#reluctant thin dad

[suuuupernovaaa]

red dress

summary: a man disrespects you, and joel handles it

tags: jackson joel, age gap, 30s reader, 50s joel, defensive joel, protective joel, aggressive simp joel, sexual assault

MASTERLIST

It took an incredible amount of convincing to get Joel out of the house that evening. Big gatherings weren’t his thing, especially when music and dancing were involved. He was always happy to go out for dinner, have a drink, or enjoy a quiet evening alone with you - but dancing?

In the end, it was the dress that convinced him. You knocked on his door wearing a red dress covered in white flowers, tight around the bust and waist, flowing to your ankles, with more cleavage that was probably necessary, and he sighed and grabbed his coat.

He muttered something about not wanting to let you out alone dressed so indecent.

You had both had two drinks before he agreed to a dance. Just a slow one. Even if he was acting reluctant, you knew how much he enjoyed wrapping his arms around you, his fingers brushing the top of your bottom, swaying you back and forth.

“Are you still mad to be here?” you whispered in his ear.

“You’ll be the one who’s mad when I tear that pretty dress right off you later,” he whispered back, and you threw your head back with a triumphant laugh, even as a thrill at the promise in his voice ran through you.

Later in the evening, when Joel was talking to Tommy and Maria, you found Ellie and Dina at the snack table.

“Wow!” Dina exclaimed at the sight of you, and you curtsied.

“Wearing this thing was the only way to get your dad out of the house. Sorry, El,” you said, and she rolled her eyes but smiled at you, just a little.

“Gross,” she said, and Dina elbowed her.

“It’s not gross! She’s so hot, I’m almost jealous of Joel.”

You waved your hand in the air to dismiss her words, and took a pretzel off Ellie’s plate.

As you opened your mouth to say something, you were knocked off balance by a loud, firm slap to your ass.

Your face was the perfect picture of shock, mirroring the two girls in front of you. Dina reached out, catching you before you stumbled over into her.

“What the fuck?” you hissed, turning around to see a stranger. Medium height, blonde hair, and glazed over eyes. This man was drunk off his ass, over served three drinks ago.

Ellie pulled on your arm, stepping in front of you, though you stood a head taller than her. She raised her arm, poised to strike, but before she could, the man clattered with force into the snack table.

Pretzels and chips flew everywhere, and where your assailant had once stood was now Joel, his eyes alight with rage.

He was gearing up to throw a few punches, so you stepped between him and the man, now passed out covered in food.

“You got him. Let’s just go,” you said.

Joel looked over your shoulder for a tense moment.

“Damn,” Dina whispered.

“Let’s go. I don’t want to wear this dress anymore,” you told him. The slap had been so hard that your ass still stung. You didn’t know how many had seen, but you felt hot with embarrassment at the idea of so many people in here watching you get slapped like that. “I want to go,” you told Joel, your eyes filling with tears.

You turned to the girls. “Thank you, for catching me, and for stepping in,” you told Ellie and Dina respectively. They were looking at you with concern and a hint of pity, which made you feel even worse.

When you turned to Joel, he had removed his jacket, and placed it on your shoulders.

Without another word, you left.

You didn’t cry until you were safe inside Joel’s house, but you could feel him vibrating with rage the entire walk home.

“Baby, I should’ve killed him,” Joel said, probably as softly as he could given how angry he was.

“Unzip this dress, please,” you said, leading him to his bedroom. You kept a few outfits here, for your frequent sleepovers.

He obliged, and you shimmied out of the dress, letting it pool on the floor.

“I shouldn’t have worn that.”

Joel bent down and picked up the thin fabric, fisting it in his hands.

“This dress ain’t to blame for what he did. You ain’t to blame for what he did. It was his fault. Tommy and me’ll deal with him.”

You nodded, tears still falling down your cheeks, and turned to grab a t-shirt out of the dresser.

Joel hissed when you did, a sharp intake of breath.

“What?” you asked as you pulled one of his worn shirts over your head.

“He left a mark.” The words came out through gritted teeth.

You ran into the bathroom, twisting and turning, so you could see a red, palm-shaped welt on your ass cheek.

“Mother fucker,” you said. Joel appeared in the mirror behind you, rage set in his harsh features again. “You can be mad about this tomorrow, Joel. I just need you to hold me tonight.”

You turned, and he reached for you immediately, gathering you in his arms, practically smashing you into his chest.

You took in a long, deep breath of him. The scent of whiskey and pine and Joel. It was intoxicating. You wanted to bottle it.

He lifted you up, and you wrapped your legs around his torso as he carried you to the bed. He lay you down gently, reverently, and lay down beside you.

“If you’d walked into that barn stark ass naked, it wouldn’t have given a single person in there the right to touch you,” he said, looking down at you. He reached out, wiping a tear from your eye.

“I know. It feels just, embarrassing. That maybe everyone saw.”

He shook his head. “Only one should be embarrassed is that fucker. If he’s not, he will be soon.”

You knew you should protest. Tell Joel it’s no big deal, to keep his cool, but it was a big deal. And what the hell is the point of dating a man like Joel Miller, a man who is hell bent on protecting the people he loves, if you don’t let him do exactly that?

You pull his face down to yours and press a chaste kiss to his lips. “Thank you.”

He rubs his nose across yours, and kisses every spot on your face.

Hard with others. Gentle with you.

“I love you,” he says, finally settling down next to you. “Maybe you can wear that dress sometimes still… just ‘round the house.”

You smile into the crook of his neck. “Only for you.”

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Hiii would you do Charles with a teen daughter who does a lot of music (piano but maybe other instruments as well) but she plays a sport like basketball and gets a nerve injury in her wrist and really struggles to play music again becusse she’s thinking it but her fingers just aren’t playing it and dad Charles just being super sweet when she gets frustrated and trying to help her? thank you!!

The Silence between Notes

The late afternoon sun poured through the tall windows of their Monaco apartment, casting long golden stripes across the hardwood floor. Yn sat hunched over the grand piano in the corner of the living room, her right hand hovering uncertainly above the keys. Her fingers twitched, reluctant and unfamiliar, like they belonged to someone else. Her left hand rested on her thigh, trembling slightly—not from pain, but from frustration.

Her cello stood silently by the window, its curves glowing warmly in the light, but untouched. Just the thought of trying to play it again made her stomach twist. She had tried two nights ago. It had ended in tears.

She struck a single note on the piano, her finger stumbling. Then another. But when she tried to begin the gentle entrance to Clair de Lune, the right hand lagged, stiff and unsure, and the melody fell apart like a house of cards. She slammed the lid closed, the sound loud and jarring.

“Ugh!” Yn groaned, pressing her palms to her eyes. “Why is this so hard? It’s like my hand forgot how to move.”

She didn’t hear him come in, but she felt his presence—gentle, quiet, always waiting for her to invite him in. Charles leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, his soft eyes full of sympathy. He had been listening for a while, resisting the urge to come in too soon. He knew how much she hated being watched when she was struggling.

He finally spoke. “You used to play that piece with your eyes closed.”

Yn looked up, startled. “Papa, I didn’t know you were home.”

“I came back early,” he said, walking over and kneeling in front of her. “I heard you playing—or trying to.”

She looked away, embarrassed. “It’s not working. I can’t do it. My hand doesn’t listen anymore.”

Charles gently reached for her wrist, his thumb tracing over the thin scar that still curved softly near the base. “It’s not your hand that’s not listening, mon cœur. It’s your mind that’s scared.”

“I’m not scared,” she snapped, too quickly. Then sighed. “Okay. Maybe I am. I know the notes. I know the technique. But when I try to play, it’s like—nothing comes out. Like my fingers are... blocked.”

Charles nodded. “Do you remember when I crashed in Hungary? Back in 2021?”

Yn frowned. “Of course I do. You were so upset. You thought you had ruined everything.”

“I didn’t trust the car after that. Even when the engineers said it was fine, even when I was physically okay. I’d sit in it and feel like it was going to betray me again. My hands were ready. But my mind would tense up. And that... that made me slower.”

“Is that what this is?” she asked, voice small. “My brain making me worse?”

He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Your brain is trying to protect you from hurting again. But it’s using fear instead of trust.”

There was a long pause between them.

Then she whispered, “Mom said maybe I should just quit music. Focus on basketball instead.”

Charles blinked, taken aback. “She said that?”

Yn nodded. “She said maybe it’s a sign that music isn’t the right path. That basketball’s more practical, more... physical. That this injury proves I’m better suited to it.”

Charles sighed and sat beside her on the piano bench. “Your mom loves you. But she doesn’t know what music means to you. Not the way I do.”

“I yelled at her,” Yn murmured. “I got so mad. I told her she doesn’t get it. She said I was being dramatic.”

“Alexandra was wrong to say that,” he said gently. “You’re not dramatic, Yn. You’re passionate. There’s a difference. I’ve seen you with your cello. The way you lose yourself in it, how you breathe with every phrase. You don’t just play music. You feel it. That doesn’t just disappear.”

Yn stared at the piano, silent.

Charles reached out and opened the lid again. “Play something simple,” he said. “Forget Debussy for now. Start with something easy. Something you played when you were ten.”

“Why?” she asked warily.

“Because right now your mind is trying to perform instead of play. Go back to where it all started.”

She looked skeptical but nodded. Slowly, she placed her hands on the keys, searching for the old tune. “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” she muttered with a half-laugh.

“Perfect,” Charles smiled.

She began. The first few notes were hesitant. Her right hand fumbled at first, her pinky trembling with effort, but the left hand held steady. Halfway through, she messed up and hit a wrong note.

“Try again,” Charles said gently.

She did.

This time it sounded better.

She stopped. “This is so dumb.”

“It’s not dumb. It’s rebuilding,” he said. “Do you know how many times I went back to karting circuits after a crash in F1? Sometimes, you have to go back to remember why you started.”

There was silence between them again, but it felt softer now. Yn shifted slightly closer, leaning her shoulder against him.

“Thanks, Papa.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I’m always here, ma chérie. We’ll take it slow. One note at a time.”

That night, she didn’t touch the piano again—but she sat on the floor with her cello, cradling it in her arms like an old friend. She didn’t play. She just held it.

And Charles sat beside her the whole time, not saying a word.

The next day, she tried one note.

And the day after that, she tried two.

And Charles? He never missed a single practice.

Not even one.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-♡○♡

[luveline]

Hey lovely, How about Hotch and wife!reader having their first family outing with new baby, a walk in the park or grocery shopping something like that you can pick.

Hope your having a good weekend lovely Xx <3 🌼

ty for your request ily <3 —you and Hotch juggle your small family for the first time. fem, 1.2k

“Please hold my hand?” 

Having a baby has activated some intrafamily jealousy, but you don’t mind. You’re cooing at Noah adoringly when Jack interrupts, thrusting his hand in the air, the very beginning of a tantrum lining his eyes and his thin eyebrows pinched like a threat. 

“Baby, don’t you wanna come and sit up here with Noah?” you ask. There’s not much room next to the carrier, but Jack's slight. 

He shakes his head, hand poking your tummy. Grocery shopping with Jack has always been hard, he wants to look at everything, wants to take the list, and doesn’t ever wanna sit in the cart, but it’s proving harder today. 

“Aaron, you have to push the cart.” 

He’s been begging you to let him for the last half hour. “It’s gonna tire me out,” he says, nudging you aside by the hip, “but I think I can handle it for you. You did call me by my first name for once. We reward good behaviour in this family.” 

You roll your eyes and take Jack’s little hand. Calling him Aaron now you’ve had a baby together should feel natural, but it doesn’t. It feels more like a loving nickname than his actual name —over two years of calling him Hotch is hard to ignore. 

Jack gives you a loving look that makes the fuss worth it. “This is fun,” he says. 

“This is awesome.” 

You and Jack got used to doing grocery shopping by yourselves while you were on your maternity leave without his dad. With Hotch now on his own paternity leave to accompany you, it is admittedly easier, and much more fun. You and Jack swing your hands together as Hotch steers the cart and your baby into the cereal aisle, which’ll take hours to get through, no doubt, but it doesn’t matter. What else is there to do? 

You make it Hotch’s job to say no to the boxes that are mostly sugar, and, unfortunately for Jack, get distracted by Noah in his baby carrier where it’s locked into the cart. His eyes reluctant to open, tired, dark lashes threaded together at their corners, his tiny mouth. “Aw, look at you, handsome, you’re nearly smiling. You look just like your daddy, he never wants to smile either,” you say, tapping his nose. 

Your saccharine tone prompts distress. “Y/N,” Jack whines, “you need to help me choose the cereal.” He yanks at your hand. 

“Jack, don’t start, bud.” 

“Dad,” Jack pouts. 

“No, it’s okay. We’re supposed to be sharing everybody now, so Jack gets to share me too. I’ll help you pick some cereal. I don’t mind,” you say. 

You sort of do mind, just a bit. This is Noah’s first time out in the world that wasn’t sitting peacefully in the backyard, and you don’t want him to be scared. Maybe baby’s can’t be scared, you don’t know. It’s nicer to feel close to him in these big moments. But it’s Jack’s first time having a baby brother at the store, too, so you’ll have to make it work. 

“You don’t have to,” Hotch says. 

“It’s fine, it’s okay.” You bend down to see the cereal selection. “They have your favourite, Cinnamon Toast Crunch. And your second, Fruity Pebbles. It’s up to you, it’s your treat.” 

Jack gasps and hits a box of Fruity Pebbles, “Barney’s on the box now!” he says, pointing at the blonde character behind the cereal bowl. 

You give a soft laugh quickly lost as Jack’s force topples the box. It hits the floor with a light crunch. “Oh, whoops. Let’s pick this up,” you say, popping down into a crouch without thinking. 

“Honey–” Hotch says, which would surely be followed by a Should you be doing that? if you weren’t already flopping onto one knee in pain. 

Bad idea. Terrible idea. Having a baby tears a mixture of tissue and muscle, and while the fiery pain of labour has since become a bad memory, a spike of trauma erupts between your legs. “Ow,” you yelp, eyes welling with unbidden tears. 

“Y/N!” Jack and Hotch say simultaneously. 

“Are you alright?” Hotch asks, bending at the waist to grab you, never cruel but clearly perturbed as his hands grasp your shoulders. They slip down under your arms. “Come on, can you stand up?”

You blink away tears and force yourself to stand with his help. He’s quick to pull you close, one hand on your wrist, head ducked to see your face. “Are you okay? What happened?” 

You let out a queasy breath. “Something’s not done fixing itself,” you joke weakly. 

“Are you alright?” he asks again, lower. 

“I’m fine.” You’d love to sit down. The pain is a thrum like your heartbeat now, hurting but half as intense. “I’m okay. Really, it just shocked me.” 

He slips his arm around your neck to encourage you in for a temple kiss. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You wiggle out of Hotch’s hold. Jack stands with a large pout near the fallen box of cereal, his hands twisting together over his tummy. “It’s okay,” you say. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, panicked tears slipping down his cheeks. “You hurt getting it and it was mine, I’m sorry.” His voice squeezes out of him in guilty pangs. 

“It’s okay!” you repeat, leaning over with a wince to offer your arms, “It’s really okay, it’s not your fault. Don’t be upset, baby, I’m fine.” 

You hoist Jack into your arms as he begins crying in earnest. His crying startles Noah, who starts to whimper, and then sob despite Hotch’s gentle shushing. You look at one another in mild defeat, your hand cupping the back of Jack’s head as he clings to you for reassurance. 

Noah’s sobbing is like a ringing bell. Jack says he’s sorry into your neck, and it’s such a desperate scene you let a laugh slip out. “Aw, baby,” you say, smiling as you press your nose to his cheek, “it’s really okay. It wasn’t your fault at all, it was just ‘cos I’m out of practice. I’m just tired.” 

“You fell.” 

Noah gurgles behind you. “I know,” Hotch says quietly. “I know. You’re okay, bud. Jack’s okay. Mom’s okay. Shh, shh.” 

It’s obviously not how you’d want your shopping trip to go, but Jack’s crying eventually slows, sapping all of his energy, and so he finally agrees to sit in the cart. The only problem is that he doesn’t fit there as well as you’d thought he would. Hotch ends up carrying him the entire time you’re in the store, and Noah doesn’t ever settle. You’re like zombies when you get back to the car, a headache stark between your ears and evident in his pinched brow. 

“Let’s try again in a few weeks,” Hotch suggests. “I can go by myself. Or we can make somebody else.”  

You wish you had the energy to kiss his brow, giving a defeated nod as you slouch down into your seat, grateful at least for his hand on your knee. “Okay.” 

[kismetlotts]

Hi lottie! May I request some hesitant/reluctant Simon whose fingers are twitching to touch you? Maybe brother’s or dad’s best friend or some other “we shouldn’t do this” trope. Your writing is lovely. Thank you 💕

Oh of course!

cw: dads bsf trope, slight implication of an age gap, fingering, mentions of fingering, breast play etc kissing, mark leaving, mentions of male masturbation, Simon being very conflicted, mentions of female masturbation, mentions of oral sex both female and male,

Dad’s best friend Simon who can’t help but steal glances at you when he comes over every now and then. Such a peaceful house guest, a gentleman who rambles along with whatever is being said not much care to get involved in conversation. The man who nods and thanks your dad when he passes him a coffee, just a typically decent guy to be around until you sway in.

A body so perfect and smooth, the dim light of your living room complimenting you and making you more even more desirable. A pair of pyjama shorts fitting you slightly tighter than they should, revealing the fine curve of your ass and exposing your thighs shamelessly.

You’d always felt a little off when Simon came over, always caught him staring a little longer than your dad’s other friends did. I mean, you were quite sexy, you’d had the odd share of them check you out every now and again. Never missing the small exhale a few of them let out before looking away because you didn’t despise the attention on you- it made you feel rather confident despite the fact you’d rather die than let any of them touch you.

Maybe that was another area where Simon differed to the rest of them.

He was different; he felt different-way more perverted but you really really liked it. His eyes didn’t flicker away like the rest, didn’t leave your body quickly almost ashamed or disgusted in themselves, paranoid to get caught thirsting over someone way off limits. His eyes were dragged away, forcefully, as if any longer and something in him would snap- something primal and horny.

He didn’t want to stuff his cock in you; not just that anyway. He needed to toy with you, feel the body of his best friend’s daughter in his hands because for something so wrong it felt so fucking right. He couldn’t do that, he shouldn’t do that- it was morally fucking wrong and it made him a freak but he couldn’t hold himself back. There was just something about you that made him want to caress you, finger you. Middle and ring fingers diving into the hole of his mug handle- wishing they were diving into your hole instead.

He wanted to watch your eyes roll shut with pleasure and agony; drive you mad at the feel of his fat fingers stretching and penetrating your pussy. He wants to watch as drool glides down your chin from your open mouth, cheeks hot with embarrassment but too lost in the feeling to give a shit. He’d pay money, he’d do anything, he imagines you every time he tugs on his chubby little dick- it was kind of pathetic how much he wanted you.

“Am I right? Yeah? Simon?” Your dad would speak, a fast inhale and a clear of the throat erupting from Simon as his eyes left your figure and back to your dad’s face. He hadn’t heard a word of what was said, hadn’t paid attention to anything but the way your nipples poked through your thin tank top.

Mind full of wonders like if you’d still be able to feel his tongue and heat through the fabric. Your dad was clueless-bless him, just assuming he’d zoned out for a moment because why would his best friend think of his daughter like that?

After a few minutes of talking, his mind still raw and fresh with thoughts of you, he excused himself- nipping upstairs and to the toilet to splash some water on his face. He’d take one look in the mirror at himself before his hands would grip the edge of the bathroom sink. Fuck he was desperate for you. His cock was growing harder by the minute and his hand slid to his jeans, palming himself through the rough fabric and looking up at the ceiling.

Imagining your innocent hand there instead, had you ever touched dick before? Tasted it? Would you like the taste of his cock on your pretty pink tongue- would he even care if you didn’t? Using your mouth as a good little tool to make himself cum. Your adorable teared up eyes looking into his so obediently, challengingly trying to swallow as much dick as you can. He was drunk; drunk and so wasted on the alcohol you poured into his veins but he had to sober up fast.

Pulling his hand away, washing it with cold water before wiping it over his face to cool down. It was wrong, wasn’t it? Cold water hopefully drowning out his hot thoughts as he reached for the door and left the room. Shutting it behind him carefully before turning around to find you exiting your room.

You, who he’d been fantasising about. You, who’d given him the boner in his jeans right now and you who was now all alone upstairs. No daddy there to protect him from his actions, no restraints present and fingers twitching with the need to touch you.

You took a step back, legs going weak at the hard eye contact. The throb in your cunt evident at the sight of him- face glimmering in the light and hair damp with either water or sweat. You wished it was sweat; the idea of him being sweaty colliding with the strong gaze between you made the atmosphere much more erotic.

By the time your foot hit the material of your bedroom floor, it was already too late; his body charging over to you, grabbing you close and lips smacking yours in a hot wet kiss. The heat from his tongue melting you internally and you sunk in deep, it was bad but if you got caught you could just blame it on Simon- he was the one to initiate it after all.

His body relaxed after he realised you weren’t pushing him away. You weren’t hitting or fighting him to get off, you were letting him touch you, letting him kiss you, were you inviting him to fuck you as well? His grip left your sides and circled to your behind, squeezing your skin going lower and lower before hitting the softness of your thighs. So warm, so biteable for a man like him. A starving animal like him.

He wanted to eat you out so badly, strip your little body and force your legs open just to taste your sweetness. To feel you pulse and leak against his tongue. His body locked you in, guiding you to your bed as you laid back allowing him to climb on top of you.

The same duvet and cramped tiny bed that you had as a kid, the same bedding your dad used to tuck you into every night- reading you stories about princes and princesses, kings and queens but now you were whimpering in it. Whimpering against the lips of his best friend. His hand slowly tracing up your thigh and tugging down your shorts, revealing your cotton panties with a big wet patch on them- fuck.

Accidentally stroking your clothed clit as he brought his fingers to the rim of your underwear: earning himself a twitch and a moan from how sensitive you were. He slipped two fingers beneath the fabric, looking down at the reality. He was one tug away from seeing your bare pussy, the bare pussy he’d dreamt about. All it took was for him to yank down your panties and, for what felt like an eternity of waiting, it would be over: and he could do whatever the fuck he wanted.

“I.. I don’t know, love.” Was all he could mumble out. Breath hot and desperate on your face and you had to refrain from groaning and pulling them down for him. His face was present with confliction and all you could do was lay there and wait for a moment. He swallowed, face slipping to your neck as he kissed the delicate skin there.

“If your dad found out- If you told him- If for any reason this gets out to him i’m so fucked. I wanna touch you so badly- I do, baby. But we can’t let him know.” His voice so shaky and breathy, the room so hot and his body so hot hovering over you and for fuck sake- could he not just get it over with?

Could he not just use you like the girl he’s been itching to play with? Like the good dirty little daughter of his best friend? All the prancing around him, teasing him by crouching down and reaching for something you didn’t really need. He shouldn’t be looking exactly but you could have prevented him from staring if you really wanted him to.

His eyes on you turned you on and you’d be damned to let this situation go so easily, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him in for another kiss, feeling his fingers glide into your panties further just from the kiss. It didn’t take much to pursued him, or much to make him forget about the thoughts that made him so hesitant; easy to distract him because he was hooked on you.

It was almost like he was asking permission- not to you exactly but just in the open. Asking and begging for permission, some sort of confirmation that it’s okay for him to indulge in this wicked fantasy of his. That it’s a normal sexual desire and that it isn’t a sin or wrong to act upon it. That he isn’t breaking your dad’s trust, but just giving into his sexual needs. Your lips left his and you shut your eyes slowly, feeling his fingers desperately edge closer to your clit.

“Please.” Was all it took and your panties practically ripped with how fast he pulled them down. Fingers finding their way to your wet hole before sliding them inside with no time to waste. Feeling as you clenched around them and sucked them inside deeper.

You weren’t as tight as he’d expected but that fuelled his desire more, since you were tight enough to not know dick which left only one thing. You fingered yourself. You’d lie here, in the same position as you were now, all alone as you thrusted in and out. Finding the perfect pace that made you moan and touch yourself faster and deeper to orgasm.

Simons cock was leaking in his underwear at the thought of it, an adorable and sexy image displayed in his mind. His fingers opened you up faster and faster, watching as your face softened and adjusted to his size.

He wondered if you ever thought of him while you did it. He wondered if each time you caught him staring you had thoughts of you own, thoughts of him following you into the kitchen and eating you out as your body sprawled over the countertop. Slurping and swallowing your juices as your dad sits patiently in the other room. Greedily stuffing in as many fingers as you could take, looking up as you bite down on a tea towel, attempting to stifle the noise of your whines.

Or maybe your thoughts got you so wet and that soaked, you’d escape upstairs to play with yourself. Body shaking and groaning into your pillow while Simon sat downstairs, dick hard but trying to shake his thoughts away. Imagining his fingers inside you while your own actually are, buried in deep and moving fast, one room above him.

Your back arched below him and he kissed your neck again, tongue gliding down your skin and to the tank top covering your breasts. He’d use the free hand he had to yank the fabric up before attacking your tits and body with bites and kisses, some still visible with your top back on.

Each and every small bite calming you as his and claiming you as taken, smirking to himself as he thought, ‘Shit, you better cover them up for daddy.’ You began to get closer and closer, moans echoing around the room slowly getting louder and louder and his stomach ached with worry and lust. He shouldn’t be doing this- what the fuck has he gotten himself into? But he kept going, determined to make you finish on his fingers.

“Oh, yes, oh yes- what a good girl. Yes, cum for me- go on, love- I know you’ve got it in you. Let yourself go, go on, oh- oh- ….there we go.” As your eyes fell back in your head, pussy squelching and cumming all over his fingers as your body fell limp on your bed, so tired and worn out from how good he’d made you feel.

His voice so gruff and nasty in your ear, it fuelled you body enough to make you finish. Breath panting heavy in his ear as he pulled out of you, taking his fingers and sucking them clean like the perv he is- mouth salivating and tastebuds tingling in delight. You tastes better than he could’ve imagined.

He climbed off of the small cramped bed only now just realised the shit he’d gotten himself into. The innocents and prettiness of your room now filled with the aroma of sex and sweat. Walking out of the room, no goodbye, no nothing because he needs to get away from you now and clear his fucking head. Shutting your door and walking back to your dad with a spiralling head.

What would your dad even say to him if he found out? What is Simon going to say to him now, knowing he’d just been fingers deep inside his beloved daughter? Would he be able to look him in the eye? What if he heard every moan and whimper you’d let out? What if he could smell your perfume- your scent on him? Is he a bad person for letting that whole situation happen?

But most of all, the only question he actually had a solid answer to- the only one question that didn’t require an excuse or an explanation.

Did he regret it? No. Not a fucking bit.

[meanbossart]

ASK COMPILATION #385032: Shape-shifting genitals, mouth-mashing skillsets, who taps out first in the bedroom and the 17 different types of meat this guy eats.

I TRIED TO MAKE THIS A BIG ONE. Thank you everybody for your patience!

The truth of the matter is that I need one dramatic light-source or I will perish. HOWEVER...

Yeah, they seem the type to leave it purposefully ajar for the thrill of it. As well as the excuse to bring hell down upon anyone caught trying to steal a peek.

YES, actually! I've had the concept for a comic or two that's precisely about interactions they've had while younger. Comics take a lot of work, and there's a LOT of things I want to do, but that is definitely in the plans.

Yes! Or rather, as a shapeshifter, I believe she doesn't bother with them 99% of the time, possibly never, even though she has the habitability to form them if she so wished. The Orin DU drow knew was always doll-like in appearance when nude, and he did not particularly mind it or fantasized about anything different.

I believe this is both a preference in Orin's part (and across many shapeshifters, if I recall correctly) as well as a strategic choice.

And thank you so much!

[MORE BELOW THE CUT]

I don't know, kissing isn't that hard LOL I think they're pretty even-leveled in technique but Astarion is the tonguier one.

ALL IN DUE TIME, MY FRIEND, ALL IN DUE TIME...

Maybe 😊 🤫though I'm not sure how useful his powers would be in that context.

That said, Indeed! The irony of this match isn't lost on anyone. I'm sure Astarion would have some thoughts about the convenience of it.

I know this is more of a jokey message, but I don't think Astarion would be cool with that sort of thing, and DU drow most definitely wouldn't ask 😂

Whatever works, as he would probably say!

Astarion got drunk through DU drow on occasion while he still fed on him, yes LOL I don't care if that makes sense or not, It's a hysterical concept and definitely factual in my canon. To be fair as well, DU drow is a huge man and has to drink a LOT to get properly wasted - so Astarion wouldn't have to consume a whole lot from him to get on a similar level!

Post a few particular post-campaign events, Astarion gets drunk through strangers' blood that were either piss-drunk already or have been fed alcohol forcibly by the pair.

He likes thick stews, braised pork, and meat-pies the most. Don't ask me when or why I've decided this but he likes octupi as a every-once-in-a-while treat - I think he mostly enjoys the experience of eating it more than the taste.

For drinks, he likes beer, red semi-dry wine, and mead the most. He also likes a GOOD whisky - none of the copper-coin garbage they serve at most Inns.

Hi! Incredible question. DU drow can go indefinitely but when he stops he knocks out in record speed. There usually comes a point where Astarion flops over and lets him do all the work.

You know how, shortly after you find out about it, if you tell Astarion that you're frightened of your origins you get that really heartfelt bit of dialogue about how yourself and him are so much alike, and how he feels similarly powerless before Cazador as you do toward your father? Well, I never got that, because DU drow was too busy squinting into the horizon and contemplating the logistics of his conception which prompts Astarion to, essentially, say something along the lines of "Okay, if all you want to do is discuss your dad's cum I'm out"

So, like that.

They didn't smash in the graveyard! I'm hoping to either write a short thing about it, draw something inspired by how the scene went down in my head, or, ideally, both!

That IS kind of a wild comparison but I'm guessing you know about my origins, LOL.

Not... Quite. I'm reluctant to say more because I would like for it to be a surprise that I bring you all through art (even if you can make a pretty accurate deduction based on what has been said so far) but suffice to say that this is the flipside to the Bhaalist DU drow AU.

I don't think I could find the time 😭😭😭 but that's a hysterical idea and I would gladly mash together a bunch of clips if someone else was willing to highlight them!

Hello and thank YOU for humoring me in my nerdy little forays!

I hadn't heard about Model/Actriz but I had a little sneak-peek and, indeed, this might just be right up my alley LOL

It's hard for me to remove these characters from their intended universe so I have a difficult time picturing what they would listen to if the options didn't all sound like string-y bardcore music. I'm sure there are more genres to speak of in DnD lore, I'm just ignorant of them!

That said I do have some thoughts about which of them even enjoy music at all.

REALLY enjoys music: DU drow, Jaheira, Misc, Karlach, Wyll.

Modestly enjoys music: Gale, Shadowheart, Minthara, Halsin.

Generally doesn't enjoy music: Astarion, Lae'zel.

No notes just canonical character information being shared

I forgot what this one was in reference to for a moment and I was so aghast.

I really, really hope you weren't hoping for me to give you work-out advice because both, if you were, you've come to the wrong man.

But if you're just wondering about lore here, I think it's a solid 50/50. I think he's predisposed to a really well-built physique because Daddy Bhaal said so AND he's incredibly active and incidentally does a lot of manual labor. If he's had a few too many sedentary days in a row (which is rare) he pretty much has to tire himself through at-home routines or he goes a little cuckoo-bananas as well.

And thank you for being interested in my little freak!

He's pretty thoroughly desensitized, and thinks far too little of Orcs and half-orcs to be intimidated by them, even when that lack of fear is downright stupid. He's not impervious to fear, however, despite how hard he tries to be - Myrkhul, Grym, the giant Steelwatch, the brain, and even Cazador AFTER he snatched Astarion away were all encounters that made his blood run cold to varying degrees. I think it takes an unfamiliar foe for his sweat to run a little cold.

(Ironically, Raphael had no such effect on him.)

[rudyking]

Protective:

When JJ's son is getting bullied, he finds out and doesn't hesitate to stand up for his little boy.

JJ had a laugh that could peel paint and dimples that dug canyons into his cheeks when he grinned. He grinned a lot, a wide, carefree flash of teeth that belied the quiet yearning that often sat heavy in the pit of his stomach. North Carolina had become home, a place of sun-drenched days and humid nights, a world away from the chaotic upbringing he’d navigated. He’d built a life here, piece by unpredictable piece, with Yn, a woman whose kindness was as natural as breathing, and their son, Brant, a little sunbeam with his mother’s gentle soul and his father’s unruly blonde hair.

Life wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot. Stability was still a slippery fish in JJ's hands, but it was their life, a vibrant, messy, loving tapestry woven together with laughter, shared dreams, and the unwavering anchor of Yn’s calm strength. JJ loved Yn with a fierceness that surprised even him sometimes. She was the steady hand to his impulsive heart, the calm voice that could soothe his occasional bursts of bad temper, the insightful gaze that saw right through his sarcastic shields to the vulnerable heart beneath. And Brant… Brant was their world, the embodiment of all their hopes for a life that felt anchored and safe.

Brant was seven, a whirlwind of skinny limbs and boundless energy, usually. Lately though, there had been a subtle shift, a quietness that settled over him like a thin veil. He was still playful, giggling at JJ’s silly faces and Yn’s gentle teasing, but the light in his blue eyes seemed a little dimmed, the spring in his step a little less bouncy. JJ noticed, of course. He was observant, always scanning his surroundings, a habit ingrained from years of having to be. But when he asked Brant if everything was okay at school, Brant would just shrug, flashing a quick, unconvincing smile, and say, “Yeah, Dad, everything’s fine.”

Yn noticed too. “He’s been quieter, hasn’t he?” she’d murmured one evening, as they watched Brant drawing at the kitchen table, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Maybe he’s just tired,” JJ had offered, reluctant to admit the unease prickling at the back of his mind. He didn’t want to be that dad, the overprotective one who saw monsters under every bed. He wanted Brant to be strong, independent, able to handle whatever life threw at him. But deep down, a primal protectiveness simmered, always ready to ignite.

Brant was trying to be strong, that much was clear. He was navigating the treacherous waters of elementary school politics, where unseen currents of social dynamics swirled and sharp-toothed fish lurked in the shadows. He was being bullied, not physically, not yet, but with the insidious cruelty of words and exclusion. A group of older boys, led by a kid named Tyler, with a sneer permanently etched on his face, had decided Brant was an easy target. They called him names, tripped him in the hallway, snickered when he answered questions in class. Brant, sensitive and kind like his mother, hated confrontation. He shrunk under their gaze, his cheeks flushing with shame and a growing knot of fear in his stomach.

He didn’t tell his parents. He knew JJ would go ballistic. His dad, for all his playfulness, had a temper that could flare like wildfire. Brant imagined JJ storming into school, shouting, maybe even getting into a fight. He loved his dad, desperately, admired his strength and his humor, but he was also a little afraid of that fierce protectiveness, afraid it would be too much, too loud, too embarrassing. He didn't want to be seen as weak, as someone who needed his daddy to fight his battles. He wanted to handle it himself, to prove he was tough, like his dad. So he suffered in silence, the weight of the bullying pressing down on his small shoulders.

Then came the day JJ had to take Brant his lunch. Yn had been swamped with work, and Brant had, in a rush that morning, forgotten his lunchbox on the kitchen counter. “Don’t worry, buddy, I got it,” JJ had reassured him, ruffling his hair. He actually welcomed the chance to see Brant at school, to get a glimpse into his day. He arrived at the school just as lunchtime was starting, the air buzzing with the excited shrieks and laughter of children let loose for their midday break. He signed in at the front desk, a familiar surge of protective paternal pride swelling in his chest as he walked towards the playground, Brant’s bright yellow lunchbox swinging in his hand.

He spotted Brant immediately, sitting alone at a picnic table under the shade of a sprawling oak tree. He wasn't eating. He was just staring at the ground, his shoulders hunched. JJ’s heart clenched. He started to walk towards him, but then he saw them. Tyler and his group. They surrounded Brant’s table, their voices loud and mocking. JJ froze, instinctively hanging back, wanting to assess the situation before barging in.

“Look at him, all by himself, eating alone,” Tyler sneered, his voice carrying in the playground air. “Probably ‘cause nobody wants to sit with Baby Brant.”

Brant’s head was still down, his small hands clenched into fists on his lap. JJ felt a cold fury rising in his gut. He saw Tyler reach out and snatch Brant’s baseball cap, the one JJ had bought him himself, the one he loved. Tyler tossed it to one of his cronies, who flung it across the playground. Brant didn’t move. He just sat there, shame radiating off him in waves.

“Hey, crybaby, where’s your mommy?” another boy taunted. “Going to run home and tell on us?” Laughter erupted from the group, cruel and sharp.

That was it. Something inside JJ snapped. The playful, carefree façade crumbled, replaced by a raw, primal protectiveness. His vision narrowed, focusing only on the scene unfolding before him, the vulnerability of his son, the cruelty of the bullies. He started walking, his strides long and purposeful, his face hardening into a granite mask. The laughter of the bullies faded as they sensed a shift in the atmosphere, a sudden weight in the air.

They saw JJ approaching, a tall, broad-shouldered man with shaggy blonde hair and eyes that were suddenly ice-blue, devoid of humor. Tyler, for all his swagger, faltered. His sneer wavered, replaced by a flicker of unease.

JJ reached the table, his shadow falling over the group. He didn’t shout, didn’t yell. His voice, when he spoke, was low, dangerous, like the rumble of distant thunder. “What’s going on here?”

Tyler, regaining a shred of bravado, puffed out his chest. “Nothing, mister. Just hanging out.”

JJ’s gaze, cold and unwavering, locked onto Tyler. His dimples, usually a sign of mirth, were now deep furrows, adding to the intensity of his expression. “Hanging out by making fun of my son?”

Tyler’s bravado crumbled further. He mumbled something about just joking around.

JJ stepped closer, his presence looming over Tyler. “Joking around isn’t throwing his hat. Joking around isn’t calling him names. Joking around is having fun, not making someone feel small and scared.” He reached out and gently tilted Brant’s chin up, his heart twisting at the sight of the tears welling in his son’s eyes. “You okay, buddy?” he asked softly, his voice losing its edge, becoming tender and concerned.

Brant just nodded, unable to speak, his lower lip trembling.

JJ turned back to Tyler, the ice returning to his gaze. “Pick up his hat,” he commanded, his voice still low but laced with steel.

Tyler hesitated, defiance flickering in his eyes. But something in JJ’s stance, in the raw, undiluted anger simmering beneath the surface, made him think twice. He scurried over to where the hat had landed and sheepishly retrieved it, handing it to Brant.

JJ took the hat and carefully placed it back on Brant’s head, adjusting the brim. He knelt down, bringing himself to Brant’s level, his hand resting on his son's shoulder. “Brant,” he said, his voice gentle but firm, “you don’t ever have to put up with this. You understand? Nobody has the right to treat you like this.” He looked into Brant’s tear-filled eyes, wanting to imprint this moment, this truth, deep into his son’s heart.

He stood up again, facing the retreating forms of Tyler and his friends, who were melting away from the table, their bravado completely evaporated. He watched them go, a grim satisfaction settling in his chest, mixed with a deep ache for Brant’s pain.

In the car, driving home, the silence was thick with unspoken emotions. JJ glanced at Brant in the rearview mirror. Brant was looking out the window, his face still pale. JJ reached out and turned on the radio, filling the silence with a familiar upbeat tune.

“You okay, buddy?” he asked again, his voice softer this time.

Brant nodded, then hesitantly said, “Thanks, Dad.”

“For what?” JJ asked, though he knew.

“For… for stopping them,” Brant mumbled, his voice barely audible.

JJ’s dimples softened. “Always, buddy. Always,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “But Brant,” he continued, his tone becoming more serious, “you gotta tell us when things like this happen. Don’t keep it to yourself. We’re your parents, me and your Mom. We’re here for you, no matter what. Okay?”

Brant nodded again, finally turning to face his dad. His blue eyes were still tear-streaked, but there was a glimmer of something else in them now, something like relief, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of pride.

Later that evening, after Brant was asleep, JJ told Yn everything. He recounted the playground scene, the surge of anger, the fear for Brant, the overwhelming need to protect him. Yn listened patiently, her hand resting on his arm, her calm presence a balm to his still-churning emotions.

“You did the right thing, JJ,” she said softly. “You protected him. That’s what fathers do.”

“But I don’t want him to be scared,” JJ confessed, his voice raw with vulnerability. “I want him to be strong, to stand up for himself.”

Yn squeezed his arm. “He will be. You showed him strength today, JJ. Not just physical strength, but the strength of a parent’s love, the strength to stand up for what’s right.” She smiled, a gentle, understanding smile that reached her eyes. “And he has you and me, JJ. He’s got all the strength he needs.”

JJ looked at Yn, at her calm, loving face, and felt the familiar yearning for stability settle into a quieter kind of hope. He still had that restless fire in his belly, that impulsive streak, but he also had this, this family, this anchor. He had Brant to protect, to guide, to love fiercely and unconditionally.

And maybe, just maybe, that fierce love, that unwavering protection, was the strongest kind of stability a father could offer. He leaned in and kissed Yn, a long, heartfelt kiss that spoke volumes of gratitude and love. He still had a lot to learn about being a dad, about navigating the messy, unpredictable currents of life. But he knew one thing for sure: he would always be there for Brant, a shield against the darkness, a beacon of love and protection, dimples and all.

[awionetka]

𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞! ♤

3, 2, 1, go! love and deepspace boys become street racers (while possibly romancing you in the process)...

𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫: slight angst (?), suggestive (some making out and mentions of oral sex), drabble. street racer!Rafayel x car mechanic!reader. could be treated as a preview for a (possible) longer fic.

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐫 / 𝐙𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 / 𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐥 / 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 / 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛

𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠…

♤ paint the town red; doja cat

♤ perfect; mason, princess superstar

♤ keep up; odetari

The way you ran your car workshop could only be described as eerily similar to the way you’d run the navy.

In the garage, it was either your way or the highway and you would be damned if you ever allowed a man to tell you how to do your own job. And because of that, as well as your love for doing things in spite of those who pissed you off, you weren’t exactly drowning in profits…

Fixing vehicles of all shapes and sizes had been your main source of income for quite some time now; it was a family tradition, no more, no less. However, it rarely covered all of your needs, especially if you included your precious 1967 Chevrolet Impala which your dad deemed an "utter wreck" and advised to give up on. The money for this particular endeavour wouldn’t just make itself though, so you had to step up and dip your toes in something on the farther margins of the societal norms – you became the local mechanical miracle worker to the street racer community in the neighbourhood. Immediately recognised and unchangedly valued for your skill, you managed to obtain quite a set of regular customers, ones that didn’t talk much (which was fine by you) and what they didn’t say, they made up for in funding (which was particularly fine by you).

He was one of them.

Well, not exactly. Much like everything else Apollo had a chance to shine at, the beginning of your reluctant cooperation started in the weirdest way imaginable.

While it is worth noting that he was particularly skilled behind the wheel, this street racer with a codename belonging to a literal ancient god (you were yet to meet a man more self-assured than he was), Apollo had earned himself a reputation of an utmost menace, in its purest of forms.

Brazen, flamboyant and intense, could easily rile up anyone standing against him. Apollo preferred to race one on one, happily offering all of his attention to his unfortunate competitor and was an absolute master of raising the stakes before the race simply by talking.

He didn't look like it, but that was precisely what helped him out. To those not particularly acquainted with him, Apollo could seem rather harmless. Easily using his boyish looks to his advantage, he played everyone just the way he liked. To him, all of this was solely (and strangely, may you add) recreational; Apollo wasn't in it for money or status. And if those two did come eventually… who would he have been to deny them?

And it is precisely that mindset of his that irked his competitors to no end. Just picture this: everything is properly set before the race, bets have been made, cops are nowhere in sight. Then, seemingly out of thin air, the absolute flashiest, most stand offish and peculiar car you’ve ever seen pulls up and he is the one behind its wheel. To Apollo, even the races were an opportunity to perform, so you could be damn sure he was going to be the best dressed person there. Perhaps, if you were to be lucky, you could catch a little glimpse of some eyeliner or glittery eyeshadow too, all that adorning a personality more suited to a rich heir rather than a careless (...?) rulebreaker.

Coincidentally, it was during one of those races the two of you crossed paths for the first time.

The weather was rather gloomy and you were pretty sure it was going to rain cats and dogs in no time. And yet, you showed up, offering your technical skills to those who might've required them; obviously not free of charge. Things were going rather smoothly, you met a couple of your regulars, fixed some minor defects and then he decided to show up.

Before that night, you'd only heard of Apollo and his questionable methods of getting what he wanted. You knew he was a wild card, but you certainly did not expect him to look the part, at least not to such extent. With dark purple hair tousled mischievously and an outfit straight from some high fashion show , he definitely seemed like trouble (especially when you caught him sending you the most obvious, borderline improper wink while passing by).

Maybe it was the weather, or maybe you managed to somehow curse him in the meantime for making your breath hitch so embarrassingly, but his Camaro skidded off course mid race and rammed into the railing, catching fire almost instantly.

Before you even knew what you were doing, you found yourself already halfway there, oblivious to the cars driving by at impossible speed. After dragging his sorry ass out of the car mere seconds before it blew up, you collapsed on the asphalt with him splayed over your body like a starfish. And the moment your eyes met his, indescribable in color and so, so intense, you felt a jolt of electricity race through your veins.

It didn't take long for Apollo to find you again after that. He must've treated the accident as some sort of fated first meeting, because he just simply wouldn't leave you alone. Constantly stopping by your workshop, paying a shit load of money to get you to work on his new Chevrolet, attempting (and failing) to ask you out on a private, two-person and definitely not at all dangerous ride across the city.

And with that display of persistence, you were beginning to warm up to him. You supposed you could have a different view of the man that brought you home cooked lunches when you worked long hours and eagerly acted as your very own, unique podcast host. Apollo wasn't entirely rotten, there still was plenty of charm, intelligence and quick, sharp wit, all of that only amplified by those extravagant outfits and his pretty face.

However, one event changed the way you viewed him entirely, altering the course of your odd friendship forever. You were invited to some house party, one he was apparently at as well. Already tipsy by then, you accepted Apollo's offer to conquer the dancefloor together and immediately got swept up into his arms. And then, well... The two of you sneaked out of the building, disposable cups filled with questionably prepared drinks in hand. You were laughing, laughing in such a way you weren't sure you'd ever experienced before. Leaning against the brick wall, you tried your best to calm down but suddenly he was right there too, staring at you so intensely you were beginning to question your own sanity.

And then, it happened.

It was dark, you could still hear the music even from this far away and your head was buzzing with all the alcohol you drank, but Apollo's hands were roaming over your body and his lips tasted like fresh mint and cherry liquor. He kissed like he drove: tauntingly yet passionately, putting his entire body and soul into that very moment.

You let your fingers sneak past the hem of his shirt, ghosting over the soft skin on his back and he moaned right into your mouth, making your knees buckle.

How come you were missing out on all that? Simply because of your own pretence too. A couple of minutes of his weight pressed up against you and you were already considering asking him out. Apparently you weren't that different from all the other people he'd managed to charm. Oh, well.

If it were to end right here, or rather progress in such direction, perhaps you'd like Apollo a whole lot more. But then, without any warning, in the middle of some cluttered back alley, he sank down to his knees, threw your legs over his shoulders and gave you the absolute meanest head of your entire life.

And here's the thing: after that fateful night, Apollo never bothered you with his presence ever again.

The line up was horrendous. Laughable almost. It would take Rafayel less than a lap and a half to put all of his so called competitors back in their places. And yet, Thomas kept insisting on it.

"That prize could buy you a whole another car, Rafayel," he urged, already exhausted by all the convincing he had to do. "You cannot keep participating in shit that won't get you any revenue whatsoever."

The racer rolled his eyes, returning to the task at hand. "Please, don't make me laugh. It's no fun."

Thomas groaned. "You're unbelievable."

"And my charms don't stop there, right?" he taunted in return, smiling to himself.

"One of the drivers is even backed up by a renowned mechanical crew," Thomas continued, seemingly ignoring Rafayel's quip altogether. "That car of theirs might just be the best one in the game since Onyx and his Challenger..."

Rafayel's ears perked up at that. "Mechanical crew...?"

But his friend didn't even notice the change in his tone, already halfway through the door. "Yeah, the one near the N109 Zone, they made some tweaks in your Camaro once. You better stay on your toes or they just might upstage you."

Making sure Thomas was out of sight, Rafayel dropped down on the nearest armchair, folding his arms behind his head.

It'd been months... Maybe you'd forgotten. You didn't call him, not even once, so maybe you didn't even remember in the first place...? He closed his eyes, reminiscing on the time he saw you last.

Oh, how badly he wanted to do it again.

Raising up from his seat, he briskly followed where his friend had gone off to.

It'd been months and Rafayel was positively parched.

[my-castles-crumbling]

First Lines of My Fics

Thanks @thebibutterflyao3 , @where-is-vivian , @shoopsthereitis , and @courfee for tagging!

Rules: Share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, don't be shy and share anyway!

note- I'm skipping the really smutty ones because I don't want to link them on here....

No Socks - Rated M (Rosekiller)

“So?” Regulus demanded as soon as Barty stumbled into their shared flat, last night’s outfit still on his thin frame. “So, what?” Barty asked, throwing his keys onto the counter, not bothering to pick them up when they skittered across the marble surface and landed on the floor.  “So, what?” Regulus repeated dubiously.

James Potter, Reluctant Cat Dad - Rated G (Jegulus)

James sighed and looked into beautiful gray eyes, trying not to let them pull on his heartstrings. But he was weak, and gave up far too easily, his heart melting. “How the fuck did we get here, love?” he murmured, truly dumbfounded about how they had ended up in this predicament.

Infuriating - Rated T (Dorlene)

“Black, you absolute tosser!” Marlene McKinnon’s laughter-filled voice filled the small, echoing Potions Classroom, and Dorcas Meadowes didn’t even bother holding back an eye roll and a little scoff. Instead, she just gave herself credit for not telling the other girl to shut up in front of the entire class.

That's Alarming - Rated G (Jegulus)

There were few things Regulus Black valued more than sleep. Perhaps reading. Or music. Or a nice dark roast coffee. But either way, sleep was of the utmost importance. He was even more prickly than normal without at least eight hours of it, and miserable as well, so he always prioritized getting his rest. Which is why he was ready to kill everyone in his path when the fire alarm was pulled at 2:47 am on a Tuesday night in his university dorm, and he was forced to evacuate into the parking lot.

Mint and Sunshine and Hope - Rated T (Jegulus)

It was a coincidence that they had  arrived at Sirius and Remus’s flat at the same time. An annoying coincidence, to be sure, but Regulus couldn’t fault James for it. He’d learned, as he’d grown, that there wasn’t much he could fault James for, really. 

In My Head - Rated T (Jegulus)

The realization comes to Regulus in the middle of the day. He is sitting with Barty, listening to his best friend complain about some stupid thing that happened at his ridiculous job taste testing at the pet food plant, and suddenly his whole body goes cold. Because as Barty is talking, his brain is completely obsessed with something– some one else. And it makes him realize… “Oh fuck,” he mumbles incoherently, unable to even feel his lips properly. “Right?” Barty asks loudly, clearly under the impression that Regulus has agreed with him in some way. “It was a huge problem! And then I told that arse in corporate to suck my-” “No,” Regulus says, thoughts a million miles away. “No, I-” Because this is not about Melanie from Corporate, who clearly has it out for Barty, at least according to him. This is about James Potter.

I love you. I'm (not) sorry. - Rated T (Jegulus)

James took a deep breath, fiddling with his suit jacket and trying to power through the sinking, sickening feeling that had somehow taken up residence inside his chest. His heart thundered against his ribcage like it was determined to escape the very bounds of his body and he felt almost faint. He looked around the large room, taking in the beautiful decorations, the stunning white flowers, the luxurious aisle already scattered with petals, the twinkling lights strung from the ceiling. It looked like heaven. It felt like his own personal hell.

Any Ideas? - Rated T (Jegulus)

“I still think the fake arrest idea is the best one,” Sirius mumbled, laying spread-eagle on the floor and staring at the ceiling. He waved his wand, a pair of plastic handcuffs spinning around the tip as he moved his hand lazily. “Moony, you’d like to see me in these, eh?” A snort sounded from somewhere in the room.

Burn - Rated T (Jegulus)

The Cruciatus Curse– incantation: Crucio– is one of the Unforgivable Curses. It is known by many as the ‘Torturing Curse,’ as it subjects the affected to excruciating pain. Long-term exposure to this curse can cause lasting mental and physical effects, including but not limited to fatigue, confusion, coldness and chills, nightmares, and even insanity.

Thinking - Rated T (Wolfstar)

“Do you feel any different?” Sirius blinked at the circle of people staring at him with bated breath, tilting his head from side to side as he thought about the question. “No,” he said honestly, pursing his lips. “Damn,” James frowned, sighing. “That would’ve been hilarious.” And the game continued.

NPT (I'm not sure who's already been tagged so if you have, I'm sorry!): @microdamage @wolfpadx @arviyya @deepseagre3n @whoopsiesnodaisies @locomotiveodyssey

[cas-kingdom]

For drabble requests how about something for Greys Anatomy where while Derek is busy in surgery the reader comes in injured and Amelia is there to comfort her and make the medical decisions? It doesn’t have to be anything serious really, I’d just love some reader and Amelia bonding 🥰🥰🥰

The walk of shame along the corridors of Grey Sloan was not altogether unfamiliar to you. Many times had you trudged reluctantly along the polished floors of the surgical unit, clutching some injury or another, purposefully trying to avoid the eyes of anyone you knew--which, in such a unit, was pretty impossible.

Years ago, you would have been slightly less embarrassed. Kids always got into medical equipment, right? At least kids of surgeons who were constantly working. But now, it didn't seem quite right. You were a month away from Johns Hopkins, had aced all your exams and probably wouldn't have even needed the reference letters from half the surgical team, and here you were, head hung low in disgrace as you held your bleeding hand to your chest.

If it weren't for the fact you knew your dad would absolutely murder you if he found out you had hidden an injury from him again, you would have locked yourself away in a break room somewhere and attempted to patch yourself up best you could. Alas. Your father was Derek Shepherd. And after the broken nose you'd managed to keep from him for almost twenty-four hours a couple years ago, he'd all but held you hostage until you promised on his life you wouldn't do it again.

So, here you were. Reluctant as hell but somehow still not regretting the situation that had lead you to this moment.

"Hi, have you seen Dr. Shepherd around?" you asked a passing intern. When he made to walk over to the surgery board, finger already pointing at one row in particular, you visibly grimaced.

"Uh, no, the other one. Amelia Shepherd?" You had no intention of crying to your dad today. Your pride had been smashed to pieces enough.

The intern pointed down the hallway and you saw your aunt walking around a corner with another nurse. Pressing your lips in a thin line, you thanked the intern and followed after her. Your pace was fast enough not to lose her but slow enough that you had time to rehearse your lines before you were bombarded with judgment.

Amelia ducked into a radiology room and you steeled yourself before pushing the door open. "Amelia?"

"Y/N. Why are you holding your hand like that?"

You wouldn't have been surprised at the question, in fact you had fully expected it, if Amelia had turned around to actually see who had walked through the door. Your aunt could do powerful stuff, but mindreading was not on that list.

"I saw you earlier." Amelia turned, arms crossed, brows raised. "Well done, by the way. Meredith thought it would take you longer to find someone. I said it would take..." She glanced at her watch and shrugged. "Twenty minutes. Not bad."

Her supposed victory was short-lived when she looked up. Her eyes fell on your hand and her face dropped as she walked quickly over to you. "I'd rather you not drip blood on the floor," she said, an obvious tease behind her words, as she gently pulled you over to sit down.

You made a face, not having realised. "Oops."

"Oops is right, kiddo." Amelia knelt in front of the swivel chair and let you uncover your hand, humming under her breath when she noted the long, jagged line running down the side of your hand from the base of your wrist to the middle of your pinky finger. "How'd you manage this, huh? Don't tell me you found the electrical saw again."

You rolled your eyes. "I stabbed myself, actually," you said matter-of-factly.

"Ooh, that's a new one. With what?" When your reluctance finally kicked in, Amelia looked up. "With what, Y/N?"

Your hand began to throb and only then did you decide that answering your aunt's questions was probably the easiest way to getting relief. "A needle," you said. "I found a suture practice kit and, oh my God, Meelie, you know that's like giving me candy. I couldn't just leave it alone."

Amelia nodded along, gently probing at the red skin around your wound. "So you practiced sutures on fake skin and, what? Sewed yourself?"

"There was a noise outside and I jerked my hand," you deadpanned. Amelia glanced up, on the verge of laughter, and you looked away stiffly. "It hurts."

"Well, lesson learnt. For now," she added after as a second thought. There was a short silence after that was broken only by your hiss of pain when Amelia touched an exceptionally sensitive spot. Sucking a breath through her teeth, the surgeon sat back on her heels and looked up at you. "How were your sutures?" she asked. "Straight? Neat?"

You lit up, Derek's smug smile curving your lips not a second later. "Straightest and neatest you'll ever see."

"That's my girl." Amelia squeezed your knee before standing to her feet and taking out her phone. "Now, what do we tell your dad when he sees you later with stitches in your hand?"

You couldn't have groaned louder. If the chair didn't have a straight back, you would have fallen backwards with the force of it. When you righted yourself, a fierce look of indignation on your face, Amelia wasn't even attempting to hide her amusement.

"I need stitches?"

"Yup. Aaand, lucky for you, I think Derek should be out of surgery by now." Chipper as ever in the face of her niece's almost tangible disgust, she held open the door and nodded in its direction. "Come on, kiddo. He'll be glad to do a little needlework. Bring him back to basics."

You rolled your eyes once more as you got up, cradling your hand to your chest. "Like brother, like sister," you grumbled as you passed your aunt.

"What was that?"

"I said: like brother, like sister, you sadist."

Amelia snorted.

Grey's Masterpost

[r-f-m-writes-books]

A Lark In a Hollow Chapter One

Really, she doesn't have a choice.

Lark barely remembers the huge shadow of a man sitting beside her in the dead heat of Mrs. Poppy's office at the children's home. He is silent, stoic, and completely terrifying.

Christopher Hollow.

Muscled.

Six foot five.

Storm blue eyes.

Dog tags outlined under the straining stretch of his black tee-shirt.

"Lark," Mrs. Poppy says, gently, "you're happy with this arrangement? You want to go with your Godfather?"

There's no money left for her to live off until she finds a job - if she finds a job.

Her Dad is dead.

Lark doesn't have a choice.

Lark Douglas didn’t know who Christopher Hollow was when Mrs. Poppy brought his name up to her on a hot Saturday afternoon in her office. The additional details that he had served with her Dad in Afghanistan and was her appointed legal guardian and Godfather did nothing to help jog Lark’s memory.

      In fact, it was a full week after Mrs. Poppy informed Lark of Christopher Hollow’s existence that the girl finally managed to scrounge up a single, short, fuzzy memory of the man.

         She was home.

         The door to their flat was open, the old ceiling fan had been turning in slow circles over her head. It did nothing to fight against the mid July heat that was so stifling and muggy it made her skin stick to the linoleum floors. She had sat on the couch playing with Labrador, her stuffed toy dog, when Mom walked in with someone.

        Lark was five, she thinks, and she hadn’t paid attention to anything that was being said, or looked at who had stepped the room after her mother. She only glanced up from where she was making her stuffed dog do backflips off the worn-down couch cushions when big, black boots stepped into her vision off the edge of the sofa.

       The man who stood in front of her was tall, wearing camo pants and a fitted grey tee-shirt. His face was hard to remember, but Lark thought he had sandy brown hair and the start of a thick brown beard. He had crouched down, setting aside a battered black duffle bag, looking at her like he expected something.

     Lark had only stared at him.

      Mom’s voice had a strain in it when she spoke.

     “Say hi to Chris, baby. He’s come all the way from the airport just to see you.”

     The man spoke before Lark had the chance. He had a deep, rough rumbly voice.

     “Don’t worry her about it, Lori. Been two years. I’d be surprised if Pet remembered me at all.”

      Pet.

      That was the only memory Lark had of Christopher.

      She wasn’t even sure it was real and not just something she had made up in the recesses of her mind as an unconscious effort to help herself fill in the gaps and feel less uncertain.

     She had lots of memories like that.

      Memories no one else could verify. Memories she wasn’t sure happened, but couldn’t shake as being real.

      This was what led Lark to where she stood at the top of the worn flight of wooden stairs.  Seventeen years old, dressed in clothes that didn’t belong to her, feeling entirely unsure of what the future would hold.

      Seventeen, and only three weeks and four days shy of her eighteenth birthday.

     It was ridiculous.

     Stupid, even.

     Why couldn’t she just wait it out at the girl’s home?

     Why was Mrs. Poppy was obligated, by law, to reach out to relatives Lark had never even heard of and negotiate with them down the phone, asking and then, after the eighth rejection, pleading with each of them to come and pick her up?

      “Just a month - no, no, you wouldn’t have to commit to adoption, Mrs. Tanner - not at all. I am only reaching out because Lark is your niece, and I am sure you want the best for her -”

     The list thinned, name by name. Lark saw them each time Mrs. Poppy opened the manilla envelope with her initials on it, glancing over the struck off phone numbers and feeling nothing.

    The rejections didn’t surprise her.

    She knew from lived experience how reluctant people were to help a stranger.

     It took less than half a week for them to reach the last one.

     His name.

     Christopher Hollow.

     He was who Lark was waiting for as she hung onto the banister, her dark eyes fixed on the panes of frosted glass in the door, anticipating seeing a shadow blot across the panels when he stepped onto the porch and rang the buzzer.

     Floorboards creaked.

     Lark moved too late when Mrs. Poppy stepped out of her office that stood at the side of the stairs. The stacked blonde beehive of her hair bobbing into the girl’s view as Lark tried to scurry back out of her sight.

    Too little, too late.

    The kind wrinkles around Mrs. Poppy’s eyes doubled and deepened as the sound made her look upward and spot Lark.

     “Lark, there you are! I was just about to come and find you, dear. Nip down into my office for a moment, I’ve got some things I want to discuss with you before Mr. Hollow arrives.”

    The old stairs squeaked loudly as the girl walked sheepishly down the grossly worn-out blue carpet runner, rounding the curved banister at the bottom to follow Mrs. Poppy into her office.

    It was sun warm inside, light spilling over the faded hardwood floor and shiny varnish of the big, brown desk, highlighting the dozens of ring-marks stained into its top by mugs of coffee past. Mrs. Poppy rounded the desk, having to skirt sideways between the edge of it and the rows of heavy metal file drawers that flanked the room on all sides.

   Taking her perch in a black wheely chair, the woman gestured for Lark to sit in one of the two big, green, retro velvet sofas that faced her desk.

      Sinking down into her seat, Lark folded her hands in her lap and looked at the woman, waiting to be spoken to. She had been thoroughly taught from a young age that she was to be seen and not heard. There had also been plenty of occasions when Lark wasn’t to be seen or heard. Those were moments when her half empty pink, princess wardrobe came in handy.

        Mrs. Poppy placed a pair of up-swept cat eye spectacles on the tip of her tall, gently crooked nose, and took out a notepad. It was one of dozens she had, this particular piece of stationary sported Lark’s name on its front, written in black pen and then broadly underlined in purple marker.

       “Miss Douglas today is a big one for you. How are you feeling, hon? Excited? Nervous?”

        The soft slip of her southern accent calmed Lark some as she fought against the urge to fidget, keeping her fingers still in her lap.

        “Excited, Ma’am. Dad didn’t like to travel much, so seeing the Appalachians sounds like a real adventure.”

        Lark stuck a quick smile onto the end of her lie. She had rehearsed it in her head a hundred times since she was told the good news a week before.

        Christopher Hollow wanted her.

        He was driving the whole way down the coast from his home in the Appalachian Mountains to come and collect her. Lark couldn’t even comprehend where the Appalachian Mountains stood, just that they were stupendously far away.

        Mrs. Poppy grinned at Lark, genuine and radiant, as she wrote something in fast scratching cursive over and empty line of the notepad.

       “Always such an optimist, Lark. I’m sure Mr. Hollow will be delighted by you.”

        Lark’s left thumb twitched. When she smiled, it felt tight in the corners, “I certainly hope so, Ma’am.”

        And she truly did. Lark knew the way men behaved when they weren’t delighted by her.

~R.F.M~

         A fist gripped long, brown hair tightly enough to tear dozens of strands out of Lark’s scalp as she was dragged down the hallway by her head, the girl’s frame stooped almost to the floor as she clawed at the hands restraining her.

       “Fucking little bitch coming to steal from me? Think you’re slick, huh?”

         In honesty, Lark did.

        She had stolen from the man before on countless occasions, rummaging through the contents of his worn leather wallet, fishing out loose coins and dollar notes that wouldn’t be missed. Before, he was always too out of his mind to realize, so Lark had gotten greedy.

        Twenty dollars was a lot of money to people like them. She was foolish for thinking she could snatch it away without his notice.

       Lark didn’t know his name, or his age, or anything about him other than the fact he bought pot on Thursday afternoons and left the door to his apartment wide open with 90’s music playing full volume while he sat out on his balcony in a beat-up pink recliner, back to the living room, smoking.

         By all accounts, the man wasn’t very smart. But he was still a man, a man much stronger than Lark.

[femininenachos]

10 years of Clexa kisses (Make America Gay Again edition)

“Look, Lexa, I get that you’re reluctant to resort to underhand tactics but destroying his reputation might be the only way to bring him down. If you haven’t got the stomach for it…”

“I didn’t say that.” Lexa’s jaw tightens. A few seconds elapse then she lets out a long, drawn out sigh. “Whatever I think of his politics or his character, it’s hard not to retain some affection for the man who raised me.”

Lexa places her untouched glass of water on the coffee table. She stares at her lap, adjusting the hem of her skirt.

“He wasn’t always like this.” Her voice is sadder, more subdued when she adds, “After my mother passed away, he changed.” She appears to fold in on herself a little, spine sagging under the weight of this admission. “Not that he was ever an open-minded, tolerant person but he was more… moderate, I suppose. Less entrenched in his views.” A muscle ticks in Lexa’s cheek. “Grief transformed him beyond recognition.”

Clarke is up and moving before it really occurs to her what she’s doing. She sinks into the seat beside Lexa, like her presence, the nearness might bring comfort.

“Part of me always hoped he’d mellow,” Lexa continues. “That eventually he would come around to scientific fact over religious dogma. Or, I don’t know, he’d be swayed by an appeal to his sense of humanity or whatever shred of common decency remains.”

“It’s still possible.”

A wan smile tugs at Lexa’s mouth. “I think we both know that isn’t true.”

There’s a lull.

Until Clarke speaks up. “I lost my Dad when I was seventeen. Natural causes. If you can say that about an outwardly fit and healthy forty-two year old man. He was fine one day and the next,” she puffs out her cheeks and blows out a slow breath, “gone. He suffered a massive myocardial infarction while he was out running. Rare genetic heart disorder. Nobody knew.”

Lexa reels back slightly, brows shooting up. “Genetic…?”

“I got tested. I don’t have it.”

The relief that drains through Lexa’s face is instantaneous, but Clarke refuses to dwell on what it means.

“I’m so sorry, Clarke. Were you close?”

A nod. “We loved watching soccer games and old movies together. We had the same dorky sense of humour and it drove Mom crazy.”

The way Lexa looks at her now, eyes glowing with soft sympathy, makes Clarke’s throat constrict, a hard lump of emotion wedging itself in her esophagus. But she finds the strength to keep going.

“Bereavement affects people in different ways. There’s no timetable, no universal coping mechanism. My Mom—she’s a surgeon—threw herself into work. I hardly saw her for the first six months afterwards. Any time I tried to talk about Dad she shut down, stopped the conversation and left the room. It took her years just to get to the point where she could even mention his name in front of me. We’re in a better place now. We talk. But it was kind of a fraught journey to get there.”

Clarke allows Lexa to process the exposition dump in silence for a moment.

She sighs at last. “I guess what I’m saying is: it’s never too late for personal growth, even for Titus fucking Woods.”

They share a wry glance and the tightness in Clarke’s throat recedes, the band of pressure around her ribs loosening.

“I hope you’re right,” Lexa says, so softly. And there’s something about the brittleness of her smile that tugs at Clarke in a way she can’t explain.

“Would it be too weird if I hugged you?” Seeing the surprise register on Lexa’s features, Clarke quickly backtracks. She waves it off. “Yeah, of course. It’s weird. Stupid question. Never mind.”

“Clarke.”

“Forget I said anything.”

Lexa puts her hand on Clarke’s wrist and, clichéd as it is, Clarke feels a spark shoot up her arm at the touch of their skin.

“I don’t usually—I’m not really one for—” Lexa presses her lips together. She shuts her eyes briefly. Resets and tries again. “If the offer is still open, I think I’d like that hug. Please.”

It’s the thin, strained ‘please’ that gets to Clarke most.

Awkwardness ensues. There’s a bit of logistical trial and error, a wordless negotiation of whose arm goes where, an exchange of sheepish smiles. But as soon as Clarke’s arms wrap around Lexa’s shoulders and she feels Lexa’s hands slide across her back through the fabric of her sweater, it’s like something clicks into place.

The sensations hit her dizzyingly all at once. If she thought Lexa smelled incredible before, it’s overwhelming now. Her hair and her perfume and the scent of her skin. As covertly as possible, Clarke breathes it all in. And it strikes her how warm Lexa is. Warm and soft, despite her thin frame, and Clarke wants to melt into it. Attuned to the pressure of each finger against her spine, she’s hyper aware of every place that they’re touching: chests flush, knees knocking, the soft strands of Lexa’s hair tickling her cheek. Clarke’s chest aches with the urge to pull Lexa tighter against her, to press her nose against Lexa’s throat, to let her mouth—

A light expulsion of air close to her ear sends a tingle rolling down Clarke’s spine. She can’t hide her body’s reaction, can’t prevent the sharp intake of breath. It’s a reflex; beyond her control.

It snaps her out of this haze.

God, what the fuck is she doing?

There isn’t really a graceful way to disengage, especially when Lexa seems reluctant to let go. They both inch back, arms still loosely looped around one another, and Clarke makes the stupid mistake of catching Lexa’s eye.

There’s a moment.

An infinite moment of stillness where neither of them move.

A look on Lexa’s face that shakes Clarke to the core, that causes her stomach to plummet, heat coiling low in her belly. It’s that same hot gleam in Lexa’s eyes that Clarke glimpsed on the train but magnified to the extreme, pupils large and black enough to swallow her whole.

Lexa’s half-lidded gaze keeps flicking between Clarke’s mouth and her eyes.

She can’t remember anyone looking at her with this much thirst.

It makes her head spin.

“Clarke.”

Her name from Lexa’s lips seems like the most loaded word in the English language, a 12-gauge round that obliterates the last of Clarke’s self-control.

She isn’t sure who reaches for the other first, her own hand sliding across Lexa’s jaw as Lexa’s palm cups the back of her neck.

All that matters is that Lexa’s mouth is soft and eager, and she makes a noise that sends a warm flood of excitement through Clarke when she licks inside.

Read on AO3

[taeghi]

fleeting summers by park sunghoon | (m) *TEASER*

RELEASE DATE : SUNDAY, JANUARY 28TH, 2024

♫ song : sunsetz by cigarettes after sex

summary : meeting park sunghoon in the small town your dad moved into this summer is as vibrant as the sunsets you witness. but, as summer fades away so does your time together. hopefully when the next summer comes your paths cross again under the same sunlit skies.

genre : smut, fluff, angst, sadness????? mDNi

▶ play song?

part of the enhypen series playlist

as the car winds its way through the quaint, sunlit streets of the small town, you sit in the passenger seat, your gaze fixated on the passing scenery. the town, a popular summer destination, boasts charming storefronts, and colourful welcoming banners and the air is tinged with sea salt and flowers. yet, despite the picturesque allure that surrounds you, there’s a palpable sense of reluctance lingering around you. this town, now your temporary residence for the summer, feels both enhancing and isolating.

since your parents divorce earlier this year, your dad had decided to move to this idyllic escape town that might be a dream for him, but definitely not for you. this town is a separation from the familiar comforts of your home and friends. you wish you could have spent the summer with your friends like usual. your traditions having to be failed this summer since you’ve been shipped away to stay with your father for almost two months.

the car finally turns into a narrow street lined with old wooden houses, and your new home comes into view. its rustic charm stands in stark contrast to the modern, more beachy houses that line the rest of the town. you can’t help but feel a sense of apprehension about spending the upcoming months in this solitary abode with only your dad for company.

this town may be beautiful, but the prospect of a summer away from the people and places you hold dear casts a shadow over the otherwise vibrant scene unfolding before you.

the creaking sound of the door echoes through the old house as you step inside the house, hearing your mother’s tires screech on the road as she avoids your dad. the air feels still as your dad hugs you and shows you around. you’re glad to see him, not being able to see him for months, but still, the dread of the long summer ahead of you ponders through your mind that your smile fails to show.

you walk into the room that is now yours for the next couple of months. its wooden floor echoing with every step, so different from the fluffy carpet of your bedroom back home. the walls seem to sigh, bearing the weight of countless lives that have lived here before your dad.

your gaze falls upon the bed- a new sanctuary of yours even though the mattress beneath your fingertips feels unfamiliar. it lacks the soft indentations that cradle you in the warmth and comfort of your own room. you lower yourself onto the bed, the lonely squeak of the springs accentuating the silence of the room. the sunlight filters through the thin curtains, casting a glow on the faded quilt your grandma had knitted you when you were a child.

as you lay there, staring at the wood ceiling that matches the wood walls and wood floors, a sense of displacement settles within you. the room, though quaint, holds no trace of your essence. you close your eyes, attempting to reconcile with the alien sensation of this bed that will be your haven for the upcoming weeks. there’s a certain hollowness of the room that you aren’t sure you will get used to.

the distant murmur of the town outside is a reminder that you can’t lay in this bed all summer. and that you had promised your dad you would be down for dinner soon. you sigh, filling the new, silent space that is now yours.

amidst the lively chatter and laughter that enveloped the beach, you at in solitude, your eyes tracing the rhythmic dance of the waves. the distant sounds of games and talking washed over you, but your attention was anywhere but. you had become quite good at ignoring everyone around you.

but as you glance to your left just once, your attention is drawn away to the presence of a lone figure sitting under a beach umbrella. a boy, seemingly ignoring everyone around him as well was immersed in the world of whatever book he was so intently reading.

he sat on a faded beach chair, an air of quiet confidence surrounding him as he turned the pages of the book that was sprawled open on his lap. The sun cast a gentle glow on the tendrils of his dark black hair, and the slight furrow of his thick browns hinted at the intensity with which he absorbed the words on the pages. his isolation mirrored yours, a shared desire for solace amidst the lively backdrop of the beach.

intrigued, you asked your dad who the boy with the book was.

you noticed his hesitant pause as he acknowledged the boy, his eyes briefly meeting yours before averting away, “that’s park sunghoon,”

you hum, “what’s he like?”

“he’s quiet, keeps to himself. but his family is nice, and well, they’re super rich.”

a smirk spread across your face in amusement at the hesitant introduction.

“and why doesn’t he hang out with the others?”

your dad shrugged, “he’s just like that, likes to be by himself.”

you go back into your own world until dusk starts approaching. as the sky starts to become painted with hues of amber and lavender, you reluctantly withdrew from the solace of your thoughts on the beach. walking alongside your dad, the grains of sand clung to your bare feet as you made your way to the diner once again.

glancing back towards the beach, your eyes inadvertently met those of the boy named park sunghoon. a mild surprise tinged your otherwise inscrutable expression, his gaze unwavering as you held it. a silent acknowledgement passing between you two. his eyes, dark and unreadable, seemed to mirror the guarded emotions you concealed with your own.

you held eye contact until you turn away, your dad seamlessly diverting your attention to the impending decision of dinner plans. park sunghoon’s face remained in your head for the entirety of dinner, having to restrain yourself from asking your dad more about park sunghoon and his family.

RELEASE DATE : SUNDAY, JANUARY 28TH, 2024

[alexa-yukiyu]

Fists for Family (Rayleigh x gn!child!reader x Shakky)

A/N: Here we go! Originally, this was going to be just Rayleigh with Shakky just having one line or one action, but we need that grandma action. Who do guys want to see interacting with a child next?

Dividers by @saradika

Rayleigh sat in the Shakky’s Rip-off bar, sipping his drink and speaking with his wife, when his attention was pulled away from her to a newcomer.

“Oh Dear, What did you do now?” He asks as he sighs, setting his glass down.

“So-rry Grandpa,” the small child drawls

Rayleigh raises an eyebrow.

“Reader, Did you get into another fight?”

“…yeah,” they mutter.

Rayleigh is quick to give them a quick slap to the back of the head.

“Ow! Grandpa, what was that for! Grandma Grandpa is being mean!”

Rayleigh gives them a hard look.

“To knock some sense into you, you always get in trouble like this, yet you never learn!”

“He’s right, Honey; you’ll get really hurt one day if you keep this up,” Shakky says exhaling the smoke in a thin wisp.

“But Grandpa, Grandma, they deserved it!”

Rayleigh shakes his head, looking at the child.

“It doesn’t matter if they did deserve it! You need to learn self-restraint! You don’t walk around beating people up whenever they wrong you!”

“Why not?!” they yell at him.

Rayleigh delivers a second slap to the back of their head.

“Ow! Grandpa, that really hurts! Grandma!” they call again, hoping she will save them.

She simply gives them a smile and shakes her head, holding the cigarette between her fingers.

“Good! I hope you remember that when you think of getting into another pointless fight for no reason again.”

They pout, rubbing the back of their head.

“I hope that attitude sticks around. Now, what was this fight about hm? Or should I find out later from an angry mob again?”

“That was one time, Grandpa! He was insulting you! And then went crying to his dad, who happened to be the mayor.” The child protests, crossing their arms.

Rayleigh raises an eyebrow.

“What was it this time?” the old man says, waving his previous statement off.

The child fidgets slightly at the question.

“Hm?” Rayleigh presses, clearly noticing the child’s reluctance to answer.

The child mutters something under their breath.

Rayleigh leans in, placing his hands together and resting his elbows on the table as he stares at the child with curious eyes.

“What was that?”

“…they were insulting you again.”

The old man sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“That’s what started this?”

They nod, rubbing their arm nervously

He sighs, motioning Reader to come closer

They step towards him, still avoiding his eyes even as he picks them up, placing them on his lap.

Rayleigh gently puts a hand on their cheek.

“Look at me, reader.”

They glance at him.

“Do not let them get to you, Reader. I am not fragile, and you do not have to defend me every time they make a snide remark.”

“I know, but it’s not fair how they talk about you, Grandpa!”

Rayleigh smiles and hugs them tightly.

“I know it isn’t fair, but you must remember that people like that are not worth your time and energy. Let them babble nonsense about me and come to me with it instead. Do not let their snide remarks get to you, though. Okay..?”

“Good..and promise me you won’t go around hitting people when they say something you don’t like?”

“I’ll try”

“Hm, better than nothing.” The old man sighs and pats their head.

“Now let me see,” Shakky says, gesturing to their arm.

“But it’s gonna hurt!”

Rayleigh sighs and ruffles their hair.

“Stop whining; listen to your Grandmother.”

They groan, showing her their arm where a new cut adorned their skin.

Shakky humed as she examined the cut. It wasn’t a bad one, but it was still enough to require at least some sort of care-taking.

Rayleigh looked back at Reader and spoke softly.

“This is why you shouldn’t just attack people blindly just because you don’t like what they say.”

The woman looked at them for a moment before sighing and picking them up from her husband’s lap.

“You’re coming with me, and we’re going to properly treat that.”

“Rayleigh, could you pass me the rubbing alcohol? It’s on the cabinet over there.”

Rayleigh swiftly stands and walks to the bartender’s side of the bar, opens the cabinet, and grabs a bottle of alcohol, handing it to his wife.

“Here you go.”

“Thank you, Dear”

“Now don’t you worry, Reader, if you behave, then this won’t hurt at all,” she says as she puts her cigarette in her mouth and inhales.

Rayleigh nods and smiles before Shakky starts pouring the alcohol over the cut, and he places a small bandage on it. Reader winces at the pain but tries to remain still.

“There you go, dear. It’s not a big cut, so it will be good as new in a few days, As long as you don’t get into any more fights.” Rayleigh comments

The old man turns to shake a finger at the child sternly, but the scolding is just an act as he tries to hide the soft chuckle.

The child giggles at his grandpa’s antics.

“Thank you, and sorry.”

Rayleigh laughs and ruffles their hair.

“Just don’t let it happen again, sweetheart. I do not enjoy fixing you up after a fight.”

He remembers something and glances toward the child in his wife’s hands.

“So, did you win?”

“Of course I did; I’m your grandchild, after all,” she grins, giving him a peace sign.

He laughs and gives them a quick kiss on the forehead,

“That you are. I expect nothing less from my grandchild.”

Shakky shakes her head with a smile on her face, kissing their forehead as well.

What should I try next? I really like these child!reader scenarios, do you guys like them or would you prefer other scenarios? Romantic maybe? Or maybe platonic friends?

[itwasrealtome]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 18 • Burning Out — Part I

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⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary: Alexis is sick with the flu.

Content Warning: Usual SVU and Violent Crimes talk • Mention of a new criminal ring, human trafficking, victims, police work | Alexis being sick with the flu

A/N: Hello my loves, another long chapter just for you! I didn’t think this one would be so long, so I made it into two parts. You have the first one today! I’ll leave you to wait and guess what might happen once Olivia drives Alexis home.

Also, just know that I’m still taking requests for Carol Hathaway x fem!reader or fem!OC

*

MONDAY, MARCH 20

Manhattan — 16th Precinct

09:52 AM

The PR internships had clearly worked wonders at the Bureau. If nothing else, they’d mastered the art of rapid dissemination. Information, gossip, photos–it all moved faster than a bullet down the hallways of the Manhattan office, as if the walls themselves had ears and the vents carried secrets faster than air.

It took a mere five hours for a single photo of a newborn baby to make the rounds, from the proud father in the Evidence Unit to the break room, where it became the centerpiece of a ten-minute debate over whether the kid looked more like his mom or his dad. The tech team got involved, analyzing the baby’s nose and jawline with the same intensity they reserved for surveillance footage.

Just over thirty minutes for whispers about Reynolds’ closed-door meeting with a Washington official to snake through the office like smoke, mutating from a routine check-in to a rumored shake-up in leadership by the time it reached the bullpen. By lunch, someone swore they heard Reynolds was being promoted to a Pentagon post. By mid-afternoon, it had somehow escalated to a full-blown conspiracy theory involving blackmail and offshore accounts.

But when it came to the flu, it was as if the Bureau had perfected its own brand of biological warfare. Germs spread like wildfire, hitching rides on coffee cups, doorknobs, and hurried conversations. One sniffle at the Monday morning briefing became a chorus of sneezes by lunch. By the end of the day, agents were walking around with tissues jammed into their jacket pockets, eyes red and voices hoarse, and the sound of coughing echoed through the hallways like a morbid symphony.

Alexis, despite her reluctance to accept it, was one of them.

She’d tried to deny it, of course. Chalked up the sore throat to last night’s stakeout in the rain, the pounding headache to too much coffee and not enough sleep. But even now, as she pushed open the door to the SVU precinct and stepped inside, the scratch in her throat was sharp enough to make her wince.

Miles followed close behind, his gaze tracking the way her shoulders slumped for just a second, the way her hand lingered against the doorframe as though she needed that extra beat to steady herself. It was subtle–the kind of pause most people wouldn’t notice. But he wasn’t most people, and he’d known the SEAL long enough to catch the way her jaw clenched, the way her breath came shallow and thin, as if sheer willpower could keep the flu at bay.

He didn’t say anything at first, just watched her pull herself together, her spine straightening as she pushed forward into the building. But when he fell into step beside her, hands shoved into his coat pockets and a faint smirk ghosting across his lips, the words slipped out before he could stop them.

—You know, you’re not as sneaky as you think.

Alexis shot him a sidelong look, eyes narrowed, but the glare didn’t have its usual bite. Beneath the fluorescent lights, the hollows under her eyes looked deeper, the skin beneath them faintly bruised with exhaustion. Her cheeks were flushed, a patchy, uneven red that had more to do with fever than the lingering cold outside.

—Don’t start, she muttered, her voice a rasp of gravel and smoke.

The words scraped against her throat, coming out thicker than she intended, more growl than threat. Her eyes narrowed, and her jaw tightened as she glanced sideways at her partner, who didn’t bother hiding the smirk twisting his mouth.

—Oh, I’m starting. You’ve been coughing into your shoulder like a Victorian orphan for the last twenty-four hours. I’m just waiting for you to faint dramatically into someone’s arms.

His tone was laced with a blend of concern and exasperation, his eyes flicking over her pale complexion. She was holding herself too rigidly, her shoulders bunched beneath her coat, as if sheer defiance could hold her upright.

—I don’t faint, she shot back, the words tight, clipped.

A bead of sweat traced a path down her temple, but she swiped it away with the back of her hand, her glare fixed straight ahead, away from the elevator. The street outside the precinct was a blur of cars and pedestrians, a cacophony of honking cabs, muffled voices, and the distant wail of sirens, all merging into a single, relentless hum that seemed to press against her skull.

The air pressed down like a wet, heavy blanket, each breath thick and laborious, every step dragging as though the floor were a few inches deeper than it should be. Beyond the glass doors, Manhattan blurred by in chaotic bursts of motion—too loud, too bright, too fast. Inside, each ache and shiver felt amplified, as though the walls themselves had grown heavy with the weight of it.

—No, right, of course. You just lose your voice, run a low-grade fever, and glare at thermometers like they’re FBI informants who lied to you.

Miles’ voice cut through the fog of her exhaustion, his tone threaded with that particular blend of frustration and concern that made him sound more like a scolding older brother than a partner. His eyes were sharp and unblinking, tracking her every move as if he were waiting for her knees to buckle. His hands burrowed deep into his coat pockets, shoulders squared, jaw tight–like he was chewing over words he knew better than to say.

His friend rolled her eyes, the movement slow and deliberate, as though even that small gesture required more effort than she could spare. The corner of her mouth twitched, the beginnings of a smirk that almost took shape before it fell away, her expression hardening back into that stoic, impassive mask as they drew closer to the Special Victims Unit bullpen.

Inside, the air was thick with the restless hum of detectives and officers moving between desks, coffee cups clutched like talismans against the fatigue weighing them down. Phones rang, voices rose in clipped exchanges, and folders slapped onto cluttered surfaces with the kind of sharp, anxious energy that suggested no one had slept much in days.

—You’re the one who gave it to me.

—Me? Langford scoffed, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and defensiveness. I’ve been living on Lysol and prayer since Charlie and Ava started coughing up lungs at the start of the month.

—Exactly. Alexis lifted a finger, jabbing it toward him as they neared the bullpen doors. You brought that plague into the Bureau. And then last Thursday, you let Heist–Heist, Miles–do my coffee run. Heist. Who literally sneezed into his hand and wiped it on a file the same morning.

Miles nearly choked on his coffee.

—That was a misunderstanding.

—I saw him stir it, she said flatly, her eyes narrowed to slits. With the lid. And then look around like he committed a war crime.

The man barked out a laugh, shaking his head as they reached the front desk.

—So instead of going home to sleep this off like a normal person, you’ve decided to infect the entire precinct out of spite.

—I don’t have time to be sick, Gray said, offering the reception officer a nod as they passed. We’ve got four potential victims still unaccounted for, two names we haven’t ID’d from yesterday’s interview pool, and Carisi is in court all day. I’ll sleep when the ring’s taken down.

Miles came to a halt in front of the conference room door, one hand braced against the frame as he turned to look at her.

—You’re gonna be a real joy to be around when you start hallucinating.

—Flu’s not gonna kill me.

—It might kill Heist if he brings you another coffee.

—Not denying that.

*

MONDAY, MARCH 20

Manhattan — 16th Precinct

11:03 AM

Olivia had handled a whole host of crises in the morning, but she hadn’t expected this one.

The bullpen was a cacophony of noise and movement, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and tension. Phones blared with insistent rings, keyboards clattered beneath frantic fingers, and voices rose and fell like crashing waves as detectives barked orders across desks, each one an anchor amid the chaos. The evidence boards were a patchwork of photos, maps, and scribbled notes, threads of red yarn snaking between names and locations, connecting dots that refused to align.

But amidst all that noise and fury, it was the scene unfolding just beyond Amanda’s desk that brought the lieutenant to a sudden, dead stop.

The blonde detective was seated, shoulders hunched forward as she watched the tableau with a frown etched deep into her brow. Miles stood beside her, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw clenched so tight that the muscles pulsed beneath his skin. His light eyes tracked his partner, who was leaning heavily against the wall just outside the conference room, her head tipped back, eyes closed, the line of her throat working with each shallow breath.

Alexis’s skin was flushed, a feverish bloom staining her cheeks, and sweat glistening along her hairline, dampening the loose strands that had escaped her small bun. In her hand, she held a half-empty bottle of Gatorade, its cap dangling from her fingertips, forgotten. The bottle wobbled as her grip weakened, but she didn’t seem to notice. The only movement was the subtle, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, each breath dragging as if it cost her something just to keep standing.

Olivia’s stomach twisted, a coil of tension knotting low beneath her ribs. The commander wasn’t just tired. She was running on fumes, and the fumes were burning out.

—What the hell is going on?

Amanda hesitated, her gaze darting to the agent as if searching for backup, but he kept his eyes on Gray, his jaw set, the muscle working beneath the tight line of his clenched teeth. Rollins’s lips parted, then pressed shut again before she exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping as she finally spoke.

—She won’t go home.

The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, sinking between them like stones dropped into a still lake. The oldest’s gaze narrowed, the edges of her jaw tightening as her eyes darted back to the SEAL. The younger woman’s skin gleamed with a fine sheen of sweat, a drop tracing a slow path from her temple to her jawline before disappearing beneath her collar. Her head rolled slightly against the wall, and for a moment, her eyelids fluttered, as though she were fighting to stay conscious, to keep her eyes open.

—Won’t? Benson echoed, her voice hardening, sharpening to a point that cut through the surrounding noise.

Miles’ shoulders tensed, the muscles rigid beneath the fabric of his shirt, his jaw clenched so tightly that a vein pulsed visibly beneath his skin. He pushed away from the desk with a restless, almost frustrated energy, his hands coming to rest on his hips, fingers splayed as if grounding himself. But his eyes never left his friend. His gaze remained locked on Alexis, dark and intense, the concern simmering beneath his sharp, frustrated expression

—Told Reynolds to shove it. Said she’s not going anywhere until the case is closed.

Amanda shook her head, a weary exhale slipping past her lips. The coffee cup crumpled beneath her grip, the cardboard sleeve collapsing inwards, and she seemed to realize it only when a drop of lukewarm coffee dribbled onto her thumb. She hissed a curse under her breath, but her gaze stayed fixed on Olivia, her brows knitting together, a thin line of tension deepening between them.

—Their unit chief tried to send her home hours ago, she said, her voice low and edged with something close to apology, as though she were personally responsible for Alexis’ stubbornness. She said we still have potential victims unaccounted for. Names we haven’t ID’d yet from yesterday’s interviews. And with Carisi stuck in court all day, she thinks she can’t afford to leave.

The blonde’s shoulders slumped, her expression tightening as her eyes drifted back to the sick agent, who still leaned against the wall as though it were the only thing keeping her upright.

—She said she can sleep when it’s over.

Olivia’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding so hard she could feel the tension radiating up through her temples. The sight of her friend sagging against the wall, her eyes closed, head tilted back like she was hanging on by a thread, twisted something deep in the lieutenant’s gut. It wasn’t just exhaustion. It was the kind of bone-deep fatigue that dragged people down, made them reckless. Made them vulnerable.

—That’s enough.

The oldest didn’t wait for a responde, didn’t give either of them time to interject. She strode forward, her heels clicking against the linoleum with deliberate, unyielding steps. Each stride was purposeful, slicing through the chaotic buzz of the bullpen like a blade through a fog.

Alexis didn’t open her eyes until Olivia was right in front of her, the shadow of the older woman cutting through the fluorescent light. The SVU leader folded her arms, the lines of her jaw set in a hard, unforgiving line as she stared down at the SEAL.

Up close, the youngest looked worse than Olivia had anticipated. Her skin was flushed, the fever painting her cheeks in uneven splotches of red, and her eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion and glassy with something dangerously close to delirium. The Gatorade bottle dangled from her limp fingers, the cap askew, a few drops trickling down her knuckles to splatter the floor.

—Gray. You’re done. You’re going home.

The agent pushed off the wall, the motion unsteady, her knees threatening to buckle beneath her. She caught herself with one hand, palm splayed against the cool surface as if the wall itself were the only thing keeping her upright. Her shoulders rose and fell with each shallow breath, each exhalation a rough, wheezing rasp. Still, she tilted her chin defiantly, her eyes narrowing as she tried to muster some semblance of composure.

—I’m fine, she rasped, her voice a hoarse whisper that barely made it past her chapped lips. I just need a minute.

—A minute? Olivia echoed, her brow lifting, her arms unfolding as she stepped closer, invading the woman’s space with an intensity that left little room to escape. You need a bed, a gallon of water, and about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. Not another minute leaning against this wall like you’re trying to hold it up.

Alexis’ jaw clenched, the muscle ticking beneath her fever-flushed skin. A flicker of defiance sparked in her eyes, momentarily cutting through the fog of exhaustion. But it was brief, a flash of fire quickly snuffed out by the oppressive weight of her body’s betrayal.

—There are victims we haven’t found yet. I can’t just—

—You can, the lieutenant cut in, her voice sharp as a snapped wire, the words slicing through the space between them. And you will. You’re no good to anyone like this, Lexi. You’re burning out, and you’re gonna crash. And when you do, it’s not going to be pretty.

The brunette swallowed, her throat bobbing visibly, the muscles in her neck taut with strain. Her gaze dropped, her eyes landing somewhere near Olivia’s collarbone, and for a moment, it was as though she couldn’t quite focus, couldn’t quite find the strength to hold her head up.

But then, with a burst of stubborn resolve that was more desperation than strength, Alexis pushed away from the wall. Her spine straightened, shoulders squaring as if sheer force of will could hold her upright. Her hand trembled as she dug into her coat pocket, the fingers clumsy, fumbling, before finally closing around the familiar shape of her SUV keys.

The keyring jingled in her grip, the sharp metallic sound slicing through the bullpen’s ambient noise like a blade. Her jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath the fever-flushed skin as she forced herself to take a step forward, her legs stiff and unsteady beneath her. She moved toward the bullpen doors, eyes narrowed, gaze fixed on the exit as if reaching it were a mission in itself.

Benson’s eyes darkened, a shadow of irritation flickering over her face as she watched her friend retreating back. The sight of the keys in the younger woman’s grip snapped something tight inside her, a wire drawn too taut. She stepped forward, her stride decisive, each step sharp and purposeful as she closed the distance between them.

—You’re not driving, she said, her voice low and firm as her hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Alexis’ wrist, a quick but gentle grip. With a swift, unyielding twist, she pried the keys from the agent’s shaky grasp, the cool metal pressing into her own palm, solid and unmoving. Not like this.

Gray’s eyes snapped up, a flare of anger igniting behind the glassy sheen of exhaustion. Her cheeks were blotchy with fever, eyes rimmed red, and yet she tried to muster a glare, the same fierce, unrelenting defiance she wore like armor.

—Give them back, she bit out, her voice raw and frayed, each word edged with a rasp that threatened to splinter. She lifted a hand to grab for the keys, but the movement sent a tremor through her frame, a shiver that rippled from shoulders to knees. I’m fine, Liv. It’s just a cold. I’m not a kid.

Olivia’s expression hardened, her jaw set as she slipped the keys into her own coat pocket, out of reach.

—No, you’re not. But you’re also not invincible. You can barely stand up straight, and if you think I’m going to let you get behind the wheel in this state, you’re out of your damn mind.

Alexis opened her mouth, her lips parting around what was likely a retort, but the words never came. Instead, a deep, chesty cough burst from her, the sound thick and wet, a jagged rasp that echoed through the bullpen like a gunshot. The force of it doubled her over, one hand flying to her mouth as the other shot out to grasp the edge of a nearby desk. The coughing fit racked through her body, each convulsion knocking the breath from her lungs, leaving her swaying, eyes clenched shut, face pinched with pain.

The bullpen went silent. Conversations dropped off, detectives exchanging wary glances as the sound reverberated off the walls. Amanda shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her gaze cutting to Miles, whose jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter. Fin, across the room, crossed his arms, eyes narrowed, his expression a mask of concern and frustration.

When the fit finally subsided, Alexis sagged against the desk, her shoulders heaving as she struggled to pull in air, each breath a shallow, wheezing gasp. Sweat had gathered at her temples, and a faint tremor ran through her hands, her knuckles white where they gripped the desk’s edge.

The SVU lieutenant stepped closer, the toes of her boots nearly brushing against Alexis’. The proximity forced the youngest to tilt her head up, the movement draining what little strength she had left.

Olivia’s expression softened, the rigid lines around her mouth easing just slightly, a flicker of something warmer, more compassionate, breaking through the hardened facade she wore like armor. But her jaw remained tight, clenched with a tension that pulsed beneath her skin, her eyes fixed on the woman with a steady, unwavering gaze.

—Alexis, she said, voice dropping to a low, insistent murmur, each syllable deliberate, a coaxing thread woven through the steel. You’re done. You’re going home.

The soldier swallowed, the motion visible in the taut line of her throat, her jaw working as she fought against the exhaustion pressing down on her like a weight. The muscles in her neck tensed, and her gaze flicked away, unable to meet Olivia’s eyes, instead focusing somewhere near the lieutenant’s shoulder. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths, the sound harsh and uneven, as if each inhale scraped against raw lungs.

—I can still—

—No. Not another word. You’re going home, and I’m driving you.

For a beat, Alexis’ mouth opened, a protest forming on her lips, but Liv was already moving. Her spine straightened, shoulders squared as she lifted her head, eyes scanning the bullpen until they landed on Fin, who stood by the coffee machine, arms crossed over his chest, brows drawn together in a deep furrow.

—Fin, she called, the authority in her voice slicing through the room. I’m heading out again. You’re in charge until I get back.

The former Ranger’s gaze shifted from his boss to the FBI agent, his expression tightening as he took in the younger woman’s pale, sweat-slicked face.

—Got it.

Olivia didn’t wait for a response, didn’t give Alexis another chance to argue. She moved forward, one hand wrapping around her bicep, firm but gentle, guiding her toward the exit with a steady, insistent pressure.

Alexis’ legs were heavy beneath her, feet dragging slightly with each step, and Olivia kept her arm securely around her back, a subtle support that kept the woman from stumbling. The younger woman’s body felt too warm against her, the fever radiating through the thin barrier of their clothing, each shaky breath catching as if the air were too thick to pull in.

Inside the elevator, the fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across Gray’s face, accentuating the dark circles beneath her eyes and the unhealthy flush painting her cheeks. The lieutenant kept her hand at the small of her back, steady and unyielding, even as Alexis leaned against the wall, her head falling back with a soft thud. For a moment, her eyes drifted shut, lashes fluttering against skin that was damp with sweat, but then they snapped open again, hazy and unfocused.

—I don’t need you to babysit me, the brunette muttered, the words slurring together, voice raspy and thin, a strained rasp that grated against Olivia’s ears. I can take care of myself.

Benson’s gaze remained fixed forward, her jaw clamped tight, teeth grinding as the elevator descended.

—Yeah? she said, sarcasm coiled through every syllable, her eyes hard and unyielding. You’re doing a great job of that. You nearly coughed up a lung back there. You want me to call an ambulance next time?

Alexis’ brow knitted, the scowl trying to form but losing its shape beneath the exhaustion dragging at her features. Whatever retort she might have had withered before it could take shape, her eyelids sinking lower as another shiver rattled through her. She pressed her head back against the wall, the cool metal biting against overheated skin, eyes slipping shut once more as her breathing hitched, each inhale a ragged, congested rasp.

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open to the lobby, and Olivia tightened her grip around her friend’s waist, bracing her as they stepped forward. The street outside was a chaotic blur of honking cars, shouting pedestrians, and the distant wail of a siren cutting through the din. Benson barely registered it. All her focus was on the SUV parked at the curb, its dark windows reflecting the gray sky.

She moved swiftly, unlocking the passenger door with a quick press of her thumb against the key fob, the mechanical beep cutting through the din. The door swung open with a groan, and the lieutenant turned to Alexis, one hand still pressed to the small of her back, the other sliding down to steady her arm. The muscles beneath her palm were tense, and the young brunette swayed slightly, her knees unsteady, the fever robbing her of any sense of equilibrium.

—In you go, Olivia said, her voice softer now, a gentle note threading through the firm command.

Alexis hesitated, her gaze drifting to the driver’s seat, her jaw clenching as though she could grind the tension away. A muscle jumped beneath the flushed skin of her cheek, and for a moment, she looked like she was going to argue. Her eyes were dark, glassy, and rimmed with exhaustion, a storm of defiance and fatigue churning behind them.

—You don’t have to—

—Yes, I do, Olivia interrupted, her tone sharp but not unkind, the words slicing through the fog of resistance that clung to the commander like a second skin. Get in. We’re going home.

For a long, weighted beat, Alexis just stood there, the Gatorade bottle still dangling from her limp fingers, the condensation dripping onto the sidewalk in slow, deliberate drops. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths, and the tension around her mouth tightened, the defiance slipping away like sand through a sieve. Then, with a heavy, defeated exhale, her shoulders slumped. The fight bled out of her in a single, weary motion, and she ducked her head, sliding into the passenger seat with the sluggish, heavy movements of someone whose body was beginning to betray them.

Olivia lingered there for a moment, eyes tracing the curve of Alexis’ cheekbone, the droop of her eyelids, the tremor in her jaw as she leaned her head back against the seat. Then she pulled in a deep breath, the air sharp and cold against her lungs, and shut the door with a firm, decisive click.

Rounding the front of the vehicle, the oldest moved to the driver’s side, her boots splashing through a shallow puddle as she adjusted the seat and slipped behind the wheel. The engine rumbled to life beneath them, a low, steady hum that vibrated through the cabin. Olivia adjusted the vents, angling them toward Alexis as she pulled away from the curb, the rain-slicked streets unfurling before them in a wash of gray and silver.

Beside her, the young SEAL had slumped against the window, her forehead pressed to the glass, her eyes half-lidded and unfocused. The Gatorade bottle rolled lazily in her lap, rocking back and forth with each turn Olivia made, the condensation smearing across her fingers. Her breaths came slow and thick, each one a ragged draw that seemed to pull too much effort from her already weakened frame.

Olivia’s jaw flexed as she tightened her grip on the wheel, her knuckles blanching as she forced herself to keep her eyes on the road. Outside, the rain fell in soft, rhythmic taps against the windshield, the wipers swiping back and forth with a steady, hypnotic rhythm that drummed in time with the heavy thud of her pulse. But every few seconds, she found herself glancing sideways, her gaze drifting over the curve of Alexis’ profile, the flush on her cheeks, the lines of fatigue etched into her brow.

—You want me to crack a window? she asked, her voice soft, the words slipping out before she could think better of them.

The brunette didn’t respond. Her eyes had drifted closed, the tension in her jaw finally loosening, the lines of her face softening as sleep began to drag her under. Olivia could still hear the slight hitch in her breathing, the faint rasp of congestion that clung to each exhale.

She swallowed, the movement tight, her throat working around something thick and unnameable. The knot in her chest twisted tighter, pulling at her ribs, as she forced her gaze back to the road, the world outside blurring beneath the steady sweep of the wipers. Beside her, Alexis slept on, her forehead resting against the cool glass, her breaths slow and even now, her body sinking deeper into the seat with each passing second.

And Olivia just kept driving, jaw set, eyes fixed on the road ahead as rain streamed down the windshield like a veil, her hands steady on the wheel despite the tremor in her chest.

*

TAGLIST: @ginasbaby @nciscmjunkie @thefatobsession @makkaroni221 @certainlychaotic @hi-i-1 @kiwiana145 @kobayashi-fr @alexis042499

[daryltwdixon]

The Promise of Us: Chapter 39

“So the game goes, I say something I’ve never done, and if you have done it, you drink. If you haven’t done it, I drink. Then, we switch,” Beth explains, sitting across from Daryl with a cup in her hand. “You really don’t know this game?”

“I ain’t never needed a game to get lit before,” Daryl replies, the skin of his thumb caught between his teeth. 

“Wait, are we startin’?” Beth asks, her excitement clashing with his simmering reluctance.

“How do you know this game?” he mutters, his suspicion barely hidden.

“My friends played, I watched.” She brushes off his question and adds, “Okay, I’ll start.” She closes her eyes, pretending to think hard, but her first attempt is obvious. “I’ve never… shot a crossbow! So, now you drink.”

Daryl rubs his fingers together, staring at her with a deadpan expression. He wants to resist, but the rules seem simple enough. He reaches for his cup, bringing the strong liquid to his lips, feeling the familiar burn as he drinks. “Ain’t much of a game,” he mutters.

“That was a warm-up!” Beth insists. “You go.”

He grunts, hand returning to his mouth, teeth picking at the skin around his nails. His mind’s a mix of annoyance and hesitation. “I don’t know,” he mumbles.

“Just… say the first thing that pops in your head!” she presses, trying to keep the energy light.

“I’ve never been outta Georgia,” he finally says.

“Really?” Beth responds, intrigued. “Okay, good one.” She takes a sip, her curiosity palpable.

She continues quickly, eyes narrowing a bit as she thinks. “I’ve never been drunk and did somethin’ I regretted.”

Daryl stiffens, feeling the subtle dig. He knows she’s trying to pry, to make him crack open, even a little. His defenses flare up, and it’s not anger he feels—it’s shame. He lifts his glass and takes a swig, the bitter taste doing nothing to wash away the memories of all the bad decisions he’s made under the influence of liquor.

“I’ve done alotta things,” he says flatly, the words clipped.

“Your turn,” she prompts, eager to keep the rhythm going.

Daryl’s eyes shift as he thinks, feeling the weight of her gaze. “I’ve never been on vacation,” he says, voice low.

“What about campin’?” she asks, her tone lighter, almost playful.

“No, that’s just somethin’ we—” He pauses, the words catching in his throat. His gaze drops, shame bleeding into his expression until he looks up again after a heartbeat, “I had to learn. To hunt.”

Beth’s eyes soften. “Your dad teach you?” she asks, trying to be careful.

“Mhm,” he grunts, nodding, still watching for her reaction. 

Beth shifts awkwardly before coming up with her next attempt. “I’ve never been to jail. I mean—as a prisoner.”

His eyes narrow, the question striking a raw nerve. The old shame, buried deep but never forgotten, wells up inside him. He feels suddenly exposed, his past laid bare in front of her. 

“Is this what you think of me?” he asks quietly, voice tight with both defensiveness and hurt.

Beth’s eyes widen, realizing she’s crossed a line. “I didn’t mean anything serious,” she backpedals quickly. “I thought maybe the drunk tank. Even my dad got locked up for that back in the day.”

Daryl doesn’t let up, pointing to her with a rough gesture. “Drink up,” he demands, his hand back on his face, fingers covering his chin as if trying to shield himself from her scrutiny.

But Beth’s smile creeps back. “Wait! Prison guard, were you a prison guard before?” she guesses, her enthusiasm unintentionally prodding him further.

He takes his time answering, staring hard at her. “No,” he says at last, his voice low and flat.

“It’s your turn again,” she presses gently, trying to get back into the rhythm of the game.

But Daryl’s done. He pushes himself up abruptly, muttering, “Gotta take a piss,” as he stalks out of the cramped living room. It’s an excuse, and a thin one, but he needs distance. The game was never about fun to him—it was an interrogation, a slow peeling back of layers he’s spent the life he had now trying to forget.

He heads into the kitchen, releasing his fly, dropping his glass of leftover alcohol on the floor as it shatters on the ground. Her questions riled something in him—how different their lives have been, how far apart their worlds are. Beth grew up with family dinners and curfews; Daryl grew up with broken bottles and bruises, fighting just to exist. And then there’s Y/N, who grew up in the same kind of hell he did. She got it, never needed to ask these kinds of questions because she knew—she lived it. The shame from his past was never something he had to explain to her.

The glass shatters beneath Daryl’s boots, and Beth’s voice cuts through the chaos, urgent but hushed. “You have to be quiet.”

But Daryl’s fury is already boiling over, his body coiled tight with anger. “Can’t hear you! I’m takin’ a piss!” he shouts, voice harsh and ragged.

“Daryl, don’t talk so loud,” Beth hisses, her voice tense.

“What? You my chaperone now?” he barks back, his voice rough, his words laced with a bitterness that’s been festering inside him for far too long. He urinates against the kitchen wall, the anger a twisted kind of relief. When he’s done, he zips up, spinning to face Beth. “Oh, wait, it’s my turn, right?”

Beth’s face is a mix of frustration and something close to pity, but Daryl ignores it. He looks out the grimy window into the darkness of the woods, eyes distant, searching for something he’ll never find. “I’ve never, uhh…” he mutters, adjusting his belt as he steps into the room. “Never eaten frozen yogurt , never had a pet pony. Never got nothin’ from Santa Claus .” His voice turns sharper, colder, as he shoves over a dusty vase that crashes to the floor, shattering in front of him. He steps closer to Beth, lip curling with disdain. “Never relied on anyone for protection before—hell, I don’t think I’ve ever relied on anyone for anything!”

“That’s not true—” Beth begins, her voice softening as she tries to reach him, “You and—”

“ Don’t ,” he snarls, his voice breaking, pointing a finger at her, his face twisted with barely-contained rage. “Don’t you dare.” It feels like a dam breaking now, and he keeps going, throwing words at her again and again:

“I’ve never sung out in front of a big group in public, like everything was fine,” he continues, his voice heavy with contempt, each word dripping with raw pain. “I sure as hell never cut my wrists lookin’ for attention.”

Beth’s eyes widen, her initial shock quickly turning to anger. She twists to face him fully, her back straightening, her expression hardened. But before she can speak, the banging against the door grows louder, a chorus of guttural growls now turned to snarling from the walker outside.

“Ah, sounds like our friend out there’s tryin’ to call all his buddies!” Daryl screams, his voice rising with a reckless, desperate edge. He kicks a chair across the kitchen, making as much noise as he can. “Hey, you never shot a crossbow before? I’m gonna teach you, right now,” he snarls, grabbing Beth roughly by the arm. He kicks open the back door, dragging her out into the low evening light.

“Daryl, stop it! Daryl!” Beth squeals, panic and anger clear in her voice, but he pulls her forward, ignoring her protests.

The walker at the window turns toward them, drawn by the commotion. “Dumbass,” Daryl growls, leveling his crossbow at it. “Come here, dumbass.” He releases an arrow, pinning the walker to a nearby tree.

“You wanna shoot?” he demands, shoving the crossbow into Beth’s hands.

“I don’t—I don’t know how,” she stammers, her voice breaking.

“Oh, it’s easy,” Daryl says, positioning himself behind her, his chest pressing into her back. He forces the crossbow into her trembling arms, guiding her to aim. “Come here, right corner,” he mutters darkly, firing another arrow that lands with a dull thunk.

“Let’s practice later!” Beth insists, fists clenched as she tries to break free from his grip.

“Come on, it’s fun,” he grunts, voice harsh and almost manic.

“Just stop it! Daryl!” she cries, twisting away.

“Come here,” he repeats, his voice low and menacing, pulling her back toward the walker pinned to the tree. “Eight ball,” he snarls, releasing another arrow that thuds into its chest.

“Just kill it!” Beth yells, her voice thick with fear and frustration.

“Come here, Greene. Let’s pull these out,” he says releasing her, his tone almost taunting as he steps closer to the walker.

But Beth moves quicker, lunging forward and plunging her knife into the walker’s skull with a sharp, angry thrust.

“The hell you do that for? I was havin’ fun!” Daryl yells, his voice raw as he gets in her face, his breath coming fast and angry.

“No, you were bein’ a jackass!” Beth shouts back, her eyes blazing with tears. “If anyone found my dad—”

“Don’t,” he snarls, cutting her off sharply. “Not even remotely the same.” He’s close now, so close that his anger is palpable, radiating off him in waves.

“Killin’ them is not supposed to be fun ,” Beth spits, leaning in, unafraid now, her eyes fierce. 

“What do you want from me, girl?” he roars, his voice breaking with a mix of rage and grief. 

Beth cries in his face, “I want you to stop actin’ like none of this matters! Like nothin’ we went through matters! Like none of the people we lost meant anything!” her voice is harsh, cracking, as she bares her teeth at him, “It’s bullshit!”

“Is that what you think?” Daryl’s voice drops, his anger smoldering into something darker, more bitter. His eyes are cold, but his voice trembles slightly. 

“That’s what I know,” she snaps, voice faltering as she looks him up and down, “You haven’t even said her name , Daryl— just say it! Say you miss her! And that you miss the others! Rick, Michonne—”

“You don’t know nothin’,” he growls, shaking his head violently.

“I know you look at me and you just see another dead girl ,” she cries, her voice wavering with a mix of pain and frustration. “I’m not like her, Daryl! I’m not like Y/N! I’m not tough, but I’ve survived! But you don’t get it, ’cause I’m not like the two of you, or the others. Carol or Maggie… But I made it! And you don’t get to treat me like crap just because you’re afraid!” She waves her hands at him, her face wet with tears.

He steps closer, his face inches from hers, his breath ragged. “I ain’t afraid of nothin’.”

“I remember,” Beth says, her voice lower, shaking with tears, “When that little girl came outta the barn, after my mom. And the night you found Y/N in the field, seeing you in the morning on the highway with her covered in blood, the both of you. And now God forbid you ever let anybody else get too close.”

“Too close, huh? Bet you know all about that,” Daryl sneers, his finger jabbing at her accusingly. “Lost two boyfriends and can’t even shed a tear!” His voice is full of venom. “Your whole family’s gone and all you can do is just go out lookin’ for hooch like some dumb college bitch!”

“Screw you, you don’t get it!” she shouts.

“No, you don’t get it!” Daryl roars, his voice breaking. “Everyone we know is dead! ”

“You don’t know that!” she screams back, desperation in her voice.

“Might as well be, ’cause you ain’t never gonna see ‘em again!” he snaps, “Rick–” he stops short, her name almost coming off the tip of his tongue then, but he holds it back, the only morsel he can hang onto as his walls come crumbling down in this moment, “You ain’t never gonna see Maggie again!”

“Daryl, just stop!” she begs, reaching for him.

“No!” he twists away, the pain and guilt rushing up uncontrollably as his back faces her. After a heartbeat, his voice breaks as he says, his throat tight, “The Governor rolled right up to our gates. Maybe if I… if I wouldn’t have stopped lookin’, maybe because I gave up. That’s on me!” 

“Daryl—”

“No!” he shouts again, shaking her off, his voice cracking, “And your dad …Maybe I coulda done somethin’...and her , god…” his voice wavers now, the sting in his eyes, his throat tight and throbbing, “She’s…she’s prob–probably already...already...dead,” the words barely make it out of his mouth, his throat so thick with grief.

But suddenly, Beth is on him, wrapping her arms tightly around his middle, hugging him with a fierce, desperate strength. It’s like she’s trying to hold together all the unraveling pieces of him as her arms wrap around him, fingers interlocked against his chest so he doesn’t push her off. But he doesn’t. Daryl’s chest heaves, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The dam finally breaks, and he sobs into the night air—quiet, breathless, and broken.

[auraisereigh]

"Blades to celebrate"

chapter thirteen part I

Brennan Sorrengail x Riorson reader Blurb: It's stars birthday but she has other plans than to celebrate. wc: 4.7 ☆ SPOILERS FOR THE EMPYREAN SERIES. Not much honestly. Uses pronouns: she/her. i use Star as a nickname as y/n sounds weird, and i'm awful with names.

Masterlist ☆ Dragon guide ☆ Star's story ☆ Empyrean guide ☆ Support me

It’s still dark when I make my way out of my room. To my confusion, Xaden continues to sleep on the couch instead of his own bed. Last night, noticing his habits, I spent some time trying to make the couch more comfortable—extra blankets, some pillows, even the blanket Mom made for him. Though he hasn’t touched that one.

Thanks to the kitchen staff from the mess hall, our fridge is finally stocked with actual, edible food. I grab some bread and make myself a simple ham and cheese sandwich, eating quietly at the kitchen table as I go through an old book I found tucked under my bed two days ago. It’s one of the many books Viscount Tecarus gave my father, a collection meant to help identify the source of my magic, its nature, and its potential.

Going through it now feels like a joke. Nothing in here has helped. Well, unless you count the insane amounts of love spells.

Once I finish eating, I clean up quickly and make breakfast for Xaden. I place the plate on the coffee table next to where he’s sleeping. But as I turn to leave, his hand wraps around my arm.

What the—

"Happy birthday, little sister," his sleepy voice rumbles.

My heart stutters. Those are words I didn’t want to hear. I wasn’t going to celebrate. It didn’t feel right—not when the people I want most around me aren’t here and never will be again. The wound is still raw, still tender. Celebrating anything feels wrong.

I give Xaden a small, reluctant smile. "Thank you, but you don’t have to say it. I’m not celebrating," I say softly as his eyes flutter open. His brow quirks, a silent question I’ve seen countless times. He doesn’t need to ask aloud; his expressions do it for him.

"I’m fine, truly. I’m just not in the mood to celebrate. Besides, I already have plans for today—something I’ve wanted to do for a while. I think I’ll manage to enjoy myself," I assure him.

His eyes drift shut again as he mumbles something I can’t make out. Good. He needs the rest.

I throw on one of Dad’s old shirts before heading to the forge. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here—too long. The last time was when Garrick’s father taught me how to craft my own weapons. Now, I’m finally going to do it myself.

I made sketches ages ago, outlining everything: the design, the weight, the materials, even the runes I’d use. I wouldn’t be working alone; the forge’s smith offered to assist if needed.

As I step inside, I quickly braid my hair into a simple but traditional Tyrrish braid. Last night, in my rush to meet Brennan, I’d brought my sketches here and left them on the worktable. I was already late then, so there hadn’t been time to linger.

The forger approaches with a polite smile. "Good morning, Princess," he says with a small bow.

"Good morning," I reply, matching his politeness.

"Do you know how to make weapons?" he asks, a valid question.

"I’ve seen it done," I answer, keeping my tone light. "I have sketches of what I want, but there are a few adjustments I’ll make to the design."

He nods, studying the papers I hand him. "From what I remember, your father once requested swords for you—thin, light, and easy to wield. I assume you’d prefer a similar weight now?"

I nod again, though the mention of those swords stings. I still have them, but using them feels like bringing up ghosts. Memories of training with Garrick’s father or my own threaten to overwhelm me.

"I’ll get you a triangle-tip mold for the blade," the smith says, pulling one from the shelf. "I remember you asked if molten alloy could be added to the blade. It’s possible. Both the steel and alloy are ready to pour."

He sets the mold next to the molten liquids, then continues, "After you pour the mixture, you can work on the handle. By the time that’s done, the steel should have hardened."

I glance at the glowing cauldrons of molten metal, nerves tingling. Logically, nothing should go wrong, but doubt lingers, the kind that creeps in when trying something for the first time.

"I have conduits with runes that respond to my magic," I explain hesitantly. "Would it be possible to insert them into the blade? That way, I wouldn’t need to touch an enemy directly to cause internal damage."

He pauses, studying me. Not many people outside Riorson House know about my magic.

"If the conduits respond to you, it’s possible," he says at last. "My advice? Pour a thin layer of the alloy into the mold first and let it cool slightly. Then, place the conduits carefully—balance is crucial. A single misstep, and the blade could be completely off-kilter. Once the conduits are set, pour the rest of the mixture on top and let it dry."

Relief washes over me. I nod in understanding and get to work.

I pull out a second mold to craft twin swords, placing them side by side on the worktable. After slipping on a pair of gloves, I grip the large ladle and pour a precise, even layer of molten alloy into each mold. Once the initial layer hardens slightly, I carefully place the conduits, ensuring they’re perfectly balanced. With that done, I pour the remaining alloy over them, filling the molds to the edge.

While the blades cool, I turn my attention to the handles. I’ve chosen a sleek black design with a red swirl that will spiral up to the base of the blade. Each handle will also feature a red stone that lights up in response to my magic.

By the time the stones are secured in place, the blades have hardened. I remove them from the molds with care, admiring the way the metal glints in the light. Sharpening and shaping them is the next step, and I lose myself in the steady rhythm of the work.

That’s when I feel it—a presence behind me.

At first, I think it’s the smith and ignore it, focused on the blade in my hand. But the presence lingers, unmoving. Setting the sword down, I remove my safety glasses and let them hang around my neck as I turn.

It’s not the armorer.

It’s Brennan.

☆

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