#The mom goes to buffet

[corndogshelter]

performed a psychic attack on a child at the Chinese Buffet

[ssa-dado]

i’m actually convinced that hotch is secretly a huge gossip. what if that’s the thing that gets him and fleabag reader to start talking? maybe it’s about one of the other pool dads ? hotch actually knows him cause his kid goes to school with jack and it’s something real scandalous. idk i just need to have hotch being nosey and spilling tea.

Pinot Grigio

triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: 21st-century-feminist-meltdown-over-an-old-man mutual pining Summary: It’s a party. You’re the help. He’s the Hotchner. He shows up to the gala in jeans, insults a politician for you, then stands around long enough to overshare a bunch of gossip you didn’t ask for (meaning: casually reveals he’s been tracking your poolside admirers like a repressed Victorian husband.) Warnings: Explicit sexual language! (not graphic, it's all in reader's head and meant as a joke... for herself, apparently), alcohol use, age gap, cuss words, hint of the vile act of female masturbation *pearl clutch*, classism, mysogeny, unhealthy coping mechanisms (wine, gossip, Hotchner) Word Count: 4.2k Dado's Corner: This prompt was so juicy and triggered my brain just right, I had to fumble a lot to find the perfect setting to reveal Hotch’s true chatty grandma self hihihihi this was so funnn! (I think I wrote three different versions of it because my brain cells just refused to collaborate… but hopefully this one works.) [I didn’t end up scripting in the part where Hotch knows the dad because of Jack, butttt! trust me, it’s probably for the better.] Thank you so much for the request, marry meeee <3

masterlist(s)

Pinot Grigio.

Just a normal white wine.

Pear on the nose. Citrusy. Crisp. Innocent.

Until yesterday. 7:24 PM.

When Penelope Garcia - who you don’t know, didn’t follow, would absolutely remember if you did (because of the most adorable Lego duck earrings and blonde curls) - posted a single photo from some FBI event on Facebook.

A glass of wine in one hand. Aaron Hotchner’s shoulder in the other.

A bottle of Pinot Grigio right there on the table.

Since then, it’s been panic.

Pool moms liked. Pool moms shared. Some pool moms commented, even.

Penelope is now famous.

She’s gained at least forty new friend requests from women named Debbie (the cool-girl rebrand of Deborah), Beth (Bethany, but pretending), and Lisa (just... Lisa) - all of them hoping for fresh content.

A new Hotchner sighting. A blurry arm. The back of a head. The profile of his nose.

And now you are paying the price.

Because you’re six bottles deep into Pinot Grigio and currently opening your seventh for the Pool Extension Project Announcement Party.

(A name so thrilling it could only have been brainstormed by three men named Greg in a windowless office with beige carpets and no dreams... broken dreams, maybe.)

(Apparently they’re adding a spa? Maybe? You weren’t listening. You were too busy arranging the buffet to look “effortlessly elegant” while silently sobbing into a tray of beet hummus.)

You’re catering it. Sort of.

You were a last-minute call.

You were a desperate substitution. Someone dropped out, and they called you.

Because you are reliable.

Talented. Charming. Funny. Qualified. And – crucially - cheaper.

(Not cheap. Cheaper. Enough of a bargain to be flattering but still slightly degrading.)

And of course, you said yes. Said “I’d love to,” said “What’s the dress code?” while internally shrieking because - what if Aaron is there too? (He might be. He probably is.)

You also told yourself you weren’t dressing for him.

That you just wanted to look professional in your very black, very tailored to your body catering uniform (with a slutty apron) - but your ass looks absolutely divine in these trousers, and if it’s not captured in one of the official photos and framed in the break room, you’re suing.

Mayday. Mayday.

He’s here.

Confirmed visual.

Aaron Hotchner.

In the flesh. In the room.

Looking slightly out of place, which of course only makes him stand out more.

Navy button-up. Jeans.

(Jeans? Him? He owns a pair of jeans??? Who sold them to him? Who authorized this? Who gave this man thighs and then denim?)

(Well… apparently so. And they fit. Criminally well.)

Meanwhile, everyone else is trussed up in three-piece suits, using big grown adult vocabulary like municipal redevelopment-

(Meaning: someone’s cousin is getting paid a suspicious amount of money to plant four trees and call it urban renewal)-

and strategic infrastructure planning-

(Meaning: they’re finally going to pour some lukewarm asphalt over the holes in 45th St NW, right before election season.)

They all shake hands with fake smiles, congratulate each other on breathing, and pretend the room doesn’t still vaguely smell like feet and chlorine, despite the mountain of imported cheeses you spent hours shaping into perfect little geometric offerings to the gods of local politics.

And Aaron-

Aaron just stands there.

Not speaking. Not smiling. Not performing. Just existing.

And yet, somehow, he still looks more elegant than all of them combined.

God, what a man.

…A man you’ve had full conversations with–

in your head.

While brushing your teeth.

While shaving your legs.

While marinating chicken.

You’ve practiced your banter with him more than you’ve prepared for actual job interviews.

The fact that you’ve barely spoken to him in real life is not because you’re shy. Not because you’re afraid of rejection. Not because there’s the occasional whisper that he’s technically old enough to have fathered you if he’d started very, very young.

(Which, most of the time, only makes it more erotically confusing.)

No. (Yes.)

It’s because you lowkey hate him.

You hate him because he walked in holding his pool bag.

…He just showed up here to do his laps.

And you just know - deep in your soul, in your bloodstream, in your ovaries - that inside that bag is a navy speedo. Matching. To. His. Shirt.

A Speedo that will now never fulfill its destiny, heartlessly imprisoned, crushed by a rolled towel and - if you had to guess - a blister pack of ibuprofen (he’s old enough to break his back sneezing and still blame it on “tight hamstrings.”)

Because, clearly, judging by the way he’s confidently flipping the strap back up onto his shoulder…

He has no idea the pool is closed today.

Didn’t know there was a party. He wasn’t briefed. He didn’t glance at the laminated flyer at reception with a dolphin in a bowtie that said “Join us for the Pool Extension Gala!”

Beautiful, beautiful man. But apparently can’t read for shit.

Because he was too busy doing… FBI things.

Whatever that means.

You don’t really know what he does.

In your head it’s just a sweaty, shirt-clinging montage of him saving lives, wrestling evil, or rescuing kittens from burning houses and carrying them out in one arm while the other cradles a bleeding witness.

You just know it’s hotter than whatever the hell you do, because before he can take more than two steps into the room, he’s already being mobbed by politicians.

Actual, elected men - men with power, men with authority, men with at least three types of stress-induced hair loss and thinning temples they pretend aren’t happening.

And they know him. They recognize him.

They even lower their voices when they speak to him, they shake his hand with such reverence, you can smell their intimidation from all the way across the room.

The fear. The respect. The power. The arm veins. The way Aaron has no idea he’s the main event at a party he didn’t even know existed.

Quite ironically, on the other hand - on the small, overworked, kind of underpaid, sexually malnourished hand that is you - you haven’t slept properly in a week because of it.

Because of the stress of the endless prep and logistics and… fine, because of him too.

Sometimes at 4 a.m., you’d find yourself just… staring at the ceiling. Lying in the dark, vibrating with anxiety and something much less noble and your only two options for survival were:

Cooking. Loudly. Desperately. Whipping up reductions and spreads in your tiny kitchen, determined to perfect the fig-and-goat cheese tartlet while trying not to scream when the oven beeped and you realized the sun was already rising.

Or… Well. Let’s just say your neighbors must think you’re really, really into dental hygiene. What kind of electric toothbrush has that many vibration modes? What kind of dental tool sings at such frequency?

Answer: not a toothbrush.

It’s pink. Plastic. Takes two AA batteries and a prayer.

You may or may not bought it during a very dark week with your café tip money at 2 a.m. from the back shelf of a pharmacy, and since then it’s been the most stable relationship of your adult life.

You’ve had to steal batteries from your TV remote more than once just to get through the week.

She’s not fancy, but she gets the job done.

You’d recommend her.

You’d even recommend her to the woman now standing in front of you - if she’d stop looking at Hotchner and trying to hormonally inform him that she is, at this very moment, in the mating phase of her cycle.

It’s not even subtle - the little cleavage tug, the fluttery eyelashes, the way she’s nodding absently while you talk about acidity and finish, eyes locked on the back of his neck rolls.

You get it. You’ve been there. Last week, actually.

And even now - when you are categorically not ovulating, when you are actively trying to be a functioning member of a patriarchal society - he does, objectively, have a beautiful neck.

A neck that has almost certainly never been stressed about fig preserves or the structural integrity of a puff pastry shell.

“I’ll have that one,” she says, stopping you midway through your ramble and pointing at a bottle.

The fucking Pinot.

Of course you will.

You smile.

Because you are a professional.

Because rage doesn’t pair well with brie.

“Sure,” you say, and pour.

You handpicked twelve white wines for this event. Twelve.

Each chosen with a level of passion that should’ve been reserved for, say, human relationships or personal growth.

Some of them had to be pulled from tiny Italian cellars with shipping so disorganized you’re now on a first-name basis with a man named Lorenzo who thinks you’re unstable and possibly in love with him.

(You might be. You’ve sliced figs and cried about tannins. Your grip on reality is… soft.)

You woke up in cold sweats for a whole week wondering if the Soave made it through Zurich because Italians do not believe in emails. Or customs. Only God.

But none of it mattered, because in the end, it’s always the Pinot, for her – and all the other people that came to your stand earlier.

You call it the Aaron Hotchner Effect.

The logic goes like this:

“If in the picture, he was drinking Pinot, and I drink Pinot, then we have something in common. We can laugh. We can clink glasses.

He’d say something dry and low - “You’ve got good taste” - and brush my fingers as he takes the glass. Maybe the hand. Maybe the elbow. Maybe the fucking thigh.

We’d flirt.

And then he’d fuck me.

Some really good rough, sex up against his hardwood bed. He’d keep his tie on. Hold my wrists. Press his mouth to my shoulder to keep from making a sound, because letting go like that, making noise, would be too revealing. Too honest.

He’d fuck me until my knees gave in and my breath stuttered and my voice cracked from begging. He wouldn’t come until I had. At least three times.

And then, of course, He’d marry me.

All because I drank his wine.”

That’s the pipeline. That’s what’s happening behind their eyes.

And you can't even judge them.

You’d be doing the same, if you weren’t currently being reminded by the smell of onion jam soaked into the pocket of your apron that you’re on the job.

You’re the help, the wine girl no one listens to until the glass is already full and the flirting has failed.

But you’d do it. You would.

Just… correctly.

Because while everyone else in that cursed Facebook photo saw the bottle, you saw the glass.

His glass, the one shoved off to the side, barely in frame - because God forbid someone like Aaron Hotchner be photographed holding the fun juice. That would imply he experiences pleasure. Or whimsy. Or serotonin.

Still, you zoomed in. You don't like to admit that. You really don't. But you did.

And thanks to the course that still haunts your bank account - the one led by three men, all named Marco - you can confidently say, with devastating clarity:

That was not Pinot.

It was Verdicchio.

Lean. Salty. A little green around the edges.

The kind of wine that doesn’t care if you like it.

Citrus and sea air and something just a little bit wrong at the end, like it’s judging you.

And maybe it is.

It’s bitter. Quiet. Difficult.

Difficult also because no one knows how to properly pronounce its name - you didn’t. You butchered it every time and got scolded by each of the Marcos at least once.

(Marco One - smoking indoors in his wool turtleneck in July, would hiss, "No, no, Ver-deek-kio, not Ver-dish-ee-oh, do you want to die in shame?")

(Marco Two made you repeat it five times in a row in front of the whole class.)

(Marco Three just muttered “Madonna Santa” and poured himself another glass.)

Verdicchio doesn’t seduce.

It holds its distance, stands in the corner of the room with crossed arms, and waits for you to prove you're worth the conversation.

Half the people who taste it hate it. The other half get addicted.

It lingers. It cuts. It stays in your mouth longer than it should.

A wine with boundaries.

A wine that says: you don’t know me.

You think you do, but you don’t.

Just like Aaron.

And you tried, betraying everything the three Marcos ever taught you about integrity, balance, and correct regional pairings, to guide each of your (unwanted) patient tragically afflicted with Hotchism toward the Verdicchio.

Even when it didn’t pair with what they were eating. Even when it clashed. Even when it made your soul itch with the wrongness of a soft-rind Brie beside all that salinity.

You’re not a bitch. You don’t gatekeep. You offer your knowledge freely. Warmly. Kindly.

But you’d be lying if you said that knowing the truth didn’t make you feel good.

Smug.

A little superior.

And yes, fine, maybe that made you feel close to him.

Closer.

Maybe you are a bitch.

Because you could have said it, could have casually dropped the line - “Oh, by the way, he was drinking Verdicchio. It wasn’t the Pinot.”

You could have been generous. Transparent. Correct.

But it wouldn’t have changed anything.

You’d be out of Verdicchio instead of Pinot.

They’d still fawn.

Still flutter.

Still call him Agent Hotchner with that glazed, pseudo-coy voice like they’re already imagining what his mattress feels like.

(It’s probably very firm. Orthopedic. Recommended by his chiropractor. No softness. No give. Posture is sacred. Comfort is weakness.)

(He probably tucks the sheets so tight you’d have no choice but to scooch closer to him just to have some room to breathe. Which, obviously, is the point.)

Same thirst, different label.

Maybe you’d tell the first one who actually listens to you.

The first one who doesn’t treat you like furniture in an apron. The first one who doesn’t cut you off mid-sentence the moment they clock that the politicians are loosening their grip on him.

Maybe the reason why you have such a crush on him is because he’s everything.

And you’re- well. You’re here.

In shoes that are starting to pinch. With wine on your hands and fig paste in your hair. With bills and back pain and the slow, creeping dread that no one really sees you unless you’re holding something they want.

And even then, just barely.

He’s elegant, unreadable, capital letter Important.

You’re… nice. Warm. Cheap... cheaper.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s the whole appeal.

Maybe that’s why you keep staring at him as he’s basically dragged to your tasting stand by a small parade of men who spend their days warming seats in the Senate and collecting checks for pretending they invented civic duty.

One of the men makes the effort to squint at your name tag.

You can see the gears turning in his head as he uses it - not to address you - but to soften the blow of a condescending joke he thinks is charming, such as “how rare it is to find a young woman with taste… especially one who serves.”

You smile.

Because that’s the job.

You’re the help. The scener-

“What do you mean?” Aaron asks, turned slightly toward the man, voice flat.

He looks disgusted.

(Though, in fairness, everything he says sounds vaguely judgmental. That’s just his face.)

“Oh, no… Hotchner, don’t get me wrong. I mean it as a compliment. I admire it. Not everyone’s meant to chase titles or build a résumé, you know? And that’s not a bad thing - society only works because some people are content doing the everyday stuff. The real work.”

You’re two seconds away from breaking the last Pinot bottle over his head.

Kill two birds with one stone: one bottle, one condescending prick, and finally, blissful silence.

“…We need the people who keep the wheels turning. Mechanics. Hairdressers. Cooks…”

He gestures vaguely to you, apparently your existence is now an example. A concept. An idea. Something nice to look at when dressed in black and pouring wine.

“Really,” he adds - just in case you didn’t catch the insult the first three times - “I admire it.”

“Do you always talk to people like this?” Aaron doesn’t raise his voice - just tilts his head slightly, gaze locked on the man with a kind of stillness that, for reasons you’ve yet to comprehend, is louder than yelling.

It’s unsettling.

“What? I’m paying her a compliment.” Senator Asshole tries to laugh it off.

“You’re condescending to her. It’s not the same thing.”

“Come on,” Senator Asshole chuckles, flicking a desperate glance around, “I’m just saying she’s good at what she does.”

“And I’m saying maybe you should stop talking,” Aaron hisses.

The silence is immediate.

Aaron just stares at him – for one, two, three, four??? Seconds.

Senator Asshole, sadly, does not burst into flames. He’s stolen away by Councillor Buttchin, who probably heard everything and tries to mop it up with the limp excuse of needing to discuss “urban renewal”

(Meaning: gentrification. The rich man’s robbery.)

And so Aaron watches him leave, before he turns back to you.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “The asshole didn’t even apologise.”

(He’s very hot when he swears.)

You wave it off. “It’s alright.”

“No. It’s not. It’s disgust-”

“It’s not the first time,” you cut him off. Because you don’t want to hear it. The apology. The concern. The male guilt wrapped in decency like it's somehow revolutionary.

Yes, thank you for noticing misogyny exists. Gold star.

You’ve done the bare minimum and you’re very tall so it feels like more. Congratulations on not being a monster.

At least, that’s what the rational part of you is saying. The one with a spine. The one that reads theory and donates when she can.

The other part – the one currently regulating the lubrication levels of a certain region of your body that apparently believes being mildly defended by a man with forearms like that is enough to justify reproduction - has… other thoughts.

Darwin would call it natural selection.

You’d call it bringing feminism back fifty years in one pelvic pulse.

But maybe your body’s oh-so-romantically prepping for insemination because he doesn’t make a speech.

He doesn’t continue to perform, doesn’t launch into a well-rehearsed monologue about respect, social or say something like “I have a lot of female friends, my mom is a woman, for instance.”

He doesn’t explain how decent he is.

He just… nods. Gives you a flicker of a concerned half-smile (because he’s a dad, and concern is hardwired into his frontal cortex, right between disapproval and knows best.)

But it’s quiet. Undramatic.

Like he saw it. Heard it. Filed it.

And now he’s moving on. Not because it didn’t matter. But because it did.

And not just emotionally, physically. Actually moving-moving.

Shifts halfway down the shorter end of your stand - not technically in your area, but just close enough that if he got any nearer, people might start asking him what cheese pairs with a Chablis.

(Which would be a disaster, because he looks like he’d say “cheddar” and then stare you down until you corrected him.)

Close enough to feel like a choice.

He doesn’t look at you. Scans the room instead, until his gaze lands on something. Someone.

“See that guy?” he says, nodding subtly toward ‘that guy’ across the room.

You follow the gesture.

Ah. That guy.

Mid-thirties.

You don’t know his name.

You just know he’s always suspiciously nearby. Hovering. Lurking. Casually orbiting the table where you sit every week in the pool cafeteria while waiting for your friend to finish her laps.

Objectively hot - if your type is broad shoulders, hollow eyes, and a divorce lawyer in waiting (and it pretty much is, unfortunately.)

He has a kid, you’re pretty sure. And a wedding ring he forgets to forget.

The kind of man who blames his wife’s headaches instead of confronting the fact he thinks the clitoris was a Greek philosopher.

(“Clitoris? He makes an appearance in Plato’s Symposium, doesn’t he?”)

“He’s been battling with himself over asking for your number for about a month,” Aaron says. “Still hasn’t managed it.”

Oooooooooooooookay.

Weird. Unexpected. Also deeply awkward.

(How strange that it’s not you making things weird for once.)

“And…” you trail off, because you’re too distracted by how he looks like he’s regretting it all - what a loser. “You’re saying this because you want me to hand it to him directly?”

“Oh, not at all.” Boy. That was fast. Too fast. “…he’s married.” You knew that already. “…You shouldn’t-”

“I shouldn’t?” You blink.

“Um, you…” He shakes his head, “You should… just… know this.”

…Right.

Aaron’s wife definitely cheated on him. Or maybe he’s just a prude. Or a control freak.

All possible. All extremely inconvenient. Poor him. Or maybe he deserved it, who knows.

“…Thanks,” you say flatly. “You… want something to drink?”

You ask because it’s polite… and also because he’s technically clogging the line forming behind him (all faint whiffs of Pinot settling directly into your nostrils from people pretending they need a refill, when really, they just want to stand near him.)

(Mr. Aaron.)

(Awkward-mr.-Aaron.)

(Socially-repressed-emotionally-terrifying-mr.-Aaron.)

(Mr. very-much-returning-to-the-place-he’s-meant-to-be, mr. Aaron.)

(Mr. leaning-in-to-read-the-wine-list, mr. Aaron.)

(Mr-)

“How did you know about the guy?” slips out of you, as you’re already pouring something into an empty glass just to keep moving… you don’t even look at the bottle.

No pear. So, not Pinot. (Small victories.)

“He always sits on the side of the table facing you, instead of watching his son’s swimming lesson like the rest of the parents.”

Yeah, okay, that guy is a bit way too obvious, but the problem only continues to be him.

Aaron.

“He straightens his posture every time you laugh.”

Aaron, who shouldn’t have time to notice these things. Who stops by every other week, maybe. Maybe less. Always suited. Always in a rush. Always delivering the same three lines.

“Americano, no sugar.”

“Card.”

“Have a nice day.”

He never lingers. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t even stir the coffee. Just takes it and goes. Gone before the register beeps. FBI stuff awaiting for him.

“He ordered the same drink as you twice. Didn’t drink it. He doesn’t like cappuccino, he only did that because he thought you’d notice him”

So, how the hell does Aaron know? How does he notice you? Because he must have.

Somewhere in those two-minute drop-ins. In the blur between Card and Have a nice day. In the handful of seconds he’s ever been within ten feet of you.

Unless…

“Puts his phone down when you walk in. Doesn’t check it again until you’re gone.”

Unless he did look. Unless he looked specifically at you. Out of all the people. All the tables. All the parents and staff and regulars.

“His son finishes swimming before your friend. He doesn’t leave. Doesn’t talk to anyone else. Always finds something to do. Phone. Book. Pretending to read the sign about pool shoes.”

He saw you. And he remembered.

Which means…

“Always leaves five minutes after you. Never before. Never with anyone else.”

He’s either been paying attention. Or this big, terrifying federal agent is actually just… a massive gossip.

You freeze, because he picks up the glass you poured.

It wasn’t meant for him. You didn’t even know what it was.

Aaron swirls it once.

Leans in. Smells it.

Then brings it to his lips-

And hums.

A low, pleased little sound that settles right between your legs  lungs, ergo straight to your heart. Because you’re a professional. And you take the sommelier thing very seriously.

You’re just passionate about your craft.

Especially about praise.

You love being praised.

On the job.

For the wine.

“People give a lot of themselves away when they want someone,” he says softly, almost kind.

Then he licks his lips. Just to clean the red off.

But it’s slow. Thoughtless. (Only makes it worse for you, honestly.)

You’re magnetically locked onto that smart mouth, so it’s easy to catch the small smile he gives you before turning and walking away.

Still with that soggy pool bag slung over his shoulder.

Fuck.

The things you wouldn’t do to that man.

“Can I have what he just had?” the next woman in line asks, already stepping up.

Of course you can.

That’s the point of lines, isn’t it? You wait your turn, you get what you want, and you leave. No lingering. No swooning. No involuntary pelvic lurches.

Survival.

Even if the sommelier - oh, that’s you! What a coincidence - would swear to drink Pinot for an entire godforsaken month just for five more seconds with that huge, handsome, back in that goddamn navy shirt… and that mouth too.

You glance at the bottle in your hand.

What did you even pour?

Oh. Of course.

It’s that wine.

The one you only open on nights when you’re either crying or coming.

The one that tasted like a mistake the first time and like a need every time after.

Aglianico.

Black fruit. Smoke. Leather.

Earthy. Dense. A little savage around the edges.

Unapologetic.

Masculine.

Slow to open.

Demands patience.

Tastes better if you wait for it.

Like all the worst things.

And all the best ones.

What a coincidence, really.

Phi's Corner: requests for fleabag!reader x Hotch are (wide) open(ed)!

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

[merthosus]

Don’t kiss the cast members part 2

Summary: After practicing a scene with Aidan, he did not quite stick to the script. Now you need to maneuver the situation smoothly, without getting into trouble. But Aidan had other ideas. Ignoring everything until he breaks down onto you like clouds soaked with rain.

@tobyisdumb your wish be my command

Rough, fast and so unbelievable good.

The taste of his bittersweet lips still stuck onto yours. You wanted to do it again, no doubt. But your mind stoped you, seeing the problems, which come with it. “Aidan we can’t..." you stumble across your words, but before you could end your sentence he smashed his lips again on yours. His smell alone tarnished all of your senses. The more you kiss, the wetter the kiss is, you feel how his hands push you harshly more into him.

It felt like he lost control, not caring anymore, that we are on a set, anyone could possibly enter. "Aidan", you mumble onto his lips, which were still occupied, exploring you. Suddently he grabbed your thigh, pulling it to his side. He shudders and lets a loose pant fall out his mouth. He seems shocked himself, his body goes tense. He let's go of you, his body leave's yours.

You watch him as he walks back to the desk pulling the script from one of the deco books and walking out. You felt empty, shocked... you couldn't even find a fitting word for it. He left faster, than your brain could comprehend. Reality flogs right into your face. He kissed you. Rough, fast and so unbelievable good. But leaving you like this was not okay, defiantly not. Suddently your anger came back. Fist he makes out with you and then he let's you hanging like this.

You get out of your paralysis and grab your script. This was not professional, it was everything but professional. You cram the peace of paper into your handbag and walk out of the set. You need to get into another set to film a scene with Robert. He squeaked as he saw you and welcomed you happily. It's miraculous how he always lifts the mood when he is in the room. "Heyyyy", he says while hugging you. As he steps away again and looks you deep into the eyes.

"You ok? You kinda look... bewildered", he tries to word it nicely. "I don't know, something very confusing happened", you tell him without saying too much. "Funny, Aidan had the same flustered expiration in his face as he walked by. Are you two a thing?", he asks you. This was a big part of his personality, teasing people with rumors. "Course, we made out in the back of the set", you say matching his tone.

-

After filming the scenes, you get out of your makeup and walk to the buffet. Getting a hot coffee after a long filming day was your treat. You let one of side of the script on the set you and Aidan had 'rehearsed', so you grab your things and go to set 36. You text your mom that you will be home soon and that you took a croissant for her at the buffet. You look up from your phone searching the room for the paper you had lost. You hoped that nobody took it.

You couldn't quite put your finger onto it but you felt watched. You turn around and search for the eyes, which were looking at you, but you found none. "Hello?", you ask. Suddently you get pressed into the wall beside you. You let out a scared squeak, as you feel hands on your hips. Aidan stands before you, his thin body pressing you into the wall. "What do you want?", you ask him, rougher than you actually intended to.

"You", he whispers. "Aidan this is insane", you mumble, as you look into his, with hair covered eyes. "You let me standing there after what you just did", you say. He shakes his head and lays his hand on your cheek. "I am sorry I just didn't know what to do", he ends his sentence in a whisper.

Aidan's intense gaze locks onto yours as he leans in closer, the weight of his presence almost suffocating. "I know," he whispers, his voice laced with regret, "I shouldn't have walked away like that. But I... I panicked." His breath is warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

His confession hangs in the air, and for a moment, the tension between you both feels unbearable. His hands tighten slightly on your hips, as if he's afraid to let go, yet unsure if he should hold on. The smell of him—earthy, with a hint of something sweet—clouds your thoughts, making it hard to think straight. "You can't just do that," you murmur, your voice trembling with the emotions surging inside you. "You can't kiss me like that and then act like it never happened."

His eyes soften, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. "I know," he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know, and I'm sorry. But I can't stop thinking about you. About us." The weight of his words crashes down on you, and for a moment, you forget where you are, the set, the script, everything fading into the background. All that exists is the space between you two, filled with unspoken words and unresolved tension.

Aidan moves closer, his lips hovering just inches from yours. "I don't want to run anymore," he admits, his voice raw with emotion. "But this... it's complicated. We're complicated." You feel your resolve weakening, the warmth of his body so close to yours drawing you in, but the rational part of your brain fights back. "Adian, this can't just be... some fling. We have to work together. What if—" He cuts you off with a kiss, softer this time, but no less intense. It's as if he's trying to pour all his confusion, frustration, and longing into that single moment. And despite everything, you find yourself kissing him back, unable to resist the pull between you.

When he finally pulls away, both of you are breathless. "I don't know what this is," he says quietly, "but I want to find out. With you." You stare at him, heart pounding, as you try to make sense of everything. The logical side of you knows this could lead to disaster, but your heart... your heart is telling you something else entirely. "Aidan," you begin, your voice steadying, "if we do this, we have to be careful. This could get messy. Really messy." He nods, his expression serious. "I know. But for once, I don't care about the consequences. I care about you."

His words leave you speechless, and for the first time, you allow yourself to consider the possibility. Maybe, just maybe, this could be something more than a mistake. "Okay," you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. "But we take it one step at a time. No more running." A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he nods. "One step at a time," he agrees, his hand gently caressing your cheek. For a moment, the world feels like it’s standing still, the only thing that matters is the connection between the two of you.

I hope you like it, let me know what you think about it :)

[voie-lacte3]

the boy on the cruise—

01 The First Glance...

| check out the series masterlist!

| taglist!

| anon list!

you'd never seen so many hawaiian shirts in your life.

there were pineapple prints, floral button-ups, a group of dads in matching flamingo tanks, and at least two separate parrots on shoulders that may or may not have been real. it was chaos. hot, loud, sunscreen-scented chaos.

you gripped your suitcase handle tighter, squinting toward the cruise terminal. “we're sure this is the right ship?” your mom glances back, pushing her sunglasses up. “its called the emerald star, babe. look at the side.”

sure enough, painted across the side, in looping green letters, was emerald star – 14 night at sea. fourteen days. two weeks of endless ocean, buffet lines, bingo nights, and being trapped in a small room with your parents. you couldn’t decide if it sounded like heaven or purgatory.

your dad was already speed-walking ahead, weaving through families and honeymooners like he had somewhere to be, even though you weren’t boarding for another twenty minutes.

your phone buzzes in your back pocket— your best friend, of course.

| soulmate: u better meet a hot guy and fall in love

| soulmate: idc if he’s a waiter or a magician or the guy who refills the shrimp

| soulmate: make it HAPPEN

you snort and shoved your phone away. only your best friend would romanticize a trip you hadn’t even boarded yet.

inside the terminal, everything felt cold and over-air-conditioned. you followed your parents through security, checked your bag, and got your keycard, a little white and green plastic thing with your name printed on it and a number: deck 7, cabin 7428.

the ship itself was… massive. you'd seen pictures, but stepping into the atrium was something else. the ceilings were high and gold-trimmed, a live band played near the main staircase, and someone immediately offered you a flute of orange juice with a strawberry on the rim. you took it wordlessly, still wide-eyed, honestly, this cruise had you wondering how long it took your parents to save up for it.

somewhere nearby, a voice called out, “you're gonna get nice and tan sweetie,” followed by a small chuckle.

you glance over but dont really focus, just a boy your age and an older woman. he was tall, lean, curly-haired, had a backpack slung over one shoulder and a hoodie in his hands. something about him made you pause for half a second, but then your mom was tugging you toward the elevators.

“we're on deck seven!” she said brightly. “lets go check out the room!”

you followed, taking one last glance back, but the guy was gone. the pair had turned the corner, probably heading to their own cabin.

whatever. probably just some tacky high schooler trying to look cool.

little did you know that in two days, that same guy would be buying you a drink by the pool.

and by the end of the cruise… well.... you weren’t going to be able to forget him.

not even if you tried.

a/n: i KNOW its not really interesting rn, but we had to kinda set the cruise vibe yk?? 😭

tags: @bluebvrriee @v4mpire-bit3s @neroloops @m-e-m06 @icollectrubberduckies @tuttifrutt1 @unsaidjaelinrose @sorry-for-party-rocking-rah @courta13 @thegr8estpuff

{divider cred goes to @strangergraphics}

[cccakessslicemeee]

Riz head canon. It's so silly.

He should have old soul or like grannie habits. Specifically like if he goes to a buffet he's gonna do the old lady thing where he wraps a couple things in a napkin or two and takes them home later. Probably shares with his mom.

It's not technically stealing.

It's just a lil rude but he put too much on his plate and didn't want to waste it. That would be dreadful.

I also think he would take the "complimentary" shampoos and conditioners and lil bars of soaps from hotels and if anyone says anything he'd be like 'they absolutely expect people to take those, why didn't you? They have a shit ton of these somewhere.'

And he's not wrong. Most hotels do have a stache of mini soaps and it's common knowledge people are gonna take them. Don't talk to me about Air BnB's. I absolutely take the nice fucking soaps. I paid too much for your bullshit I'm stealing the soap, you don't live there.

Anyway. Riz is technically not a thief because if the expectation is 'people already do this' then he's just meeting the bar.

[thebunnednun]

MHA Guidance Counselor AU Masterlist

Did you ever have a fuck ass guidance counselor or therapist that didn't do shit for you?

Don't worry, we're gonna fic that.

With your favorite mha characters!!

(Puns, but in all seriousness, I am sorry about what you went through and hope that you get the help you deserve. I can't 'fix' things but a silly little fic does wonders.)

What’s this about Angie?

You’ve been dealing with enough stress—academics, family expectations, shitty job, maybe a chaotic personal life—and you need help. A guidance counselor or therapist sounds like the right answer, but we’re not exactly talking about your typical "supportive and competent" staff here.

In this world, you’re dealing with a range of questionable advice, from well-meaning to completely off-base guidance, and advice that might just make you want to scream into a pillow.

At least you're not alone...sort of.

How It Works:

Each guidance counselor or therapist here takes a different approach to “helping.”

Some might be sarcastic, others way too eager, and a few might just be downright unqualified but somehow...well, still helpful? It’s a rollercoaster of chaos and sometimes even a bit of healing, if you can trust the process.

You’ll get to see the types of support each offers (or doesn’t), and maybe, just maybe, you’ll walk away with some real insight. If you’re lucky.

Rules:

You get to choose which counselor you want to go to. It's like a buffet of options! Every counselor has their own style—be prepared for anything.

Feel free to request a specific counselor or approach. Want a very professional, no-nonsense counselor? Or maybe one who's way too into "mindfulness" and could you please just leave me alone? Let me know. All characters are on the table.

No one is perfect. The counselors might mess up. A lot. But the key is they try, and sometimes that’s what counts. Also as your author I myself am only human so please have grace with me.

This is your fic. Your rules. You can ask for any vibe you need, comfort, angst, but we also lean into the humor. After all, we’re in control here... aren't we?

All my readers are gender neutral, but again, if you request something specific I can change that. Fresh soup.

While I don't find myself writing smut I do consider this blog to be 18+ because of the story themes. I do not want minors on my posts because I care about your mental health and sometimes reading certain fics can be damaging and permanently alter you. I don't want that. Your brain chemistry is important. YOU ARE IMPORTANT. So you have been warned. No ageless blogs!

Okay so the fic's are going to start as goes:

Midnight

30 Minutes --- Nemuris only got 30 minutes to work with her favorite stinker, and she's gonna make them count. You just wish you could stop thinking of her as a mom.

32 Minutes --- The sequel of how your life is going since that last visit.

Aizawa

In their shoes --- Aizawa's best and brightest troublemaker by far. The only difference is that you don't talk. Ever. Getting you to open up is like trying to bring back the dead. So what can he do?

Take you on a walk outside. Maybe you'll talk, maybe you won't. But he's going to try and make you feel better by the end of it. Even if it's just a tiny bit.

Yamada

Stuck on Mute ---- Mic's gotta figure out how to get his soft spoken new assignment to open up in spite of his loud nature. And it does work! After a near death incident...

Enji

Family Jewels --- Enji comes across a student that's much more like himself than they initially let on. Maybe he's right for the job after all.

Fat Gum

Knock out --- Taishiro swaps assignments with Rumi and finds himself at odds with a student that has anger issues.

Mirko

Respawn? --- Rumi fucked up with her first student and now has a... very shy, kiddo to put it nicely. No idea how to communicate with them. So she hands up her gym bag and picks up a controller.

Hawks

Nap time --- Keigo can't get his new unimpressed spooky student with PTSD to open up after their recent villian attack until he gets personal.

All Might

NOT MY GRANPA --- Yagi finds himself assigned to a student that is every old mans worst fear: A modern trendy alternative teenager. But PLOT TWIST, you have social anxiety. Just like him. Good news, you and Toshinori click instantly and he adores you. You love time with your grandpa figure!

Bad news, you're a fighter and get into a bad situation after a nasty brawl...

More to come soon.

I've got some fic's in the workshop but please request some. If you do request please see my rules page or just DM me and ask.

Overall, this should be a safe space for everyone to enjoy and have fun while reading.

I also have a ko-fi now if you'd like to support me. :3 Not mandatory but always appreciated.

Pssst, my ao3 is alive and open for all readers.

See you soon!

-Angie

[plasmara]

currently on vacation and thinking about how unhinged the team would be in a hotel. the beach is cool or whatever but imagining this is doing way more for me so u all have to know about it now too

i think jay absolutely reverts to being a kid in hotels. like coz he didn’t get to do this kind of thing growing upso now he’s throwing himself into the whole experience. insists on being the first one into the room and immediately claims “his” bed . And it’s always somehow the worst one and everyone’s like ? we weren’t gonna fight u for that one buddy. he uses all the tiny soaps. he loves those weird little plastic desserts from the buffet that look like edible art and taste like nothing. he inhales four at a time (someone stop him!!!!!!) he also orders room service just to say he did. fully living his best life. he also befriends the cleaning staff within 24 hours and leaves them origami animals and thank u notes. he gets especially close to one older woman who reminds him of his mom and hugs her like he’s known her his whole life when they check out. they’re definitely facebook friends now

nya and kai also didn’t grow up doing hotel stuff, but they go about it in very different ways:

nya acts like she’s been dropped into an unfamiliar battlefield with no map. unpacks the second she walks in. scans the room like she’s inspecting a mission site. sits on the edge of the bed and Absolutely does not know how to relax. jay has to stage a 3-step intervention just to get her horizontal and watching trash TV. she complains at first—“this is brain rot, jay”—and then ten minutes later she’s yelling at the screen like, “OH my god she’s lying, that’s not even his baby!” (it’s an episode of “Are You the Father?” and she is INVESTED). jay looks so smug it’s disgusting. once she finally gives in to the hotel experience, jay assumes she’s gonna, like, chill out—maybe nap, but instead she fully loses her mind over the little activities hotels set up. darts, ping pong, weird lobby trivia nights—she’s there early, stretching, asking what the first place prize is. darts with her is a full-contact sport. she talks trash, she throws bullseyes, she intimidates other guests. the staff are weirdly scared of her but too impressed to stop her. jay just sits there holding her mimosa like “sorry not sorry this is my wife and i support her no matter what.” AND YES she’s absolutely obsessed with the breakfast mimosas. swears she’s “just taste-testing” but she’s tipsy by 9am and calling it research. jay’s her self-appointed assistant and takes it very seriously

and kai….. oh kai’s on his ross from friends arc. absolutely determined to get his money’s worth. he takes five showers a day. uses every single towel. drinks all the in-room coffee pods “just to test them.” takes the bathroom robe. takes the hanger the robe was on. takes the complimentary flip-flops and the laundry bag too. then stashes the sewing kit in his luggage like it’s a souvenir. he’s also fully dressed, zipped up, and sitting on the edge of the bed by 10:58am but refuses to leave a minute before checkout. silliest part is he’s not even the one who paid for the room

zane makes a whole itinerary the second they arrive. no one follows it. he pretends not to be disappointed. still gently asks if anyone wants to accompany him to the fitness center. no one does. eventually lloyd goes because he feels bad. zane considers this a win. also tries every single hotel amenity out of respect. leaves a review when they check out—not just a rating, noooooo he’s committed so its a fully formatted document. paragraphs. bullet points. hyperlinks. includes detailed notes on the water pressure and the “emotional tone of the lobby lighting.” gets the names of all the staff so he can thank them properly. two weeks later they send him a thank-you email and a gift card

lloyd’s obviously right there with jay, riding the high of free breakfast and hallway chaos. they’re up at 5:50am for the continental breakfast like it’s a red carpet premiere. standing in front of the buffet watching the staff set up, whispering like “okay i’ll hit the waffles first, you go for the muffins.” tag-team energy. he also spends half the day in the pool. makes friends with a group of kids and helps them build a pool noodle obstacle course. gives out nicknames. teaches one of them how to do a front flip. gets invited to dinner by their mom and yes he goes he feels Bad turning it down

cole ALSO loves the pool, but in a completely different way. he alternates between going absolutely feral doing competitive laps (he and kai have an ongoing bet about who can swim the most without dying and they’re both taking it Extremely seriously even tho there’s nothing actually on the line? no prize no consequences and the idiots didn’t even shake on it) and switching to full relaxation mode. like shirt half-off, sunglasses on, sprawled out on a sun-bed with three snacks and some hotel drink with a tiny umbrella. no in-between. he burns through 800 calories in the water and then eats double that in chips ten minutes later. calls it balance. and goes without saying that he treats the hotel buffet like a blood sport. says stuff like “i’m not leaving ‘til i break even” and they all laugh but he’s being dead Serious. stacks his plates like a construction site. takes food back to the room in napkins. 100% the one who suggests bringing tupperware “just in case.” gets caught trying to stuff pastries into a travel mug and just goes “uh. i thought this was a self-serve situation?” no one buys it. doesn’t matter. he’s already out the door

[hkthatgffan]

What are your thoughts on the Pines parents? Particularly since the reveal of them having marital issues in TBOB?

I'm pretty conflicted tbh. Part me finds the revelation interesting and a pretty insane new layer to add on to the show's established canon, but I also feel like it could be another case of Gravity Falls fans taking flour and trying to predict what kind of buffet Alex is cooking.

In the case for the assumption this is hinting at the twin's parents having marriage issues and going towards say, a divorce, we have small hints in series that could be assumed as that, from Dipper's initial worry of leaving Mabel alone in Cali without him, Mabel's own fears of growing up without Dipper and the future itself, the abruptness as it sounds of them being sent to Gravity Falls, etc.

Of course, we also have the fact that Alex Hirsch's parents themselves are divorced IRL and him and Ariel grew up with their mom. And as they both are the inspiration for Dipper and Mabel, this can be a case of Alex hinting at that and adding another element of his life to them.

It course also somewhat goes counter to his past statements about how we never really are gonna learn anything about the twin's parents, because he doesn't see them as characters we need to know about as the story is focused on the twin's in Summer with Stan and Ford (I mean, all we initially knew was that their dad worked with computers and got Mabel's night shirt at a Windows 95 event, lol). So, adding this to the pot does feel like a pretty major change in direction.

That said, on the other hand, it could just be that...marriage issues the two of them are working to fix. Perhaps they sent the twins away while they sought couples therapy or something to mend things before the kids got back. We can also make the assumption Dipper may have overheard something that he mistook as being more serious than it was.

I say this from personal experience. I've often overheard arguments or pretty heated stuff my parents were yelling about that I probably was not supposed to hear or assumed the wrong thing about and it left me worried about if well...you know. Thankfully that never was the case and as I've gotten older I've come to better understand that sometimes parents fight but they can resolve things on their own in time. Though as kids, that shit can scare you, especially someone at Dipper's age. And while not all parents probably can resolve those matters the same way, it's always a possibility worth assuming here, especially with the little info we know. I mean, Bill said "Why do you think they were in such a rush to get the kids out the door for the summer?" It sounds like he's asking us fans to make our own guess on that.

And speaking of Bill...there's the Bill factor to consider too. Remember, who wrote this?

BILL CIPHER! And Bill is about as reliable a source for accurate info as the US government or Doug Ford is when it comes to Line 5 or why he REALLY closed the Science Centre (IYKYK).

Many fans doubt the truthfulness of what Bill said in the book. So, he could just be making this up and Dipper may never have had that dream to begin with. Of course, it would be weird for Alex to make a book full of lies about the show, but then...this is Alex Hirsch we're talking about.

Personally, I believe Dipper did have this nightmare and he overheard something intense. But as to what it's alluding to...I'm not sure.

I think this is another case of Alex Hirsch leaving the question open ended. What's up with the twin's parents? That's for us fans to decide.

If you believe they're divorcing, you can. If you think it's nothing and Dipper is over-worrying about an argument his parents had, you can. And if you think it's BS and Bill made it up, you can too.

That's again the beauty of Gravity Falls leaving itself open ended. Every headcanon and theory is possible. I mean, fans believed for years Bill was in Stan's mind till this very book killed that theory off for good.

Maybe in several years if Alex decides to, he'll expand on this plot point and answer the question once and for all. But for now, what the deal with Dipper and Mabel's parents is, will remain...

[thetriumphantpanda]

i work from nine to five; hey hell, i pay the price | Marcus Pike

Summary | You use the office halloween party as a way to prove you can push yourself out of your comfort zone. You didn't expect that to mean that the apple of your eye, Marcus Pike, would take an interest in you.

Pairing | Marcus Pike x Plus Size F!Reader

Word Count | 4.4K

Warnings | Explicit smut, workplace 'romance', negative talk about bodies, body issues, plus size reader, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected PiV sex, dirty talk, mention of food and alcohol, halloween vibes, costumes, pet names, but nothing else.

Authors Note | I told myself I wasn't going to do halloween writing, and then I had a very vivid image of Marcus Pike bending me over his desk at a work party.... So I did some halloween writing. As a woman who lives life in a bigger body, this one goes out to everyone else who has felt the way reader has felt. These are MY OWN experiences, attitudes I've had given to me, and given to myself, they aren't universal, we all feel differently about ourselves, but if you've ever been made to feel less than because of the way you look, just know I see you and that Marcus Pike would absolutely take you apart regardless of how thick your thighs are. If you liked this, please consider supporting me through my Ko-Fi.

Divider by @saradika

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

You tug at your skirt a little, trying to pull it down over your thighs. It seemed like a good idea at the time, to choose something skimpy for the office Halloween party. A way to challenge yourself, finally start to work through the years of bullying at school, and the off-hand comments from your almond-mom who had always told you things like, ‘you could stand to lose a few pounds’, or ‘surely a salad would be a better idea?’. 

It had been such a relief when you’d gotten this job two years ago, finally earning enough on an FBI salary to move out of your family home and into your own space. A space where you weren’t judged for how many fries you had on your plate, or how the pair of trousers you’d chosen to wear made your belly look. It had been good for you, and ever since, you’d been trying your best to challenge yourself to do things you never thought you’d ever have the confidence to do. 

Things like standing in the office, in a pair of fishnet tights, with a skirt so short that if you bent over, Dave from Finance would get a complete eyeful. Looking around though, you couldn’t help feel like it had been a terrible idea. Amy from HR looked absolutely phenomenal in her devil outfit – a red bodycon dress that looked like it had been painted on, showing not a single imperfection on her body – and Jessica, who worked reception, in a Catwoman jumpsuit that hugged her figure perfectly. You don’t think it would ever go away, the comparing yourself to everyone else, even though you knew that Amy and Jessica would totally have their own insecurities about things. 

You were trying to make yourself at small as possible, crowding yourself into the corner of the room, hand clutched around a plastic cup full of ‘spooky punch’, that Hannah, the office manager had put together, which comprised of mostly vodka, some orange juice and what looked like a whole bottle of green food coloring, with some eyeball candy floating around in it. She’d put together a Halloween playlist, which was currently blasting The Monster Mash at a decibel you think should be illegal, and everyone had contributed to her spooky buffet, which was just normal food cut into shapes – like your addition of frozen pizza that you’d cut out with a ghost-shaped cookie cutter. You know you should go and mingle. Adam, on your team has already tried twice to get you to join their little group, so you relent, and walk over, giving everyone a warm smile. It’s all going well, until Alison, nods her head in your direction and stats speaking. 

“Did you work late?” She asks, to which you shake your head. 

“No, why?” 

“Oh,” She grimaces, “I just didn’t think you’d dressed up, is all.” 

And you know it’s mainly because she’s oblivious to mostly everything, but it smarts. Sure, the orange turtleneck is something you’d worn to work before, as are the black platform heels, but the skirt that ghosts the bottom of your ass and the fishnet tights that are still probably one size too small are not something you usually wear, nor are the fake glasses, with thick black frames, or the fucking magnifying glass you’re clutching. You sigh, make your excuses and walk over to the buffet table, picking up one of the slices of pizza you’d brought. Once you’ve eaten that, you reach for one of the cupcakes at the back of the table. It’s iced like a pumpkin and the cake looks to be chocolate, which is your favourite. You’re peeling off the wrapper and about to take a bite when someone interrupts you. 

“They’re delicious.” 

You’d recognize that voice anywhere. Marcus Pike. Head of Department. Not your boss, but your boss’ boss, and the most beautiful man you think you’d ever laid eyes on. You’d sat in on meetings that he chaired, supposed to be taking notes but instead focused entirely on him and how he commanded the room. The way he talked with his hands, and how much you wish you could have him run those over your thighs. Or the way he would chew on his bottom lip when he was concentrating, wondering whether he’d like it if you did that if he were to ever kiss you. 

“Oh.” You exhale softly, suddenly uber aware of the fact he’s probably just watched you eat the ghost-shaped pizza, and now, not a minute later, getting ready to bite into the cupcake, you go to set it down on the table, but he stops you, hand gently holding onto your wrist. 

“Please,” He says softly, “I made them, so I need the ego boost.” 

You smile a little, finally meeting his eyes, “You just said they were delicious, what do you need my opinion for?” 

“I remember the raspberry muffins you made last week,” He smirks a little, “And the apple turnovers the week before those, and everything else you bring in, I need to know what the office star baker thinks about my effort.” 

You’re going to refuse, say you’re already full, despite the pizza being the first thing you’d eaten that evening, that you’ll take it home with you and report back on Monday, but his beautiful brown eyes are soft, almost pleading, so you sigh, peel the rest of the wrapper off and take a bite. It’s actually delicious. He’s put some kind of orange flavouring in the icing, and the cake itself is really good. 

“You were right,” You smile, “It is delicious.”

He smiles, like he’s won a prize and it makes you feel a bit fuzzy inside, that this man next to you has been affected by your praise. 

“Great costume, by the way.” He compliments, and you don’t miss the way his eyes trail over your body. 

“You mean you don’t think I ran out of time and came in my office clothes?” You tease. 

“You’d wear that skirt to the office?” He’s smirking at you, and also offers you a wink, which has your hand dropping to the table, holding yourself up, why on earth was Marcus Pike flirting with you? “It’s good, Velma, right?” He motions to the magnifying glass abandoned on the table. 

You chuckle a little, “First prize, got it first time,” You then take a moment to take in his costume, he’s wearing a brown jacket over one of his usual shirts, a brown satchel is draped across his body and he’s got a hat on, but it’s the whip that really gives him away, “Indiana Jones?” You say quietly. 

“The one and only.” He smiles, opening his arms a little. 

You think it must be the amount of vodka that Hannah put in the punch, but even so, your next question shocks you, “Do I ask where you got the whip from?” 

He looks around dramatically, “Just checking Amy from HR is out of earshot,” Then he leans in a little closer, “It’s from my own personal collection.” 

You reach your hand out, letting your fingers run over the material where the handle is holstered in his pocket. It feels expensive, although it’s not like you have much experience with them to pass judgement on what’s expensive and what isn’t.

“Feels expensive,” You hum, “Guess that head of department salary has to get spent on something.” 

He reaches down and takes your hand in his gently, running soft circles over the skin on the back of your hand, “You really do look lovely tonight,” He speaks softly, “Enjoy the rest of the evening.” 

And then as quickly as he was stood in front of you, he’s gone. You let out a breath that you didn’t realise you’d been holding in, focusing on the way your chest is heaving and you can feel your pulse in your head. You pick up your plastic cup and down the liquid that’s left in the bottom, wincing at the strength of the vodka, then deciding you need a top up. 

You mill about for a little bit longer, but still feel like a bit of a spare part. You’ve shown your face, spoken to everyone you should have, and now there’s a glass of wine and a bubble bath with your name on it back home. You pick up your coat from the back of a random office chair, grab your bag from your own desk, and sneak out as quietly as you can. You’re halfway down the hall, almost to the elevator, when you hear a voice from behind you. 

“Running away?” 

You turn around, Marcus Pike is leaning against the doorframe to his office. He’s taken the satchel off, and the whip is no longer in his pocket. He’s crossed one ankle over the other, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Feeling a little like a spare part,” You shrug, “And there’s a glass of wine calling my name at home.” 

He nods in understanding, “You drink whiskey?” He asks. 

“If I have to.” You answer back. 

“Well, how about you stay and have one with me,” He offers, “Leave that wine for another day.” 

You shift awkwardly from foot to foot, because why on earth would Marcus Pike want to have a drink with you? It feels like someone somewhere is having a good old laugh at your expense, but you feel your feet leading you towards him, brushing past him and into his office. 

You’ve been in here a handful of times before, mainly to drop of reports and papers, and only once whilst he’s been there. It’s been a very professional relationship up until now, no flirting, nothing inappropriate. You drape your coat over the arm of the small couch he’s got there – you imagine he sleeps on it when he hasn’t got time to go home during crunch time of investigations.  Your bag sits on the floor next to it. 

He leaves the door open, giving you an out if you want it. He points to the couch, tells you to sit down, which you do, pulling once again at the tiny skirt, trying to cover the way the skin of your thighs bulge through the holes of the fishnet tights, ultimately failing, as Marcus reaches into one of the drawers of his desk, pulling out two crystal tumblers and a bottle of whiskey. He fills them both equally, handing one to you, but he doesn’t sit next to you, he just leans against the edge of his desk. 

“I always thought it was a myth,” You muse, “Agents with whiskey in their desks.” 

He smiles at you, “It’s in there for big wins,” He explains, “Cracking cases and that kind of stuff.” 

You nod your head, taking a small sip of your drink, wincing as it drags down your throat, “What’s tonight’s big win?” You ask, fluttering your eyelashes and then cringing a little at yourself. 

“You looking that sinful.” 

You’re taking a sip when he says it, so you end up spluttering quite unattractively at his words. Is he serious? You dab at the corners on your mouth, setting your glass down on the floor, “Sorry,” You mutter, “But are you for real?” 

He smirks, “As real as you and I.” 

He pushes himself off the desk, puts his drink down on it as he moves. He takes three wide strides until he’s stood in front of you. You look up from where you’re sat, hands folded in your lap. He reaches out, drags the fake glasses from your face, throws them absentmindedly onto the couch next to you. You’re breathing heavily as reaches out with one of his hands. The flat of his palm cupping your jaw, whilst his thumb traces along your bottom lip. 

“Do you want me to close the door?” He asks, voice lower than you’ve ever known it. 

You have no words, your tongue refusing to work, so you nod instead, because as much as you’re still thinking someone is going to come in and tell you you’re being pranked, you also want to know what he’s going to do next. He’s back to you in moments once he’s closed the door and turned the lock. The light above is harsh, but it’s needed, because the blinds are closed. 

He's standing in front of you again, this time both his palms are cupping your cheeks, and he’s leaning down, ever so slowly, until his lips are a hairs breath from yours. God, you want him to push the last few millimeters and kiss you, but he’s stopped. Waiting. And you don’t want to break first. You’ve done it before, gone to kiss someone, and then felt them laugh just before you can, because why would they want to? 

“You gonna kiss me, pretty lady?” 

“I want you to kiss me first.” You admit on a shaky breath. 

You’ve got your eyes closed, so you can’t read his eyes, look for the sense of regret in them, so it’s a shock when you feel his lips on yours. It’s so soft, barely there, before he’s pulling away, still close enough to feel his hot breath over your skin though. 

“There,” His thumbs are moving across the skin of your cheeks, “Now you.” 

So, you do. You reach your hand around to the back of his neck, pull him into you and really press your lips to his. His bottom lip slots between yours and you suck it gently into your mouth. You smile a little at the sound that comes from his throat, then he’s opening his mouth against yours and you’re following, doing exactly the same, letting his tongue behind your teeth as it melds with your own. His hands are dropping from your face, trailing down your shoulders. He leans forward into you a little, his hands under your arms to tug you up. 

You drag your mouth from him to stand up, his hands dropping to your hips to guide you behind his desk. There are nerves bubbling under your skin because you know what he wants as he pressed your ass into the wood. He wants you to sit on it. To be fair to the department, it’s a sturdy looking desk, but the thought of the way it’s going to creak under your weight makes you want to crawl into a hole. Marcus doesn’t push though, just brings his mouth back to yours, letting his hands wander a little, dragging them back up your body to palm your tits through the layers you’re wearing. 

“I think you did this on purpose,” He speaks against your mouth, “Like you knew this woman had always driven me wild.” 

You don’t mean to, but it makes you laugh, “Don’t tell me Velma from Scooby-Doo was your sexual awakening?” 

He laughs back, doesn’t confirm it, but doesn’t deny it either. He’s looking down your body, having pulled back a bit, “Fuck,” He mutters, “Every time I look at you, it gets better.” 

“The magic of a slutty Halloween costume.” You shrug. 

He nods his head, but speaks again, “It’s not just that though,” He’s speaking softly now, “I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, wandering around the office all the time, driving me mad.” 

This would normally be the time that you’d try and fight against the compliments being thrown your way. Tell them they must be lying, or joke that they need to get their eyes tested. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like you should do that here. There’s something about Marcus that makes you think he wouldn’t lie, wouldn’t string you along this far just to have a laugh at your expense, so you don’t do it, for the first time in your life. 

You reach up to his shirt, undo two of the buttons, “You know,” You hum, “I think exactly the same as you, with your whip or not.” 

He breathes out, taking hold of your wrists to stop your movements, “Let me make you feel good?” He asks. 

You meet his eyes, feeling heat rise across your face, but you nod anyway, because you’ve come this far, and you can already feel wetness pooling in your panties. He drags his hands down your body, grips your hips and forces you to sit on the edge of the desk, dropping to his knees in front of you. He’s looking you straight in the eyes, as he pushes the material of your skirt to gather at your waist. Your legs open further, and Marcus groans when your movement reveals the see-through black lace of your panties. It hadn’t felt right to dress as a sexy Velma and wear your normal underwear, is how you justify it. 

You’re expecting him to tell you to lift up so he can drag your tights off you, but instead, he hooks a finger through the material at your groin and fucking rips them apart. It makes you gasp. You’d chide him for ruining them, but at this point you don’t care. They were cheap, and if it means you’re going to have his mouth on you quicker, then you’re not going to complain. 

Marcus leans forwards, you can feel the heat of his breath splaying across the lace material, and then he drags his tongue across the length of your folds over the lace of your panties. Even with the material barrier between your skin and his mouth, you’re tipping your head back in pleasure, letting out a breath as he repeats his movements, dragging his fingers just behind his tongue on his last pass of movements. It’s not enough. 

“Please, Marcus.” You beg quietly. 

“What do you want, pretty lady?” He asks, looking up at you with angelic eyes, as if he couldn’t possibly think what it is you want from him. 

“Your mouth.” 

“You already have it.” He points out, proving his point by licking another stripe up your panties. 

“Marcus,” You sigh, “Move the… fuck… move the damn material out of the way.” 

He lets out a huff of amusement, “See,” He says, doing exactly as you ask, hooking his fingers under the material and moving it to the side, “All you had to do was ask.” 

He doesn’t waste any more time now. Letting his tongue dip between your slick folds, dragging the wetness that’s pooled at your entrance up to your clit, where he flicks softly with the tip of his tongue. You feel his thumbs spreading the lips of your cunt, baring you to him so he can really start to work you up. He presses the flat of his tongue to your clit, working it gently as your hand settles into the curls on his head, anchoring him there. He’s doing all the things you love, moving between wide stripes of the flat of his tongue, and quick flicks with the tip, until your hips are grinding against his face and you’re biting down onto your bottom lip to keep quiet. 

“You taste so fucking sweet, pretty lady,” He speaks against your skin, surprising you a little as he pushes not one, but two of his fingers into your soaked cunt, “Feel good?” 

“Oh God,” You breathe out as he hooks his fingers inside you, pressing against a spot you had no idea even existed inside of you, “Don’t stop… don’t fucking stop.” 

He doesn’t, the obedient man that he is. He starts dragging his fingers in and out of you, whilst his lips wrap around your clit, pulling it into his mouth, laving it with attention from his tongue, which sends you over the edge. 

Your thighs are clenching around his head as your body convulses. All you want is to cry out, call his name into the room, but even though you can hear the music from the party down here, anyone could be walking past, and it would be just your luck that it would be Amy from HR. His mouth is working you through those aftershocks as your thighs ease the pressure around his head. 

He's breathing as heavy as you are when he stands, slotting himself between your open legs. You can feel the hard length of him pressing against your silken center, as he dips his head to kiss you again, your taste intoxicating on his tongue. 

“Can I fuck you?” He asks, almost desperately, “You gonna let me?” 

“Please.” Is all you can get out, as he drags you off the desk, flipping you around so your front is pressed against the wood of the desk. 

He’s got his hand on the nape of your neck, pressing you down. You can hear him undoing his belt, dragging the zipper of his jeans down. You shuffle a little, widening your stance as he takes his place behind you. You can feel him dragging his cock through your folds, gathering the slick he’s pulled from you, before he’s plunging into you in one go. It takes everything you have not to scream. He’s big. Stretching you like no-one has before and it feels so fucking good. 

Marcus is still gripping the back of your neck as he starts moving, his other hand gripping the plush cheek of your ass, spreading you open even more as he slowly drags himself in and out of you. He’s going slowly, and you think that the way his breath is hitching in his throat means he’s struggling to keep his composure, so you decide to have a little fun. 

When he’s pulled almost all the way out of you, you turn your head as much as you can with his hand resting there, looking over your shoulder at him as you wiggle your ass, slowly backing into him, letting your cunt suck him right back into you again. 

“Baby, you can’t do that,” He pleads, his fingers digging into the skin of your ass, “Carry on like that and this will be over before it’s begun.” 

“Don’t care,” You mutter, “Harder, please.” 

He starts pounding into you now, the sound of his skin slapping against yours is obscene. You’re both trying as hard as possible to keep the moans and groans as quiet as possible, and you can’t help but wish he wants more, that he’ll take you home sometime, unwrap you and let you scream for him, but you decide to focus on the here and now. 

“Touch yourself.” You hear demanded from behind you, “I want to feel you come on my cock.” 

You snake your hand underneath you, pushing the discomfort of how your arm is trapped between your body and the desk, and start tracing quick circles over your clit. You’re already sensitive, hanging on the edge from his mouth, so you press harder, move your wrist faster. 

“Feel so fucking good, baby,” Marcus groans behind you, “Close, ain’tcha?” He asks, “Go on baby, let go for me, let me feel you.” 

And it’s his voice that does it, that finally tips you over the edge, has your cunt clenching around him, walls fluttering and teeth biting into your bottom lip as your knees give way. Thankfully, Marcus is gripping at your hips, which helps to keep you upright. 

“Where, baby?” He asks, voice strained, and you don’t catch what he means, “Quick baby, where do you want me?” 

“Anywhere.” You groan out, “I don’t care Marcus, just come for me.” 

You think for a moment he might stay inside you, which would be fine, you thank the implant under the skin of your arm, but at the last minute he’s pulling out of you, feeling the hot slick of his cum on the skin of your ass as he lets out a low groan out of his mouth. He’s breathing heavily behind you, pulling his jeans back up. You try and move, to push yourself up, but you’re worried if you move further you might collapse. 

“Stay there.” He says gently, leaning over you to pluck a few tissues from the box on his desk, gently wiping away the mess he’s caused, pulling your panties back into place and letting your skirt cover as much of your ass as it can in your position. 

“You okay?” He asks softly, helping you to stand, tucking a bit of your hair behind your ear. 

You nod, because you are, you’ve never been fucked so thoroughly, never been made to come so hard in your life, but there’s an anxiety settling in your stomach. What always happens now is they’ll tell you they had a great time, but don’t think they want to see you again, which is going to be even more embarrassing because you have to work with this man. 

It's almost as if he can sense your anxiety, because he’s cupping your cheek again, leaning to give you a soft kiss on the lips, “Would you maybe want to go out sometime?” He asks, “I know we’ve done things out of order, but I’ve wanted to ask for a while.” 

You smile, because it does make you happy, that the man you’ve fancied for the best part of a year actually wants to take you out, “As long as you promise to take me back to yours after and let me see you naked?” 

He blows out air from his mouth, but his eyes are twinkling, “You drive a hard bargain,” He muses, “But you’ve got yourself a deal.” 

He’s moving from you now, over to the couch, picking up your coat and your back, motioning you over so he can help you into your jacket, hooking your bag onto your elbow, then moving to gather his own things, “Wait, right now?” You ask, sounding surprised, as he shrugs his jacket on. 

“I know a great diner just down the road.” He shrugs, picking up his satchel. 

He’s walking back to you, but you put a hand on his chest, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” You ask, watching a confused look fall over his face, you dart your eyes to his desk, where the whip from earlier is lying abandoned, “I’m only coming back to yours if you bring that.” 

You watch as a smirk splays across his lips. He snatches the whip from his desk, shoving it into the satchel, “Well, pretty lady, lead the way.” 

[kneelingshadowsalome]

eating König x high school sweetheart up like a buffet tbh [Gordon Ramsey voice] finally some good fucking food 🤌🔥

What if König and Sweetheart had an oops baby? Sweetheart is estatic because it’s the best of both of them and König would be the best dad! You’ve overcome your pasts to build a sweet little future together!!

He agrees that he would be the best dad (to anyone else’s baby, not hers 😤) but is panicking because his plans to leave her in the dust have been effectively put on hold for 18 years. She didn’t baby trap him, he obvs baby-trapped her!! He’s goes into Turbo Cope Mode and convinces himself that no one will want her as a single mom, and that no one is more qualified to raise HIS baby than HIM. He’ll play happy family for now (⬅️ will play happy family forever).

I just imagine him breeding her like crazy ("out of revenge") until there's 5 carbon copies of him and her running around and calling him 'daddy' and her, 'mommy' :) It stopped being an "oops" at the third one but he simply can't stop himself!

He wasn't sure what his plan was but it def wasn't this: her being like a ray of sun when he comes back home, kids running around everywhere and practically climbing him like koalas, asking if he has anything for them, the oldest even snatches his knife out of it's sheath when he's preoccupied with grabbing this crawling little thing on the floor before it bonks its head.

"The babysitter cancelled at the last minute," she breaths a smile and a kiss on his lips while the 3 months old baby König is staring at them wide-mouthed. "Perhaps it's a good thing, otherwise you'd have too much time in your hands to knock me up again..."

[hyperfix-wip]

Webbed Together

Pairing: Hobie Brown x Fem!Reader/ Spider-Punk x Fem!Reader

Word count: 1.9k

Author's Note: Credit goes to @the-kr8tor for their original characters Ramona and Billie. I also want to thank @pinksugarscrub as my beta reader!

Tags: Parent Trap!AU, Dad!Hobie AU, Twin!AU, Billie and Ramona!AU, Older!Hobie, Mom!Reader, Older!Reader

Chapter 3: First Meetings

<<< Chapter 2 Chapter 4>>>

Laughter echoes against the cobblestone walls as campers rush into the mess hall and line up at both sides of a large central buffet table. Tides of hands reach out to piles of food lined up along the long table– plates of hamburgers and hotdogs, containers filled with chicken nuggets and fries, cling-wrapped sandwiches and burritos, and everything in between. Sweet treats also await for the hordes of children– fudgy brownies, frosted sugar cookies with rainbow sprinkles, custardy pudding cups– while platters of fresh fruits and vegetables remain barely touched in the sidelines. 

A beaming Billie eagerly grabs at a plastic-wrapped sub sandwich before stacking it along the small mountain on her plate, carefully balancing the heavily growing tray with one hand while her free one wiggles her fingers in anticipation for another morsel of food to pique her interest. Annie stands right beside her with her own tray, staring at Billie’s behemoth of a plate with a mix of disbelief and intrigue.

“Are you seriously going to eat all that?” Annie blurts out as she looks up at the taller Billie, who only grins wider as she snatches a brownie.

“Oh c’mon, I’m Hank Marvin!” Billie giggles, her eyes lighting up as her nimble fingers grab at a sugar cookie. “Haven’t eaten in hours since I got here! My dad always told me to tuck in and take advantage of all the all-you-can-eats whenever we have the chance to go out–”

Billie’s eyes nearly bulge out when she sees a lunch lady set down a tray of the most immaculate macaroni and cheese she’s ever seen– creamy, bubbling yellow cheese hiding underneath the golden-browned breadcrumbed top, steam wafting from the tray with the baked cheesy smell tantalizing her nostrils– and a shuddering gasp hitches into the poor girl’s throat at the sight.

“Bloody hell, I’m in love.”

“Jesus Christ, dude–”

While Billie nearly floats towards the middle of the buffet table with Annie following along with a snicker, Ramona approaches from the opposite side. Her long fingers reach out for a chocolate pudding cup before another set of fingers accidentally brushes against hers. Her hand flinches away as she glances up to her side, and her eyes meet a frantic boy quaking before her.

“Uh, I– uh…”

Ramona stares at the boy with a furrowed brow before grabbing the pudding cup and sets it down on his tray.

“You can have it,” she reassures him with a sheepish smile. “I can get something else.”

The boy’s pale face flushes red as she looks away from him before he snaps out of his stupor and follows her lead. “You’re, uh, you’re in the jazz ensemble program here, right?”

Ramona glances back at him with a quirked eyebrow before nodding along self-consciously. “Uh yeah, for bass.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Ramona furrows her brows at the boy, who flushes harder and panics. “I-I mean– I mean, I know be-because I’m in the program too! I just– I’m in the brass section, and I just happened to see you at the front with a bass, and I didn’t think this year’s bass player would be a girl– Not that I think it’s weird! I was just surprised, ‘cuz it’s normally one of the counselors playing, and…”

The boy shrinks down in front of the taller Ramona as he trails off, fingers fidgeting with the indents on the plastic tray. “I’m sorry, I swear I’m not trying to be weird or an asshole…”

A soft huff of laughter slips through Ramona’s lips while she grabs a water bottle from the table. “It’s okay, I get it,” she quietly waves him off with an understanding smile. Her face then scrunches up slightly for a moment, hesitation flickering in her eyes, before she glances back at the boy.

“...I’m Ramona, by the way.”

Ramona struggles not to squirm as the boy stares at her with a dropped jaw, but he soon relaxes with a relieved smile. “I’m Arnold.”

The two finally relax around each other as they start to talk and continue down the line, with Ramona slowly approaching the middle of the table. At the same time, Billie heads to the same direction from the opposite side, her eyes dead-set on whatever else is available while her hand grabs for a carton of apple juice. Both girls continue to shuffle along the table until they stand directly next to each other, unaware of each other’s presence. Just as they are about to turn their heads and see each other, one of the counselors steps between them with a plate of her own.

“Excuse me, girls!” The chipper elderly counselor chuckles as she grabs a large spoon. “I just got to have a scoop of these pineapple pieces.”

The counselor carefully shoves the spoon into the large bowl filled with the bright-yellow chunks and scoops them up before holding it out to the unsuspecting Ramona. “Would you like some, dear?”

Ramona looks up at the woman and shakes her head with a sheepish smile. “Oh, no thank you, ma’am. I’m allergic.” Ramona then gives a parting nod before walking off with her tray and her new-found friend.

“Oh, well, too bad.” The counselor then turns to Billie, who just shoved a slice of watermelon into her mouth, and holds the spoon out to her. “What about you, dear?”

Billie swallows her mouthful, her tongue quickly licking off some of the juice off the corner of her mouth, before she looks up at the elder. “No thanks, ma’am. Wish I could, but I’m allergic.”

“Oh yes, dear, you’ve told me that alrea–”

The counselor does a double take at Billie, her eyes wavering in confusion as her face pinches up. “How– how did you get there?”

Billie looks at her with the same look of confusion before shrugging it off and walking away with Annie, all the while the counselor shakes her head with a chuckle.

“Oh well, you’ll have to excuse the ol’ gal, first day of camp and all. At least I’m not adding salt into the sugar shakers– no, no, wait, it’s actually sugar in the salt–”

As the counselor turns back to where Billie was, her eyes almost bulge out when she meets with a different camper, who looks back at her with a puzzled scrunch on his face before walking off, leaving her alone and more perplexed than before.

----

Arnold's a cool guy, Ramona thinks as she glances over at him fidgeting with the piston valves on his trumpet. After their encounter in the mess hall, the two have started to hang out after their jazz band rehearsals, finding kindred spirits in each other. Right now they’re sitting under a towering oak tree with their instruments, away from some of the other kids playing. Arnold cringes at the sight of growing sweat stains on the other kids' clothes, preferring to stay under the shade and not burn under the sun.

Ramona doesn’t mind, though. She prefers his awkward small talk from the other kids’ clique-like attitudes anyway.

“So your mom actually made that sweater?” Arnold asks in awe as his eyes land on the small pops of red knit cherries lining along Ramona's sweater.

Ramona glances up from her bass guitar, a shy smile curling up on her lips while her eyes light up with pride. “Yeah, this was actually one of the first things she made.”

She adjusts her bass on her lap, the sunshine beaming through the foliage of the large oak tree. “She’s been making clothes for a long time, since highschool I think? She’s been doing a lot of freelance commissions for a lot of people recently though.”

Arnold nods along as he unscrews the mouthpiece off his trumpet to clean it. “So like a part-time fashion designer?”

“Kinda, yeah,” Ramona shrugs before propping her bass on her lap again. “I mean, she has a clothing brand, but it’s not like those fancy designer ones. There’s more for everybody, I guess.”

Her nimble fingers deftly position themselves along the fret and strums, and alow chord reverberates in the air. She then reaches up to one of the tuning begs and twists them before strumming again. “Her designs are so cool though, especially when she’s working with my uncle, who’s an artist based in Brooklyn. He'd sketch out one of his–”

THWAK!

Arnold flops back onto the ground and lands on his back while a volleyball bounces and rolls away from them.

“Arnold!”

Ramona quickly sets her bass down as she crawls up to her friend in a panic. “Oh my god, are you okay?!”

Arnold only groans as he rubs his forehead before an obnoxious laugh rings out nearby.

“Oh man, that was a loud smack!” A stocky boy laughs at a nearby volleyball court. Some of the other kids around him try to turn away and stifle their snickers.

Ramona bristles at the laughing kids as she helps Arnold up, her chest burning and swelling up to yell at them.

An angry British girl’s voice rings out soon after.

“Oi! Why the hell are you laughing, you daft idiots! You just hit somebody!”

Billie hollers at the kids on the other side of the court, her face pinched up into a dirty look. “Benny, you bollock, you better hope a ball doesn’t knock your fat head off your neck!”

She then jogs up to the duo with an apologetic frown as she picks the volleyball off the ground.

“You alright, mate?” Billie asks with a furrow in her brows. “ ’m sorry about those arseholes. Annoying lot, ain’t they?”

She shuffles her feet and lowers her head in regret despite not being the one at fault. “Your head’s hurting, innit? You need help going to the infirmary?”

Ramona lets out a grudging sigh before she finally looks away from Arnold and at Billie. “If you can, do you think you can pick up his stuff from the ground and follow us? I can help him walk–”

As soon as Ramona meets Billie’s eyes, they both freeze at the sight of each other. Dark curly tresses, deep-set brown eyes, darker complexion, tall and lanky stature– no matter how they look at it, they're nearly identical to each other. As they continue to stare at each other in disbelief, Arnold quietly groans as he looks up with a pinched up face.

“Ramona, I’m fine, you can let me go now–”

Arnold nearly snaps his neck as his eyes double-take at Billie, his jaw dropping and his eyes bulging out. He then looks back at Ramona as his face pales.

“...Ramona, is it just me, or do I see two of you in front of me?”

Ramona finally looks away as she looks down at her injured friend, her face scrunching up with shock and worry. Billie snaps out of it soon after and starts picking up Arnold’s trumpet, screwing the mouthpiece back on before putting it in its case and picking it up. She then grabs the bass and slings it over her shoulder before helping Ramona carry Arnold.

“C’mon now,” Billie mutters out to Ramona, “we can’t dally from this right now. Gotta getcha friend checked up first, alright?”

Ramona hesitantly looks back up at Billie before she finally nods. The two girls then carry Arnold over to the nearby infirmary, ignoring the giant elephant in the room for now.

----

British Phrase of the Chapter:

Hank Marvin - Starving (Cockney). Reference of 1960's-1970's British guitarist Hank Marvin.

Reference: https://www.businessinsider.com/british-slang-that-will-confuse-anybody-who-didnt-grow-up-in-the-uk-2017-11#hank-marvin-44

[enjoyjellime]

Making up headcannons for each character on the fly, here we go!

I see the entire group as one big found family lol

I hope you enjoy my ramblings 🥺

Yashiki: He gives off girl dad vibes, having a sister helped with that. He does hairstyles for the younger Mark Bearers from time to time and can help out with things like outfit decisions, or getting his nails painted as practice. Has a keychain of a black rabbit on his car keys as a reminder.

Saya: She learned to crochet just so that she could make little hats and other pieces for her rabbit, Muu. She would also make pieces for Yashiki to use for the dolls he would make.

Moe: The snack connoisseur, she goes to the local convenience stores to check for new ones constantly. Always has something with her. Having a club meeting? She brought snacks for the whole group. Feeling down? Here's something to cheer you up. Special event? She has the seasonal exclusive. If you ever need a little treat, she's got you covered.

Tsukasa: Isn't allowed to have a pet since his parents are a bit strict about his studies, they think it would just be a distraction. It doesn't stop him from taking care of the stray cat that lives behind his house though. The only other person who knows about its existence is Moe, who helps bring cat food, and every once in a while treats. Moe keeps telling him to name it, but Tsukasa doesn't want to, he doesn't want to become too attached in case something happens to it.

Mashita: The reason his dexterity stat is so low is due to an accident that happened while working in the force. While not disabling him, it has left him with much lower dexterity than what he had before. He doesn't tell anyone about this, because he hates feeling vulnerable. But as he warms up to everyone more, he eventually goes to Daimon about it, who shows him hand exercises to do to help build it up again.

Shou: Has a doting mother, but an absentee father, so he looks up to Mashita and Yashiki quite a lot. He wanted to learn the drums, but his mom ended up putting him in violin lessons growing up, so he's surprisingly good at it. He gets flustered if it's ever brought up. Currently he is self taught on drums, Ai asked if he'd like to be the drummer for one of her concerts once. He declined, wanting to make sure he was at a good level first before doing any performing.

Christie: Being a news reporter, she is able to get a lot of information from her sources, meaning she knows of all the best restaurants and cafés in the city. She likes to take the other Mark Bearers to try things with her sometimes, like being the first to try a new restaurant that just opened up, or visiting a fusion cafe for a coffee date. From high end sushi, to a hole in the wall family owned restaurant, from a cutesy dessert buffet, to rows of Izakaya, she's a foodie at heart. Definitely the rich aunt type, who likes to spoil the younger Mark Bearers. In moderation of course.

Suzu: After the Hanayome case, she gained a whole new appreciation for animals. When she's not at home doing chores or homework, she likes to volunteer her time at the local animal shelter. Her calm demeanor makes her quite popular in the cat room specifically. Plans on becoming a veterinarian one day.

Eita: Ends up finding his calling working in the IT department as the rise of the internet begins, making it a very well paying job at the time. Despite his otaku nature, his favourite anime genre is actually just Slice of Life. Christie is his plug for collaboration merchandise being sold at cafes or restaurants, he pays her back of course.

Yasuoka: Quite the fashionista, has a colour coordinated outfit for any lucky colour her fortune gives her that day, but when asked, she'll say her favourite colour is periwinkle. She took up embroidery as a hobby, so when she's not out and about reading fortunes and receiving information on spiritual happenings for Yashiki, she can be found stitching patterns onto omamori charms that she gives out to those who need them.

Ai: Was able to get clearance from her manager about a specific VIP pass to her concerts just for the Mark Bearers, and is always happy to see them after a show. Dedicated a song to the group and what they had gone through together. She once tried to set up a personal concert at the Mansion with herself on vocals, Yashiki on piano, Daimon on guitar, and Shou on drums. It was.... interesting. To say the least.

Hiroo: After a long day at work, her favourite way to unwind is renting a session at a karaoke booth and ordering some drinks. She only sings by herself and when she's drunk, as she's a bit self conscious about her voice. But she's actually pretty decent, if you ignore the drunken slurring and giggling. When warmed up to the others a bit more, she'll invite Daimon, Christie, and/or Yashiki. However these musical get-togethers are strictly a "No Mashita Zone" since she doesn't want him having any dirt on her while she's inebriated.

Daimon: Really likes high energy music, and used to go to raves when he was in his prime. Nowadays he can't really do any of the moves he used to without going into an aggressive coughing fit, but he can be stubborn when he wants to be. Appreciates when the younger Mark Bearers shows him newer music, helps keep him in the know. Always tries to make it to each of Ai's shows, his support is felt through how fast he ends up waving the glow sticks, immediately followed by another coughing fit. Promised to help Suzu get into medical school if she was still interested in becoming a veterinarian when the time came.

Banshee: Now that his "home" was purified, he now has more access to the underground system, and is able to make it all around the city fairly fast without interruption. However doing this to get to different manholes around town has caused him to become somewhat of a cryptid to the public, and he absolutely loves it. The only people who go under to meet him are Hiroo and Daimon, for check ups and to hear more about their ancestors and the history of the place. Everyone else meets him on the surface, either on purpose or by chance. They have a special code that echoes through the underground so that he can make his way back to see them at the meeting spot. He goes to the mansion himself whenever he wants to raid the pantry give Yashiki a visit.

Thank you if you made it this far 🥹

[love-fictional-ppl]

Petite!fem!reader w/ a high metabolism

Part 1

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Summary: this is part 2 to a request. reader goes off on “almond mom” for judging her for eating while out w her man🤞

Pairings: Sabo x reader, Trafalgar D. Water Law x reader

Warnings: language, Karens, mentions of sex, drinking, food (obviously), characters are kinda ooc

A/N: this was requested so long ago and I genuinely feel horrible for how long you have had to wait for a part 2. I hope that you atleast enjoy this @babbiebooc

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Sabo:

Tbh he finds it cute

Is that bitch that compares it to his little brother

Will ask you if you ate or if you’re hungry

Doesn’t fuss too much about your eating since he knows you can handle yourself

The revolutionary army had sent troops to an island village. You and Sabo at the moment had plenty of downtime.

“Sabooooo, I’m hungryyyy,” you whine.

“Let’s go get a bite to eat then,” Sabo replies. Wandering around looking for a tavern or restaurant, you finally spot a tavern.

You and Sabo find a spot to sit, out of the way but able to observe who came in and out. You were especially hungry today having ate nothing all day. You decided you didn’t mind spending money since you had just gotten paid.

Sabo ordered himself something to eat and a drink. You both chat and enjoyed your food and each other’s presence.

After a moment you noticed the slight frown on Sabo’s face. You sat and listened for a second and heard a woman talking with her family.

“It baffles me how some women can’t even have the decency to use proper table manners in front of their men,” you were fuming hearing her words.

Before you could do anything, Sabo spoke up, “And it baffles me you don’t even have the decency to talk about somebody you don’t know out of earshot.”

The woman looked flushed and overall embarrassed, nonetheless she went back to eating silently this time.

You couldn’t help feeling butterflies after seeing Sabo stick up for you.

“You know, that was really hot,” you told him.

“Was it?” He responded, cheeky.

“Why don’t we head on out of here?”

Sabo didn’t respond, he simply set down a sack full of berries to pay. He then, grabbed your hand pulled you and dragged you out the place.

Trafalgar D. Water Law:

He doesn’t really care honestly

In his opinion eating is healthy therefore if you wanna eat a entire buffet, knock yourself out

He only finds it odd that you eat so much but barely put on 2 pounds

Thinks ur stomach is a wormhole

You were hungry and wanted to get something to eat, Law originally wasn’t gonna come but then after 10 minutes he decided to join you.

You browsed the market set up in the town considering cooking something yourself, then you spotted a restaurant with the best looking desserts.

Law wandered off to go find a bar but promised he would return. In the meantime you decided to order yourself almost the entire menu.

While you were busy chowing down on a chocolate cake u hear a woman talking a few little girls. Maybe her daughter and her friends?

You hear the withered looking woman say, “You see how she’s sitting alone, that’s for a reason. Eat like that and you’ll be just like her when you’re big girls.”

You started tearing up out of frustration. “Actually you witch, there’s a reason why I eat the way I do. And I’m not alone, thank you very much, I have a boyfriend who will be here any minute. When he does get here me and him will be leaving to go have sex, have a good day.” You slammed the money on the table, oblivious to the fact Law had just witnessed the whole thing.

You heard Law say something like stupid cunt and turned around to see him glaring at the woman.

You almost started sobbing out of relief to see him. Law stared back at you with a relaxed smile and calmly asked, “so are we gonna go have sex?”

Laughing uncontrollably, you reply, “hell yes.”

Smiling like idiots, you walk back to the ship hand in hand.

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A/N: ok so I was gonna include kid but my tumblr is glitching where every time I save the draft it deletes his part😭😭

[nkn0va]

Could we please get some headcanons on what Ann, Makoto, Futaba, Haru, and Sumire would do to celebrate their s/o's birthday? Thanks a bunch and happy birthday!

The ol' five character hitter again. Thank god this is the only fandom where this happens. Does kinda tank quality though having to do it for a full five especially since it's not my main hyperfixation anymore.

-You better believe Ann is going all out for your special day. It's only the most appropriate thing to do for her S/O.

-There was that super nice hotel buffet she and the rest of the thieves went to after they successfully changed Kamoshida's heart. You hadn't joined the group yet so that'd be a nice place to take you to.

-Even if you aren't a foodie, there's no way you're able to turn down high class food like that, especially since Ann likely spent a pretty penny to get you two in.

-After stuffing yourselves to your heart's content (and likely getting a few extra pounds you'd definitely need to work off), she takes you to Inokashira park for a peaceful stroll under the sunset.

-Soon you two sit down a bench for a break, when she gives you a small, wrapped box. Opening it up you find an attachable charm inside. The lines and finer details are a bit uneven, suggesting this was something Ann made herself.

She quickly reveals she has another one just like it on her bag to match yours, having wanted to give you something that felt unique. It was extremely heartwarming.

(Makoto's birthday is the day right after this post goes up, which means it's the day after mine.)

-Makoto is a bit anxious. She hadn't really had a proper birthday celebration, whether doing it or receiving it ever since her father died. Sae was unfortunately too busy for any of that stuff 99 percent of the time.

-Now that you two were dating, she was hoping to change that. She can't do anything extravagant but that wasn't going to stop her.

-She keeps it relatively simple. Instead of taking you out somewhere like Ann, she makes a home cooked meal from scratch and invites you over to her place.

-She'll treat you to whatever movie you want to watch from the comfort of inside and bring out the blankets, popcorn, and any other movie treats you like. Just...don't ask for a horror movie. Please.

-Makoto doesn't really have any gift ideas she's all that confident in, so she opted to instead spend the day with you and give you the attention you deserve. She hopes that through her actions she conveys how much she loves you.

-Take Makoto's nervousness/cluelessness, and double it. Now you have an idea of what celebrating someone else's birthday is like for Futaba.

-She very easily gets in her own head about what she should and shouldn't be doing for her S/O's birthday. Her birthdays even when her mom was alive were never exactly normal due to how busy she was, let alone after she died both before and after Sojiro took her in.

-After some reassurance from both Sojiro and Joker, she decides to just let it come naturally to her and be herself.

-She invites you over to her room as she usually does for a majority of your dates to play some video games and watch some shows. It doesn't have to be anime, it can just be whatever you want. She'll go at least a little easier when you're playing games too so you can have a chance at winning.

-You've most certainly been able to share most of your interests with Futaba, she wants to know about them just as much as she wants to share hers with you. This makes it pretty easy to get you a gift you'd like.

A shirt, an action figure, maybe a music album, something relating to your interest that even you probably didn't know existed. Either because it's custom made or that Futaba just really knows her way around the internet far better than you.

-You've been at a decently comfortable point in your relationship with Haru for a while now, and she is absolutely thrilled to be able to celebrate your birthday however you want.

-One might expect someone of her social standing to treat you to the highest class date money can buy, and she absolutely can, but she would much prefer something more intimate and heartfelt.

-She invites you over to her place where she has a stack of baked goods waiting for you two to share. Some ordered, some homemade. Also to offset the sheer amount of sugar, a more healthy meal she made herself, even having grown most if not all the ingredients.

-If there was anything you expressed a want to have, no matter how expensive it is, that is now your birthday gift as well. Depending on the price, your jaw is probably going to drop as Haru presents it like it's nothing with the sweetest smile on her face.

-If your appetite rivals that of Sumire and you're still hungry she's more than happy to cook/bake together with you, playfully throwing flour or water on each other and bantering. She's more than willing to get serious and teach you how to cook if needed, she likely has enough experience to do so.

-Of course no date with Haru is ever complete with the softest, warmest cuddles of your life, under a blanket together as you drift off to sleep or watch a movie. It never fails to get your heart beating faster as her smaller body buries into yours.

-Despite her demure, sweet demeanor, Sumire can be quite the go-getter due to her athletic background. This naturally translates to celebrations of any kind.

-Your wallet is thankfully spared for today as she treats you this time. It may or may not be too much for you to swallow everything down but either way she's happy. Either for the extra food or that you enjoy everything she throws at you and that you can match her appetite.

-After that, it's time for a jog around the park to work off all those extra calories. Some form of exercise is typical when spending time with her but she's lax for today as the the point is to celebrate you and the fact that you're here today. She'll be fine with slowing down to a walk too if that's more comfortable for you as you two share leisurely conversation with each other.

-She did manage to also find a decent gift for you thanks to advice from her parents. She presents you with a special, designer made perfume/cologne. Since you're working out with her so much she figured you could use something to help with the stink of doing so, and she wanted it to be something special.

-From then on you make a point to wear it on all your dates with her. She notices this but doesn't bring it up, feeling a bit too shy to do so.

[altocat]

Here's a silly question, do the firsts get mosquito bites and where?

Angeal: He gets them occasionally, especially since he's the one who enjoys camping and other outdoor activities the most. Luckily, Angeal also has the most sense to spray himself down beforehand. His least favorite types of bites are the ones on hard-to-scratch places like his hands or between his toes.

Zack: Idiot child Zack doing idiot child Zack things in the forests of Gongaga, getting eaten alive and coming home to his mom covered in bites. He always seems to forget his bug spray wherever he goes, prompting Angeal to pack it for him. He once had a bit right on the tip of his ear and it drove him absolutely nuts all weekend.

Sephiroth: Is rather indifferent to mosquitos, mostly just ignoring them. He doesn't seem to need to spray down as much as the others. Should a mosquito actually bite him, weird stuff happens afterwards. They sorta just shrivel up and die within seconds. Genesis has joked that Sephiroth's special blood must be toxic or something. He has no idea just how close to the truth he really is.

Genesis: A bona fide mosquito buffet. A free for all. The blood equivalent of a filet mignon to these annoying buzzy bastards. They swarm him every single time he enters the woods, hanging over him in a cloud while he howls and whines and begs Angeal to share some of his spray. This is partially why Genesis hates camping, or most outdoor missions that involve going out into deep woods. He will be a big baby about it and everyone HAS to feel sorry for him. NOW. FEEL SORRY FOR HIM, DAMMIT! Sephiroth sometimes lets Genesis sleep in his tent since his presence seems to repel the insects so much. Genesis takes up all the covers and regrets nothing.

[sailorsenshishitposter]

Goku x Reader

⚠️Warning for what could be considered assault even though it's for comedic effect. If you've watched the original Dragon Ball then you'll be no stranger to Goku patting crotches to tell if someone is "male or female".

Son Goku

You grew up during the 90s/early 2000's, enjoy shonen and there is a 50% chance that you either are or know someone who ships kakavege, or on the flip side, are a 30+ year old male who goes on about how everything these days is woke and constantly complain about minorities.

I miss when it was just people fighting about things like spirit bomb/genki dama and if the Bruce Faulconer score was good or not.

First Date

Your attempt at seducing Goku has failed since you are not Chi Chi.

Attempt 2

You don a stereotypical Chinese dress and order a black wig from Amazon. Fortunately for you, sentient rocks are smarter than this sayian so he doesn't notice anything wrong. His wife is out shopping while Goten is studying so now's your chance.

"Hey honey, I just wanted to know if you were hungry?"

He looks up. "Sure! I'm starving! So whatcha making?"

"I thought we could go to that restaurant and then order dessert!"

Goku walked over and kissed your head. "Sure thing! Let's go!"

He then rushed outside, forgetting all about his seven year old son. Goten heard the door slam and left his room. "Mom? Dad?"

Oh well. It wasn't the first time his father had neglected him. "I would call him a dead beat but he was technically dead by the time I was born. I guess I'll go see Trunks and bring my fidget spinners!"

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

This date wasn't going the way you had imagined it. Goku had chosen an all you could eat buffet and yet he somehow ate everything being served. The police had to be called (Krillin) when the sayian started eating ingredients in the kitchen out of desperation.

"Here's your bill sir." In his hands was a cheque for $25,000 zenni.

"Here's the thing Chi Chi. I forgot my wallet... Could you pay it for it? Oh wait! I'll just call Mr. Satan. It's no biggie!"

You wiped the sweat from your brow. You wanted to give up but you were almost there and knew the sex would be worth it. "If you're still hungry we can have dessert now."

Goku's stomach let out a loud rumble. "What did you have in mind?"

You then pulled him close. "ME!"

His face cringed. "Nasty! I'm not a cannibal!"

You groaned. "You idiot! I was flirting with you!"

"Wait, you're a girl!?" He then started patting your crotch.

"OFFICER!"

Killin then came up on his vehicle. "Not again Goku!"

He took out a spray bottle filled with pesticides and started spraying the saiyan.You took notice of your saviour. You could never resist a man in uniform. "Hey cutie, my names-"

Before you could finish your sentence, a pair of red lasers incinerated you."

18, we've talked about this..."

"Be quiet dear, I'm speaking! If I see you touch another woman then your ass is grass!"

Krillin sighed. "Yes mam..."