#self indulgent baby fic

[kingofthecotas]

find tomorrow with you

5 times valentino suggests they get married and 1 time marc does | 2.4k words

5+1 is a fun and whimsical format that we should use more often

–––

i. 

It’s not the first time Marc has been to Tavullia since Valentino decided his life was infinitely better when they spoke—and, indeed, fucked—but today is the first time he truly seems comfortable. 

Pecco being here is helping, helping soothe the agitation that is all Bez’s, helping to be a friendly face—and Luca, if he weren’t finding it all so funny, would be helping as well. Marc is smiling, talking, laughing—and he isn’t dragging his feet as they all get ready to ride. That’s the crux of it, the load-bearing pillar that crumbled their first time around. 

Not this time. They won’t let it. 

(Not ever again, Valentino won’t let that happen ever again. He won’t do that to Marc ever again.)

It’s never polite when they race at the ranch. It’s animalistic, all friendship abandoned at the archway that marks the start of the track, screeching under helmets as they tear around corners and dive into the side of opponents. No quarter. No prisoners. 

Naturally, Marc, now he’s comfortable, is perfectly suited to this kind of all-out warfare. 

(He’s terrifying. Valentino is entranced. He loves him.) 

It happens after about an hour, all of them hot and tired but no one willing to throw a white flag. Marc goes for the lead, throws it up the inside of Bez, and outbrakes himself. He skids to the edge of the track, where his front tyre finally surrenders, and he’s sliding through dirt, one leg dragged with the bike.  

Even over the growl of two-stroke engines, Valentino can hear Bez’s, “Oh shit.” 

He pulls to the side of the track, kicks the peg-stand down with a practiced ease that covers his panic, because Marc is staggering away from under his bike, is collapsing on his back, shoulders shaking, and what if he’s hurt—?

“Marc?” 

Marc is cackling like a maniac, leathers dusted white, one hand over the part of his helmet where his forehead would be—even Bez can’t stop himself laughing in return. 

Valentino kneels beside him, pushes his visor up. Then he pushes Marc’s open, too.

“You idiot,” he says, slow and deliberate, yet without sting. 

Marc laughs harder. “That was fun!”

Valentino leans down, helmets almost touching. “I am going to divorce you.”

Bez chokes on his giggle.

Marc doesn’t miss a beat, eyes still smiling at Vale through his visor. “You have to marry me to do that.” 

“I will marry you,” Valentino agrees, “and then I will divorce you.” 

Marc laughs again. 

——

ii.

Valentino’s phone alarm goes off at 5:45, fifteen minutes to spare before lights out, and he stifles a groan, rolls away from Marc. Marc does not appreciate being woken up before seven on a Sunday. 

(He knows that. He loves that he knows that.) 

Qualifying had been hairy, drizzling but not completely wet. It should be a dry race, though, and he settles himself on the sofa downstairs just in time for the broadcast to start scrolling through the starting grid. Kimi had done well, and he smiles.

There’s a noise in the doorway: Marc, a hoodie thrown over his bare chest, eyes heavy.

“Good morning,” Valentino says, raspy. “Did I wake you up?”

“Who has a race at this time?” Marc grumbles. 

“They are in Japan,” Valentino says, and lets Marc crawl into the space next to him, tired and clumsy with it. “Now you know what it is like when I am watching you in Japan, or Malaysia, or Australia.”

Marc groans in the back of his throat.

“You could go back to bed.”

“You’re not there.” Unfocused eyes peering over the top of his hoodie, Marc glares at the screen, seemingly unaware that he’s just curled something warm and tender around Valentino’s ribs. “Who are we cheering for?”

“Ah, your friend Carlos managed only twelfth. It is Piastri and Verstappen at the front—Kimi is there in fourth, you see? And the Ferraris in fifth and sixth—always we want them to do well. Lando had a penalty, so he is seventh, but the McLaren should be fast here.”

They’re pulling away for the formation lap, weaving to warm their tyres. Marc watches, focused as ever, until he yawns. Valentino shushes him. 

“They are not even racing,” 

“They are explaining the strategy.”

Lights out. Clean start. Marc is watching more intently now, undivided attention, check pressed against Valentino’s arm.

Ten laps in, Gasly dives down the inside of Ocon, and they’re both spinning off into grass and gravel; embarrassing but harmless, enough to bring out the safety car. Valentino pulls himself free and goes to make coffee. 

Marc is barely visible beneath the throw when he returns, dark eyes glaring balefully at the television like it’s offended him personally, but he softens when Valentino hands him a mug.

“You are the best,” he mumbles, then, “At making coffee.”

Valentino laughs—once, he might have bristled at the harmless joke—and slides back into his spot between Marc and the sofa arm. Marc thumps his head down, somehow burying himself even deeper in his swaddling of blanket and hoodie and Valentino. 

It’s—it’s something they never would have imagined, even two years ago. It’s gentle, early Sunday mornings wrapped around each other; the kind of softness that shouldn’t be possible after years of tearing each other apart, digging in fingers and pulling until they drew blood. 

Valentino doesn’t ever want to go there again. He doesn’t ever want to lose this. 

Marc is breathing softly against his arm, still, quiet, perfect. 

“I want to marry you,” he murmurs.

Silence. His stomach drops. 

Marc’s inhale catches in the back of his throat, halfway to a snore, and Valentino laughs, gentle so he doesn’t wake him. He plucks the coffee cup, dangling precariously, from slack fingers, and places it on the side table. 

——

iii.

They’ve created a routine over the past few months.

(Valentino’s stomach jumps every time he thinks about it, thinks about how they’re falling into habits, into familiarity. Every time, he smiles.) 

It’s their last day together for a while: Marc is leaving later, and Valentino flies early in the morning to get to his GT race. But the routine doesn’t change. He’s making lunch for them. Marc is upstairs—his phone had rung, insistent, and he’d groaned but pulled away, leaving Valentino to chop the rest of their salad. 

Marc emerges after nearly twenty-five minutes, eyebrows pinched together, but accepts the plate Valentino slides towards him with a distracted smile.

“Everything okay?” Valentino asks.

“Ah, my accountant.” Marc scowls. “Apparently I am spending too much time in Italy.” 

Valentino can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of his chest. 

“It’s not funny,” Marc says, almost whines. “It’s a tax thing. Between all the time I spend here, and time at the factory—not enough in Spain, apparently.”

Shrugging, Valentino taps one finger on the table. “We could get married.” 

Marc snorts. “Would that help?”

“I don’t know. I am very bad to ask about tax advice, remember?”

“Me too.” Marc stabs a piece of his salad—viciously, in Valentino’s opinion. 

“Don’t frown. It will be okay.”

“I can hide here. It is difficult for you to be in Madrid.”

“It will be okay,” Valentino repeats. “And remember, we can always get married.”

He thinks he deserves it when Marc throws a slice of bread at him. 

——

iv.

Clouds hang heavy on the mountains in Spielberg, threatening rain but holding off for now. Valentino leaves Luca with a last pat on the shoulder, weaving his way up the grid towards Franky’s starting spot.

It’s slow going, stopped every few steps, shaking hands with people he recognises, people he doesn’t.

“Valentino—Valentino!”

It’s Laverty, and Valentino doesn’t mind that because he doesn’t tend to ask stupid questions. He indulges the interview, long past acceptance of the fact that he built his own mythos and will never be left alone for the rest of his life. Yes, he’s doing well, thank you. Yes, it’s nice to be on the grid. Yes, he’s proud of his boys. Yes, he’s still enjoying racing with BMW. 

“And a final question,” Michael says. “You seem like you and Marc Márquez have finally buried the hatchet. Is everything put to bed? How did you manage it?”

Maybe Michael Laverty does ask stupid questions. 

Perhaps he should have been expecting it, because clasping hands before a race, sharing a smile under the podium—people notice. Especially when the norm used to be nothing at all, or worse.

“Ah, you know.” He has plenty of shields for the media, and it’s no problem to pull out an old favourite. “We talked. Dinner with candles. It is all going very well. Maybe soon we get married.” 

Michael laughs, loud and boisterous, like Vale hasn’t just wrapped up the truth in a pretty package and presented it as a joke. He smiles, camera-easy, and returns Michael’s ciao. 

It’s only when he turns around that he realises Álex and Bez, lined up side-by-side on the grid, are staring at him. 

——

v. 

Misano is hot, sweltering August-end heat. Valentino is sweating under his cap and sunglasses, pressed in a red throng of Ducati engineers. One-two. Red on red. 

It’s Marc who’d won, victorious in the battle of weaving-turning-diving along long straights and through heavy-brake corners. Pecco had given him a good fight, an Italian classic of a race; he’s smiling at Marc, learning to enjoy the scrappy thrill of battle as well as the ease of a flawless win. 

Marc’s shining, beaming at his team, smiling down the cameras, alive under the sun. Valentino swallows down the urge to kiss him, if only because their comms officers would kill them both. 

The podium has never seemed so long. Media obligations have never seemed so long. It’s an age before they’re alone, motorhome door locked, and Valentino has Marc, to himself, finally.

He used to think Marc was too much for him, in danger of eclipsing him, their implosion inevitable as two brilliant stars orbited closer, closer, too close. Too much light for the world to handle.

If he met that version of himself now, Valentino thinks he would shake him. 

Marc glows, yes, but there’s a brightness that only Valentino gets to see, one that erupts out in starbursts of ecstasy when they’re together, when Valentino is pushing inside him, when Marc is staring up at him like there’s nothing else in the world. 

Valentino stops, earning a petulant glare; even that’s breathtaking. How—how—he can’t find the words.

“I think,” Valentino forces out, elbows taking his weight, “I want to marry you.”

Marc blinks, face suddenly cutting, incredulous. “You are telling me this now?” He’s a livewire, crackling with sparks, hot with triumph, shooting static through Valentino’s skin. He’s beautiful. Valentino wants to see this for the rest of his life, so yeah, he’s saying it now. 

He tilts his hips, and the disbelief is gone, washed away as Marc gasps. It’s something like reverence now—but not how it used to be. Nothing that Valentino could shatter this time, even though he still wants to hold it close. 

Contrary as always, Marc winds fingers through his hair, pulls him down for a breathless kiss—and Valentino smiles into it, because he can do this, he can have this effect on Marc, still. Still. 

“Vale—” 

He’s helpless when it’s Marc. Still. Always. 

When they’re finished, when they’re lying curled into each other, Valentino breathing heavy into Marc’s hair, Marc looks up, eyes narrowed. 

“You did well today,” Valentino tells him softly, and the hard expression is gone once again, replaced with a different kind of wonder. 

“Did you mean it?”

He knows what Marc means. “Yes.”

Marc nods. “Ask me again. Another time.”

It’s—Valentino smiles again. “That was not a no.” 

——

+1 

It’s not a bad crash—it’s not, not by the metrics of this sport, not compared to what it could have been, what it has been in the past. 

It’s not bad, but it could have been: Marc, bumped wide by Acosta, unable to save it, sliding helplessly through the corner apex—and Bez, unsighted, trying to avoid the recovering KTM, sailing past his braking point towards Marc, and almost—almost. 

It’s not bad, but it was close, and when Marc is back in the paddock, when he’s speaking to cameras, when he’s with his engineers, there’s something wild about him, something faraway sitting behind his eyes, and Valentino knows. He knows.  

(He still dreams, sometimes, of Austria; not of the crash, but the feeling of it, the prickle at the back of his skull, the cold finger-brush of something not right. The almost that he didn’t see coming.) 

So he waits. Marc is settled enough, trusts him enough, to reach for him when he needs him. Valentino trusts Marc enough to let him. 

The knock on his motorhome door comes long after the chequered flag has fallen. Valentino doesn’t get up, knows Marc will let himself in.

“Sorry. Pedro wanted to talk—I am not angry, but good he apologised.”

“That’s okay,” Valentino says, gentle. 

Marc drifts, loose, unmoored, towards the sofa, folds his legs underneath him, presses into Valentino’s space. Valentino lets him, waits for him to speak.

Marc is shaking. Not a lot, just enough for Valentino to notice when he takes his hand.

“Okay?”

He’s not, of course he’s not, but it’s a door nudged ajar, an opening if Marc wants to take it.

“That was—close.”

“Yeah.”

“I was—watching the bike.” Marc swallows. “Just—that was all I could do. Watch it coming towards me.” 

Valentino pulls their joined hands up, presses a kiss to the back of Marc’s. 

Marc’s next exhale trembles in the space between them. 

“You’re okay.” 

“If Bez didn’t turn—” 

If. Almost. “You’re okay,” Valentino says again, because he needs to hear it himself. Marc’s fingers clench in his. “Okay? Look, you are holding my hand. You’re okay.”

It won’t be long before Marc is through this, before he’s smiling, before he’s raring to climb on his bike again. Not yet, though. Valentino knows—he knows.

“We should get married,” Marc says abruptly.

“I have been saying—”

“Seriously.”

Valentino takes him in: pinched eyebrows; hair flattened from his Ducati cap; pursed lips. “I think I am offended, that you only ask me after today.”

Marc pulls his hand away, the laugh jolting out of him. “Valentino—”

“And you are asking me in a motorhome—really, I would have taken my hoodie off at least—”

“Vale,” Marc groans, but he’s there, he’s smiling, he’s back. 

He can’t stop a smile twitching the corners of his lips in return. “Yes?” 

“That was not a no.” 

Valentino takes his hand again.

[volivolition]

part of that "raising a kid au" i was working on, this is almost definitely not how skill checks work and i don't even know if i'll include this, but for now i think it's. so funny kjkgj

[lumiolivier]

Clean Start

Series: One Piece

Chapter: One Shot

Word Count: 2199

Rating: T

Pairing(s): Ace x Reader (YN)

Ace works hard. He deserves a little special something, something at the end of his day, doesn't he?

a.n.: This was supposed to be smut. Where's the smut, Lumi? It's all fluffy. I ordered this with smut! But it's covered in cute! Who said you could cover this in cute?! Oh, yeah. I did. Because I decided to write something hella self indulgent. Sue me.

“Hey, baby!” You heard Ace at the front door of your apartment.  After working back to back twelve hour shifts for the last four days and coming home late, he wanted nothing more than to curl up with his favorite person in the world, “Finally free.  Just you and me for the next…Where the hell are you?”

Little did he know, you were in the bedroom, waiting for him to come home.  In nothing but a black silk robe he had gotten you for your birthday.  You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and couldn’t help but admire the reflection.  Because let’s face it.  That robe made you look incredible.  And it only enhanced what was waiting for Ace underneath it.

“YN, where the hell did…” Ace stood in the doorway absolutely stunned.  He wasn’t expecting you to be standing in the bedroom.  Most certainly not like…that, “Oh…Hello.”

“Hi there,” you couldn’t wipe the smirk off your face if you wanted to.  You had a plan.  And part of that plan was waiting for both of you in the bathroom already.  You knew when he’d get off.  You knew how long it took him to get home.  You even factored in a stop at the gas station for a slurpee.  You couldn’t have timed it more perfectly.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure,” Ace pulled you into his hips, his arm resting in his lower back and his lips all over your neck, “of getting my girl like this?”

“I missed you, too,” you squirm under each little kiss with tingles shooting through your extremities, reveling in the smell of his sweat, “I figured you and I could do something together.”

“Oh, darling, I’m flattered,” Ace put a hand to his chest, “But I don’t think I got that in me.”

Mmhm.  Keep thinking that, “I promise this couldn’t be any less strenuous.  This is me taking care of everything.”

“Really?” Ace perked up, “Do tell, YN.  Do tell.  No, wait.  Let me guess.  Does it involve us leaving the house?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Alright,” Ace cocked a smile at you, “Does it involve you?”

“Yes…” You took his hands.

“Does it…” Ace thought a little harder, a little crease appearing in his forehead, “Does it involve…candle wax?”

“It could,” you shrugged him off, “But it doesn’t have to.”

“So, you’re not into trying the kinky shit tonight?”

“Ace!”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” His laugh warmed you inside and he pulled you back into his chest, “It could involve candle wax, but it doesn’t have to.  It involves you.  Does it involve me, too?”

“Duh,” you rolled your eyes at him.  Yes.  That’s yours.  You willingly chose him.  You looked into those big, beautiful, lost puppy eyes of his and he had you hooked.

“And…” Ace gently tugged at your robe tie, “Does it also involve me getting to see what’s under here?”

“Of course,” you were already helping Ace peel his shirt off.  And you were fighting every urge in your body to playfully nip at his beautifully chiseled chest. 

“I thought I was unwrapping my present,” Ace pouted out his bottom lip, “I don’t remember where you said you got to get at me, too.”

“It’s part of it,” you assured him as you pulled on his belt buckle.

“I don’t know where you’re going with this, baby girl,” Ace picked your chin up, getting one more kiss out of you, “But I think I’ll like it.”

“That’s the idea…” You kept fiddling with his belt buckle and slowly pulled it through the loops before taking him toward the bathroom.  The sweet smell of vanilla filled the room with hints of nectarine.  And the temperature had gone up a few degrees. 

And that’s when Ace started to piece things together, “YN, you little minx.”

“Yes?” You started to undo your robe tie, but you still kept your robe closed as you stepped into the warm water in the bathtub.

“I had all intentions of showering anyway,” Ace looked you over, more than ready to sink his teeth into you, “Are you suggesting a bath?  Just the two of us?”

“If that’s alright with you.” You took your robe off for him, showing off a little for Ace, “Come on, baby…Don’t make me sit in here all by myself.”

“And why in the hell would I ever do something like that?” Ace couldn’t get his clothes off faster.  Granted, taking a bath wasn’t his ideal way of spending his Friday night, but he couldn’t tell you no.  Of course not.  To say Ace worshiped you would be an understatement.  He loved every inch of you.  Every imperfection, every scar, every little freckle, every curve.  He wanted all of it.  Once he was naked, he poked at your back, “I’d be happy to.  Move up a bit, babe.  Let me in.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” you weren’t budging.  You had something much better in mind, “I’m not going to be the little spoon.  You get to be little spoon.”

“Me?” Ace laughed a bit, “Cute, YN.  Seriously, move up.”

You still weren’t going anywhere.  And your act of stubbornness did not go unnoticed.

“YN…” Ace gave you that look.  That one look that made you know there was about to be a large hand colliding with your ass very soon.  Anything he could do to make you behave.  And yet, you still didn’t move.  Fortunately, Ace didn’t have the energy in him to put up a fight.  And he caved so quickly as he climbed into the tub with you, “Fine.  If this is how you’re going to be, then I’m only going to be worse.”

“That’s the spirit,” you wrapped your arms around him and immediately, the tension in Ace’s body melted away. 

“Mmmm…” Ace shut his eyes for just a moment, taking in your warmth, the pillowy softness in your boobs he gladly rested his head on, “You spoil me.”

“You think I spoil you?” You kissed the top of his head, “I haven’t even started to spoil you.  I’m just letting you acclimate first.  Then, I can spoil you.”

“I’m so lost…” But he didn’t care.  He trusted your judgments and your process.  If it meant him having skin on skin contact with you and it made you happy, he’d be fine.

“It’s a good thing you have me then, isn’t it?”

“My little light in the dark,” Ace nuzzled his face in what he affectionately referred to as the valley and gently nipped at your chest. 

It wasn’t the first time Ace had called you this.  But it warmed you inside all the same as if it were.  The thought of being his light got to you.  The thought of being the center of his universe was the absolute best.  And if he needed you to be his light, then his light you would gladly be.  You reached over the side of the bathtub into the wicker basket you kept the soaps in and grabbed a bottle of shampoo.  Because the moment Ace brought a bottle of 3-in-1 into your house, it didn’t even make the trash can.  It splattered in the parking lot outside your apartment.  And never again, you declared.  Never again would such atrocities enter your home again. 

And your fingers ended up tangled in his dark, wet hair.  At first, he wasn’t sure what you were doing.  He even had that look in his eyes that told you all you needed to know.  But much like when you were trying to get him in the bathtub in the first place, he didn’t have the energy to fight you on anything.  You knew he hated doing it himself anyway, so why not make life easier for him?  That’s what you did.  He comes home tired, beyond the point of exhaustion, falling apart at the seams.  You lick his wounds.  You knew far too much about what he’s been forced to endure.  Much like the bottle of 3-in-1 he brought into your home, you told yourself never again.  That he deserved so much better. 

You knew deep down you were doing a good job when the bathwater never went cold.  His fingers shooting off little bits of heat kept it from going cold.  And those low, controlled pulses only came out when Ace was perfectly content.  Once you finished rinsing his hair out, you noticed him hardly flinch at the water.  You looked down at Ace and he was sleeping like a baby.  Like a peaceful little angel.  And a special glow radiated from his cheeks.  You would do everything in your power to protect that peace.  But once you went through a bout of conditioner and a little bit of moisturizer for his dry and severely windburned cheeks, you knew you had to do it.  You had to wake him.  There was no way in hell you’d be able to carry Ace out of the bathtub.  As much as you loved to think you had that kind of upper body strength, that wasn’t going to happen.

“Ace…” you spoke gently.  The last thing you wanted to do was cause him any alarm, “Ace…Baby…Baby…Ace…Babe…You need to get off me.  You’re crushing lefty and it hurts like hell.”

“Mmm…” Ace still didn’t move.  Not because he was still asleep.  He was far too comfortable.  All he did was move his head off your boob.

“Ace…” You knew this would happen.  You knew it was going to happen this way.  And you needed a better way to motivate him.  And right now, only one thing would work.  You got down in his ear and put on the soft, sweet little voice that drove him crazy, “I can’t hold my breath underwater for long.”

“Did I nod off?” Ace blinked the sleep out of his eyes, “I could’ve sworn I was awake.”

“Nope,” you kissed his cheek, “Not that I don’t love this, Ace, but we should probably think about heading to bed.”

“What gave you that idea?” Ace mumbled into your cleavage, still half asleep.

“Come on,” you nudged him off you and reached for a couple towels, “You and I need to go to bed.  We got shit going on tomorrow.”

“Really?” Ace looked at you strangely.  He didn’t remember making any plans.  He didn’t remember you clearing anything with him.  Unless it was while he was totally not asleep, “I kind of thought it’d be just the two of us and Saturday morning cartoons.”

“I mean, obviously,” you agreed, “But that’s just tomorrow morning.”

“Did you go to the store today?” Ace crossed his fingers.

“And found the sugariest box of cereal on the shelf,” you assured him, “Because you’re a fucking child.”

“If it doesn’t have any sugar, it has no taste,” Ace argued, “And if it doesn’t have any taste, it defaults to cardboard.  Don’t give me that shit.”

“Come on,” you nudged him out of the bathtub.

“Fine, fine,” Ace got out of the bathtub and you threw him a towel, “Saturday morning cartoons aside, what else do we have going on tomorrow?”

“We’re going to have to make another trip to the grocery store,” you told him, “Because it’s been too long since the three of you were in one place.”

“Wait…” Ace felt around in his drawer for a pair of boxers, “Are you saying…?”

“I am saying,” you nodded, “The boys are in town.”

“Hell yeah!” Ace’s energy levels started to shoot back up, “It feels like ages since I’ve seen Luffy and Sabo.  I miss them.  How did you know they were coming into town?”

“You act like we don’t keep in touch,” you giggled a little, putting your own pajamas on.  A light blue negligee would do.  It was one of your favorites.  And definitely one of Ace’s, too, “Sabo called and said he’d be around.  And it wasn’t long after that I heard from Luffy.  So, we need to make a trip to the store tomorrow.  Because there’s no way in hell we have enough to feed everyone.”

“YN, look me in the eye,” Ace stared blankly at you, “Do we ever have enough to feed everyone?”

“That’s on Luffy.”

“That is on Luffy.  Kid’s got a hell of an appetite on him.  Shit’s hereditary.”

“Is it really?”

“You’ve never seen Garp eat before, have you?” Ace asked.

“Can’t say I have.” You don’t even really remember meeting Garp.  He wasn’t someone Ace wanted to introduce you to.  You were too special.

“Trust me,” Ace assured you, “It’s a hereditary thing.  But on a less infuriating note, do you think we could go to bed now?  Because the sooner we go to bed, the sooner…other things can happen.”

“Really?” you crawled into bed next to him, “And by other things…What could those…other things be?”

“Clearly, cartoons, YN.  What else?”

“You’re a disaster,” you rolled over, “Good night.”

“Hey, hey…” Ace draped an arm around you, “Where do you think you’re going, young lady?”

“Sleep.  If that’s alright with you.”

“Actually,” Ace pulled you closer into his chest, “That sounds wonderful.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Yep.  This was the one.

[birrdies]

alright, alright by birrdie 3.5k, one-shot desert duo / scarian vigilante au

[necrotic-nephilim]

in lieu of having posted any writing/headcanons/asks in the past few days because i have been *so* busy and unable to do anything fandom-related which is terrible and evil, i have a poll out of morbid curiosity and self-indulgence. i've been meaning to ramble here about how i feel about DC's lack fo Deaf representation and which Batfam members i would personally make Deaf, but i am mildly curious about the larger opinion and now i will subject you all to the question, i would love to hear thoughts/opinions/headcanons on any specific choices. (would love d/Deaf/HoH opinions esp but i'm mostly expecting this to reach the hearing crowd, so opinions from hearing ppl are ones i'm very curious about. if you've never given it thought before you are going to now or else /lh)

[inquisitorcastellanos]

I'd like to think he "checks himself out" when no one's around.

Anyway, trying things out with line art and contrast it's whatever

[nuwildcat]

Chapters: 1/12 Fandom: KinnPorsche: The Series (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Porsche Pachara Kittisawat/Kinn Anakinn Theerapanyakun Characters: Porsche Pachara Kittisawat, Kinn Anakinn Theerapanyakun, Big (KinnPorsche: The Series), Tae Taechin Lerttravinont, Porchay Pichaya Kittisawat, Pete Phongsakorn Saengtham, Vegas Kornwit Theerapanyakun, Khun Tankhun Theerapanyakun, Korn Theerapanyakun, Kim Khimhant Theerapanyakun Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Sugar Daddy Kinn Anakinn Theerapanyakun, Sugar Baby Porsche Pachara Kittisawat, Canon-Typical Violence, Slower burn kinda, but make no mistake team there is lots of sex, Emotional Slow Burn, they take a while to figure out their shit your honor, Background Relationships, background Kim/Chay, Yakuza, Explicit Language, Possessive Behavior, Explicit Sexual Content, Power Dynamics, Light Dom/sub, Daddy Kink, Anal Sex, Switching, Kinn's cannon big dick, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, They both get off on this dynamic real hard, Coming Untouched, Voyeuristic tendencies cause it's these two, Semi-Public Sex, Jewelry, Lingerie, Putting Porsche in a corset cause I can, I know it doesn't seem like it from the tags but there is definitely plot here Summary:

Porsche is what he considers a professional. He’s been sugaring full-time for two years now, and not much shakes him anymore. Enter one Kinn Anakinn Theerapanyakul, Bangkok’s very own mafia prince. He’s filthy rich, handsome, and dangerous. Porsche knows he should stay away, but life is never so simple.

It all starts with a glass of whiskey.

Dropping some new fic for you all to enjoy! Thank you @fairhairedkings​ for the beta on this fic and @luckydragon10​ and @martynaxao3​ for being early readers and keeping me sane as I wrote out the bulk of this fic.

[phoenixtakaramono]

OPERATION BABYLON - PART VI

aka the butchlander sugar baby AU.

We have the first reader interactive poll for this threadfic! I recommend reading the update to the end (with a detailed breakdown of each choice) before making your decision.

Tumblr Navigation (note I have not shared the prologue here with its premise setup; I’ve only started sharing this twitter threadfic on tumblr starting from the 2nd 🔞 scene): I | II | III | IV | V | VI

Update Schedule: weekly/ biweekly

(You can read the rest of the threadfic update here!)

Keep in mind, all of my AU Butchlander threadfics on Twitter are the unpolished first draft versions of what’ll eventually be polished up into long fics on AO3 under the Shock and Awe series. So you may regard this threadfic as an experimental first prototype and exclusive preview whose contents may or may not be changed in the future final draft version. We’re just loosely playing around with ideas and concepts for now!

If you don’t have a Twitter account, screenshots are provided below the line break so you can read this update on Tumblr as well:

A more-in-depth breakdown of the choices:

A) Tell the truth. To avoid suspicion, Billy lays low and comes up with an excuse that he's booked for the whole day plays hard to get. It'll lead to Homelander running into "William out on a date" with another Supe—and a jealous Homelander running interference lol and sabotaging it, potentially leading to a "private tour" at The Seven meeting room and some 🔞 inappropriate office s*x ;) the setting depends if I decide to have it as a Vought HQ gala event or a Capes for Christ baptism

The payoff: a lead into the investigation The con: Billy's relationship with one of his long-time regulars is irreversibly damaged (it'll come bite him in the arse much later in the threadfic)

B) Homelander wants to be his sugar daddy. So Billy wants to test that and see if he can get our caped crusader to unknowingly fund his little CIA operation by exaggerating his rent and monthly overhead costs to tug at the hero's supposed generous philanthropist heartstrings. It'll lead to the sugar baby/daddy relationship being developed more aka a lil à la Pretty Woman-styled "shopping spree" with Homelander raining gifts on Billy's head say bye bye to Billy's CIA-assigned base, potentially leading to a 🔞 scene for "William to show him his gratitude"

The payoff: a bigger base and money for a more in-depth investigation The con: Homelander will lowkey stalk monitor him, so it'll be harder to keep his covert activities a secret from him or sneak out

C) The cute "Waiting for you :)" type of option. Billy doubles down on the act and reforms himself into Homelander's dream lover. It's tooth-rotting romantic fluff and flirty back-and-forth banter between them, but keep in mind what'll happen when Homelander inevitably realizes the "William who's literally almost perfect in every way and is too good to be true" isn't actually real much much much later as a direct consequence of this early choice.

The payoff: a happy Homelander (speedrun gaining his trust and affection by taking our bbg on dates <3) The con: the future fallout (and reconciliation) will be much more dramatic

Choose your poison! You can also vote on Twitter (link to the poll). I will add the final results together, and we’ll see which story route comes out on top.

A/N: A bit of Billy’s POV as we begin to pull back the curtains. How deep does this rabbithole of deception go? Far. Very far. Did y'all see the twist with Popclaw? Didn't expect that, did ya?

I am, by the way, open to ⚠️🔞 reader suggestions~. I make no promises that I’ll write it, but this threadfic is meant as a shameless excuse to write 🔞 butchlander spice, haha, and provide y’all some content during our butchlander drought. I have one reader suggestion thus far, and it involves candle wax. 🕯️

[lamiaceae-doodles]

i just think he has potential to be a good dad

in other words, the baby fever got to me and i plead guilty

[sunaluvs]

Another line of sweat begins to bead along your hairline as the late summer heat stifles each breath you inhale.

“This was a bad idea,” you sigh as you lay on the blanketed ground on your back, eyes squeezed shut against the sun’s merciless glare and arms outstretched to their fullest extent as if asking for the wind to take you. You hope it does. At least then, you might not feel like you’re being cooked alive.

“‘S not that bad.” Atsumu yelps and twists his torso to the side when you swipe at him with a clammy palm. The red-orange haze of your eyelids turn blissfully dark when he leans over you, his body blocking the sun’s attack on your eyeballs. “Hey! Don’t be mean.”

“Shush, don’t move,” you mutter, gingerly sliding your eyes open to look at him.

“‘M breakin’ up with ya.”

“Weren’t you just rambling about our future kids this morning?”

He huffs pettishly, and your lips curve into a wisp of a smile. Atsumu’s golden hair encircles your vision, the sweat gathering in his roots rendering the gel he’d used to style it absolutely useless. The man in question grins down at you. The outer corners of his eyes crinkle as his cheeks bunch up, his tanned skin flushed strawberry red from the summer heat. Theoretically, he should look like an overripe tomato donning a shitty blond wig; anybody else would. But with a nimbus of sunlight and the clear blue sky as his backdrop, he looks frustratingly, maddeningly, beautiful. Nobody should look that gorgeous from this angle, you think. Or in this heat.

“Yer starin’.”

“No, I’m not.”

Atsumu’s beam grows wider when you instantly look away at his words, your gaze falling to the leaf clinging to the cotton of his shirt. You convince yourself that the sudden rush of heat through your face is because of the sweltering weather, rather than a manifestation of any sort of embarrassment.

“There’s no need to deny it,” he leans closer to you, noses briefly brushing as his smile turns smug. “‘M yer boyfriend, you can stare all ya want.”

You snort and tilt your head back, ignoring how it makes his gaze drop down to the column of your throat before it comes back up again, “thanks for the permission, sweetheart.”

His nose scrunches up at the nickname to feign displeasure, but you don’t miss the way his head drops a little to avoid your eyes, nor the way his fist slightly twists the blanket in its grip. You grin.

“Why don’t you take the food out, baby? I’m getting a bit hungry.”

You watch as Atsumu’s eyes widen, but before you can take a closer look he’s pulling away, turning his back to you and shifting to the basket of food you’d brought along. The sun wastes no time returning to its assault on your vision, and you hiss, bringing an arm up to shield your face.

Mentally, you curse yourself for giving in to Atsumu’s request (pleading) of an outdoor picnic. You need to start building defenses against those ridiculous pouts of his.

As he busies himself with plates of fruit and sandwiches, you push yourself up to your elbows and closer to him, squinting when you hear him grumble under his breath, “...don’t even remember the last time ya compliment me, then all of a sudden ’s ‘sweetheart and ‘baby’; wha’sat about?”

“Why, you don’t like it?”

You breathe a light laugh when he startles at the sudden proximity of your voice, head whipping back to see a teasing smirk adorning your features. He blinks rapidly and your smirk widens at the vermillion that spreads over his ears.

“No,” he blurts out. “I-I mean, yes, I don’t—do! I do, uh, I guess.”

You blink.

He buries a groan into his hands, and you bite down on an endearing smile. Affection blooms tender and warm in your chest, rich in adoration for the man in front of you. You watch as he lifts his face up, sweet with embarrassment, bottom lip jutting out the slightest bit, and do nothing as your fondness swells. 

“‘S jus’ weird!” is what he finally settles on. “‘S like if Omi started callin’ me ‘Tsumu or somethin’.”

Your mouth falls open.

“Am I really so bad that you’re comparing me to Sakusa?”

“No! Tha’s not”—he flails his hands around—“yer fine! More than! “It’s jus' a bit weird, y’know, like, like—” he huffs an irked breath. “You know what I mean!”

Oh my god, he’s pouting.

You purse your lips, forcing a slow breath through your nose to stop the laughter struggling to burst forth. A beat of silence follows his words. Atsumu stares at you. You stare back at him. His eyebrows furrow the longer you stay quiet.

“What?” he finally says, his bottom lip jutting out further, “wha’s with that look?”

“What—what look?” you cough out, looking away and pursing your lips harder.

“That look!” He rudely points at you. “Yer tryin’ not to laugh! I know ya are!”

“I-I don’t—” you snort—shit—immediately covering your mouth with a hand, “I don’t know what you mean.” Your voice shakes with barely restrained laughter.

“‘S not funny!”

And the dam bursts. You double over in loud, boisterous cackles, Atsumu’s whines accompanying your glee in the background.

“It is so fucking funny,” you gasp, eyes twinkling with mirth.

Atsumu, fully pouting by this point, crosses his arms and turns his back to you once more in a childish attempt to ignore you. The sight makes you hiccup another laugh, that ball of adoration swelling to burst in your chest at the sight. You just barely suppress the “aww” that wants to slip out.

You’re still chuckling when you move forward to wrap your arms around his torso, pulling him back into your chest. Despite his earlier protests, he, unsurprisingly, offers no resistance whatsoever and falls easily into your arms. Settling your chin over his shoulder, you tilt your face and bury it in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of your body wash radiating off his skin like ripe fruit beneath the sun.

(“Whatcha think?” he’d asked cheekily the first time he used it, jumping onto your bed and shoving his arm under your nose.

“What—“ you’d jolted away, before the fresh fragrance hit your senses and froze you in your place. You’d swallowed, and carefully asked, “Is that—is that my body wash?”

“Yessir,” he replied, smirking his typical irritatingly attractive smirk. “How ‘bout it?”

You'd put on your best annoyed expression and lied through your teeth, “Stop using my things, moron.”

He never did.)

Blowing a raspberry into the golden skin, you grin, “Sorry, baby, you’re just too cute.”

Atsumu sinks further into your chest and tilts his head back to see you, “Meanie. Only kisses will save you from the doghouse now,” he puckers his lips for emphasis.

Your grin widens, and you cup his jaw to smack a big, noisy kiss on his lips.

“Am I safe now?"

"Not yet."

Another kiss.

"Again."

Another kiss.

"One more time."

You laugh, and kiss him once more.

[hauntingcontradiction]

hi!! i love ur new fic so so much and i’m going to come back with a full list of everything i loved about it but first i just have to know (my mind is so scattered cause of finals), was it gale or john who wouldn’t get hard?

Hi! Thank you so much for your ask anon and your lovely comments about my fic!!!

It was Gale who couldn’t get hard in my fic. I was inspired by @avonne-writes’s idea about what if that happened to Gale in the stalag and her wonderful fic Reverie. I really liked how she showed how much that affected Gale emotionally. I’m soooo into John angst haha (John is my baby and Gale’s baby so John hurting gives me all the feels!) so I thought it was awesome John angst potential too and wanted to explore how that would make him feel and really lean into all his hurt and pain. Thanks to Avonne for the initial inspiration :)

I also think John is really into acts of service (it’s his love language) towards Gale and he also wants to feel needed by Gale and useful (in the show he does better when he has a clear purpose or mission he can work towards). So for me, he would perceive Gale not being able to get hard as a personal failing on his part not Gale’s and it would hurt him deeply that he wasn’t able to make Gale feel good and to give him pleasure. I did deliberately leave out any discussion in the fic on why Gale wasn’t able to get hard so it would be up to the reader to fill that in themselves (sooo many reasons eg he was just in a fight, he is in pain and injured John!!!). I wanted my fic to be really centered in John’s pov and where he is mentally at that point in the stalag, he is so lost in his pain that he wouldn’t be able to see what else is going on with Gale or that there could be other reasons or even that it’s not a bad thing.

good luck with your finals!!

[toppamplemousse]

La Rentrée

Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen | Rated T, 14987 words, complete

"First, every head in the room whipped to the doorway, where sunlight haloed a lithe figure as he removed a pair of expensive-looking Céline sunglasses onto a head of dark, windswept hair, revealing a pair of enigmatic, mischievous green eyes.

Second, an accented voice rang out, “I’m here, no need to apologize for starting without me. Seb, always lovely to see you, you’re looking really sharp this evening. George, please, don’t pause on my account.”

And third, Logan laid eyes on the most exquisitely beautiful man he’d ever seen in his entire life."

read on ao3

[centuryberry]

Summary: In an effort to keep the Monkey King in line, Heaven sends him a bride they handpicked who he must make his Queen. But when the palanquin is opened, what’s inside is not a blushing bride. It’s a shivering child. 

Or: You are reborn into an Otome Game set before the Journey to the West with the Monkey King as its protagonist. But you aren’t a capture target. You’re hardly even a side character. But when a misunderstanding places you in the center of the main plot, you are forced into the spotlight as your very presence changes the narrative. 

Relationships: Sun Wukong/Liu’er Mihou, RinRin/Original Female Character, Sun Wukong & Reader, Liu’er Mihou & Reader, DBK/Iron Fan

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Otome Game AU, Reincarnation, Reader has a Name, Reader is Female, Reader is a Monkey Demon, Reader is also a Child, Forced Marriage, Marriage of Inconvenience, Accidental Child Acquisition, Found Family, Wukong Scrambling for Those Divorce and Adoption Papers, Past Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Self-Indulgent, Pre-JTTW, Protective Sun Wukong, Protective Liu'er Mihou

[aerodaltonimperial]

woke up feeling weirdly grateful to fandom (must be pride month lol) so just wanted to toss out a big thank you to anyone who has ever read my fics. you really make me feel like i matter when i hear that my words make people happy or flaily or screaming or what have you. it honestly means the world to me knowing that people take their own free time and use it to read things i have written; given everything, i can't overstate how much this helps to heal over the big me vs. writing/publishing wounds. 💚💚💚 i had really truly considered leaving fandom the past few weeks, but i don't want to any longer, and a huge part of that is you wonderful folks for being here.

[melloneah]

matt for the character asks!!

nobody asked but ur getting it. since i got 2 matt asks THIS IS GON BE SMOKESCREEN MATT. bc i love him. n i made him up. he is mine. N I WANNA SHARE

(click here for canon matt)

favourite thing about them

he is the coolest mf on earth. he makes anyone feel at ease around him, n he's just the SWEEEETEST but subtly. he reads people super well so he caters to their needs and notices if somethings off but does it all on autopilot at this point

least favorite thing about them

manipulative piece of shit lmaoooo he sometimes doesnt even realise it but he strategically twists situations in his favour left and right, and almost always gets the outcome he wants

brOTP NEARRRRRR. i love thinking about a possible friendship between the two, IT HAS SUCH POTENTIAL!!!!! i want them to be besties so bad i nearly turned smokescreen into accidental natebit dhjsfshd I LOVE THEM TOGETHERRR SM. theyre such a funny duo

random headcanon

that man is a KLEPTOO. he steals shit all the time; it started when he was a kid floating around the foster system n wanted something more than necessities, and it later morphed into a compulsion. he WILL make it a point only to steal from corporations tho. smokescreen matt has that punk, anarchist mindset

song i associate with them

um. i made a playlist of specifically what i think matt listens to in the smokescreen universe

ASK ME ABT CHARACTERS PLEASEEE

[larkral]

Happy Wednesday! Thanks for the tag @shrekgogurt and @artsyunderstudy! It is so fun to see y'all's excitement about your work!

I was anticipating saying something today about how I've started editing ADA and I don't have anything not spoilery to share, and blah blah blah, but my past self was WRONG about that. Because I've started writing something new and incredibly self-indulgent: my Simon gets adopted by Gay Mums AU.

Enjoy this, the first moment one of the mums sees Simon:

The baby is fair skinned, but speckled all over with moles, like an impressionist painting. When I bend over to pick her up, clear blue eyes lock onto me with a focus I didn't know babies were capable of.  I lift her out of the cot and look down at her. I'm hypnotized. Her little arm comes out of the blanket. She's only wearing a diaper. The moles spread down her body, and her arm has black swashes across it that spell out Simon Snow.  Simon. Him, then.  My heart swells, and it's about to spill over. I close my eyes. I press my nose to his head, and breathe it in. His skin is so fragile, so tender under my nose, and he smells fresh, clean, like forest air and innocence. 

This story is so self indulgent about being a parent, and also so self indulgent about being a queer person who came of age during the time when gay rights were emerging into the mainstream. I cannot even tell you how excited I am to share it with everyone. Especially any baby gays who weren't around during these exciting times.

Tags below the cut!

Hey everyone! I hope you are overflowing with excitement about something you're working on today. If so, share it with us! If not, take a breath and remember you don't have to produce anything to be here and be loved. @stitchyqueer @thewholelemon @confused-bi-queer @raenestee @facewithoutheart @cutestkilla @hushed-chorus @sillyunicorn @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @basiltonbutliketheherb @ileadacharmedlife @asocialpessimist @bookish-bogwitch @aristocratic-otter @captain-aralias @petedavidsonscock @takitalks @yeonjunenby @carryonvisinata @takenabackbytuesdays @martsonmars @nightimedreamersghost @chen-chen-chen-again-chen @ionlydrinkhotwater @aroace-genderfluid-sheep​ @forabeatofadrum  @palimpsessed @fatalfangirl​ @blackberrysummerblog​ @valeffelees @imagineacoolusername @orange-peony @j-nipper-95 @whogaveyoupermission