Would love to see more of a softer moment with the Sheriff and reader! Maybe the reader comes down with a really bad flu and ends up being super clingy with the sherif during it? Especially since I doubt the readers og parents even took care of them when they were sick so i can only imagine how they would act with the sherif taking care of them..
"Kid... Kid, what happened to you?" Sheriff Hayes asked, gingerly kneeling down to be more at your level.
You'd known that morning that you hadn't been feeling well, but he'd been obsessing over some case with the sheriff's department a county over, so he hadn't noticed. You'd made it almost halfway through the day before the nausea had caught up with you.
Needless to say, your horrified germaphobic teacher was very quick to have you removed from her classroom as she called the custodian. So, you'd been sent to the nurses office to wait for him to pick you up. Apparently, your condition had worsened if it was bad enough to make him pause.
"It's probably just a stomach bug, Sheriff. They usually go around this time of year." The nurse kindly reassured. "They do have a little bit of a temperature, but it isn't technically a fever yet. I would recommend lots of rest and foods that are gentle on the stomach. Something bubbly, like ginger ale, can help with reducing nausea."
"Thanks for the advice. C'mon kid, let's get you home." He grabbed your backpack for you before picking you up. Your body was slightly too warm and you didn't even glare at him for touching you. Instead, you lay your cheek on his shoulder, dejectedly accepting the slight scratch of his work shirt against your skin.
He carried you out to his police car, carefully settling you in the passenger seat. "There you go. We'll stop at the store on the way home and pick up some things to help you feel better." He told you, carefully buckling you in.
The window was cool and he didn't say anything about the cheek-sized smoosh mark you were leaving on the glass. "Were you feeling sick this morning or did it start at school? I could've called off work if you weren't feeling well."
You opened your eyes, even lifting your cheek from the window to stare at him incredulously. No one ever took care of you when you'd been sick in the past, why would he be any different? He was just another guardian... wasn't he?
Even when he called you 'kid' and let you wear his sheriff's hat that no one else dared to touch. When he picked you up from school every day so you didn't have to take the bus. How he always made sure there was food in the house and made sure you were okay.
You were busy pondering your actual feelings on him when you arrived at the store, letting him hold your hand to help you out of the car. Normally you'd give him a look and pull away, but this time you refused to let go of his hand as he gently led you into the store.
He let you pick out what kind of soup you wanted, what brand of ginger ale you wanted. He grabbed some medicine just in case you needed it, making small talk with the cashier as you hung off his sleeve like a koala.
You hardly remembered anything between blinking and suddenly being back in the car as he buckled you in again. "You're getting warmer. When we get back to the house, I want you on the couch so I can watch over you."
"No couch!" You protested, whining as he rolled his eyes and started the car. "Want my blanket!"
"If I get you your blanket, will you lie on the couch and stay there?" You considered it and eventually just gave up, nodding. "Fine."
The rest of the evening was spent curled up under your blanket, watching some animated kids' movie, and slowly sipping some ginger ale. By the time you finished your soup and medicine that night, you were already falling asleep.
When he felt a weight on his lap, he only glanced down briefly, checking your temperature and moving some hair from your face. You were such a silly child, constantly denying yourself affection. Perhaps being sick was beneficial, as it forced you to accept his care for once.
For now, at least, he'd cherish your subtle ways of asking for attention and love. God knows you'd be pretending it never happened the second you were awake enough to complain.
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I know I should be working and all that jazz, but my brain can't stop and keeps coming up with ideas with every single song that plays. This is rushed and not proofread.
Biting the poor straw on your drink, you released a heavy sigh as you saw her body dancing to the tune playing at the club you went to.
The way in which her hips moved had you hypnotized in a spell you didn't want to escape, for all you owned could easily be given to her. No questions asked.
“You should go make your move,” came your friend's voice in your ear. Like a small devil, she continued. “You know Wanda wouldn't care.”
“It's not that,” you swallowed hard. The fact your attention had been locked on the brunette enjoying herself a few feet ahead, in the sea of bodies on the dancefloor, was something you weren't expecting to happen. Not today, on a day like this.
“Go on,” she insisted. “Prove me wrong,”
Something in you told you not to. You should be at home, guarding the only thing that means something to you nowadays yet, the voice inside your head -or outside? At this point you couldn't think straight. But what you knew for sure, was that you should move. Life was too short to stand by and watch it pass in front of your eyes. Or that's what Wanda once told you when you faced a life-changing decision. And this time felt like one, so you bit the bullet and honored her.
With a long sip from your drink you mustered the courage you needed and handed it to your friend before you marched towards the dancefloor until you reached her.
You knew this was a bold move, but you just couldn't help yourself now.
As your hands found her waist, you leaned in and spoke, “you seem like someone who could teach me how to dance,”
You choked on a breath as instead of answering, she pushed herself against you, her back to your front, as her hips guided you through the sensual beat engulfing you.
You closed your eyes as your body followed her every move, as if some sort of magnetic field pulled you together.
“It took you a while,” your eyes widened open as you felt her hands grab yours, moving them towards her abdomen.
“I'm here now,” you breathed against her neck and couldn't help smirking when you felt her shivering.
“Next time, I'll charge you a fee.”
Just then, the woman in your arms turned, her green eyes shining with mischief.
“Kinda curious what that would be,” you countered.
“You won't see it coming,” Wanda leaned over and captured your lips in a kiss you could only melt into.
I'm thinking of Javi. Agent Peña's plush lips and mustache, and the glimpses of them you get as you tidy up the kitchen after dinner, wearing only one of his shirts and panties. He's sitting on the couch, stewing in his thoughts. He's angry tonight. You don't need to look at him to know it. It radiates from him, flooding the apartment. You're angry, too. On his behalf, but your worry for him overshadows it. You wish he took the final step, the one you can feel he's about to take, every day closer and closer, ditching them all to go back home to a happier life with you. He's angry at his job, at the cartels, at how he lets himself be dragged by them and be hurt, at himself for letting you down once more. It makes him quiet, pensive, mean, rough.
He's sitting on the couch, barefoot, with the back of his head resting on the headrest, and his eyes are closed. One hand, resting on the armrest, holds a glass of whiskey. The other hand is holding the cigarette, outlining his upper lip and mustache with his thumbnail, making you shudder with the memories of them on your skin. His shirt, dirty with his sweat, lies on the floor, and his jeans rest low on his hips, with the fly open in search of comfort, showing a lack of underwear. But to you, it's a siren's call. You're wet. It makes you think about the other nights that had been like this one, how he asks you, how he uses you to let the anger go so he can talk to you afterward. Sometimes it's against the wall. Or it's with you sitting on the kitchen counter, or he bends you over the table. Or on the couch, like tonight seems to be, when he wants you on top of him, sitting on his lap. You can see it. He might offer you his thigh first because he wants a show. He wants you to drench his jeans as he looks at you and keeps drinking. He wants to hear you. He wants you to be loud as you take your pleasure until you're about to come, just to take it away, to hold you still for a few seconds, with his hands on your hips so that you're hovering on his leg but not touching him anymore, keeping you there before moving you as he pleases, taking away your panties, ripping them, making you sit on his lap, going inside you with a single trust. Hard. Deep. Splitting. Mumbling sweet words on your neck as he kisses it, bites it, marks it with his mustache, and guides your movements with his hands, with purpose, until you come. And as he calls you, breaking your daydream. Nena. And as he looks at you with his hand outstretched, luring you, you know you will give it to him one more night, and as many as he wants, you want it too. You always hunger for him.
HI LOVELY Excited to see you playing!!!! Can I have ‘You may now kiss the bride/groom/each other.’? 👀👀
HI OF COURSE YOU CAN!
Please enjoy. 🥹🫶🏻❤️
—
Alex hasn’t stopped crying since Henry’s vows. He sincerely hopes their videographer can edit out the more unhinged sobs—but knowing June and Nora, every single second will make the final cut.
It doesn’t matter. Not really. Not when Henry is holding his hands and smiling like that.
Like Alex is his.
Like he chose him.
Like they are—
Oh my fucking God.
They’re going to be married. Actually married.
Alex’s eyes snap to his dad, who very clearly has tears in his own eyes—though he will absolutely deny it later.
“You bastards,” Oscar says, laughing thickly as he wipes at his face.
The wedding party laughs behind them. His mom’s laughter carries warm and bright from the front row.
But Alex only sees Henry.
“Alright, enough of the poetry,” Oscar says, grinning as Henry flushes, biting that goddamn lip. “Apologies” he replies as his fingers squeeze Alex’s.
“Rings, please?” Oscar asks.
Behind Henry, Pez squeezes his shoulder and passes them forward.
Husbands. Oh my God—husbands.
Alex barely registers what his dad says next. He’s too busy memorizing Henry’s face.
“Do you, Henry Fox and all your other names—”
Henry laughs wetly—rolling his eyes as Alex joins the laughter.
“Common pa, we wrote them down.”
Oscar winks before continuing.
“—take Alex as your husband?”
Not a flicker of doubt.
Not a second of hesitation.
Henry’s mouth opens.
“I do.”
“And you, mijo?” Oscar asks softly turning back to Alex. “Do you take Henry as your husband?”
Alex thinks of spilled cake and midnight phone calls. Of laughter in kitchens. Of grief survived and love chosen every single day.
“Fuck yeah, I do.”
Henry laughs again, and Alex is going to combust if he doesn’t kiss this man already.
“Alright, alright. Jesus, you are my son,” Oscar mutters fondly. “By the power invested in me and the great state of Texas, I now pronounce you husbands.”
A beat.
“You may kiss.”
And oh—
Alex does.
Applause roars as he cups Henry’s face. Henry drags him closer. They collide in the middle, laughing and crying into the same breath as they kiss and kiss and kiss.
He wasn't sure exactly where things had gone wrong. He was sure that he'd read the directions and measured all the ingredients with care. It was frustrating. Hikari really had tried so hard. And yet, the pie before him was definitely not what he expected. the crust was burnt; the filling still liquid. Surely, his friends would be disappointed if he arrived empty handed. And that wouldn't do for such a special day. So he tried again, kneading chips of cold butter into flour to make the pie dough. As that baked, he mixed up the filling again, sugar and cream and pumpkin and a hearty dash of spices. He double and tripled checked everything as he went, searching for where he went wrong while trying not to repeat the mistake. And then he sat in front of the oven, the light on, and watched. It bubbled and rose, thickening to a deep orange custard. And finally, he pulled it free, setting it gently on the counter next to the original. Where it had all gone wrong, he wasn't sure, but this one was steaming and fresh, a beautiful gift for the table of his friends, where he would soon be sitting to eat, enjoying the company of those he cared the most about. And he hoped that those feelings came through, both in his presence and in this pie.
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A cold sweat crawls down her skin. Ragged air passes in and out of her lungs. A clawed grip clings to the tossed blanket left on the bed, and the carpet on the floor. Her gaze is unfocused, staring at nothing. The ringing in her ears hasn’t stopped.
Running through office halls. People in black screaming. A chest full of rage. The storming of angry footsteps hitting the tile floor. She turns a corner, then another. There might be smoke filling the room but she does not care. One man finds her. She’s alone, and no amount of logic of her being ‘just a kid’ is going to save her.
Shay was young. Shay was angry. Shay thought she was invincible.
She wasn’t.
She feels that blunt force in her chest. The second intense push and a bright light. A scream.
‘It was your fault.’
Shay was in her room.
Shay was awake.
She’s lived that memory time and again. The last two months of no sleep, only exhaustion taking her when it felt kind enough. The ringing in her ears came back every time.The corners of her eyes with shadows gripping at them. The phantom pain in her ribs felt just a bit tighter every time. The chills felt colder with each passing day. The bruises that healed felt like they were clawing their way from the past to present.
There is a tap behind her.
Shay snaps to it with a turn fitting a frightened animal.
There’s a ball on the side table. An old Level Ball with scratches and burn marks; something one would find in the rubble of an explosion. Shay’s eyes focus on that object, and nothing more. Darkness fills the space in her peripheral, arms come up to her sides as the woman curls in on herself. Anxiety and guilt fill her lungs so quickly that she forgets to breathe.
Shay was awake.
She was in her room
Eyes are staring at her from nowhere, but they aren’t the eyes she wants. The running turns into a horrid deafness but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her body shakes with dread and the reminder of a failure long past. It was her fault after all. They trusted her and they died for it.
‘They died because they trusted you. You failed them.’
The ball is in reach. If she moved, she doesn’t remember. She’s in the same pathetic position she was before: arms holding herself because no one else will, body shaking despite curling in on yourself like the shame demands. She remembers she never buried the other body. Shay never found the other body.
An oppressive energy leaves her paralyzed, staring at the past that comes to haunt her almost half her lifetime ago. She never really moved on in her heart, did she? There wasn’t forgiveness from the dead. There wasn’t forgiveness for herself.
Something compels her to touch the object in front of her, but it is too quiet against the dread in her mind. The reminder of bonds lost aches on every fibre of her body and mind. The fatigue will kick in again.
First of all, it's okay that you forgot about that prompt for a while, happens to the best of us :)
Also, I totally hear you on Ford Mabel headcanon, they should totally bond over their new developments. And maybe touch each other over it.
May I also propose Dipper and Stan comparing their top surgery scars when Dipper finally gets his done? Dipper's look neater and are almost invisible, Stan's are kinda crooked and puffy because it was done unprofessionally.
- 💤
HRRRGHK YEAH THEY SHOULD TOUCH EACH OTHER OVER IT auugh now im just imagining little mirror moments with each of them checking out their own bodies in the midst of getting dressed y'know?
Mabel and Ford bonding over two cute new dresses they both got on a shopping date (which is rare for Mabel since she makes all her clothes, makes it extra special), Mabel in the mirror adjusting the edges of her pink dress, which sit right above her knees. Long knee socks to match in the same color, while the collar was an off the shoulder cut with a cute fold on top. Ford approaches from behind, in a similar but longer maroon dress. Hers of course has a high neckline and long sleeves, which drags ones eyes to her frame. "You look beautiful, my dear. And you're filling in quite nicely," Her hands gently wrap around her to squeeze at the undersides of her breasts.
"If I'm beautiful, you must be gorgeous!" She giggles, turning around in her hold to do the same thing back. There was more there than her handful, but still a decent size due to Ford's height alone. Mabel's pleased at the small gasp she makes due to the sudden attention. "Wow, and these are pretty great too," Her fingers and palms squeeze the flesh emanating with warmth, and before she knows it, Mabel's scooped up into her arms and is kissed feverishly.
There's a similar moment with Stan and Dipper, in the same mirror in the hall. Both wet from another impromptu water balloon battle, they'd each already peeled off and squeezed the water out of their shirts. Dipper threw a hand in front of them at seeing their reflections. "Huh, what? Oh, the mirror?" Stan's voice grunts out, "Ya lookin' at how handsome you'll be one day?"
"Yes, actually, but not what I stopped us for. I guess I never noticed how uh, 'homemade' your surgery scars look? They look cool." Dipper was glad to see him laugh at that, Stan gesturing for him to get a better look. So he does. There's a long, curvy set of two lines on the bottom of his chest, each side uneven and heavily faded with time. One of his nipples is a little lower than the other, and his chest is fatty but not overtly so. He then observed his own scars in the mirror for comparison, done months ago at this point but healing nicely, two precise cuts on either chest bone and flat like he wanted.
"You look nice, I'm glad you got an actual surgeon. Done safely, y'know." Stan said, bumping his shoulder into his. Dipper faced him, this time touching the scars with moderate force, since he knows how ticklish the older man is.
"Yeah, thanks-" He barely said before he's pulled against his uncle's hairy chest, face tucking into his neck. Stan's hands were on his neck and waist, keeping him in an embrace for a moment before he was let go. "Oh, what was-"
"I'm proud of you for tryin' to be happy. It ain't the easiest thing in the world, after all." He watched his nephew grumble at the compliment, only taken slightly off guard when Dipper leaned in for a solid kiss.
