as Theo pulls away fully, I'm swarmed with choruses of "you're back!", "I missed you so much" and "where have you been for the last 2 months?" as well as bone-crushing hugs from each and every person, even Chip and Calfreezy, who come in to investigate the commotion. Through the arms of the various boys, I spot George in the corner next to Chris, staring at me with a fond and familiar gaze that makes my cheeks warm and my heart flutter. I duck my head quickly into the shoulder of Stephen (who is in the middle of half-crushing me in a hug and half-lecturing me about my disappearance in his usual sarcastic manner) before George can notice my rosy cheeks and realise how much he still affects me.

Despite the warm welcome from each individual, there is still an underlying tension thickening the room, the type of tension that cannot be avoided or ignored. Sure enough, Chris steps over to me, his smile sincere and loving but his eyes holding a quiet sadness as he guides me gently to sit on the bench between him and George.

"Y/n, I think you need to speak to the guys about what you told me earlier... only if you want to of course but I think it's important that they know how hard the last 2 months have been" Chris encourages gently, his soothing tone having little effect on me as I immediately begin to shake my head in panic.

"Y/n love, it's okay. Me and Chris are right here with you" George chimes in, warm fingers interlocking with my own, and if I wasn't so focused on George's soft gaze, I would have noticed the suggestive glances the others were throwing at me and George.

I take a deep breath, squeezing George's hand tightly as a way to soothe my nerves, before turning to address the group. "After - after the breakup it was - hard to say the least" I begin, avoiding eye contact with everybody. "I know I didn't reach out to any of you and that's my fault, but when nobody contacted me after the breakup I thought you had all taken George's side and I can't lie that fucking hurt." my voice cracks now, but I push on, refusing to stop now that I have already said so much. "It felt like my life kind of stopped following the breakup - I had no friends, no motivation to film for my youtube channel and no reason to get out of bed most days. Today is the first time I've left my flat in the last 8 weeks, and I don't think I can go back to being that alone again". Tears are streaming freely down my face now and I wipe them away, embarrassed at how much I'm breaking down in front of such a large group.

A deadly silence stretches on for an unbearable 30 seconds before Stephen is the one that dares to break it. "Y/n I'm so fucking sorry" he apologises, his usually humour and sarcasm entirely void. "That was so fucking shitty of us and there's no excuse for that".

I shake my head, tears embarrassingly springing to my eyes once more. "I don't blame you guys-".

"Y/n" George cuts me off gently, tightening his grip on my hand and looking down at me with a small frown full of guilt. "You should blame us because we should of reached out, hell even I should have checked in and that's that, okay?" Despite his gentle tone, his voice leaves no room for argument, so I instead lean into him, allowing the guys to embrace me in a tangle of limbs and sincere apologies.

~~~

I should have predicted that drinking so much would end in disaster.

The night had started not far from perfect, with me further reuniting with Arthur Hill (my musically-talented ex-flatmate that I had lived with for years alongside Chris and George), Arthur Frederick (my museum partner who had spent hours with me info-dumping on each other about our own niche interests and the only person who can beat me at chess) and Isaac (my much newer,but just as close-knit friend who had been brought into our friend group by Arthur and had slotted right in like it was always meant to be). I had further been brought right back into the fold of the girls, following a teary reunion with Liv, Talia and Sabina.

As well as reuniting with my friends, I had spent most of the night tucked into George's side, allowing myself to find solace in his muscular arms. We had spent most of the night sharing one glass between the two of us simply because we could, giggling and dancing around together like the last 2 months had never happened at all.

However, I should have taken into consideration the fact that I have drank zero alcohol since the breakup, not trusting myself not to develop an addiction, and therefore my tolerance has plummeted drastically. That is how I find myself in my current position; hunched over the club's disabled toilet (for the female one's were full), throwing my guts up as my vision swims and my consciousness decreases by every passing second.

I am so lost in my drunken haze that I barely register the frantic knocking at the door, or the sound of my name being frantically called. The next thing I know, the door, which I clearly must of forgotten to lock, is pushed cautiously open, and there are warm hands cupping my face, guiding me to look the intruder. George, with an equally worried Chris following behind him and coming to crouch at my other side.

"Grab some water?" I vaguely hear George ask, and Chris speeds off once more, to presumably get the water George requested.

"Sweetheart, can you hear me?" George questions, his voice so so gentle and full of concern. I nod slightly before heaving again and throwing myself back over the toilet, George wincing before moving to crouch behind me, holding my hair in a ponytail with one hand whilst rubbing my back with the other. "Do you have a bobble, love?" he continues, and rather than attempting a verbal response I stick my wrist out, allowing him to detach the bobble from my wrist and tie my hair back. He is gentle and methodical, being mindful not to tug too hard or snag on any knots.

I throw up once again, the unsettling feeling of it ripping a sob out of my throat, and he immediately pulls me into his arms, undetterred by the fact I am sweaty, snivelling and still gagging slightly.

"It's okay lovey, I've got you" he murmurs, holding me steady. "Jesus, have you gone on an alcohol ban since the breakup or something?" he jokes, attempted to make me laugh, but in my drunken state I can only blink at him like a lost puppy.

"If I started drinking i didn't trust that I would be able to stop" I slur out, too gone to notice the way his face drops.

"Oh sunshine" he finally chokes out, placing light kisses on my forehead and cheek, and it is then that I register George is nowhere near sober either.

"Georgie, are you drunk?" I tilt my head back against his chest to gaze up at him, admiring his strong jaw and his sparkling eyes.

"You've definitely beat me in the drunk department, love, don't you worry" he chuckles, tightening his hold on me as I melt into his chest, trying to push away the gnawing fear at the back of my mind that I may not get another chance to cuddle him like this once we are sober.

Chris finally comes back, holding a glass of water, and to his credit doesn't bat an eyelid at the intimate position me and George are in.

"Drink up" he hold the glass to my lips, tilting it for me, however I don't manage to drink much as my body chooses that moment to entirely give up and collapse into George's arms like a ragdoll.

I faintly hear the panicked exclamation of "shit" from Chris as I am picked up in my half conscious state by George, as he cradles me to his chest bridle-style.

"Don't - don't wanna go home, s'lonely and full of bad thoughts- scary" I slur out.

"Don't worry angel, you're coming home with us" is the last thing I hear George say before my vision fades entirely to black.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tags:

@the-internets-girlfriend @madforgeorge @happyclifford @sidemenslver @heyitsmefall @bbygrlllllll @mothersversiononly @dopeysunflowers @kwonhoeshi @ooostarwarsfandom501st @liz140569 @tyna-19 @livvymd @artvscvntymullet @swizzlemynizzle

[knnichs]

feeling like a face in the crowd (i’m reaching for you, terrified.)

unsurprisingly, you’ve fallen in love with your best friend. who, coincidentally, is also the same goro akechi that everyone adores.

c. goro akechi, gn!reader

t. hurt/no comfort, possibly unrequited love, insecurity & self doubt (reader,) childhood friends, no spoilers

reupload from my ao3 :3 posting the part 2 of this tomorrow ,, original notes below the work !! og link is here

The noise had been drowned out long ago, focusing on the detective rambling on and on about the Phantom Thieves (once more) in front of you. He seemed more interested in it than the Phantom Thieves themselves, you’d think he were a part of the Thieves himself. Suddenly, his expression changes to a blank one–almost somber, you panic with the sudden shift, but he opens his mouth to say something.

“This isn’t an appropriate conversation for lunch,” The boy would laugh, a light chuckle reaching only to your ears. “I apologize. How has your week been?” 

“Nothing out of the ordinary. School works are still piling up, I’m a bit stressed, but when am I never?” You put your cup down on the cafe table, half full. 

The ice clinks as it hits the edges of the glass.

Akechi–Goro, laughs once more. Knowing you made him smile is enough to warm the cold you felt that gloomy day. It’s no surprise, seeing him is enough to brighten your day. 

“You’re getting the right amount of sleep though, right? I’ll file a complaint to your headmaster if you want me to, kidding.” 

You nod, picking up the glass to take a sip from it.

You met Goro when you were, what, kids? He’s an old friend you could say. Ever since his popularity started to rise, the gap between you two only grew. You can’t blame him though; he is brilliant with his deductions, keen observations that surpass even some in the police department, and his alluring beauty that only pulls you in... Goro Akechi and his shaggy brown hair, dark red eyes that haunt you in your sleep. His charming personality built for the tv, his words deep enough to ring in your mind. He’s special, everything you could ever wish to be, and maybe that’s why you feel some kind of resentment towards him. 

It’s a horrible feeling–to feel envious of your friend for having all the success in the world. It doesn’t make him any less deserving of all the achievements that he’s earned, you just feel… Jealous of his natural abilities, his talents. You wished to be someone like him when you were young, who knew that you’d be close with someone who has everything you could only dream of?

Still, it doesn’t change the fact that you, unsurprisingly, have fallen in love with your best friend. Who, coincidentally, is also the same Goro Akechi that everyone adores. The same detective prince that has all the abilities you could only dream of, who has everything you’ve ever wanted.

You can’t help but re-read the articles about him. His name in headliners, investigations he’s contributed in, the damned ‘Phantom Thieves and their supposed identity, solved by Akechi’

Detective Goro Akechi, solves another case! 

The second generation Detective Prince, Goro Akechi.

The Phantom Thieves versus Detective Akechi: Who will be victorious?

Akechi’s Hottest Meet and greet!

You love him, it’s ruining your life. It’s caused the walls of your heart to crumble down, the peace you’ve worked hard for turning into chaos, just because of your feelings towards him. His fame has taken up so much of his schedule, of his life, that you can’t help but feel like you’ve joined the crowd. You’re just another fan, he can easily replace you with someone better, someone worth his time. That’s what you felt anyway. 

Now you open your phone, finger hovering over the contact you’ve grown fond of, only to hesitate when sending a quick ‘Hey, how have you been?’.  You want to reach out to him, to grab his hand and run away from the people with flashing cameras–you want to bring him somewhere peaceful, away from Shibuya, away from the Phantom Thieves, some place else where the familiar songs of jazz retell tales of the past with drinks that only taste good because of the atmosphere. You’d screw up your friendship with each other if you actually did that, you think. But a part of you feels as if he would appreciate it, running away from the fame, from the endless interviews that take up his entire day, the cases that take away his highschool years away from his life. 

“Is something the matter?” Concern lacing his voice, he puts down the glass he was holding. 

How are you supposed to say that you’re envious of him? That you want to run away, far from the people who keep his schedule occupied?

How are you supposed to admit that you liked him?

You shake your head. 

“No, no. I just zoned out.”

As you give a soft, somber smile.

Distant, hushed whispers of girls pass through the winds. Isn’t that Akechi?

Who is he with?

Is that… His partner, maybe?

I doubt that! Akechi doesn’t date. If he did, it would be me.

You’re so delusional—Get over him!

“Uh…Sorry,” a girl approaches him, pen and paper in hand. “You’re Akechi, right? The detective?” Stammering, she asks for an autograph.

There is a slight tick in Goro’s jaw. His expression briefly goes from an annoyed one to a pleasant, charming facade. He nods, taking the paper and clicking on his own pen. Quickly, he messily scribbles his signature on the paper with a star at the end. He tries to shoo the girl as politely as he can before he turns to you. Looking at the half unfinished drink, and back to your eyes.

“I’m sorry, we might have to cut this short.” A sigh escapes his lips, he brushes his bangs away from his eyes and fixes his appearance for a few seconds before standing up. This, however, doesn’t stop you from jumping into conclusions.

“Oh. Did I do something wrong?” You ask, finishing your drink before deciding to follow his movements.

He cuts you off, raising his left hand and waving it in the air as he gets his things. “You did nothing, worry not. The crowd has… Unfortunately found me.” 

“Right.”

“Well, I’ll see you around. I will tell you once more when I’m free—oh, and the bill has been taken care of already. Thank you for today,” Goro smiles, “…next time, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure, next time.” You say back, nodding before watching him leave.

Maybe he isn’t the right one. You’ll find another, they all say. You wont lie—crushing on the Goro Akechi is nothing short of exhausting. No matter how many attempts you make to get close to him, he will somehow, always push you away. If this is how it is liking him, you wonder just what exactly it means to be his partner. You do your best to ignore the even louder shrieks of fans outside as he walks through the doors, slowly becoming white noise as you get lost in thought.

What if you were to admit what you felt now? Surely this would ruin everything between you two. he’s dealing with enough fans as is, he doesn't need another person adding to it. God knows how horrible it is to be someone who likes Goro—how almost torturous it is to be with him. You occasionally think about how he might think of you, regardless if you do choose to confess.

Does he think you’re just some other fan like the rest of them? Another person holding the camera, the flash preserving his beauty? 

Easily replaceable if you don’t fit whatever his ideals were, traded in for something much better.

You can recount the way his cheeks flushes when he eats something especially spicy, his eyes watering, and he tries so hard to compose himself but he fails in the end; taking huge breaths of air as his free hand goes up to wave off the heat. The way his smile doesn’t reach his eyes when something in particular bothers him, opting to at least pretend to appease the other person. The way he slightly sticks his tongue out on the side of his mouth, holding his breath, his hair a mess as he stays up another night trying to find the leads he needs for a case. Surely, you wouldn’t even need a camera to retell how he looks at you with such fondness even the best lenses couldn't capture.

This is wrong. You’re placing unnecessary problems onto shoulders that already seem like they’re carrying the entire world. You just wonder if the chance will ever present itself, if he would ever accept how you felt. But that’s all there is to it. You can only wonder, think, dream about having Goro in your arms. 

i forgot how to construct fics lol ,, im still on hiatus but i wanted to write a little something since ive been getting into persona again help. i just want to note that maybe this might get a good ending. yes this has a continuation (as i plan to write another addition in goro's pov). yes reader getting confused on calling him akechi or goro is somewhat symbolizing how they feel distant from him

it might *seem* like i wrote goro a little ooc with his actions, but of course, thats only there because of how the reader views him !! thinking that maybe /yeah. this guy does not care about me at all/ kinda thing. then again, i did my best to write him the way i understand him as !! i didnt purposefully try to make him "cruel" or cold... its just that hes a busy man yk

[mochinomnoms]

Fellow desert dweller!

It's always so exciting to see someone else who understands how hot things can truly be! Where I live, it gets hot enough in the summer that you can fry an egg on the sidewalk!

Just last week, I commented on how nice it felt outside and it was 90 degrees 😭

It honestly remind me of Jade in the Harveston event. Everyone talks about how cold the water is and Jade just says "It seems quite warm to me."

Like imagine yuu comes from a desert/generally hot place and when it gets super hot outside and everyone is sweating and dying and yuu just says "Oh, I thought it was pretty cool out today."

I can just imagine yuu talking about their home and telling anyone from octavinelle, really, about the egg thing. I always bring it up because I think it's funny, but I can't imagine how crazy that sounds to someone from a place as cold as the coral sea.

also sorry i haven't sent anything in a bit! i got my first full time job and it's been a lot to get used too. I still made sure to read all ur new posts tho ;3

Hope you're doing well! ^^

-🦷

Hi teeth anon! it's so nice to hear from you again!! I am def a desert dweller at heart I love hot weather and ideally I'd stay in the desert forever but I do plan to move to the Pacific Northwest in the future ;-; it so cold there....

I like to imagine a desert Yuu coming into NRC and being so fond of Savanaclaw and Scarabia because it reminds them of home. They're there so often they practically become another member of the dorm! The others are curious (some perhaps a bit jealous) that you've become so close to the others because of the sheer amount of time you spend in their dorms.

For the whole egg thing, I think you're right that the octotrio would be both fascinated and mildly horrified at the idea of weather hot enough to cook food on the ground. In my city, we sometimes have people put baking sheets and cookie dough in their cars to make cookies, and I can just imagine the perplexed looks on Azul and Jade's faces and Floyd's look of fascination.

What do you mean it gets hot enough to bake cookies in a car, don't you know how hot it needs to get to bake cookies!?

They really ought to understand where you're coming from, though, they have very similar reactions to describing the cold of the deep sea!

[twiceeshy]

3% [Chapter 1/?]

Read and view tags on ao3.

Summary: Three percent was the chance that suppressants would fail to protect from pregnancy, if a fertile Omega had sex with an Alpha during heat. It was non-negligible, but low.

E, rosquez, 6.7k words.

--

Marc held a baby in his arms. Nurses bustled around to make sure everything was alright, but he knew he didn't have to worry. She was tiny and pink. He loved her, he realised, stunned.

He was, perhaps, blessed that a pandemic had befallen them so he could have her safely. His abnominal muscles hid the bump for months. In another world he might have trained and crashed multiple times out of complete ignorance and lost her. Would he be happier that way? It wasn't worth thinking about, and nobody would ever hear about these doubts except his brother.

Still, he had considered the prospect of not keeping her seriously before making a choice, knowing what a commitment it would be.

Deep his heart, as much as he fretted and feared and did not actually want to do this at all, he couldn't bring himself to lift a finger to do anything else. Not when the child would be a combination of himself and someone he once loved. He would never have this chance again.

When a surreal health crisis laid their season's schedule to waste, he was vindicated. All the stars aligned for him to commit to this tough choice instead of the other.

"I think she'll look like you," Alex said cheerfully, as though he hadn't been awake through the night. Labour lasted thirteen hours.

Marc thought that Alex made good company in lieu of a husband. In fact, Marc was fairly certain he would have kept his brother and kicked the actual father of his child out of the room about five minutes into delivery, if he happened to be around. He couldn't stand the thought of anyone else watching through this specific vulnerability, which was why he made his parents stay at home. He was filled with a complicated mixture of love and loathing that would be horribly unpalatable to anyone else.

Marc had squeezed his brother's hand to bits and tried not to make noise even though it hurt. Alex made no complaint either. Marc probably played too heavy a hand in raising him, but Alex turned out perfect so it was hard to feel guilty.

He was going to be the best uncle in the world. And Marc was determined to be a good mother.

He held her out to Alex, who took her carefully. She was tiny. If she was anything like him, she would be tiny for a long time. He wondered if he could make her take more after him out of sheer willpower.

"Do you think she looks like a Laia?" Marc asked. Laia Marquez Alenta. He'd drawn the name from a list of popular Catalan baby names, and still thought it fit. He enjoyed having the most common name for decades running, and there was an edge of rebellion in naming her as Catalan as possible. Her name carried ties to home, and the freedom to shape her own destiny.

Alex smiled at her with the warm fondness. "She looks like whatever you want."

Marc held his brother's arm appreciatively. For the millionth time since he found out about his pregnancy, he was unspeakably grateful for his brother. His family's love was a panacea to his unquantifiable amount of despair, as his body stretched and his toes disappeared from view. He used to easily bend down and touch the floor with the palms of his hands. He would get back there. He would get back on a bike too - soon, maybe even tomorrow - and he would return to winning again.

A few short moments later, a nurse took Laia away to measure her height. Something animal and new surged within him. He wanted her back, he didn't want her to smell like someone else. He controlled himself.

Alex dabbed stray tears from Marc's eyes with his sleeve. He hadn't realised he had been crying. His head was a mess.

"Congratulations," Alex said.

Marc gave him a wobbly smile. He felt unfit and horrible, and he regretted taking a break from his career from every fibre of his being now that the deed was done. But he'd done it, he was a mother now.

A thousand or so kilometres away, the paddock was just over a week away from their second race in Jerez.

--

Marc could pin down the day of Laia's conception to precision: 17 November 2019, when he had capped off a year of glory with a win.

He had been on the verge of a heat. It didn't matter - he'd raced through them before. When riders had their heads covered by helmets, scents were scarcely a distraction to everyone else. The only inconvenience was for himself, because his body temperature felt hotter and his stomach was prone to cramping, so he needed to ensure he had a different balance of water and electrolytes to keep the averse effects at bay.

It should have been a handicap for everyone else, and yet, he won with some margin. He simultaneously felt invincible and mortal, battered by the chronic weight of past and present injuries magnified by his heat. It was a terrible, foreboding mixture.

He was on top of the world. He was boiling alive in his own sweat and leathers.

He dragged himself to the afterparty anyway. His head was killing him. No matter how much water he drank, he couldn't shake off the dehydration. Once the adrenaline of the race had worn off, his dislocated shoulder throbbed painfully. He needed surgery soon to fix that again, as his arm felt to be one tough whack away from falling off.

After an hour, he bowed out. There were tests to be done in two days. It was early still, but there wasn't any reason to torture himself when his heat was surely already setting in. He only hoped he'd be able to get over the worst of it the next day and be fit for the tests. He couldn't imagine being off suppressants and having to suffer through three-day, full blown heats. This was bad enough.

He made it to his motorhome somehow. While trudging there, he caught a whiff of something forbidden through an open window. Despite his exhaustion, he ran.

During his two and a half years with Valentino, their heats and ruts had never coincided. Although couples' cycles tended to sync up with greater proximity, they hadn't been together long or frequently enough. And well, "couple" was a generous term to describe what they were.

He'd only been through two of Valentino's ruts before. Marc shared only one heat with him. Scheduling didn't permit anything else. They'd both been out of their minds for all three of those occasions.

Marc wasn't usually stupid in heat when he was alone. Impulsive and slow perhaps, but nothing like the mewling, horny mess he'd been reduced to during that one heat after his home race. He and Vale had been one-two on the podium in Montmelo, and he felt top of the world, untouchable. Hours later he was knocking on Valentino's door with his brain fried. There had been an embarrassing amount of whining involved while Valentino teased him. The memory was precious. He had been trusting and vulnerable then, but floating from his winning streak (how many in a row had it been by that time? Six or seven? He wasn't even done yet), and Valentino had taken care of him kindly. He couldn't believe his hero would take the time to do this for him. It had been so good, beyond a dream.

In contrast, ruts were bordered on violent. Valentino was brutal. He'd barely been able to speak before the knot formed, and when he was that way, it was impossible to reach him. Marc silently let him, let him, let him, because he was used to pain and he could cope with it, could be the perfect Omega if he needed, so what if it was too intense?

He was bruised by the end of it all, his limbs and his back and surely his insides, not wet or stretched enough to comfortably grip a knot in absence of a heat. These were the only times Valenino had ever offered him apologies, but he didn't need them. He had been kissed gently in compensation when Valentino came down, once the knot was in place, and he'd felt loved. Beautiful, brave, he remembered, and a soft kiss to his sweat-damp eyelid. Kisses all over his face until his cheeks were warm. He kept the compliments close to his chest.

This time, his body would be able to take it. Years ago, the thought of a cycle that finally synced up would have excited him. Now he hid and shut the door behind him. He wished again that Alex was around to stop the inevitable from happening. He hoped that Valentino was as desperate for self-control as he was, because this couldn't happen.

But even while he thought that, he knew it was not to be. He was on a knife's edge himself, and Omegas in sport were accustomed to containing their baser tendencies, both with their minds and medical interference. Alphas meanwhile, were encouraged to let it out, to be possessive and aggressive and greedy. It was good for the competitive spirit.

If Valentino smelled him at all, he'd be there soon. The rare sight of him at his best and his worst, fully unrestrained. Marc feared and yearned, and knew it was not to be denied.

Then came a knock on the door. Marc watched the knob twist from his vantage point in his own sitting area, unmoving. He could smell it through the gaps around the door - his Alpha, however long ago it may have been, and the other half of a mating bond that was broken before it could take hold.

He's should have thought to lock himself in. But he had gone stupid, and subconsciously he didn't want to spend another heat alone. He got to his feet to rush over and twist the lock shut. It was too late.

Valentino let himself in. The full brunt of his scent in rut punched Marc up the nose. It was pungent and human, mixed in with sweat. He shouldn't have been searching for it, inhaling it like he needed it. If he had clarity of mind, he would find that the scent was not pleasant, and he wouldn't want it all over him like a perfume. This wasn't the protective, sweet mating scent it once was.

But it was Valentino, and his body reacted. His hole clenched around nothing. He was wet already, and so hot it was frightening.

His eyes traced over the other man, tall and older and thin. Marc could take him in a strength fight, he knew, but there was no fight to be had. The heat wanted to be sated.

He refused to beg for it. Self-control was a deep well he could draw from even when surrender was nigh.

"Maybe you should go," he suggested quietly, the last barrier he was able to erect between them. It was flimsy, so Valentino acted as though he never heard it. It hurt Marc as much to voice it out as much as it stung to be ignored.

Valentino came to him (he was so fast - how was he so fast? How was it fair that ruts did this and heats made Marc dull), held his face, gripped his jaw, kissed him. Marc let it happen, fists clenched by his sides, teeth biting into the flesh of his own lower lip to keep the silence. The heat was unbearable. His palms were sweaty and searing in his own grip. Even the soles of his feet were burning.

He could tell that his lack of reaction frustrated Valentino, who made a noise of annoyance and maneuvered them onto the small sofa. His weight sank above Marc's, hot and heavy. He had sweat gathering on his temples and his nose.

In heat induced haze, Marc could still appreciate him. His lovely curls, lines on his face that showed his good humour, and his intense, light eyes. Marc swallowed a whine as Valentino clawed at the fastenings of his jeans, and felt his eyes flutter shut.

He knew he was wet. When Valentino tugged his jeans and his briefs down, he couldn't open his eyes out of shame. He had never felt shame over what was natural before, but his scent was overpowering, and unlike Valetino's it was still sweet. This was an admission he didn't want to give. The saving grace was that Valentino was too far gone to notice, lost in rut and years of anger.

Valentino didn't take the time to undress Marc or himself fully. Marc had his shirt and shoes still on (Alex would laugh so much about having shoes on during sex, he realised hysterically), and the jeans that pooled around his feet were too tight for him to move comfortably. Kicking in the air, he shucked them off - shoes, jeans, socks that caught on the rest - as Valentino worked on his own clothes.

It was easy for him. He was in an tracksuit with yellow stripes. Wildly, Marc wondered why he wanted him so much. But he did.

The thought crossed his mind that he really should have found some way to fuck Vale when he won in Misano back in September, so he wouldn't be in this situation. He had made it halfway to Vale's box in his unzipped leathers and his heat dildo in a bag before he caught himself acting like a prowling animal and turned back. He had been driven by the taste of victory on Vale's soil.

It would have made everything between them irrevocably worse. He should have done it anyway to gain a mental edge over this. Marc had the most unbearable urge to top that day and he was crystal clear that he would have succeeded, novice or not.

He would torture Vale one day. When he wasn't weak and pathetic in heat, he'd show Vale what it felt like to be held out on. He'd ruin him, he'd never let him come. He'd show him why it was so good, why Marc still waited and waited for him, and why Vale would never have this with anybody else. Anger and want mingled in a primitive corner of his brain.

Then Valentino freed his cock, and he crowded himself on Marc, and the complicated regrets flatlined temporarily. The heat demanded submission.

It was already happening. He should just enjoy it, given in to nature.

He couldn't.

He was supple, but even he found that the cramped sofa was less comfortable than the bed he was accustomed to. He didn't suggest to move.

Valentino pushed him down, so Marc's spine was curved awkwardly in the crook between the seat and backrest. He pulled Marc's legs apart and folded them back such that his knees were against his shoulders. Marc was flexible so it didn't hurt, but he didn't like it.

He was so wet, almost dripping before Valentino' eyes. There was no way he could sit back and allow this to happen. To do so would be pathetic, and Marc had never been pathetic.

He needed control. It was always certain that the person who kept their wits better had control if they played it right. It would be marginal victory in a war of attrition, but he was good at holding on to the winning edge in those.

Valentino held his cock and it looked like a fucking weapon. The lust of a rut was something to behold. His cock was swelling, not yet a knot, but red and painful.

Marc wanted it.

He didn't want it at all.

He twisted around to lie down across both seats. If there was a damn cushion somewhere so he could rest his head, he would be better off. It didn't matter - there was no position he couldn't fold himself into as needed.

With one swift movement, he kicked his legs up and bent wound his thighs around Valentino's shoulders, them forced him down with his strength. The Marc of 2014 would never have done this, but he was no longer so willing to roll over. Valentino was on his knees, head in proximity of Marc's weeping hole. It was a completely novel position to both of them. A smirk tugged the corner of Marc's lip. Surely Valentino would come to his senses soon and he would fight back, but by then he would realise that he had lost himself to his rut far more completely than Marc had allowed his heat to control him.

He still wanted Valentino to fuck him, knot him, have them fused at the front for hours, show them off to every other Omega who had stolen Valentino's ruts from him, scratch his fucking name bloody into Valentino's back so that Vale could feel how much he cared.

Time slowed down to molasses, which was a strange contrast to the acrid desperation in the air. Marc felt that he had a brief moment of time in control. It was like being on a bike, lining up a clever overtake while slowing down from 350 kilometres an hour. There was nobody better than him at this.

Marc quicky pushed himself up on his elbows so he could lean forward and watch. He swiped two fingers through his slick and touched them to the tip of his tongue, just to make sure that it was the same saccharine taste, sweet with affection, that Valentino used to go crazy for.

It was. Marc had always known that deep inside, he did not change easily.

Then he shoved his fingers into Valentino's mouth to remind him of the taste, and laid back to reap the benefits as Valentino attacked his hole with carnal hunger. His nose brushed against the hairless expanse of Marc's skin, his warm breath lit up every one of Marc's nerve endings. He pinched Marc's swollen, traitorous clit. Marc panted, his eyes fluttered shut, on the tenuous edge of control as Valentino stretched him out with his tongue, greedy for slick. Good, stay there, do it properly. Marc wouldn't hurt more, not today.

Marc moved a hand to the back of Valentino's head to hold him there, but it was slapped away with an impatient sound. He fisted his hands into his own shirt, grasping for purchase.

"Va-le," the name snuck itself out of his mouth without his permission.

His voice brought Valentino back to brief lucidity.

"You're the fucking devil," he said hoarsely, and it might have been true, but the words cut like a physical weapon. His lips were coated in a shiny sheen, and his hair was messy and sweat-damp. He looked throughly debauched. He would never have wanted this.

Marc should have defended himself. He could only whine and bring his thighs closer so Valentino would shut up with his horrible words and continue to stretch him out.

Valentino pulled himself free, scissored Marc's hole roughly with two fingers, and - too quickly for Marc's heat-weakened self to resist, he hauled himself up and sank his growing knot into Marc's swollen heat.

Marc felt tears well in his eyes and hated himself for it. It wasn't the pain, he knew pain like an old friend. It was the intensity of being fucked and being hated.

Under the heat of Valentino's sweaty, heavy body, Marc refused to buckle. He met every movement, grind for grind. He refused to look away. He stared without blinking. Let Valentino see him suffer. Let Valentino see him detach himself from this. Maybe Valentino would understand him better if Marc could haunt him in return for all of their past years.

He controlled his expression into something stoic and defiant. It was all wrong, so let it be obvious. Let him maintain his dignity when all other control was stripped from him. Let him come out on top.

The knot, heavy between his legs, pushed obtrusively into his slick cunt. There was no point in fighting it, as it would only hurt more. This was like crashing - if you tensed yourself defensively, you would die. If you accepted it and let the momentum take you, you might live.

He felt his slick change in consistency, turning grippy. He hated the body chemistry of an Omega in heat. Hated that when the knotting was supposed to take place, his body acted against him. This was new to him, with the heat and rut cycles syncing up.

Valentino continued to fuck him clumsily, his thickening knot going through the resistance of Marc's body, piercing back inside over and over again, until Marc locked him in for good, gripping the knot in a vice, the intrusion almost the size of a fist. They came in tandem, and while light behind his eyelids stole Marc's consciousness for a moment.

He was aware again shortly, and all of a sudden, the sound of their breathing was too loud. Their faces were too close.

The magnitude of how awkward the situation was revealed itself. They couldn't even run, locked into each other as they were. His cunt ached dully. His clit was oversensitive and wanted for attention it wouldn't receive. His scenting gland throbbed, but he was unmated. Marc felt cold, despite the heat they shared. He didn't feel beautiful or brave today, and his body felt worn.

His shoulder was crying for mercy, trapped between Valentino's weight and a sofa that didn't provide enough support. He wanted Valentino to flip them over, but he refused to ask. Could Valentino not smell that he was distressed? Was he distressed? Or was it that he had been distressed from the start, so Valentino couldn't tell the difference? Normally, he was at least sensitive to Marc's pain. It was only Marc's head that he wanted to mess around with.

What had they done? Valentino didn't even want him anymore. Marc didn't have to stop him from making the mating bite this time, as he had every time prior. The desire had evaporated.

Valentino spoke first. "We didn't use a condom," he said.

The world fell away beneath Marc. He gathered himself in an instance, anxiously. "I'm on suppressants. Three percent," he said, repeating an oft-mentioned statistic. Three percent was the chance that suppressants would fail to protect from pregnancy, if a fertile Omega had sex with an Alpha during a heat. It was non-negligable, but low.

Valentino accepted this with a nod. He looked tired, each of the fourteen years between them highlighted vividly. So unhappy was the occasion, so spent was his body, that Marc almost felt as though he was guilty of something. But of course, he was not.

They didn't attempt to converse. Marc remembered when Vale used to talk, and make Marc laugh through the tears.

The moment Valentino's knot had decreased enough in size, he wrenched himself out and put on his ugly trackpants. Marc gasped and clenched over nothing, but all he saw was the sight of Valentino's tense back as he took brisk strides away. Valentino let the door shut with a violent slam. Marc didn't call out for him.

Valentino was still in rut, despite the lull. Alphas in sports didn't take suppressants. Marc's heat had broken but where was Valentino going? Who was he going to? Marc couldn't help but wonder, thoughts spiralling into useless directions.

He tried so hard, but he didn't think he won this round.

Empty and hopeless, Marc dressed himself. He ignored the mess of fluids collecting inside his briefs. As a distraction, he made himself clean the sofa. The smell of antiseptic drove his heightened senses crazy.

It didn't matter. Alex and his father knew the moment they returned home. An incompatible mating scent was impossible to hide.

Marc hadn't even considered the possibility of pregnancy for more than a second. He cleaned himself out throughly with his fingers in the shower, unable to tolerate the thought of the remnants of Valentino in him. It was easy, he was sore but he was was still loose. That should have been the end of it.

--

The cruel irony was that Marc had highly specific plans for becoming a parent before any of this happened. He always assumed that he would become one in the future because he liked children and they liked him, and he was willing to temporarily give up his athletic body for that pursuit. However, the assumption also caveated that it would be a post-retirement affair.

He intended to collect all the accolades humanly possible first, then he would retire as late as he could. He wanted to be racing deep into his thirties, maybe even his forties. It was the most passionate love of his life, which he would cling to with bloodied fingertips until he couldn't. He gave his childhood and his life to it, so it needed to give back to him. He wanted to keep having fun and winning.

Somewhere in the middle of this illustrious career, maybe when he was in his early thirties, he would have enough wisdom to pick a good person and fall slowly in love. He knew, after years without Valentino, that it would not be him. A part of Marc would always feel affection for the Alpha that first laid claim to him, but he trusted that his heart was big enough to love again. He just needed more time to get over the hurt. Besides, Valentino would be far too old to become a new parent by the time Marc was ready.

Ideally Marc would find a gentle person who was proud of his accomplishments, and patient enough to wait for him to finish earning them. Marc wouldn't date a competitor - their ego would protest, and he understood completely. He couldn't stomach dating someone who made a habit of beating him either, when he eventually grew too old to be competitive. He would rather retire than face that reality, and maybe one day when he started to decline, he'd consider his fertility when he made his decision to leave. He would finally get to experience a three-day heat and carry a baby for the nice person he was going to find. Maybe he would be with a nice girl, for a change, and his mother would enjoy her company. His worry used to be whether he could catch this window in time.

He wanted someone good for him, who he could be good to in return. He'd always been capable of being generous and tender when he loved. It was just on track that he couldn't, which was why it was inadvisable to start a family with a rival. As a younger person, he lacked this foresight.

He knew that there had to be someone else out there for him who was perfect, and would want to be out in the open with him, cheering him on and waiting patiently for Marc's career to run its course. When he was done, they could be married, and his partner would follow Marc back to Cervera to have a good life together.

In the meantime, Marc hadn't been in a hurry. He was too young for any of this.

--

Two days after Laia's birth, Alex drove them home.

He wasn't in the most talkative mood. They both were tired, having squeezed onto Marc's bed to sleep while he was warded. Marc didn't care about the rules, he paid for a private room and his brother wasn't going to sleep in a chair while putting aside his life and his career to babysit him.

They then faced the conundrum of trying not to wake a newborn who only knew how to communicate by crying. The easiest ceasefire seemed to be staying silent.

Marc was free from holding her because she had to go into an infant carrier at the back, but he was fidgety. If he had to deal with awkwardness from the only person he had never been awkward with because of the baby, he was going to do something unpleasant.

Thankfully, Alex always knew what to do. "Open the glove compartment," he said, apropos of nothing.

Marc turned to him, puzzled. "Why?"

"Just open it," Alex said, so Marc did.

He found a folded paper bag, and pulled it out. It contained something soft. He emptied the contents onto his lap.

There was a soft onesie that looked like a bee, and a red ant plushie that was cuter than any insect had a right to be.

"I thought you wouldn't want her to be an ant, but she can hold you," Alex explained.

Marc looked down at the items wordlessly. He hadn't thought so far about what a baby girl would like. He was busy thinking about what she would need, and placing an insane number of online orders for baby things, thanks to the fucking pandemic. He had twenty milk bottles nozzles stockpiled now.

Alex smiled softly. "She'll be a bee if she's like you. Noisy."

"Of course she'll be like me," Marc said without really thinking. He fidgeted with one of the ant's fluffy red legs. It was soft, and felt more expensive than any of the toys they used to share. Or maybe this was what new toys felt like.

"She's very quiet now," Marc remarked, registering what Alex said.

"I think she likes the engine sound," Alex said.

Marc did too. A quiet hum. It had nothing on a bike of course, but it was calming. A balm of steady sound to keep the thoughts from crowding his mind.

He felt a longing that he blamed on hormones. An Omega on his lonesome, left to raise a child on his own, could only feel small and tragic. His chemistry wanted him to cower at the altar of his Alpha and lure him back so his baby would be well cared for. His mind tempted him with the echoes of strong hands against his thigh, fingertips pressing confidently under his briefs, whispers of reassuring warmth against his body that he no longer had access to, and no longer truly wanted.

Funny how it used to feel as though they had so much, when they always had so little. Stolen moments between commitments and no plans for their future.

It was sacrilegious to yearn for any of that in the vicinity of Alex, given that Alex hated Valentino with a cold fury. He harboured all the difficult feelings that Marc couldn't convince himself to sustain. All of that emotional labour, for Marc's sake. He was much more important to Marc than Valentino could ever hope to be, even if Valentino came to his senses and delivered himself with his metaphorical tail between his legs. And he wouldn't, so.

He centred himself on the sound of the engine humming. It was like what he was taught to do when his heats overwhelmed: focus on the other senses. What did he see? What did he smell? The soft brush of his fuzzy shirt against his bare skin. A plush ant in his hand. Sunlight in his eyes. The clean scent of their air freshener. Instrumental music in the background for the baby's sake, mingling harmously with the engine. Steady. He grounded himself.

Maybe he was being childish, but he placed the ant on Alex's hand that was holding the gear shift, then made it do a few hops to crawl up his arm. He just liked the contact. The ant was soft.

Alex laughed softly. "What is this, Marc?"

"We have a baby, you have to get used to it," Marc said loftily.

"She can't be worse than you," Alex said.

Marc turned his head to watch his daughter for several moments. She was too special to be worse than anyone. The blood of seventeen combined championships ran in her veins - which wasn't worth everything obviously, but it was worth something. And she carried a bit of the the other people he loved too; shared the encoding of his parents and his brother and his grandparents before them.

He wondered what Valentino would think of her. Marc was going to be the one who would take care of her all her life - clearly - but he wondered if Valentino could find it within himself to love her, even though she was Marc's. He wanted a family once, with a long-time girlfriend even before Marc came into the picture. Then with Marc, they never had a serious conversation about it. It was obvious that it was impossible, until it wasn't.

Laia was Valentino's family too, and Marc supposed that Valentino could love her.

He would love this girl. Marc just needed to work harder to make it happen. Valentino was constants and variables in an unpredictable fashion, except when it came to the people he called his. He didn't let them go.

"Are you thinking about him?" Alex asked plainly.

"Thinking about how to tell him," Marc lied, leaving out his doubts. It wasn't a complete lie. He now was thinking about how to tell Valentino. "I don't know what to say. I think I'll just send him a picture."

He decided to do just that during the car ride. The message was a simple photo of their daughter without a caption, reviving a chat that had been dead for two months. He picked the best photo, where she was sound asleep, dressed in baby blue and sweet little mittens.

Before that, there were only short exchanges. "Are you healthy?" from Valentino, who thought of him at two in the morning.

"Yes, don't worry," from Marc, who never knew what to say anymore, and always hated texting anyway.

Months before that-

"I'm pregnant and I'm keeping it. You don't have to do anything. You can't stop me." Followed by five missed calls, and a voice recording that Marc downloaded and replayed over and over again when he could bear to.

Every message mattered so much, and this one the most of all. Marc watched the file upload, and a single tick appeared in the corner. A second tick didn't show up. Maybe Valentino was busy.

When Alex pulled into their driveway, Marc finally locked his screen.

--

Marc's mother, Roser, cried when he came home. They were happy tears, she said.

She hugged him gently, the baby in his arms between them.

"I'm so lucky," she said, stepping away to wipe her eyes with a tissue. "I lived to be a grandmother."

"Of course you were going to be a grandmother," Alex said from behind Marc, carrying both their overnight bags. "Unless you thought none of us were going to have kids? I understand thinking that about Marc, but I always wanted a family."

"And where are your kids?" Marc scoffed. "All talk and no results."

Roser laughed wetly. "Boys, not everything is a competition."

Alex sighed with an air of long-suffering. "You tell him that."

"We know how Marc is," Roser said peaceably. She held out her hands towards the baby, who had alarmingly started to whine. Marc didn't know what he would do if she started full-on crying. This was why they had nurses at the hospital, even though he started freaking out inside whenever they took her away from him.

"She's beautiful. Let me see her," Roser said, and Marc was only too happy to comply. Laia was wailing before she left his arms.

Marc watched intently as his mother rocked his daughter gently from back and forth to calm her. He had so much to learn.

"She might just be hungry, darling," Roser said. "I made a nest for you on your bed. Why don't we take her there?"

She carried Laia for him, until Marc got into bed and she tucked the covers around him with one hand. It might have been approaching the height of summer but he didn't mind. Having parental care was nice.

They were her covers, he realised, and sank deeper into the scent of them. Her covers, and Alex's bolster, and his father's pillowcases that she must have driven over to retrieve for him. His parents had separated, but they made it as painless for their kids as they could, and Marc was always appreciative of it. His bed was a clutter of soft possessions of the people he loved.

He was surrounded by family. Family plus one more, who was experiencing the familiar walls of his bedroom for the first time. She would grow up around these scents, as he did. They had always been a comfort to him. What was familiar to him would become familiar to her, and she would feel the love of a Marquez Alenta through and through. It was a profound realisation.

Roser kissed his forehead and passed him his fussing daughter. "Shall I leave you two to it then?" she asked softly.

Marc nodded. He took his shirt off when his mother left, and held his daughter to his chest. She sucked on a puffy nipple, and he just-

He found it unsettling to be a food source. His body was made for different things; stalking his prey and hauling around a bucking beast of a bike more than twice his weight. He was horrifically far from his fighting physique. He didn't want to know how many kilograms of muscle he had to rebuild.

It hadn't fully sunk in yet that being a parent was a permanent state of affairs, that he would never not be a parent again. He kept realising the same thing, bit by bit.

He itched to check for Valentino's response, but he wasn't prepared to hear from him yet. He wasn't being a coward, so much as he didn't have the energy to spare.

It would have been nice for Valentino to like him enough to be here with him, maybe hold their child for him so Marc's wretched shoulder could take a break. Too much unnecessary risk to be under general anesthesia for non-emergency surgery, the doctors said. He'd pushed back his recovery by nine months. He would take even longer to be strong again.

He let the physicality of his exhaustion wash over him. He had known pain, but he had never been so tired before. The birth sapped his muscles and drained marrow from his bones. His insides felt out of place. His chest was sore. He wanted to go back to normal.

He closed his eyes and pretended to be twenty again, with these sensations. He would be happy, disbelieving, and in love, with the rest of his life ahead of him. And maybe he had a child who was an accident, maybe he felt too young to know what he was doing, but it was a happy accident. Back then, he would be young enough to be confused and cry about it, and seek refuge in his Alpha's loving arms. Vale would not let him think of himself as dairy cattle, he used to be able to say so many nice things.

Marc would have kept her even at twenty, he was certain of it. And maybe everything would have been different; maybe Vale would have kept him.

Since it made him feel better, in private, he gave in to this moment of weakness. He imagined that everything was perfect - that he had an Alpha who was out winning important races, but he would come home to be a family man. An Alpha who would never sleep with anyone else ever again, now that he was Marc's.

His daughter's small weight rested against his chest, swaddled in soft fabric. He exhaled slowly as she fed, trying to keep calm for her. He still felt like a cow - or no, perhaps a lion - caged and restrained in a place far too small for him. He still thought of the races and felt deep envy because there was no way for him to do what he was meant to do.

But this had to be worth it. If there was one seed of truth in to be harvested from his illusion, it was that his daughter had been made with his love.

[greenleaf4stuff]

In Convenience - Chapter 4, part 2

Adar x Celebrimbor (silverscars) political marriage to marriage of love AU, post story snippet 4, part 2. The two husbands continue to have a lovely time together, Celebrimbor gets his hair washed as well, and the two then spend time in front of the warm fireplace.

As in the last part - these two are bathing, so there is nudity, but it is casual and mostly implied. Nothing more than kissing happens.

(all previous parts of "Of Convenience" and "In Convenience")

Fun fact: This chapter was originally meant to be chapter 5. What changed? Well, the original chapter 4 was a 5+1 concept and grew a bit too long to post as one continuous piece. So, I will likely go on a little side quest, and post that 'chapter' as its own thing in the future. Still part of this 'verse, no worries, but not as a single chapter of In Convenience.

Another big Thank You to all my readers, for everyone who has left a like, reblog or comment on tumblr, a kudos or a comment on AO3, who sent me messages. Your support means a lot to me, I still cannot believe how far we've come together. <3

Turning around was easier this time, but they still couldn’t avoid more water spilling over as they did. The floor was a lost cause anyways; they would only have to take care not to slip once they finally left the tub again.

Celebrimbor had feared their differing heights and the space at their disposal might make it difficult for Adar to wash his hair, but he was glad to be mistaken – once they sat down, the uruk bid the elf to lay back against him, and then used the bowl to wet Celebrimbor’s hair as he had done to the other.

He used smaller amounts of water at once, and poured it more slowly than the elf had done, letting the liquid run over Celebrimbor’s head and back, as well as over Adar’s shoulders and front. It made the smith imagine a gentle stream, or a waterfall. Made him daydream of taking Adar outside the city walls one day to bathe in the wilderness with him, perhaps during the height of summer.

Now, he merely closed his eyes and felt Adar’s hands in his hair, stroking back his locks with gentle fingers. He was much faster in making progress than Celebrimbor had been, since the elf wore his hair much shorter than the uruk did, but that only meant he could take more time to spend on other things instead.

After Adar had put away the bowl, and before he reached for the soaps, the uruk buried the fingers of both of his hands in Celebrimbor’s hair and began to rub small, even circles into his scalp. Motions that made the elf practically melt into Adar’s chest, and breathe sighs of contentment.

He questioned how he had gotten his husband to lean forward and sit up earlier; the elf felt utterly reluctant to move a single muscle, and was glad that Adar’s strength meant the uruk could gently push and arrange Celebrimbor’s body to his liking without much strain.

Adar easily lifted Celebrimbor up from his chest, and held him steady as the elf raised up his knees and then went to hug them to his front, in a position very similar to the one his husband had adopted earlier.

"That good, huh?" The uruk rumbled, obviously pleased at how languid and pleasantly weighed down Celebrimbor felt. The elf hummed and nodded into his knees. It afforded him a fond chuckle from Adar.

"Very good, yes," he replied, voice mellow, feeling like he should put his pleasure into words. "You have very gentle fingers, and large, steady hands. Your touch is very nice. It comforts me greatly."

Adar moved forward, then, to press his front to Celebrimbor’s back. He stroked his hands up and down the elf’s upper arms and shoulders, pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I am very glad to hear it." His voice was quiet, intimate. It made the smith open his eyes and peak at the other, and they shared small smiles among themselves before Adar drew back and began to take stock of the soaps.

It was a relatively small selection, and yet the elf watched raptly as Adar took up each bar, carefully considered it, turned it in his hands, smelled it. The way he scrunched up his nose at the rose-scented one made the elf smile quietly.

The uruk finally settled on the same sage-scented soap that Celebrimbor had used on him. The thought that they would both smell similarly after this bath was a rather welcome one.

Adar was just as thorough about putting the soap into the elf’s hair as he had been with pouring the water. He meticulously took small sections that he lathered up, moving from one to the next, starting with the hair just over the smith’s neck up and making his way up to the top of his head.

The elf shivered a little when Adar worked around his nape, behind his ears, close to his jawline. He hadn’t known himself to be so sensitive there, that the uruk’s touch would make his skin tingle this way.

The other once more took his time to card gentle fingers through Celebrimbor’s curls, to rub his fingertips over the elf’s scalp. Soft sage scent wafted through the air, mixing with the woodsmoke from the fireplace. It lulled the elf into a sense of ease, of security, turned him pliant as Adar retrieved the bowl and tipped his head back to rinse out the suds again.

Celebrimbor’s eyes were half-lidded as he let Adar take care of him, thoughts a little fuzzy, but in a very good way. He simply enjoyed the touches from the other, the fact that they finally had the time to enjoy one another’s company again.

When Adar was done rinsing his hair, the uruk also took the oils from besides the tub, though this time, he lightly nudged a bottle against Celebrimbor’s shoulder and waited for the elf to open his eyes – when had he closed them? – before he admitted, "I am not sure which one would be suitable for you. What oil should I use?"

The elf’s arm felt heavier than usual, with how relaxed he was, but he managed to lift it and pointed at a small bottle. "This one should be fine. It’s not quite as rich as the one I used on you. You can rub it into all of my hair."

The uruk nodded. "Then that is what I shall do," and kissed Celebrimbor’s temple before he reached for the bottle. He easily coaxed the smith back against his chest again, and then simply moved the elf’s head to and fro as he rubbed the oil into his hair.

The water had been nice, the soap had been wonderful, but the oil felt magnificent. The elf could only hope that Adar had experienced even a fraction of the comfortable, simple pleasure he felt, in the moments when it had been Celebrimbor’s turn to take care of him.

This had been a very good idea.

"I agree," Adar replied, and the elf realized that he had said the words aloud instead of merely thinking them. "One we might hopefully repeat, sooner rather than later."

Celebrimbor merely smiled and nodded, before he turned his head into Adar’s collarbone and pushed himself into his husband’s chest, wholly at ease despite the tight space. Or maybe, because of it.

Everything was warm and quiet, and he was close to the one he loved. What a fine way to spend the evening. What a wonderful way to simply be.

Once more, water dripped over his head and into his hair. The elf could already feel the difference in how it felt, how any little knots and tangles had been worked out of it, how the oil made it smoother to the touch.

He and Adar both would have liked to remain in this position for longer, Celebrimbor was sure; the uruk playing with his hair, the elf holding the other’s hand – the one that was usually gauntleted – and caressing it as they enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere of the room. But the sun was beginning to dip beneath the horizon outside now, and they would have a very long, very exciting day tomorrow.

Also, the water was slowly starting to cool.

As Adar began to gently nudge him into a sitting position again, the elf used the moment to try and turn once more. Their knees knocked, some water splashed, and he had to kneel before the other, but eventually he managed to cup Adar’s cheeks and bring the two of them together for a soft, chaste kiss.

The other’s wet, curling hair tickled Celebrimbor’s nose, and he sighed when Adar linked his own hands behind the elf’s head and drew him closer, both of them shifting to wrap their arms around each other’s shoulders. They were pressed chest to chest, where they felt each other’s breaths, their heartbeats, slow and steady.

Resting their foreheads against each other felt like utter perfection.

"Come on, Tyelpe," Adar’s voice was a whisper, intimate, coaxing. "I am not sure you can prune, but I am definitely starting to."

Celebrimbor’s answering laughter was sweet and unrestrained. "Well, can’t have that, can we? I don’t think you’d make for as good a raisin as you make for an uruk," he chuckled, kissed Adar’s lips once more, and then moved to rise from his position. He extended a hand towards the other as he stood. "Also, you make a good point – we have some warm towels can wrap ourselves in instead. Or a bathrobe, if you’d prefer."

Adar took his hand and let himself be helped up. He looked over to where the aforementioned towels lay, then turned his questioning gaze towards Celebrimbor. "There is only one robe?"

The elf shrugged and scratched his cheek, a little embarrassed. "I didn’t plan to actually join you in this tub, if you remember. So I merely prepared a towel for my hands and arms, nothing more."

A pause. "Rest assured, I certainly won’t be making that mistake a second time." And he winked.

The uruk’s returning grin was wry, but in good humor, as he stepped out of the tub and then steadied Celebrimbor as he did the same. Thankfully, the ground wasn’t quite as slippery as they had feared. "I should hope so," he replied, and then motioned towards the bathrobe with his chin. "You should take the robe, two towels will be perfectly adequate for me."

"Nonsense," the elf tried to rebuke him, albeit very gently. "I planned this evening to be for your benefit, if you want the robe, you should have it. I am alright with using a towel," he made to reach for it, hoping the settle the matter before it began, but a small tug from Adar kept him barely out of reach.

The elf turned back to his husband with a raised eyebrow. The uruk still grinned, but shook his head. "Not so fast."

Celebrimbor tilted his head and cocked his hip as he looked at Adar over his shoulder. "So what do you propose, then? That we share the robe?"

Adar’s expression changed to one of surprise, then intrigue, and before the elf could argue that he was merely joking, he had reached around the smith and retrieved the robe himself. "It is certainly worth giving it a try."

And giving it a try they did; of course, both of them together had no way of fitting inside the robe, whether they both only stuck one arm into a sleeve each, or if one fully put on the robe and tried to close it around the other, neither quite worked.

What did, however, was them both draping themselves onto the chaise lounge close to the fireplace, Adar wearing the robe and laying back with Celebrimbor resting on his chest, covered by a large towel that almost acted as a blanket, hands underneath the uruk’s bathrobe at his sides. Adar, in turn, had his own on Celebrimbor’s back and enjoyed feeling out his muscles, just shy of tickling the other.

Celebrimbor enjoyed this position, too. His head cushioned on his husband’s pecs, he could hear every breath. He merely had to turn his head to place a kiss right above Adar’s heart, and could feel the other suck in air and shiver whenever he did.

They watched the fire dance in the fireplace, and how the last rays of the sun finally disappeared, making way for a clear, dark, sky-lit night.

The fireplace ensured that the two of them could remain as they were for quite some time, or at least, what felt like a long time, simply holding each other, skin pressed against skin.

"How are you feeling?" Celebrimbor asked, voice slow and quiet. He himself felt at peace, though there were some thoughts at the back of his mind that were nagging at him.

The uruk hummed, and laid his hand to the back of the elf’s neck, where he began to stroke his thumb through Celebrimbor’s hair and over his skin. The touch made the elf burrow deeper into Adar’s hold. "Warm. Comfortable. At peace."

"Happy."

This caused Celebrimbor to lift his head, and prop up his chin on Adar’ chest. He stared at the other in surprise, then joy, as a smile spread over his face. "I am very glad to hear that."

The uruk’s answering smile was smaller, but no less fond. His hand moved to Celebrimbor’s cheek and stroked his thumb just under his eye, then next to his mouth, tracing the dimples there. It made the elf tilt his head until his cheek was pressed to the uruk’s palm as he continued to look at him. Marveling how the other did indeed look very relaxed and at ease.

"How about you?" Adar gave the question back to Celebrimbor. "I know tomorrow’s celebrations have been keeping you occupied the last few days."

The elf sighed, quietly. The uruk’s continued caress of his face helped him settle and kept the worry from showing on his features. Most of it, in any case.

"They have," he confirmed, and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, his expression was a bit more serious, almost but not quite pensive yet. "Do not get me wrong, I am very much at ease right now. And I am looking forward to...parts of tomorrow’s events. But with how much has been put into their planning, what they represent, I fear I find myself a little nervous as well, truth be told."

He gently took a hold of Adar’s wrist and held onto it. The other looked at him with a contemplative expression. "I think I understand. I, too, am both in favor of the feast’s message to our people, and what it represents. Partaking in it is rather daunting thought, however."

The smith smiled, and nodded, glad to be understood. He raised himself up and inched higher on Adar’s body, who curled his arm around Celebrimbor’s back and pulled him up easily, until the two of them were close enough for their noses to touch.

Their mouths found each other in a small kiss, and then they rested their foreheads against one another once more. "We are of the same mind, it would seem." Again, he brushed Adar’s hair from his face, fingers carding it back before he tucked it behind the uruk’s ear, then cupped his cheek. "That is a great relief. I would not wish to seem ungrateful. Or that I don’t enjoy the opportunity to show how much you mean to me."

Adar rubbed their noses together. "Rest assured, I have no reason to question your feelings. Or the truth of your sentiments," he said, voice low and gentle. His steadfastness was calming the elf like few other things could. "You needn’t worry I might take this the wrong way. We both feel similarly on this matter."

The uruk kissed the space between Celebrimbor’s eyebrows, long and slow, then drew back to search his eyes. "But as you said – we are going to face that day together, and the future it will be celebrating as well. It is the thought behind it all that counts, not the celebrations themselves. Our victory, the peace, our marriage, are separate from all that. We can appreciate those even without looking forward to the long-winded speeches, the music and the amount of people who will be there."

The elf nodded, and sought another small kiss. "That is very true," he replied. "I am sure it will not be nearly so bad as we fear, either. We have just spent too much time in the shadow of it to see that, now. But perhaps tomorrow will change that."

"That...is certainly a possibility," the uruk conceded, though he still sounded skeptical. "We shall wait and see."

Celebrimbor merely nodded in response. The two gazed at each other some more, before the elf sat up and looked at another selection he had prepared. There was still one more thing left he’d hoped to do with Adar, if the other might be amendable to the idea.

He looked down at the other and smiled softly. Shyly, he asked, "If you’d like...I have prepared some brushes and combs as well. I could brush your hair for you, if you’d permit me."

Adar was a beautiful sight, the way he was spread across the chaise, body pliant, face looking up at Celebrimbor. His wild, freshly washed hair spread around him, bathrobe open and showing his broad chest. The elf couldn’t help but reach up and stroke a hand up and down the space, fingertips moving over scar tissue and hard muscle.

The uruk looked up at him with a soft expression and quirked lips, and then nodded as he also rose up to sit. His arms found their way around Celebrimbor’s hips. "You need no permission from me, Tyelpe – you know you always have that."

"But yes, if wish to do so, I’d quite like it if you brushed my hair for me. Thank you for offering."

The elf smiled brightly in response. "Always, Adar. Always."

Having moved out of the tub meant no more risk of spilled water, and the lounge was a comfortable size for the both of them to occupy. This time, it was Celebrimbor who guided Adar where to sit, with his back turned to Celebrimbor and facing the warm fireplace, while the elf sat behind him, wrapped in the towel and with a brush in his hand.

He started from the bottom up, small increments, much like when Adar had applied the soap to the elf’s hair. Between his earlier ministrations, there were few tangles left thankfully, but the few that persisted he lovingly took the time and patience to work through, careful not to pull too much.

The results, as they started to become apparant, were quite gratifying – the uruk’s tresses looked shiny and smooth, slightly wavy from the damp and a natural curl to his hair, and in Celebrimbor’s opinion, no less impressive than any elf’s.

Without being aware of it, he had put the brush away, and was once more moving his fingers over the thick hair in front of him. Something in him itched to touch it more, the feeling of it against his fingers sending pleasurable sparks through him, alongside a feeling of warmth and comfort.

Before he even knew he’d started to do it, he had separated some of the hair into portions and was starting to braid them into each other. Losely, not with any intention to have this go anywhere, but-

He stopped, and tried to gauge Adar’s reaction. The uruk seemed wholly at ease still, but the elf remembered how the other had reacted to wearing and seeing himself in elven robes. Would this be similar to that? And if the uruk used their hair as tokens, would that also illicit a reaction of some kind in him, if Celebrimbor braided his hair?

Carefully, apprehensive of disturbing the serenity that had fallen over them, he put a hand onto Adar’s shoulder and stroked the skin there before he spoke. "I...would braiding be okay, too?" He sounded as unsure as he felt. Adar’s head turned just slightly back towards him, not enough for the elf to make out any expression on his face.

"I don’t mean to impose. I just got carried away a little, I think. After the robes, and what you told me about hair in uruk culture, I wouldn’t- I want this to be a nice experience for you. For the whole evening."

Adar still kept his face slightly turned away. Perhaps he was mulling Celebrimbor’s words over. Then, he reached over his shoulder and caught the smith’s hand as he offered it to his husband. Gentle fingers rubbed his knuckles, and then the hand was pulled up to Adar’s mouth for a small kiss.

"Always so good to me, so quick to learn of my needs and discomforts – and so considerate to meet them," he murmured, and then finally turned back further. His face was soft, still, and Celebrimbor felt a weight be cast off his shoulders. "I am not sure how much I’d wish to see the result of it, but the braiding itself feels quite calming."

Now, he looked a little unsure as well. "Would that be alright for you?"

Celebrimbor smiled, moved closer, and hugged Adar from behind. The uruk easily caught both of his hands and held onto them as he tilted his head back, pressed their cheeks together. The elf nodded lightly. "Absolutely. I just want you to enjoy this – all of this. That would give me the most amount of happiness. And you, hopefully, as well."

"You needn’t worry about that," Adar replied, and Celebrimbor could feel the smile that came over the other’s face. "You have made me feel...safe, and comforted, and very loved this evening, Tyelpe. You always do."

The elf felt as if his heart was swelling inside his chest, ready to burst, and he wound himself more tightly around Adar as a result. The kisses he pressed into Adar’s cheek and jaw were the shape of smiles. "That is because I do love you."

"I know," the other replied, and turned to bring their mouths together. "I love you, too."

Celebrimbor could have wept with the beautiful simplicity of the other’s words. As it was, he poured himself into their current kiss, and only reluctantly drew back afterwards. He felt so full, of affection, and fondness, and contentment. To the brim and beyond it – overflowing.

The elf sat far more closely, this time, as he focused on Adar’s hair again. He made a larger, soft braid down the middle, reaching from between Adar’s ears at the back of his head down to the bottom, and a few smaller ones at the sides. He did not tie either of them, quite content to let them come loose and undo themselves during the night. He only hoped the shape of the braids would give Adar a few more lovely curls to his hair, perhaps.

His hands busied themselves touching Adar’s shoulders and back, afterwards. The uruk was once more just moving into his every caress. Occasionally, a noise escaped him that made the elf smile at the other’s audible enjoyment.

"Should we move to the bed?" He finally asked, voice low, and placed a few kisses on Adar’s shoulder, small and light, as he stroked his flank. The other merely hummed. "I think we both could use some rest."

"Don’t you want me to braid your hair as well?" the uruk asked. He sounded quite drowsy, which made Celebrimbor chuckle and move to Adar’s side, to press a kiss to his temple.

"Perhaps another time. Come, you are about to fall asleep sitting up, I can tell."

It wasn’t that Celebrimbor couldn’t carry the other to bed if necessary; he was in fact convinced to be capable of such a feat, but if the other was capable of walking, he’d rather let him move by himself for now. He wasn’t yet sure how Adar would take to being carried, and would rather attempt it when the other was more fully awake.

Which was how he found himself helping Adar stand up from the chaise, holding both his hands before he lead him to their shared bedroom. The uruk let himself be guided along easily, pliantly, and with his eyes half-closed. Celebrimbor was walking backwards, careful not to bump into any walls or furniture.

The change of their location was accompanied by good humor as well, with the elf going so far as to take off the bathrobe, throw back the covers and fluff up the pillow before he coaxed Adar into laying down, after which he walked to the other side of the bed and climbed in himself.

The two of them soon found one another again in the center of their shared bed. It was Adar who reached out and pulled Celebrimbor across with a hand around the elf’s middle, until they were flush, chest to chest. The uruk did not take long to arrange the smith in his arms, holding him from behind, upper leg slung over Celebrimbor’s and arm around him, nose at the elf’s nape.

Celebrimbor readily let the other mold himself against him, smiled as Adar came to rest. As he linked their fingers together, he noticed that they had forgotten to put on their rings again – but no matter. They could always do so again in the morning.

Despite the day ahead, Celebrimbor felt pleasantly sleepy, as if his worries had been washed away. Not by soap, but Adar’s words, his steadying presence. With that pleasant thought, he burrowed back into the warmth of his husband, and closed his eyes. Rest found both of them easily that night.

[astra-aeterna]

aced it - chapter 9

chapter 9: you're looking at me like i'm putting galaxies in the sky

this one gets juicy, so buckle in

catch a snippet of chapter 9 below the cut <3

Apparently nobody in the house had boundaries about bedrooms, because Mor barged into Feyre's room early on a Saturday morning. It was only two weeks into the semester, hockey season hadn't started yet, and as far as Feyre knew, they didn't have any plans.

"Good morning, sleepyhead!"

She was far too chipper for the early hour. "What's going on?"

"Well, I realized that we haven't told you about our plans for the Starfall Formal! I don't know if you know, but every year the VU planetarium hosts a fundraiser. And we all go as a big group, it's super fun. So, Feyre, as you and I are the only girls, we're going dress shopping!"

Feyre blinked up at her, brain still foggy with sleep. "I don't have the money to spare for a formal dress, Mor."

"Well, good thing Rhys has already told me he's paying for yours."

"Of fucking course he said that," she grumbled, but didn't argue the fact. Usually, she was incredibly opposed to having other people pay for her clothes, considering her sordid history with Tamlin and the way he tried to control her with all of the money he spent on her. Maybe it was because she was still sleepy, maybe it was because she knew Rhys wouldn't hold his purchase of the dress over her head, but she decided it would be okay.

"Formal is the weekend of fall break, so today is the best time to shop. I know some great boutiques." Mor smiled sunnily at her, warm brown eyes bright with excitement.

"Okay, okay. Let me get dressed."

The first boutique Mor took her to was, naturally, far fancier than any store she'd set foot in before. Mannequins were scattered throughout the showroom, modeling formal dresses, bridesmaids dresses, and wedding gowns. Two walls were lined with hangers holding the white wedding dresses, and a third held a colorful collection of tulle, sequins, feathers, beads, satin— any material that could be found on a fancy dress, Feyre felt like she saw.

An attendant came up to them, personally seeing to their fitting rooms and pulling dresses she thought they might like.

Mor knew what she was after. Something red, of course, and toeing the line of "slutty" and "formal". Risque, perhaps, was the vibe she was looking for. The attendant grinned, and shooed her off to the racks to select some dresses for herself while she chatted with Feyre.

Feyre, who had no clue what she wanted.

"That's okay," the attendant, a pretty woman with dark hair and darker eyes, assured her. "What silhouettes do you think you'd prefer?"

"Maybe something, like, understated? I don't want a super poofy, princess-type dress, if that makes sense."

A nodded confirmation. "Do you have any ideas for color?"

Feyre didn't. But, in the spirit of trying for Mor, she thought it over for a minute. "Not green." The color of Tamlin's eyes, her gaudy engagement ring. "I don't wear a lot of red or orange. And no pink." Pink, what Tamlin seemed to enjoy dressing her in, shaping her into a demure little doll.

With that, the attendant sent her off to join Mor in looking through the packed rack of dresses, letting her pull a few for herself before interfering.

Shopping had never been something Feyre was particularly fond of, especially considering her lack of a figure and sharp angles that only thick sweaters could hide. But with Mor by her side, offering quips on the amount of feathers or how much a dress weighed, she found she didn't mind it quite so much.

In fact, she'd collected three dresses on the hook outside of her dressing room rather quickly. A sleek black satin number with silver threaded details, a deep purple gown with floral applique covering the bodice and fading into a tulle skirt, and a navy blue dress with beading across the skirt that resembled stars. They were all dark colors, which the attendant seemed to notice, as she quietly added two more to the collection— one in navy blue and one in a grey that verged on periwinkle.

She smoothed her hands over the soft satin fabric of the black dress in the privacy of her dressing room, eyeing herself critically in the mirror. Thankfully, she'd managed to gain some weight over the summer, so her cheeks and stomach didn't look so hollow. Still, the way the fabric clung to every curve and contour of her body made her feel far too naked.

After taking a deep, steadying breath, she pulled the curtain aside to show Mor and the attendant, who both smiled, but didn't seem enthused.

"I like black on you, but this dress is doing nothing for your complexion or your figure, honey," Mor tutted, appraising gaze traveling slowly over Feyre's body. Mor, who was in a deep burgundy dress with a corset top and flowing satin skirt, blonde hair falling over one shoulder. Mor, who she knew managed to look just as stunning in a ratty t-shirt and leggings as she did in the gown.

"Yeah, it's not— the neckline goes too deep. I don't have big enough tits to pull it off."

"We'll find something that makes your gorgeous little titties look perfect," she declared, striding over to the rack, entirely unbothered by the too-long skirts of her dress. With near-feral energy, Mor flipped through dress after dress after dress, occasionally stopping to scrutinize one before deeming it 'not right'. Eventually, Feyre heard a soft noise of satisfaction, and found Mor striding towards her with a dress she wouldn't ever have picked for herself.

It was cornflower blue, comprised of a dazzling, glittering material accented with a satin sash of sorts. Mor placed it in her arms and ushered her into the dressing room, insisting she try that one on next.

There was no reason not to.

When she pulled the blue dress on, zipping up the back as far as she could by herself, and looked in the mirror, Feyre had to take a moment to catch her breath.

The slit went up to the very top of her hip on the left, some of the material artfully gathered so it draped perfectly to bare her entire leg— and the plain black underwear she had on. Her breasts actually looked good in the delicately scooped neckline, enhanced by the upward compression of the dress itself as well as the satin draping that angled from her waist up to the point of the neckline and hung in an off-the-shoulder sleeve on the right.

She looked… hot.

It was a foreign feeling.

Sure, Tamlin had made her feel attractive, when he'd had her naked and writhing under him in his bed, but this was different. Feyre finally felt it for herself.

Before she pulled open the curtain of the dressing room, she gave herself a last once-over and carefully tugged her underwear up so that as little of it showed as possible. This time, when she stepped into the main room, there was a grin on her face, a healthy flush on her cheeks.

Mor, entirely lacking any compunction, shrieked. "You look so fucking hot!"

"Says you."

"Eh, this dress is a little too bright for my skin tone." Feyre didn't know enough about fashion to really tell. All she knew was that the vivid red dress clung to Mor's every curve, cutouts at the waist enhancing her hourglass figure and showing off more skin than before.

At Mor's insistence, she stepped up onto the podium in front of the three-way mirror, nearly blinded by the bright spotlights. The dress glimmered. She stared at herself, almost not recognizing the girl that stared back at her. She looked confident with her entire thigh on display and breasts pushed up enough to allude to cleavage she'd never really had.

"I think I want this one," Feyre breathed, still staring at herself. "It feels too good to be true."

The attendant grinned. "It looks like it was made for you, babes. I can take away the other dresses if you're sure you don't want to try them on."

She didn't. Maybe it would have been a good idea, but Feyre had never liked shopping and trying on clothes, and the gown that she ran her hands over was more perfect than anything she'd put on before. Just before she stepped back into the fitting room to put her normal clothes back on, Mor caught her by the wrist. "You do look perfect in that dress, Fey. Just one piece of advice, girl to girl: you're not gonna be able to wear panties with that."

Her heart beat faster in her chest as she carefully hung the dress back up and slipped her leggings and t-shirt back on. No underwear in a dress that came dangerously close to showing off exactly what her underwear covered? The idea made her slightly nervous, but it also felt like a deliciously dirty little secret that nobody else would ever have to know. It was just going to be for one night, anyway.

[dancingtotuyo]

Before | 3. we could live quite happily

A Woman Story

Rating: Mature

Warnings: fluff and happiness

Notes: Thank you @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin for reminding me this added something to the story even if I felt like "nothing really happened"

Words: 1167

Series Masterlist | Woman Masterlist | Author Masterlist

“What kind of flowers do you want?”

“Gabe, we’re getting married in November, there’s not going to be any flowers.” You roll your eyes, scraping the last remnants from the salad Gabe brought you for lunch. 

“Mrs. Bleeker always has potted flowers.”

“Oh yes, walking down the aisle with a three-foot potted plant is such a good idea.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Your fiancé rolls his eyes. “Do you not want flowers?”

You laugh. “Gabe, I just wanna marry you.”

“You don’t have any dreams for your wedding?”

“First off, it’s our wedding. Secondly, any dreams I had of my wedding day went down the drain a long time ago.”

“What was your dream?” Gabe leans across the table with an award-winning smile, the one that makes you feel half your age. 

His eyes sparkle under the clinic lights. He’s ready to make some big fanciful daydream and drag you into it. You wonder how he’s kept that approach to life all these years, always building some new world to escape to, figuring out what he could pull from those into yours. It’s one of the things you love about him. 

“I’m not playing this game right now. We have work to do before the doc gets back.” 

You had a doctor wander into Jackson about 6 months ago. Since getting the damn working and electricity restored to Jackson, you and he work on getting the old clinic cleaned up. The wall expansion is almost complete, making it worth everyone’s while to invest in cleaning up the shops and buildings, including the old clinic. Gabe is helping, or supposed to be helping. You have a feeling he’s more interested in wedding planning. 

“Come on, Doleful. We can do both.” 

You grab a bucket, refilling it with warm soapy water. “You know, one would think calling your fiancée Doleful is a good way to end up without one.”

Doleful, you’ve grown oddly fond of the nickname. It reminds you of who you were when you met him and how far you’ve come. It’s a part of Gabe’s magical imagination. It’s how he stays connected to them, the family he lost on outbreak day. 

He kisses your cheek. “Well, you sure as hell ain’t Wistful.” 

You splash water at him. He laughs and you can’t help the smile overtaking your face. “Oh? Is that the 9th dwarf who never was?”

“No, it was the 10th,” he winks. 

You roll your eyes as the two of you settle into silence wiping years of dust and grime from the shelves with lye soap. 

Your brain sits with Gabe’s words. Try as you might to keep it at bay, the wedding you always thought you’d have drifts into your brain. 

“Maybe it’s a southern thing…”

Gabe stops his work, turning to face you. You keep your eyes glued to your task. 

“But I always pictured getting married in a field somewhere with tall grass or wildflowers or something all around.” You shrug. “Something real simple.”

Gabe beams back at you and you roll your eyes. “We could wait until summer if you wanted-“

“No,” you say quickly. Gabe furrows his brow. “I don’t want to wait any longer.” 

He kisses you. “Good. Neither do I.”

“Then why did you offer?” 

“Because that’s the one thing you’ve told me you wanted.”

“Not true. I said I wanted Maria to officiate.”

“That doesn’t count and you know it.” He crosses his arms. “She officiates all the weddings.” 

He wasn’t wrong. There had been a surprising amount of matrimony since the group settled in Jackson 3 years ago. 

“But she’s my best friend.”

“Fine, you win.” Gabe kisses you. 

“Practicing for marriage, Gabe?” Maria enters the clinic with someone hot on her heels. 

“You know it.” Gabe smiles, ever the charmer. You can’t help but smile. That’s your man. 

Gabe stretches his hand to the newcomer, making the introduction before Maria can. “Gabe Rowland.”

There’s something familiar about him. You try to recall where you’ve seen him before. 

“Tommy Miller.” He shakes Gabe’s hand and it clicks.

“Holy shit.” You say. 

Three sets of eyes snap to you. You see the recognition in his, but he hasn’t placed you.”

Gabe introduces you to him. “My fiancée.”

“You’re Sarah’s uncle.” 

Tommy’s eyes furrow. “Haven’t been called that in a long time.” He cocks his head to the side. The implications set a pit in your stomach. It’s not hard to assume the reason. Your name plays off his lips. “Wait a second-“ 

“You two know each other?” Maria asks. 

“You were Sarah’s babysitter.” 

“And you were the reason I made it through college debt-free. Joel always paid me extra when he had to bail you out of county lockup in the middle of the night.”

Maria’s eyes snap back to Tommy. You see the former assistant DA in her come out. “Should I be worried about him?”

Tommy looks a little worried like you hold his fate in his hands as he remembers all the times he teased you in Joel’s kitchen. “He’s good, Maria. No worries. Might be able to help with the wall. He was a contractor in his former life

Maria relaxes, looking Tommy up and down. “Good, I like knowing I made the right call.”

Tommy’s hardly aged. A few more wrinkles but there’s not a streak of gray in his jet-black hair, still cut at the same length from 15 years ago. You want to ask him about Sarah and Joel, but you can’t. Everyone lost people. No one likes to talk about it. 

“Gabe,” Maria says. “Will you finish showing Tommy around? I need to steal your fiancée for a little bit.” 

“Of course.” Gabe kisses your head. “Come on, Tommy, you look like you could use a drink. Maybe I can get some stories out of you about my fiancée.”

“I got plenty.” Tommy grins. 

You shake your head as they leave, curiosity piquing as you follow Maria’s eye line right to Tommy.  

“Those two are gonna be trouble together,” you say. 

“What makes you think that?”

“Tommy was 10 times the troublemaker Gabe is. Somehow, I don’t think that’s changed.”

Maria raises an eyebrow. “As long as he does his share.”

“Are you a part of his share?”

Maria’s eyes snap back to you, narrowing. You bite back a giggle, smile overtaking your face. 

“You know I miss when you didn’t laugh and smile like a schoolgirl.”

“You do not.” You wave her off. “You’re just mad I clocked it so fast.”

“I’ll remind you, I won a nice scarf the night you left the dance with Gabe.”

“I assure you, I stayed much warmer,” You stick your tongue out at her. A little childish for sure, but happy nonetheless. “Looks better on you than it ever did on Rachel anyway.”

Maria's stern expression eases up. You can tell she’s biting back laughter. “Not a word, okay? To anyone.”

“My lips are sealed.”

[dead-dovediner]

Welcome Home (!dad Ronnie x !son reader)

triggers/warnings: Use of Y/N, Incest, Somnophilia, Anal, Anal fingering, Gay sex, Protected sex, Non-consensual, Dubious-consensual, A huge amount of filth

word count: 2045

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat!

It's been a long time since your dad left for another tour, rocking around the whole wide world. However, all the shows came to an end just as the tours (for now at least), and when you heard that all so recognizable voice calling out your name from most likely the hallway; you stopped what you were doing and walked to the hallway to greet Ronnie. 

"Hey dad! How was the tour? I saw a few of the shows on media, they were sick!" He looked all the same, tattoos vibrant and colorful around his bare skin, and those damned skinny jeans he was so fond of, with that heavy eyeliner you helped him master one day. He smiled when he saw you come to greet him and gave you a side hug, messing with your hair a bit in that fatherly love.

"Kiddo! Ah, don't even mention it, it's been wild, but I'm glad to be back home! Nothing bad happened while I was gone, no? The last time we called I was in Texas, everything went good since then, hm?" He gave you one last side hug and let go of you. It wasn't an awkward interaction, the two of you just haven't been on the same page for a while, so there wasn't much to say.

"Nothing bad, nahh. Just the usual, I was with friends a ton. Nothing as exciting as to what you were doing though. I had Kyle and Sam over a few days but other then that nothing out of the ordinary." You reminiscence of the day the guys came over and the three of you ordered a bunch of junk food to eat over playing on your new PlayStation 3. It was one of those days with a lot of laughing and  shouting, total chaos in the best way possible.

"Good to hear then! I hope you guys had fun, maybe you even had a few girls over? Hm?" He raised an eyebrow in a tentative way. Of course he was curious of that, every parent wants to know about their kid's love life. 

"No- Dad," You pinched the bridge of your nose. "I told you before, no? I... I don't like girls. I'm gay." With a small sigh you give up any hope. Ronnie didn't had a bad reaction when you first came out to him, but it was clear that deep down he was hoping it was just "a phase" or something like that.

"I know Y/N, but you never know until you get your head blown with a really good sloppy blowjo-" Before he could finish that sentence you interrupted in.

"DAD! Please- stop right there. I don't want to talk about this with you." You already turned a deep red color, it wasn't that he suggested something, or that he was open to talk about it, but no one wants to hear their dad (or mom) speak about these things. 

"I'll be in my room if you need me..." You turned on your heels and left for your room, the smell of energy drinks comforting you from this embarrassing encounter. 

The band posters and other merch plastered on the walls gives your room a cozy vibe, a cave with everything that you are. And it doesn't take much for you to just flop down on your bed and drift into a deep sleep.

~~^^~~

It was so warm, and so soft, and it felt good. A soft whimper left you but why? You stirred out of sleep, slowly opening your eyes to the dark room. For a few seconds you couldn't see anything but the darkness, then your eyes got used to the environment and you could make out a silhouette of someone near your lap.

"ngh-" Another wave of that really good warm feeling, who was here? And what were they doing to you? It took you a few more blinks before you froze in shock.

It was your dad... He was... You can't even come to think of it. A cold sweat broke out on you and a pit was starting to sink in your stomach, but at the same time it felt so so good. It was wrong, so very wrong.

He haven't noticed that you woke up, so he was just... well, sucking you down. Continuing that sweet torment of warm, wet and soft torture. It took you all of your courage to not buckle your hips up into his mouth as he worked his magic on your dick. 

Was this really happening? Was your dad really doing this? Has he done this before? Thousands of questions were running through your head, but then Ronnie sucked a bit harder on the sensitive top of your cock, and that's all it took for him to make you moan.

Except, when someone's asleep they don't moan, right? Yeah, he stopped his actions and you almost whimpered from the loss of his lips. 

"Kiddo? Are you awake?" It was dark enough in the room for him to not see or notice that you were indeed awake; and you prayed to any God that listened that he wouldn't put it together that you're awake. 

A few silent moments passed with his warm breath still hovering over your aching shaft. You were about to cum before he stopped and your hardening was still in need of taking care, if he's going to leave, that'd be both a blessing and a curse. 

This was so bad, and you didn't want this, but... but it felt so good, your hands could never reciprocate this. But were you really about to let your dad suck you off? Not to even mention that he stills thinks you're asleep.

However since no answer came from you to his question, with a soft sigh he curled a hand over you and stroked it a few times, making your dick twitch before taking it back into his warm mouth. He worked his way slowly taking you in fully, deepthroating your length somewhat easily, so he's good at it?

Again questions start to fill in your head with all the warnings screaming at you that this is bad and you shouldn't let him do this, but the feeling of his tongue swipe over the top of your dick over and over win. At last he adds a hand and he fastens up, building you up for probably the best orgasm you ever will have.

Soft whimpers left you but that didn't stop him, ever so the opposite, it made him go all the faster and oh my gosh, the friction was unbearable of how good it was, and it didn't take long for him to drive you over the edge, popping the bubble in your stomach as you emptied in his mouth. He didn't even waste a second to swallow around you, then with a soft pop he let go of your now somewhat limp cock.

Your breathing was forced back to a normal pace and tears pricked your eyes, you had to hold back everything so he would leave without ever knowing you were awake during most of it. He dressed you back like nothing happened and left the room.

You finally let out the breath you were holding in and took a moment to process what the actual fuck just happened. How will you ever recover from this? How will you continue living with this dark secret that you now possess? 

You can't tell anyone about it, not even the walls. You didn't stop it... you didn't even tried to stop it. That's almost like consenting to it no? And you can't just say "but it felt good" in your defense, yes, it felt good but it was much more wrong then to not stop it.

You are just as disgusting as he is, if not a bit more then him.

~~^^~~

Days, weeks, months passed, and turns out he has been doing this often, by now it was almost like a routine. You got used to it, every fourth night he'd come into your room and satisfy you, then without a word he leaves. 

Each night you knew Ronnie would pay you a visit you stayed up and lived through it every damned time. It never got boring or not as good, each time it was just as good as it was the first time. 

His warm mouth enveloping you deep each time, it was like a second home. You felt safe in his hands, and the bells still rang in your ear how bad this was, however you learned to love it. The thrill of being in this one-sided wicked relationship with you own dad.

One day was different though... Ronnie took his sickness to a new level. Just as usual it was the fourth day and you were pretending to be asleep, he pulled off your shorts and boxers down to your knees, however he didn't start stroking you or anything.

Instead, he put something wet near your back entrance, which was weird at first. Then it clicked, he was preparing you for anal... It was intimidating, the thought of giving your virginity to your dad. 

After rubbing in the lube precisely, he took one finger and slowly pushed it inside, he almost moaned, probably because he's been thinking about doing this for so long. Finally he was about to fuck you. Another finger slipped in, and it felt weird, almost as if it was in your lower stomach, yet it felt great. The stretching part not so much, but the way his fingers grazed your walls was heavenly.

It was already hard to keep calm, but when he removed his fingers and lined his own hardening up to your ass it took all the strength in you not to yelp when he took advantage of your semi-helpless body. Ronnie let out a deep whimper, one he was definitely holding back in for some time.

He waited for a few seconds in consideration to let your body expand to the sudden intrusion. Then he started rocking his hips back and forth, moving slowly and softly as to "not wake you up". It was a great yet weird feeling, a tingling to be exact, it was something new but not bad.

Ronnie took some more lube and made sure to not hurt you, which was sweet if we're not talking about how he's currently raping you. With more lube between the two of you he became more confident with his thrusts, and with those thrusts he made way more friction on your walls.

It was undeniably good, and when his free hand wrapped around your dick a shiver went down your back from the overwhelmingly good combination of the two. His softly throbbing dick thrusting in and out of you as his hands made a good effort on your own shaft.

He dared to go a bit rougher with time, and your orgasm kept building and building up as he was pounding into your ass with his hands going feral on your wet cock.

Then with a few sloppier in and outs he came into you? Was there even a condom? However you didn't feel much of it, so you guessed there was indeed a condom, thankfully. He waited a few seconds still buried inside you, filling your soft and stretched hole, then he pulled out completely.

You heard the bed creak and shuffling then his hands on you as he dressed you back up like he always does. And without another sound he left and closed your room's door behind. You opened your eyes and slowly sat up, it wasn't unbearable or too bad, but the soft soreness was definitely there.

You didn't even cum this time... and so without a choice you pushed your clothes back down, and took your still hard dick into your hand and tried to chase after the high you didn't get this time.

It took you long enough to finally spill your semen onto your hands, panting from the effort with small sweat beads covering you. So was it going to be like this from now on? No more free blowjobs, but this unfulfilling sex? Sure, it was good as hell, but you didn't cum only after.

Well, that's for future you to find out, for now you just have to hold onto this sick and dark secret for a while longer.

[overtaken-stream]

Drunk Deeds

Dracule "Hawk-Eye" Mihawk x F!Reader

Notes 1: I wanted (Y/N) to have met Zoro at some point in the pre-time skip as a foe (She lost) and since Zoro is an exceptional swordsman in her eyes, she (forcefully) choose him as her teacher after their brawl, unfortunately for Zoro, Kuma repelled you to the same place as our fav moss head. Note 2: I completely forgot about ages, but reader is older than Zoro, bc I find it funny for a grown woman to beg 19 y/o boy to teach her his swordsman ways. Note 3: It isn't specified if she is a straw hat, I left that open. Note 4: All this does not matter because I never mention it anyway.

Warnings: Oral(female receiving), wine involvement in a sexual activity.

The taste of grapes remains on your tongue, the calm, an almost invisible buzz of alcohol was underlining your headache that's been long forgotten now that the causes are thrown outside, out of your domain of expertise.

Your eyes wander over to the World Economy Newspaper, the major source of information covered in sweet propaganda and untruthful words regarding the newest attraction, the aftermath of the Summit War of Marineford. The monochrome pictures are scattered on the page and long paragraphs cry out for attention. Truly a tragedy to have greed decor and cover the crimes against humanity committed by the Marines.

Whether it's the gruesome pictures or the liquor you drank to rid of your thirst, the dry feeling on your tongue stays unnerved, it returns every few minutes you take in the wine.

It should be a familiar feeling, you think as you, yet again, grab the wine glass by the base of the stem, the clear rim is tinged with the soft color of your lipstick and there is a small amount of fluid remaining in the bowl, which you gulp down quickly, putting the empty glass back on the red tablecloth, you take a moment to swallow the last of the rich liquid. Then spinning the glass stem in between your fingers, you can feel your ears clog as the drunkenness heats your cheeks, though the wine does little to quench your thirst, the pleasant aftertaste left in your throat spreads throughout your consciousness, warm cozy fondness soon turns you drowsy and gasping for air.

Swift slamming of a cup in front of you makes you snap open your eyes (when did you close them?), and before the panic sets in an unknown voice interrupts the alarms going on in your head.

``You should know your limits.`` As soon as it came, the dread you felt quickly disappeared, and familiarity settled.

``S-Sir Mihawk!`` your flustered self is met with piercing Hawk eyes, thanking away whatever excuse that was quickly dancing on your tongue. ``Y-you have an extravagant taste in... Uh, wine Sir!``

The thought of when he had returned, or how you didn't notice his footsteps get lost in your clouded mind as his judgemental eyes wash over you, they settle under your skin, and for a moment you think pouring ice-filled water over yourself in snow would be better than the predatory gaze he sets upon you.

It isn't like he forbade drinking the wine he has hidden in every corner of the castle. Still, a drop of nervous sweat travels down your neck.

You swiftly turn away from his stare, eyes landing on the cold water-filled cup that he rudely slammed against the table, apparently for you to drink. Without words, you pour the water down your gutter, cool liquid satisfies the overheated core within, to the point that your worn-out teeth hurt from the cold sensation. By the time you set the partly empty cup down, Mihawk had already sat at the head of the table, away from you.

``Thanks for the water...``

For an unknown reason, his choice of seat made your heartache.

``Hm.``

Looking at the man, without his signature coat and the hat, felt surprisingly intimate, despite knowing each other for two weeks, all four residents, including yourself fell into a fresh routine quite easily. A routine that Mihawk adapted quickly and religiously maintained.

The hawk's eyes look up from the morning newspaper that he grabbed without your permission, and if it was anybody else, you might have said a snarky remark.

``Hand me the wine bottle.`` You have no issue being bossed around, you are more confident when following the orders of others, as annoying and humiliating as it is for somebody else, it doesn't bother you, especially when it comes to the warlord in the room, his orders are minimal, rare, and you don't feel any control from him, unlike Zoro who seems to get annoyed on your behalf whenever the older man 'dictates' your actions, leading to pointless remarks sent in your way.

Don't you feel lesser?

You stretch out your arm, sluggishly grabbing the exquisite bottle, and gently placing it in the rough hands of the swordsman.

You watch with heavy-lidded eyes as he pours himself the said wine, grabbing the glass and before he drinks, the man tilts his head down in a thankful gesture toward you.

No, I don't feel any lesser. Why? Because Mihawk does not mean demean.

It isn't until he puts his lips onto the rim that you finally recognize the stained glass. Your eyes widened.

``Wha-Hey! Don't drink it!`` you flung up your arms in the air, however, no amount of blushing could stop him in time.

``That's my glass!`` You watch as his eyes open, the wine and glass still resting on his mouth, his incorrigible face is misplaced as you mumble embarrassed whispers his way while hiding behind your hands.

A second passes, ten seconds pass. The silence suffocates your flustered face hidden behind your arms away from the prying eyes of no man.

``Huh.`` The sound escapes his (probably) lipstick-stained lips, it shatters the awkward pause between you two. ``I... apologize.`` A faint blush on his heated cheeks is swept under the rug.

It takes you a bit to let your hands down, even longer to look at him in his static eyes.

Only after he grabs himself a clean wine glass, do you stop hiding your flaming cheeks away from him, sneaking glances at the open ruffled neck his white button-up shirt includes. The residue from earlier sits beautifully on his chapped lips, giving a faint shine from the lack of proper appliance. The color stains the transparent rim, laughing and teasing you, spreading countless unknown emotions that make you shy away and maintain eye contact with a tablecloth.

``Is there something on my face, (Y/N)?`` His double-ringed eyes land on your form, which you realize is too open for sneaky glimpses you've been giving him. Unaffected by your embarrassment.

You don't know if it's a drunken haze that gave you the confidence out of thin air, but you're sure at some point you've lost yourself in the slow hum of alcohol.

``Mm. Yeah actually.`` He raised an eyebrow at your response.

The feeling spreads like a lit steel wool, the fire following your lines of sanity as it leaves only boldness exposed to a hawk. You bet everything, and by everything you mean your life, the only thing you seem to carry that has any meaning in this meaningless world, on this action.

A chair falls onto the ground. Next, you're bending ninety degrees in angle, right arm rests on your knees as you're standing in the face of a gentleman, left hand travels to the man's lips, pale in comparison to the ghostly skin, rough and torn by the sea, the frown adorns his complexion as your pointer finger pad gently smoothes the color that pops off of him. It sticks to your skin, lipstick revealing your fingerprints.

It sticks like the smell of sake clinging onto the man. The scent that only now you've picked up, due to the proximity. He must have had a great time with Zoro outside.

His eyes watch, stern and unrecognizable as you pull your digit away from his mouth, in slow-mo you let him realize what the subtle, teasing smile on your face was about. He tries to gather what decency remains within, tries to not look down as your shirt reveals soft flesh underneath, concealed in the shadows.

By now you must have caught onto the distant smell of sake clinging to his button up, however, it does not seem relevant to either of you.

Sweat dribbles down from his temple, yet his hand moves up to grab your hip, and his body follows after it. Standing upright.

In your slowly widening eyes, he sees your confidence crumble like the boulders he used for training back in his youth, so effortless to demolish under his eye.

He looked down at the roses that bloomed under your eyes, wide and shaken for an unknown reason.

``Are you flustered?`` There are no words that meet him, his question causes your hands, resting on his chest, to tighten. He already knows the answer.

He drags your body closer, feeling your heat under his skin. His thigh drags your nether region unintentionally rubbing the cloth between your bodies. A hiss escapes your lips, his eyes narrow. ``Y-you're so...!`` You say between your clenched teeth, face heated.

Mihawk's arm tightens around your torso, shoving his knee further until he makes your buttocks meet the edge of the table. The wine bottle rocks back and forth.

``So?``

You are trapped.

``...So... Frustrating...`` Your eyes shut tightly as his lips meet yours. The strong aftertaste of Sake hits your wet muscle since the wine was not enough to cover it. His tongue eagerly entangles with yours, leaving you breathless. Through the clothes, you can feel his hand on your waist trail up your ribs and rest across your chest. It grabs at buttons and frees your body to his eyes.

Your heart thunders in your ear. Embarrassed you grab at his shoulders as he grabs at your thighs, kneading it before dragging you up and on top of the table. With great vigor, his hand removes whatever restriction was between your private parts, dragging and tossing it away. His lips never leave you, even when you struggle for breath, he leans over you, caging your body beneath. The lust drowns everything else, the sight, smell, and sense, for a blissful moment.

It ends unwillingly. The golden eyes watch, and yours stare back, both breathe heavily. The connection is broken when he goes down, leaving you leaning on your elbows to watch as he gazes at your folds with dark desire swirling in his ringed iris.

It's too much. Too blush-making for you. Lying flat on the table as your wrists desperately shelter your eyes. The moment goes on for what feels like forever.

And then the sensation hits you like a truck. 

The cold, wet, bright red liquor drips onto your opening, blazing your face in complete blush as the loud sound of wine meeting ground fills the air.

Your hand flies down to hold yourself stable, letting the uncomfortable feeling overwhelm you.

Turning red, you could only gaze into his eyes that stared at your entrance, hungry for something. After a pregnant pause, he put the wine bottle on the floor, leaving your bottom half shining with red tints.

``Are... Are you insane?!`` your eyebrows turned up, voice shook. ``What are you doing?!`` flailing around you try to move away from his grip, inner thighs soiled in alcohol.

``I apologize for startling you.`` a sly glint lights up in his pupil, proving his apology otherwise. His hot breath disappears as he puts his mouth on your labia and quickly presses his tongue inside you without waiting for your response.

His grasp does not falter, instead strengthens and brings your bottom half closer until his nose finally meets your clit, lips gently travel over your folds, pressing sweet kisses on them that sprinkle over to your inner thighs. Tasting the alcohol with no shame in his actions. Tiny whimpers slip by as butterflies flutter in your stomach, pleasure makes your knees weak as he flicks at your opening. His tongue sneaking around your clit, sucking, circling, discovering with determinded precision what would shatter you to pieces the quickest. The wet sounds escape from his pressings, no doubt tasting and smelling the liquor as his tongue gets closer and closer to that one spot.

He sends shivers up your spine and uses his thumb to harshly rub against your clit, but once Mihawk finally found his desired destination inside of you, there was nothing that would get him to look at something but your pleasure-filled face finally unleash and listen to your cry that he compares to a siren's call, designed to enchant a lone pirate such as himself. He nestles and nuzzles his way through your meager whimpers, enthusiasticlly licking your addicting taste.

It's a shame your time together does not last forever.

[panakinthedisco]

PART 2 | TICKET TO RIDE ━━ Joel Miller

summary: becoming the president of the class is the most stressful thing that joel miller ever did in his life but then, you made it bearable.

author's note: i'm shookt with the amount of likes with this mini-series huhu so here you go! if it's your first time in here, please read the part 1 of this series <3

other notes: au, elementary teacher!reader x contractor!joel,  no outbreak!joel miller, sarah lives, single dad x teacher, eventual smut but this is a slow burn romance, maybe angst? reader is a fan of the beatles and a mccartney girlie while joel is a george harrison stannie! age gap (reader is in the middle of 20s x joel miller in his 30s), sarah being a cute matchmaker to her dad!

word count: 4.4k

A few days had passed since the PTA meeting, and you were still adjusting to your new life in Austin, Texas. The town was unfamiliar to you, and the job offer had been the only one available at the time. Thankfully, your cousin lived in Austin and had kindly offered you a place to stay. The apartment wasn’t large, but it was cozy and gave you a sense of security in this new environment.

Settling into your new role at the school, you found that the staff and students were welcoming. The school itself had a warm, community-driven atmosphere that you appreciated. Your class was manageable, and you even began to grow fond of your students. They were eager to learn and showed respect in the classroom, which made your job easier and more enjoyable.

One student, in particular, stood out to you: Sarah Miller. She had a natural curiosity for science and was always eager to help. During science classes, Sarah often assisted you in arranging the flasks and beakers on the shelf, her enthusiasm evident in the way she carefully handled each piece of equipment.

One afternoon, as you were setting up for a lab experiment, Sarah approached with a smile. “Do you need any help?”

You returned her smile warmly. “That would be great, Sarah. Could you please arrange these beakers on the top shelf?”

Sarah nodded and began to carefully place the beakers in their designated spots. As she worked, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for her assistance. It made the transition into your new role smoother and less overwhelming.

“How are you finding Austin so far?” Sarah asked, her voice full of genuine curiosity.

You paused for a moment, considering your response. “It’s been an adjustment, but I’m starting to feel more at home. My cousin has been a huge help, and the school is wonderful. I really enjoy teaching here.”

Sarah beamed. “I’m glad to hear that! You’re a great teacher. Everyone in class really likes you.”

Her words warmed your heart. “Thank you, Sarah. That means a lot to me.”

As Sarah carefully placed the beakers on the shelf, you couldn’t help but notice how meticulous and dedicated she was. Her assistance was invaluable, making your adjustment to the new job much smoother. You watched her for a moment, grateful for her help and impressed by her enthusiasm.

Sarah glanced over her shoulder at you, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Have you had a chance to visit any places around Texas yet?”

You shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips. “Not really, Sarah. I haven’t had much time to explore. The only place I’ve really been to is the grocery store near my apartment.”

Sarah giggled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “You know, there’s a great place for horseback riding just a mile away from here. My dad has a truck, and we go there sometimes. Would you like to join us?”

Her suggestion took you by surprise. It felt a bit unusual to be invited out by a student, especially since you were still getting to know them. You felt a mix of flattery and apprehension, unsure how to respond.

“That’s very kind of you, Sarah,” you said politely. “I’ll think about it.”

Sarah nodded, seemingly satisfied with your answer, but you could see the gears turning in her mind. She returned to her task, her expression thoughtful.

Internally, Sarah was plotting. She adored you and knew her dad had been lonely for a long time. What better way to help both of them than by arranging a casual outing? She envisioned them enjoying a day out, her dad relaxing and having fun, and you, seeing a new side of Texas. Maybe, just maybe, her plan would help bring a bit of happiness into both of your lives.

As you continued to prepare for the lab experiment, you couldn’t help but think about Sarah’s suggestion. The idea of horseback riding sounded fun, but the prospect of spending time with Sarah and her father outside of school felt a bit strange. You appreciated the gesture, though, and couldn’t deny a small part of you was curious about the experience.

Later, as you walked around the classroom, checking on the students and ensuring everything was in place, you found yourself thinking more about the invitation. Sarah’s enthusiasm was infectious, and her desire to share her favorite activities with you was touching.

As the day went on, you decided to keep an open mind. You could see how much Sarah cared about both her father and her teacher, and maybe this outing could be a chance to bond with her and better understand the community you were becoming a part of.

“Alright, everyone, time to wrap up,” you announced, bringing the class to a close. As the students gathered their things and prepared to leave, Sarah gave you a bright smile, and you couldn’t help but return it, feeling a sense of warmth and connection.

As you watched the students file out of the classroom, a wave of mixed emotions washed over you. The hustle and bustle of the day was winding down, and you found yourself alone with your thoughts. The adjustment to life in Austin had been challenging, to say the least. Moving away from your parents was a difficult decision, but the job offer had seemed like a beacon of hope at the time. Now, you weren't so sure.

Loneliness had become an unwelcome companion over the past few weeks. Your parents had been supportive, encouraging you with words of wisdom and confidence, assuring you that you could thrive on your own. But their words felt distant in the face of your current reality. Each day felt like a test of endurance, and even the small victories were overshadowed by an overwhelming sense of isolation.

The faculty room, a place that should have been a source of camaraderie and support, only intensified your feelings of being an outsider. You were the youngest among your colleagues, and their close-knit conversations left you feeling invisible during break times. They had their routines, their inside jokes, and you often found yourself on the periphery, unsure of how to break into their circle.

Your thoughts drifted back to Sarah Miller. She had been a ray of sunshine in an otherwise cloudy experience. Her genuine kindness and eagerness to help had been a lifeline. When she invited you to go horseback riding with her and her father, it had been the first time anyone in Austin had reached out to you in such a personal way. The invitation felt like a small crack in the wall of loneliness that had been building around you.

You sighed, leaning back in your chair, staring at the now-empty classroom. The idea of spending time with Sarah and her father was starting to seem more appealing. Maybe it was a chance to break out of your shell, to connect with the community, and to find a sense of belonging that you desperately needed.

"Why not give it a try?" you thought to yourself. "It’s just an afternoon, and it could be fun."

The image of Sarah’s bright smile flashed in your mind, and you felt a flicker of hope. Her invitation was a small gesture, but it held the potential to change the trajectory of your experience in Austin. Maybe, just maybe, it was a step toward finding the connections and support that you had been yearning for since your move.

You packed your things, the classroom now quiet and still. As you walked out, you made a silent promise to yourself: you would accept Sarah’s invitation.

Life as a teacher continued for you. The final bell rang, and the bustling energy of students packing their bags and heading out the door filled the classroom. You busied yourself with tidying up, ensuring everything was in place for the next day. As you straightened the books on your desk, you glanced up and were surprised to see Joel Miller standing in the doorway.

Your eyes quickly took in his appearance—typical flannel shirt, worn out jeans, and work boots covered in a thin layer of dust. He looked as though he had come straight from a job site. Despite his rugged appearance, there was a certain warmth in his eyes that you found comforting. You gave him a friendly smile.

"Mr. Miller, come on in," you said, motioning him into the classroom.

Joel stepped inside, looking slightly out of place in the tidy, structured environment of the classroom. Just as he was about to speak, Sarah and her friends came up behind him, chattering and laughing.

"Hey, Dad," Sarah greeted, a playful glint in her eye. "I’m going to hang out with Maddie for a bit."

Joel turned to her, a familiar, fatherly concern in his voice. "Alright, but remember, Uncle Tommy is picking you up before dinner. Don’t be late."

Sarah nodded, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. "Got it, Dad." Then, she glanced at you and back at her father, her smile growing wider. "And Dad, don’t forget to shoot your shot."

Joel looked momentarily confused, his brows furrowing. But then he caught the way Sarah glanced at you, and understanding dawned on his face. His cheeks flushed slightly, and he turned back to his daughter, trying to maintain his composure.

"Sarah, you need to go," he said firmly, though his tone was tinged with embarrassment.

Sarah laughed, a light, carefree sound, and gave him a quick hug before skipping off to join her friends. You watched her go, feeling a mix of amusement and curiosity.

Turning your attention back to Joel, you could see he was still slightly flustered by his daughter’s teasing. You decided to break the ice.

"So, you’re here for the field trip plans, Mr. Miller?" you asked, keeping your tone light.

Joel scratched the back of his neck, a sheepish smile forming on his lips. “You can call me Joel, Ma’am. And yes, here are the plans.” Joel handed you over a piece of paper, and it’s handwritten by him. Ever since the PTA meeting where he was elected class president, the responsibility had weighed heavily on him. He had no idea how to organize a field trip, and the last thing he wanted was to embarrass himself in front of you, the new teacher. Earlier, Joel sat at the dining room table, papers strewn about in a chaotic mess. He rubbed his temples, staring at the tentative plans for the upcoming field trip.

His brother, Tommy, wandered into the room, a look of confusion on his face. "What’s got you all riled up, brother?" he asked, eyeing the disarray on the table.

Before Joel could respond, Sarah chimed in, a knowing smirk on her face as she drank her hot cocoa. "Dad’s trying to impress the new teacher," she said, not bothering to hide her amusement.

Tommy's eyebrows shot up, and he plopped down beside Joel, his expression turning into one of playful mischief. "Is that so? Trying to impress the teacher, huh?"

Joel sighed, feeling a flush of embarrassment. "It's not like that," he muttered defensively. "I'm just trying to get these plans sorted out. Also, she seems younger, you know?"

Tommy laughed, clapping Joel on the back. "You’re making excuses, man. I’ve never seen you this worked up about anything before. Sounds to me like you’re more interested in her than you’re letting on."

Joel shook his head, but he couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. "She's just trying to do her job, and I don't want to make things harder for her. That's all."

Sarah giggled, leaning against the doorframe. "Sure, Dad. Whatever you say."

Tommy leaned back in his chair, still grinning. "Look, Joel, it’s okay to admit you find her interesting. But you can’t stress yourself out over this. We’ll help you figure it out. It’s just a field trip. Goddamn, you’re a lot more stingy to this rather than talking to the grumpy old man across the street that you almost cussed out."

Joel glanced at his brother and daughter, feeling a mix of frustration and gratitude. He appreciated their support, even if their teasing was relentless. "Alright, alright," he said, holding up his hands in surrender. "Let’s figure this out together."

They spent the next hour brainstorming ideas, Tommy throwing out suggestions with his usual carefree attitude while Sarah chimed in with practical advice. Slowly, the plans started to take shape. Joel felt the tension in his shoulders ease as they worked through the details. At least, he had an initial idea for your class’ field trip. 

As the last of the students filtered out of the classroom, Sarah gave her father a mischievous grin before heading off with her friends. Joel watched her go, feeling a mix of pride and trepidation. Once the room was quiet, he turned his attention back to you, taking a deep breath. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, handing it to you.

"This is, uh, the rough draft of the field trip plans," he said, his voice a bit strained with nerves.

You took the paper with a warm smile and gestured to an empty chair nearby. "Why don’t you grab a seat Mr. Miller? We can go over this together."

“You can just call me Joel, Maam,” you nodded and looked through the paper. 

Joel hesitated for a moment, but then he dragged the chair over and sat down beside you. You unfolded the paper, smoothing it out on your desk, and pulled out a pink ballpen from your pocket. 

His eyes shifted from the paper to the colorful array of pens spilling out of your pencil case. The case itself was decorated with playful designs and a few strips of washi tape, each adding a personal touch that he found unexpectedly charming. He watched as you reached for your pink ballpen, your fingers deftly maneuvering it as you made notes on his rough draft.

As you started scribbling on the paper, Joel’s brow furrowed, a look of concern crossing his face. "Am I doing something wrong?" he asked, his voice tinged with worry.

You looked up, noticing his apprehension. "Oh, no! It’s just a habit of mine," you explained with a reassuring smile. "I like to doodle while I think. Helps me focus."

Joel nodded, relaxing slightly. He watched as you continued to make notes. 

He couldn't help but smile as he observed your methodical yet creative approach. The pink ink swirled across the paper, punctuated by little stars and hearts that danced around your comments and suggestions. Joel was taken aback by how much personality you injected into such a simple task. It was endearing.

As he continued to watch, he found his gaze drifting towards you. He tried to be subtle, but his eyes traced the curve of your hand as it moved, the way your brow furrowed in concentration, and the gentle way you bit your lip when you were deep in thought. There was something soothing about your presence, a quiet confidence that he hadn't expected.

Joel's attention was momentarily drawn to the scent of vanilla that wafted towards him every time you moved. It was light and sweet, complementing the warmth of the room and adding another layer to the growing sense of comfort he felt in your company.

He shifted in his seat, trying to focus back on the task at hand, but his eyes kept returning to you. The way the afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, catching the strands of your hair and casting a soft glow around you, made it hard to look away. He was struck by how natural and unassuming you were, yet there was an undeniable spark that drew him in.

As you scribbled another note, you looked up, catching Joel's intent gaze. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air thick with unspoken words. You broke the silence with a warm smile, your eyes crinkling at the corners. "You okay, Joel?" you asked, your voice soft and kind.

Joel cleared his throat, feeling a flush rise to his cheeks. "Yeah, just... watching you work. It's impressive."

You laughed lightly, “Thanks, Joel.”

Returning to the paper, you continued making notes, occasionally glancing up at Joel to ensure he was following along. He tried to focus, but his mind kept drifting back to the little details—the pink pen, the vanilla scent, the way you looked so at ease in your element.

After a few minutes, you paused, tapping the pen thoughtfully against your chin.

"I really like your idea of taking the kids somewhere engaging and interactive," you said, turning to look at him. "Rather than just going to a zoo or a museum, something hands-on will be much more memorable for them."

Joel’s eyes widened in surprise. "You really think so? I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea."

You nodded enthusiastically. "Absolutely. Kids learn best when they’re actively involved. It’s a great way to make the experience more meaningful."

Joel felt a swell of pride at your words. He had spent hours agonizing over those plans, and hearing your approval was incredibly validating. "Thanks," he said, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "That means a lot."

You returned his smile, your eyes twinkling with encouragement. "We’ll just need to iron out a few details, like permissions and logistics, but overall, I think you’re on the right track."

Joel leaned in closer, his confidence growing. "Alright, let’s do this then."

For the next half hour, the two of you worked together, discussing various aspects of the field trip. You appreciated Joel’s practical insights and his willingness to listen to your suggestions. He sat beside you at the small, cluttered desk in the classroom, the map of Austin spread out between you. His rough draft of the field trip plans was covered with your colorful scribbles, and now you were both leaning over the map, discussing potential locations.

"What about this park?" Joel suggested, pointing to a green area on the map. "It's got a nice picnic area and some trails. The kids might enjoy that."

You nodded thoughtfully, considering the idea. "That sounds great. It would be good for them to have some outdoor time."

As you both continued brainstorming, you glanced up from the map and remembered something Sarah had mentioned earlier. "You know," you began, "Sarah mentioned something about horseback riding. She invited me to come along with you two."

Joel's eyes widened in surprise. "She did? What exactly did she say?"

You smiled, recounting the conversation. "She said you have a truck and that there's a place just a mile away. She thought it would be fun if we all went together."

Joel chuckled softly, shaking his head. He knew what his daughter was doing and it’s not even subtle anymore but he did notice that you had no idea what his mischievous daughter was doing. Before he could say more, you interrupted, your eyes sparkling with genuine interest. "Actually, I'm interested. It sounds like a lot of fun."

Joel was momentarily speechless. He hadn't expected you to be so open to the idea. Gathering his thoughts, he finally managed to say, "Well, that would be great. I think it could be a lot of fun, too."

As you both continued discussing the field trip, you glanced at the clock on the wall and realized how late it had gotten. "Oh wow, it's already seven in the evening," you said, surprised. "I think we've done enough for today."

Joel looked at the time and nodded. "Yeah, we should probably call it a day."

As you started packing up your things, Joel looked at you earnestly. "Let me take you home," he offered. "It's getting late, and I don't want you walking home alone. This town has its share of people who might take advantage of someone new."

You hesitated, not wanting to be a bother. "I appreciate it, but I don't want to trouble you."

Joel shook his head firmly. "It's no trouble at all. I insist."

Seeing the genuine concern in his eyes, you nodded in agreement. "Alright, thank you, Joel. I appreciate it."

Together, you left the school, the evening air cool and refreshing. As you walked to his truck, you felt a sense of camaraderie growing between you. Joel opened the passenger door for you, and you climbed in, feeling a mix of gratitude and curiosity about where this new connection might lead.

As Joel drove the truck with you in the passenger seat, he suddenly glanced over at you and asked, "Is it okay if we drive through McDonald's? It's for Sarah."

You smiled and nodded. "Of course, that's fine."

The drive to McDonald's was accompanied by a comfortable silence, punctuated by the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of papers from the plans you had been working on together. Joel broke the silence, his voice warm and curious. "So, where are you originally from?"

"I'm from Louisiana," you replied, a hint of homesickness in your voice. "This is my first time being away from my family."

Joel nodded, his expression empathetic. "I know it can be tough, especially when you're used to having them around. Just a piece of advice, though: don't walk around at night alone. And if you need anything, you can call me anytime."

You appreciated his concern but didn't want to be a bother. "Thank you, Joel. I don't want to impose, especially since you have a busy work schedule."

Joel waved off your concerns. "It's no imposition at all." He reached out to the dashboard, retrieved a calling card from his company, and handed it to you. "My number is on there. Don't hesitate to call if you need anything."

You took the card, touched by his kindness. "Thank you, Joel. I really appreciate it."

A few minutes later, the truck pulled into the McDonald's drive-through. As you approached the ordering kiosk, the cashier's voice crackled through the telecom. "Welcome to McDonald's. Can I take your order?"

Joel leaned over to the speaker and ordered, "I'll take two Big Macs and fries, please." Then he turned to you. "And what would you like?"

You hesitated, not wanting to add to the order, but Joel's encouraging nod made you feel more at ease. "I'll have a chicken burger, please."

Joel relayed your order to the cashier. "And a chicken burger as well, thanks."

As you waited for the food, Joel glanced at you with a smile. "Louisiana, huh? Must be quite a change coming to Austin."

You nodded, thinking about the differences between the two places. "It is. But I'm slowly adjusting. Your daughter, Sarah, has been a big help since I came to the class."

Joel chuckled. "She's a good kid. Always looking out for people."

The truck rolled forward to the pick-up window. The cashier handed over the bags of food, and Joel passed them to you to hold. As he paid and received the change, you couldn't help but feel a growing sense of admiration for him. His kindness and willingness to help made the transition to your new life a little bit easier.

"Thanks for doing this, Joel," you said as he pulled out of the drive-through and headed back towards your apartment.

"No problem at all," he replied. "I'm glad to help."

When you finally reached your apartment, Joel parked the truck and turned to you. "I'll walk you to your door."

You nodded, appreciating the gesture. As you both got out and he walked you to your apartment, the evening air was filled with the quiet chirping of crickets. When you reached your door, you turned to him with a smile. "Thanks again, Joel. For everything."

"Anytime," he replied, giving you a reassuring smile. "Have a good night."

"You too," you said, watching as he made his way back to the truck.

As you entered your apartment, the cozy familiarity of the small space greeted you. You placed your bag on the kitchen counter, the scent of vanilla lingering from your perfume. Joel Miller's calling card was still in your hand, and you set it down next to the fruit bowl, taking a moment to reflect on the evening.

Joel Miller. He was an enigma. In the classroom, his rugged appearance had caught your eye: the typical flannel shirt, worn-out jeans, and work boots—he exuded a blend of ruggedness and reliability. You remembered how he had seemed hesitant but determined to discuss the field trip plans, his deep voice carrying a hint of nervousness. Despite his rough exterior, there was a gentleness in the way he interacted with you and his daughter.

You recalled his strong hands pointing out locations on the map, the subtle scent of sawdust and pine mingling with the vanilla of your perfume. His genuine concern for your safety had touched you, and his easy smile had made you feel at ease.

But then you shook your head, trying to dispel those thoughts. Joel was a parent, and you were a teacher. It was inappropriate to think of him in any other way. You needed to maintain professionalism, especially since Sarah was one of your favorite students.

You made your way to the bathroom, flicking on the light. The cool tile floor under your feet grounded you as you leaned over the sink, splashing your face with cold water. The shock of the cold helped clear your mind. You stared at your reflection, droplets of water clinging to your skin.

"Cut it out," you muttered to yourself, gripping the edges of the sink. "He's just a parent. Focus on your job."

You took a deep breath and stood up straight, grabbing a towel to pat your face dry. The lingering thoughts of Joel Miller needed to be pushed aside. You were here to teach and not to get distracted by the rugged charm of one of your student’s parents.

You walked back into the living room and sat on the couch, opening your laptop to review tomorrow’s lesson plans. Immersing yourself in work was the best way to push those thoughts away. As you typed away, you reminded yourself of your priorities: teaching, supporting your students, and adjusting to life in Austin. 

Everything else, including your confusing emotions about Joel Miller, would have to wait.

Whatever that even means for you. 

CONTINUE READING: PART 1 | PART 3 ━━ AVAILABLE ON AO3

☆ MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION | SOCIALS | SIGN OFF BANNER MADE BY. @ALDERAANDORS

[beautyofsorrow]

20 questions for fic writers

tagged by @reflectingiridescent

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

113 publicly. i’ve got a fair bit more on anon

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

431,974

3. What fandoms do you write for?

in descending order: star trek picard, star trek strange new worlds, star trek voyager, star trek deep space nine, satanic panic, star trek lower decks, original work, fringe, yellowjackets, star trek the original series, the murderbot diaries, firefly, lisa frankenstein, jennifer’s body, star trek the next generation, barbie fairytopia: mermadia, star trek discovery, and the locked tomb most of those are one-offs for exchanges. currently i’m camping out in strange new worlds and asking so so nicely for season 3 to be kind

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

excluding the multichap bc it’s a collab and the one on anon: holes (jennifer’s body) seeds of order (picard) how shall i touch you unless it is everywhere? (picard) oh children, think about the good times (picard) come on and prove it (voyager)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

sometimes. it really depends on what the comment is saying and if i have the energy + something to say back (hard to have both at once these days)

6. What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

well i wrote a crap ton of deathfic in high school but none of that is on the internet anymore, so… probably my seven/jay origin fic, “we do what we do in the dark” i do not think “the father considers the daughter he has not spoken to in years” is angsty—i’d argue it’s just realistic—but it’s certainly not a happy ending. and i love it for that

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

honestly, most of them? i do ambiguous endings a fair amount, but i do not do sad endings all that often. one of the happiest-feeling to me was “i have a name, yet no one who will say it not roughly” because it ended in a way that felt good and true and very different from what actually happened in canon. but ironically i cannot read it because it makes me remember the things that made me write it in the first place, and then i get the sad/mads. lol if we’re going by conventional definitions of “happiest,” the award would probably go to “andante, andante”

8. Do you get hate on fics?

yeah

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

yep! femslash, always. usually romantically ambivalent or friends with benefits. i love writing platonic sex <3

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the wildest one you’ve written?

i’ve done a fair bit of star trek femslash rarepair crossovers, which i’m quite proud of. raffi/jadzia (“the tongue thing”) and b’elanna/kira/ro (“of warm limbs hooking your heart to the world”) were the most ambitious, while “risk factor” (una/mirror georgiou) gave me the most trouble because i did not feel confident mucking about in discovery’s canon at all i also wrote a star trek: voyager/murderbot diaries fusion for an exchange, “the subtle ART of not giving a fuck,” in which b’elanna meets ART, and that was very fun

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not to my knowledge

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

nope

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

yep! several times

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

i don’t really have one. i tend to be more into individual characters than ships, and will drift from ship to ship involving that character depending on the mood i’m in. right now i am most fond of chapel/una, but i write a lot more una/la’an because they’re requested in exchanges more often + there’s a little bit more engagement given that they’re not a rarepair. i’ve also been turning chapel/uhura over in my mind, but haven’t quite found the entrance to writing them yet

15. What’s the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

every day i think about finishing “without anesthetic” and every day i do not

16. What are your writing strengths?

i am very, very good at sentences. i can hear lines and the rhythms they should strike, and in fanfiction terms i’ve got an ear for voices. i’m great at character study. i’m also good at taking a premise you’d expect to be cracky and making it believable on the strength of my character work alone

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

longform. i am simply not built to work in lengths above 10k

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

i would prefer not to

19. First fandom you wrote for?

….what WAS it. i’ve been doing this so long i genuinely cannot remember. it was either lord of the rings or star trek: deep space nine

20. Favourite fic you’ve ever written?

my favorites tend to not be ao3’s favorites, so i will give a few honorable mentions before giving my real answer: of warm limbs hooking your heart to the world (b’elanna/kira/ro -- grief/mourning, hurt/comfort, estrangement, and complicated relationships with religion) home is the thing you can’t come back to (b’elanna/seven -- post-voyager au in which the ship lets everyone leave but them) i want to be flawed all the way to bed (chapel/una -- consensual use of sex pollen leads to an unexpected connection) seams (chapel/una -- post-memento mori wound-tending) a secret third thing (una/la’an -- an experimental imagining of la’an’s personal log post-ghosts of illyria; one of my favorite things in the world to write is fragmented experimental work) she wants to know how it works (chapel/una smut -- i just really love how tender this one turned out) indecent exposure (chapel/la’an -- only one bed and horny as hell, what’s a girl to do?? this one was so fun to write) (but the real answer is “enfleshed.” 100% enfleshed)

tagging @zannolin, @73chn1c0l0rr3v3l, @onmytallesttiptoesspinning, @ceruleanphoenix7

(apologies for the re-tags if you've already done this. i've been gone from tumblr all month)

[broodwoof]

Happy DADWC! I love the unusual words prompt list! Let's have something for Dorian/Bull, with: "noctivagant - going about in the night; night-wandering" ?

aaa thank you! this was fun <3

@dadrunkwriting

635 words

It had started as a casual suggestion; let’s take a walk. Simple enough. Dorian had to admit that sitting in that library so often was beginning to wear on him - the literature in Skyhold was limited, with most new additions either going downstairs to Solas’ desk or new works that Varric shelved personally. The problem was, Dorian had already read all of them, working through the newest as soon as it was brought up. They weren’t really to his taste, but it was better than reading through yet another book on the southern Chantry.

So he’d started taking trips down to the Herald’s Rest most evenings. Often he drank, but sometimes he just wasted time around people instead. Sometimes he talked with Sera when she was in the mood, and increasingly Bull had invited him to sit with the Chargers, although Dorian always felt woefully out of place there. So a few nights ago Bull had changed tact, asking Dorian if he wanted to take a walk.

There was hardly anything else to do, so he’d agreed. He had regretted that first walk, the wind cutting through his clothing ruthlessly, and even though he realized halfway through that Bull kept trying to carefully - and subtly, all things considered - position himself between Dorian and the wind, it was a useless endeavor. They were too high up and the wind came from everywhere. So when the Inquisitor brought him to Redcliffe, he had spent a fair amount of his own coin on a thick fur coat. Not exactly up to his standard style, but even he would sacrifice comfort to prevent frostbite.

Now they were standing on the battlements, watching the sun go down over the mountains. Dorian was comfortably ensconced in the thick fur, while Bull leaned on the stone beside him. During these walks Dorian had come to appreciate the care with which Bull conducted himself - he’d never once had to dodge those great horns, even when Bull was bent over like now. Were it anyone else, he might have seen the self-awareness as stemming from some anxiety, but with the Qunari it was clearly not an anxious reaction. He was cognizant of who he was, of what he was, and took care with it - without making himself smaller or other than himself.

Dorian admired that. He admired that a lot, actually.

“Never figured you’d get so quiet,” Bull pointed out as the sun finally drifted below the horizon, Dorian laughing. It puffed out in a great white cloud - Maker, but it was chilly up here, especially during the night. He drew the coat up tighter around his neck.

“And here I thought I was sparing you my incessant posturing,” he teased. Bull snorted and gently bumped against Dorian.

“The posturing is nice. Might prefer posing, though.” Dorian felt himself flush and couldn’t entirely bring himself to mind. If nothing else, it made at least one part of his face warm. Besides, this... wasn’t exactly new. He was still figuring it out, still trying to see what Bull wanted from him, but the other man had been patient. More than anything else, that freaked Dorian out. Being desired, being bedded, and nothing afterwards... it was the way it happened in Tevinter. And if he had held out this long with someone back home, they would have gotten tired of him and moved on.

But here they were. Together. Quietly. Gently. “You know,” he said after a beat, “I’m still kind of chilly.”

“Want to go in?” He smiled to hear the sincerity in the question.

“Not really.” Instead he took a step closer, listening to the little huff that escaped the Qunari before a heavy arm settled around him. “Much better.”

“Damn mage,” Bull muttered, Dorian grinning to hear the obvious fondness in his voice.

[the-ultimate-tsbs-kin]

☆TSBS Kin Memories!☆

Foxy

- Dated Puppet

- First getting a crush on Puppet and denying it

- Half Hispanic

- Had a tail (like FC's but more worn out)

- House husband (sorta- I did work, but I did all the housework too)

- Straight (apparently have to clarify that-)

- Lowkey hated Monty (so did Puppet)

Castor

- With Pollux (by earthling standards, both platonic and romantically, but we didn't say things like "date")

- Extremely close bond with Pollux, neither of us ever felt anything remotely close to it with anyone else than with each other

- Pollux loved cuddling and all sorts of physical affection - I did too, but she usually initiated them

- Didn't have the same feelings for Lunar

- Being Gemini felt warm and just... extremely close, in a good way- hard to phrase

- Astrals had a different language, but we knew all the earthly languages so we could communicate with whoever we needed to

- Pollux loved flower jewelry and loved making them for me, so I usually always had a little crown or bracelet or something

- Had telekinesis (idk if that's mentioned or shown on the shows-)

Ruin

- Very flamboyant and fruity, just for fun

- Aroace

- Flirted with anyone and everyone just for their reactions (it was also a great defense mechanism!)

- Me and Bloodmoon weren't dating, but we had- something going on

- Don't know if I really had my own personality because I was almost always acting for my benefit

Killcode

- Very flexible

- Liked to climb up walls on all fours to scare people

- Regularly went on hunts with Bloodmoon

- Actually adored Bloodmoon, who was also very fond of me (I was almost as close to them as they are with each other)

- Had to deal with Bloodmoon throwing tantrums a lot

- Wasn't really fond of Eclipse, I tried to give him the same amount of care and understanding as Bloodmoon but he wasn't taking it so I gave up

- I could not change the smile on my face- it was stuck like that

- Fsr, Bloodmoon was in his newer model in my memories- maybe they were always like that?

Sun

- Had a big thing with Moon, very longstanding, very committed relationship! (Totally wasn't built on trauma-)

- When Eclipse first formed, he had a thing for Moon fsr and only started antagonising us after Moon rejected him

- Had OCD (not my cleaning protocol, I did little rituals for certain things). The main thing I can remember is the lights- before going to bed, I had to switch them on and off a certain amount of times and with certain intervals between switches before it was safe to leave them off. I also had a little mantra I said when I did it. Moon used to be really annoyed by it and I got self conscious and tried to force myself not to do it. Then when he came back after the whole thing with Nexus, he noticed I was still suppressing it and he helped me feel safe enough to do it again <3

- My rays did actually retract with certain emotions. If I got anxious or uncomfortable, they'd go in more. I could technically control it but it happened subconsciously. They didn't spin though

- Wasn't straight- don't remember what I was, but definitely not straight

- Very feminine

- Also house husband

- Always wanted kids

Lunar

- Still hate Eclipse, he unsettles me to no end

- Biggest crush on Gemini and Earth

- Pansexual and ambiamorous

- Actually did enjoy being small

- Age regressed sometimes

- Definitely a femboy

- Loved Earth's hair- very very soft and fluffy >w<

- LIVED off of nutella and ice cream

- Very emotional, never fully got my powers in check :(

[m4ndysk4nkovich]

my thoughts on sandy milkovich:

(buckle up because i have a lot to say, as always)

so, for starters, one thing that i’m not incredibly fond of is how her character isn’t really original. like, it is, but it isn’t. her name is sandy, for christ’s sake- which is literally one letter away from mandy, also not to mention the fact that she was practically raised as mickey’s sister. and in many way’s she’s like a female version of mickey, i’ll explain why:

obviously one way she’s like mickey is that she dated a gallagher, but i think that the way she acts in the relationship is very much like how mickey acts in gallavich. well…acted. more seasons 1-5 gallavich.

she’s a bit less… idk, fearful than mickey was? i mean, it’s understandable why mickey was so fearful- have you seen terry? did you watch 3x666? or 4x11? i would’ve been fearful if i were him, too. we don’t know much about how sandy was raised, but she probably wasn’t raised well. again, she seemingly was raised as mickey’s sister rather than his cousin (he does have a brother who is also his cousin, to be fair, but that’s not what i mean) but sandy’s parents may not have been as threatening or terrifying as terry was. terry does seem to be the most well-known milkovich. everybody knows terry. maybe sandy’s parents were homophobic in a way where they looked down on queer people, but didn’t literally murder them. you can see how much more open she is with the whole “he’s gay, terry. i’m gay. people are gay.”

but sandy can be mean. and so can mickey. i love them both to death but sandy’s fight with debbie in season 11 really reminded me of gallavich in seasons 2/3. specifically “you’re nothing but a warm mouth to me” and “you love me; and you’re gay” she wins the fight by using something to hurt debbie, and it works.

and what was the fight all about? sandy leaving her husband, who she was with as a teenager but felt no love for him whatsoever, and also leaving her kid. sound familiar? ian never held yevgeny and svetlana against mickey, but it’s similar.

and when they break up on the front porch all i, and many other gallavich fans, could think of was “5x12!!!!”

also she was a drug dealer and in juvie and it was implied that she was in prison. this isn’t exclusive to mickey, the only milkovich i can think of (other than yevgeny) who hasn’t been incarcerated is mandy, but we don’t know for sure that she hasn’t been to juvie before. she’s certainly done things that could land her in prison for a very long time.

and i feel like with the same amount of time and development sandy can be as great as her cousin is, because mickey changed A LOT over the seasons which made him even more lovable.

but sandy’s ending was pathetic and i hate the writers for it. it was unnecessary and damaged debbie’s character when she didn’t need it because sandy left literally 4 EPISODES BEFORE THE SERIES FINALE. the only thing that sandy leaving added was the evidence that debbie would stick with franny no matter what, but fuck that, it was too late in the show for most people (not me ofc) to give a shit about that. people overlooked that a lot.

i feel like sandy helped out debbie’s character a lot, while simultaneously fucking her up even more. but i loved sandy for most of her run on the show, i just wish that they had done more- or less. idk. they made her character more complicated than she needed to be, and it’s hard to put my feelings about her into words because they didn’t give us enough to work on.

i think that her relationship with royal was bad, and i think that he was probably a creep who impregnated her, and i bet that he knew she was a lesbian after they got married and things probably got messy. the way that royal described sandy’s choices to prince was good, though. i respected that.

anyway, if they kept making shameless seasons (which they wont) i would love a sandy redemption. possibly like the returns of mickey, jimmysteve, or kelly.

im not reading this over before i post it so if it doesn’t make sense then oh well

[mrn2electricboogaloo]

"Unfortunate" doesn't begin to describe my Splatfest, this game rewards Shiver simps and no one else, I am beyond convinced at this point. After getting my hopes up with the win in the Splatfest sneak peak, losing this way somehow felt even worse than I had thought possible. Our cause was superior, our play was superior, and we lost, so I don't see a reason to continue engaging in an activity where what is within my control is overwhelmingly outweighed by what is not.

I am done with Splatoon 3, and you won't get a fond farewell. This community is infected to its roots with a degenerative disease that grows stronger over time but stops short of killing its host. Spatfests used to have a competitive spirit at their heart, this has been transplanted and replaced with an artificial organ that feeds on vitriol and mockery from insecure simps that heckle by the sidelines and tear each other to shreds over scraps of attention. The environment we fostered has trapped us all like this in a vicious cycle, and escaping it requires acceptance of the harshest reality we all scramble to explain away, that none of the countless straining efforts we put ourselves through here will ever amount to one single shining glimmer of significance. I would make this the end, but my friends want to try out the new weapons, and I would never leave so many great friends out to dry, so I'll suffer through a few more games for them.

One last thing before I leave you all to react with disdain, ridicule, and self-righteous fervor, before you do everything in your power to minimize my words and thoughts, box them up and shove them to some cobwebbed corner of your memory, and hope they disappear forever as a stain on your finite time ground to dust. From this moment on, nothing you say matters to me. The foulest insults you hurl with intent to wound will calmly settle at the earth before my feet, and the venom you spit will bring all the pain of a warm summer breeze. You are less than anything you can conceive, while I carry on, brimming with joy distilled from detachment.