#he would make that mistake exactly one time

[mariasont]

A Puddle in Running Shoes A.H.

summary: your boyfriend finds out you have a praise kink and is having way too much fun with that information

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

warnings: some suggestive content, hotch being a menace, reader having a praise kink, end suggests something may happen but nothing explicit in this one folks im getting my libido under control swear, also count how many times r refers to hotch's face as stupid im crying

wc: 1.9k

You hated running. No—loathed it. Detested it. Despised it with every fiber of your being. If there was a stronger word, one that captured the burning, irrational rage you felt whenever someone suggested going for a jog, Spencer might have known it, but you couldn't bring yourself to care enough to ask. Simply put, running was not your thing.

But when Aaron—your boyfriend and somehow the most persistent man alive—asked you to join you on a run, you couldn't exactly say no. He didn't beg—Aaron Hotchner did not beg—but his version of asking, that soft it'd mean a lot to me paired with an encouraging smile, was close enough to begging in your book. Besides, you figured there'd be some sort of reward when you got back home. Aaron was good at those.

So here you were, contributing absolutely nothing to your marathon-obsessed, fitness-loving FBI boyfriend's training. Sweat coated every inch of your body, your legs felt like lead, and your lungs burned with every ragged breath you managed to suck in. The sun blazed overhead, making you feel more like a roasting chicken than a willing participant in this so-called fun activity.

Aaron, on the other hand, looked like he'd stepped out of a fitness ad—shirt clinging to him in ways that felt outright scandalous. Even the sweat on his face somehow made him look even more attractive.

He was at least ten paces ahead of you and every few steps, he'd glance over his shoulder, probably checking to make sure you hadn't spontaneously combusted or snuck off to find an air-conditioned cafe. Honestly, both were real possibilities.

Aaron's pace slowed until he was running beside you, throwing you a smile so unfairly handsome it made your legs feel weaker than they already did.

"How are you feeling?" The question felt retorical—anyone, profiler or not, was sure to be able to read you like an open book right now. "Still alive, or do I need to start figuring out the best way to carry you home without breaking any traffic laws?"

"I think I'm alive," you managed between gasps, wiping sweat from your brow. "But if carrying me is on the table, I'm not above playing dead to make that happen."

"Not necessary—I'd carry you anyway, if only to reward you for keeping up this long. You're doing great."

You foot caught a crack in the pavement, nearly hurling yourself into it, but Aaron's hand was there quicker keeping you upright as you tried to ignore the terrifying way your body had reacted to his compliment.

"Okay you can't just say stuff like that while I'm trying to run," you blurted out, avoiding his gaze. "You're trying to kill me, I swear."

You planted your hands on your hips, still trying to catch your breath, secretly relieved to have a break—even if it almost involved a face-first meeting with the sidewalk.

"Stuff like what?" He tugged at your ponytail and you swatted his hand.

"Nothing," you said way too quickly, shaking your head like you could physically toss what you said aside. "Forget I said anything. Let's just... keep running."

You quickly realized your mistake as soon as you started jogging again. You would never willingly suggest to keep running. Unfortunately, Aaron was actively aware of this, moving to come up beside you. You didn't need to look at him to know he had the stupidest smirk on his face.

He didn't say anything at first, to your immediate relief, just kept jogging beside you. The silence stretched on, his calm breathing only seeming to make your wheezing sound worse.

"You're breathing too shallow," he said after a moment, his tone completely casual like he wasn't even winded. "Try to take deeper breaths—match them to your strides. It'll make it easier."

You glanced towards him out of the corner of your eye before attempting his suggestion. You had no intention of letting him know that it worked. His ego was far too substantial for that.

"See? You're a natural," he said, shooting you a sidelong glance. "Atta girl."

Your brain flatlined and you almost tripped over your feet again, every rational thought replaced by static. What was wrong with you? You vaguely remembered reading somewhere that people with unresolved daddy issues were prone to developing praise kinks. Was that what this was? Whatever the reason, hearing Aaron talk like that shouldn't make you feel all gooey inside, but here you were, a puddle in running shoes.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yup, fine!"

You stared at the ground so intensely, it was a miracle you didn't bore a hole into the pavement. Your voice had betrayed you, far too shaky and way too rushed, and you knew Aaron was probably filing away every bit of your reaction.

"Hey," he said softly, his hand brushing against the back of your neck as he spoke. "Stop staring at the ground. You'll run better if you keep your head up—it'll open your chest so you can breathe easier."

His hand lingered for a second too long than what your body could handle, leaving you completely flustered and fighting every urge to do exactly the opposite of what he said.

"There you go," he murmured, a small, approving smile tugging at his lips. "That's good, honey. Just like that."

His voice—his god forsaken voice—was like a jolt to your system, and not in a good way. Or maybe it was a good way, which was the problem. It was bad enough to hearing it out here, on the jogging trail, but your brain decided to replay it in an entirely different inappropriate context: one that involved you, him, and a bed.

Your face burned, and you couldn't tell if it was from the exertion, or the very real possibility that your body was too receptive to those words. And now, not only were you fighting for every breath, but you were trying to figure out if the dampness between your legs was entirely from sweat. Surely it was sweat. Right? Gods, you hoped it was sweat.

You stopped so suddenly that Aaron jogged a few steps ahead before he realized you were not longer beside him.

"Okay, I'm calling it. I'm done. Can we please go home now?"

He jogged back to you, an easy smile on his face, and placed his hands on your shoulders as he reached you.

"Alright, we can be done," he teased, thumbs brushing lightly over your collarbones. "You survived, and you did great. I'm proud of you."

He leaned down then, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips that made the ache in your body a little easier to ignore.

When he pulled away, you barely managed to keep standing.

Aaron let out a low laugh, his hands squeezing your shoulders. "Alright. What's going on? What's wrong with you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," you said over your shoulder, practically power walking towards the car.

Aaron's laugh deepened and you ignored the funny feeling curling in your chest.

"Sweetheart," he said, gently tugging your elbow to slow you down. "Come on, talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about, I'm fine!" You avoided his eyes as you tugged your elbow free. "I'm just tired, and, uh, need a shower."

A cold shower, your brain screamed, but you shoved the thought down.

"I know, I know you're tired," he said, lips curving into a smile, "but that's because you actually pushed yourself. I'm proud of you for sticking with it."

You were pretty convinced you were you were about to go up in flames. Your obituary would read death by too many unnecessary compliments. When your heart inevitably gave out, Aaron would have to explain to Rossi and the others how his dumb smile and sweet words had resulted in second degree manslaughter.

But then you saw it—the smirk. The one that said he absolutely knew what he was doing.

"Oh my gosh, you know!" You groaned and threw your hands in the air. "You know, and you're enjoying this!"

Spinning away from him, you stormed to the car, and slammed the door like it might shield you from his stupidly smug face.

You barely had time to exhale before the passenger door swung open, revealing Aaron, casually leaning against the car.

"You know," he said lightly, his tone far too casual for your liking, "slamming car doors isn't a great habit. You could hurt yourself."

"And you know," you snapped back, pointing at him, "torturing your girlfriend isn't a great habit either!"

He leaned in slowly, his fingers brushing against your shoulder as he grabbed your seatbelt. As he clicked it into place, his face lingered close to yours.

"I wasn't trying to torture you, baby. Just wanted to give you the chance to admit it—that you liked it."

Before you could muster a reply, Aaron's hand slid up to cradle your face, his thumb moving along your cheek. He leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was so deep, leaving you no choice but to sink into it, even as the faint remnants of your annoyance tried to surface.

By the time he pulled back, you felt like you were under his spell. Then, without another word, he shut your door and headed to the driver's side.

"That's not fair," you muttered, crossing your arms and pouting as you stared out the window.

Aaron's hand found the back of your neck as he backed out of the parking spot, rubbing gently into smooth circles.

"I don't mean to be unfair," he said with a small smile. "I just needed to hear it, because sometimes people don't even realize what they need until they say it out loud. And I wanted to make sure I didn't misread anything—though I'm rarely wrong, as you know."

"Trust me, you remind me every chance you get." Your tone was dry, but you were well aware that the twitch in your lip was giving you away.

"Alright, smartass," he said, chuckling as his fingers pressed a little firmer into your neck. "Now tell me—how does it make you feel when I say those things to you?"

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "I don't know, okay? I just... like it! Do I have to explain it?"

"You don't have to explain it if you don't want to," he said, "but I'd like to know what it is you like so much."

Aaron's hand moved from your neck to your hand, his fingers sliding between each of yours while his eyes stayed glued to the road, a thing that only came from months of familiar motions.

You let out a long breath. "I don't know. I just like hearing it. It makes me feel good. Special, I guess."

"You are special, sweetheart." His eyes flicked to you before returning to the road. "You're my best girl."

Your stomach flipped violently. You shifted again, trying to disguise the way your thighs pressed together tightly as your face burned hotter than ever. The debate earlier in your head was officially over—absolutely not just sweat, you thought miserably.

Aaron let out a soft chuckle, fingers brushing over your knuckles. "Something I said?"

You swatted his shoulder, your glare losing all its bite thanks to the flush all over your body. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"I can't help it," he murmured, voice dipping just enough to get you on edge. "But don't worry—I'll take care of my best girl once we're home."

You slumped in your seat, muttering something unintelligible that made Aaron chuckle again. And even though you wouldn't admit it, you found yourself smiling, already dreading and anticipating whatever he had planned when you got home.

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[soapcloth]

CW: 18+ MDNI, soap x reader, unsolicited nudes, pushy behaviour, implied noncon elements - 1K words, semi-edited - dividers -> @/cafekitsune

Anxiously sending in an offer for a kitchen appliance you’re in dire need of via an online social media marketplace, only for the seller- JTav87, to reply instantly.

The notification comes when you’re taking a curious peep at his info. His proflile makes him seem nice enough- real 'the cool uncle’ vibes. The page's display picture is a snap of him grinning ear to ear with one of his big paw-like hands at his chest in a thumbs up gesture, the other being obscured behind the lid of an outdoor grill; a family gathering in full swing behind him.

It's all topped off with the stock photo of a beach at sunset as his header, the poorly stretched image sporting a sprawling near-unreadable quote about resilience smack-dab in the middle, gratuitous high contrast vignette filters over everything as a little banner pops up at the bottom of your screen; a message from the seller.

‘I cn do tht.’

you hastily type out a reply in fear of the purchase somehow getting delayed or cancelled.

‘You’re a lifesaver😊I've been searching high and low for one of these!’

Being too friendly was your first mistake, you just wanted to make a good impression- it seemed harmless at the time.

The pickup goes off without too much of a hitch- you meet up as requested in the well-lit parking lot of a generic chain cafe, puffing out cold breaths from behind your jacket and nursing a warm beverage you had managed to grab. Stepping out of a beat up pickup, you come to find that he’s a lot bigger than his pictures would have you assume, not shockingly tall, but his overall aura and bulk make him seem like a giant. His bare arms splay outwards, stretching the fabric of his ill-fitted tee in a gesture that almost had you worried he was going to go in for a hug- thankfully, a firm handshake seems to suffice. 

“Och! Yer’ hands’re baltic!” he exclaims with a blinding smile, rosy tips of his ears and nose being the only tell he was affected by the weather himself as he claps his other hand around yours, rubbing them together to create heat. It's an action that nearly had you spilling the drink in your free hand as you stagger a bit in response to the contact- something he seemed to either not notice, or not mind.

The real kicker was the way he refused to take your money, hemming and hawing about how you should be saving that money for stuff you need- as if the appliance you were purchasing wasn’t that exactly. “A’hm not gonna take yer’ money- a’hm t’fond of ye’.”

whatever that means. 

It's good you didnt pay, evidently. When he had loaded it into your car- having the gall to laugh after you asked if he needed help, mind you- he had forgotten the cord that made the thing work, offering you a lovely little surprise when you finally got home.

On queue, there's a muffled ding from the device in your pocket. 

‘forgt 2 brng cord. srry x’ 

your eyes could have rolled out of your head; suffice to say, you weren't impressed.

‘I really needed this tonight, had baking I needed to do for a party tomorrow 🫤weather’s too bad for me to go out again tonight.’

‘cn drop off at urs if u wnt?’

Had you been in any other situation, this would have been a hard no- sadly however, your stress and desperation leads you into letting the heavyset man worm his way in through your front door as if he owns the place, cord bunched up and hanging out of his back pocket while he kicks the snow from his boots with a saintly smile.

Surprisingly, the drop off is quick- only interrupted by him asking to use your toilet as you're distracted with pulling out baking supplies. Before you know it, he’s back on the icy roads again. You almost wish you had offered him some coffee or tea-

 Almost.

When the morning sun bleeds through your curtains, you pick up your phone to find a notification from JTav87.

‘Hve a grate day x’ 

You frown and ignore the message as you start your day, but it only seems to embolden him into sending you countless more, the tone of the messages becoming increasingly more romantic as time draws on- some of your work friends at the office party even ask you if there was a new beau in your life when you had made the mistake of leaving your phone face up atop the breakroom table while you ate.

The final straw between you, your peace of mind, and the block button comes that night with a handful of alarmingly explicit voice messages in your inbox, promptly followed by a very-much so unprompted video of him shirtless and moaning while he chokes his swollen dick in a vice grip- all done over a familiar bunched up pair of underwear that you know with certainty had been at the top of the hamper in your bathroom. 

Little is left to the imagination when he snatches up the stolen garment, bringing it to his nose, face just out of frame as his chest expands in response. His audible fist-fucking and jerking hips get more frenzied as he gives one last brutal tug all the way from his base to the head, hand flexing as he aims his shot at his phone, cum coating the counter space directly in view of the camera.

His spent cock bobs and drools, stomach muscles contracting wildly as he leans back into the wall behind him; taking a moment before reaching forward to stop the video, searing the image of his hazy, wolfish grin in your mind.

His free hand gets busy sopping up his mess in your underwear as the screen flashes back to the clip's first frame, offering you the prompt to watch again.

It would later become apparent that blocking could only do so much to seperate you from a mutt like John MacTavish- especially when he's privy to your home address.

[sparrow-and-seed-scrawls]

In all his ten years of espionage, Agent Twilight had never once made a mistake this dire.

He prided himself on that unbroken streak. It was why he was W.I.S.E's most decorated agent. Why he never failed a mission.

It was why he was here, now, preparing to board a plane headed for Ostania and one of W.I.S.E's more complicated operations.

Alone.

It made sense; infiltrating the country's largest data center would be difficult with more than one person. Infiltrating the country's largest data center and erasing W.I.S.E's classified information from its mainframe would be impossible with more than one person.

Unfortunately, the only other agent that had even come near to Twilight's level of skill (and the one who would've been sent on this mission, considering how Twilight had been in the middle of another operation when Handler called) was the one who'd ceded that classified information in the first place.

That agent was dead now. Killed by an Ostanian agent only hours after his plot had gone into effect.

Supposedly there had been some sort of double-cross aside from the initial betrayal. An Ostanian agent that hadn't been told of the agent's loyalty and plot. It was a mess, but it took care of the issue of W.I.S.E's rat.

Even so, Twilight had only a small window of time to get to the Ostanian data center and scrub the classified information before Ostanian leaders found it buried in code and letters.

Which made the issue he was currently staring at all the more worse.

His passport was the one of an elderly man, seventy-six, with a thin combover and short, bent frame. A rumpled plaid shirt came to a button at his neck, and thin glasses perched on his tan nose.

The disguise Twilight applied to his person so carefully, however, could not have been more different.

He was in his late-twenties, pale skin, brown eyes. His long hair was pulled back in a tail at the back of his neck. A too-tight tank top showed off toned abs, and a leather jacket gave a hint of modesty atop it. He wore khaki slacks, too, and a pair of white sneakers.

Plain, unsuspecting. And exactly the opposite of what his passport showed.

He stared at himself in the mirror and back at the passport. Mirror. Passport. Mirror--

He slapped the passport closed with a clap.

He would make this work. He would have to make this work.

He arrived at the airport several hours early with a suitcase full of basic amenities in tow. When security checked it, they would see a laptop, a photo of a family, clothes, dress shoes, a bag of toiletries, and a schedule for a work conference placed slightly askew on top.

A family man who traveled for work.

Not a retired man vacationing with his wife.

Twilight joined the line of other travelers with their passports clutched in hand. The line snaked around a corner and ended somewhere he couldn't see.

A long wait, then.

Twilight wasn't unused to waiting. He was a spy. It came with the territory. This was simply another mission.

So, as he waited, he attempted to come up with a story for why his passport looked so different from his in-real-life persona.

The line moved slowly, and by the time he was only a handful of steps away from his turn, he'd come up with exactly two decent covers. 'Decent' being a loose term, as neither were up to his standards.

He straightened his shoulders. Tightened his eyebrows so they sat closer to his eyes. Held the passport with two fingers, almost like a cigarette, as if he had no care in the world. And he stepped forward, to the officer behind the glass.

"Passport and identification," the man said, tapping his fingers on the table with all the attention of a goldfish.

Twilight slid the passport and card across to him.

The man opened it. Skimmed through the pages and stamps and--

paused at the identification photo. Frowned. Glanced between Twilight and the elderly man's photo. Frowned more deeply.

"This is you?" he asked.

Twilight nodded and laughed. Easily. "Hard to believe, huh, what they can do these days."

"Cosmetic surgery made you look fifty years younger?" the officer asked suspiciously.

"And other things. Why I'm comin' back. I still have to get my wrinkles touched up. The wife's waitin' for me."

Ostania was known for their surgery capabilities. It's what helped W.I.S.E make so many of its disguises, using technology from Ostania's surgical professionals. People used it all the time to smooth their faces and remove blemishes. Even cosmetically change their age. It wasn't something Twilight was exactly a supporter of, but it was helping his case now.

The officer hummed. "You were quite... decrepit here."

"Nearly a decade ago. They got me lookin' good now, though, huh? With all their new technology?"

"Sir, do you have any other proof that you have permission to travel to Ostania?"

Crud. Twilight thought he'd been doing fairly well, all things considered. Not well enough, though. Was he losing his touch?

"That's all I got, sir." He offered an apologetic look. "I don't mean to be a bother. I should've brought better pictures. Makin' your shift harder and all."

The man's mask slipped just a touch. "No, no. It's protocol, you understand."

"Wasn't like this when I was younger. We could go and see each other by just walking by. Didn't have the wars, or the bombs. We had ten cent candies and bicycles..." Twilight let his face go soft, his eyes wander. "Weren't so afraid of what would happen to us."

It was a risky thing to say in front of a member of the Secret Police. Twilight, however, had noticed the watch the man wore on his right wrist. It was often hidden under the cuff of his uniform, but when he'd reached for the passport and card, the silver gleam of a 1930s Xollex wristwatch caught Twilight's attention.

The man had also replaced the standard-issued buttons on his uniform with silver buttons circled with raised edging. Buttons only found on vintage uniforms, specifically manufactured in 1931 for Ostanian leadership.

Rare and antique.

The man knew his history. And he responded exactly how Twilight had figured.

His eyes softened even further, and his hold on Twilight's documents loosened. "Ah. Yes. My grandfather was an Ostanian official in the 1930s. An ambassador in Westalis."

"Ah! During the Revolution, then!"

The man grinned. "Yes, exactly!"

"A great time. All kinds of inventions."

The officer slid the documents under the glass, back to Twilight's hand. "It was wonderful speaking with you, sir. Have a good day."

"And you." Twilight said, waving a hand and passing through the checkpoint.

As soon as he was away from he officer, he slipped the identification into his luggage. He wasn't going to risk someone seeing the mismatched passport. He doubted he would get as good a chance to convince the next person that he had simply had 'extensive cosmetic surgery'.

Agent Twilight couldn't afford to make mistakes. He didn't make mistakes.

And no one had to know otherwise.

A spy found out they took the wrong fake identities with a completely different looking photo, gender, and height. When questioned, they decided to double down as a last ditch effort. "How dare you, that was me a decade ago, a lot has changed since then"!

[4vanaa]

—01 MEET THE CAMERONS.

MASTERLIST

Parenting Style:

You:

⌗ you’re the glue that holds everything together. you’re the calm in the storm, trying to create some order amidst the chaos rafe and the kids inevitably bring. you're fair but firm when it comes to rules and expectations, though you’re not afraid to bend the rules to make everyone happy sometimes.

⌗ you’re the one who handles the serious stuff, like school projects, making sure everyone gets to their activities on time, and having family meetings when things get too crazy.

⌗ your biggest challenge is managing the emotional rollercoaster that is rafe's unpredictable behavior while also balancing the needs of the kids.

⌗ you’re a very hands-on parent, emotionally available for your kids. giving them the space to grow but also have a warm side. you always know when to step in with advice or affection and when to let them figure things out on their own.

Rafe:

⌗ rafe tries to be the “cool dad” who doesn’t follow any rules, especially when it comes to his teens. he’s big on freedom, thinking his kids should have the freedom to make mistakes and learn from them. but when it comes to his younger kids, he's surprisingly soft. when you’re not around, rafe’s the one sneaking treats to the kids or letting them stay up way past bedtime because “who needs sleep anyway?”

⌗ rafe’s biggest flaw is his impulsiveness, which often leads to trouble. he's not exactly a role model in terms of structure, but his kids love him for his authenticity, especially when they’re old enough to understand how flawed he is.

⌗ while he's overprotective in some ways (especially with his oldest daughter), rafe does everything with love. he’s not the parent who will sit down and have deep heart-to-heart talks, but he’ll show love in unconventional ways, like fixing a bike or defending them fiercely when someone dares to challenge them.

⌗ rafe can’t resist showing off to the kids—whether it’s bragging about something ridiculous or trying to impress them with his "skills." but he’s deeply emotional when it comes to his family and would do anything to protect them (even if his methods are questionable).

The Kids:

AVA CAMERON (15)

PERSONALITY ava is headstrong, sarcastic, and fearless. she takes after both you and rafe—she has your intelligence and sharp wit but rafe’s defiance and impulsiveness. she’s known for pushing boundaries, especially with rafe, whom she has a love-hate relationship with. she’ll challenge him on everything, but deep down, she knows he’d do anything for her.

RELATIONSHIP WITH HER DAD ava and rafe constantly butt heads. she thinks his overprotectiveness is ridiculous, but she secretly craves his approval. she’ll act tough, but she’s incredibly sensitive, and rafe is the first person she goes to when she needs emotional support (though it’s rarely obvious to anyone else).

RELATIONSHIP WITH HER MOM you and ava have a special bond where you can communicate with just a glance. you know when she’s upset or hiding something, and she knows you’re the one she can go to when rafe is being... rafe. she trusts you even though she keeps a lot of her emotions locked away.

FUN FACT ava is known for sneaking out of the house with her friends or boyfriend, and while rafe might rage over it, you just give her a disappointed look, and she feels guilty enough to come clean.

MILO CAMERON (10)

PERSONALITY milo is a mischief-maker who often finds himself caught between his older sister’s drama and rafe’s wild ideas. he’s sarcastic but with a more dry sense of humor and often the mediator when things go off the rails in the family. milo is the kid who, when faced with chaos, will either laugh or attempt to solve it with a quirky solution.

RELATIONSHIP WITH HIS DAD milo is rafe’s favorite person to hang out with because milo can keep up with his energy and unpredictability. they do a lot of “guy stuff” together, like fixing things around the house, going on “secret” adventures, or talking about the things rafe pretends to be an expert at.

RELATIONSHIP WITH HIS MOM you and milo are like two peas in a pod. he’s very emotionally in tune with you and often tries to cheer you up when he knows you're dealing with rafe’s chaos. he knows how to make you laugh in the most stressful moments.

FUN FACT milo has a knack for getting out of trouble. if he gets in trouble at school, he’ll somehow find a way to talk his way out of it, often with rafe’s unintentional help.

POPPY CAMERON (3)

PERSONALITY poppy is the wild child, known for her tantrums and her adorably mischievous smile. she’s fearless, loves to run around the house, and has a particular love for barry (who, of course, enables her chaos). she’s the youngest, so she gets away with everything, and she knows it.

RELATIONSHIP WITH HER DAD rafe is a softie when it comes to poppy. he’s the one who’ll give her anything she asks for, even if it’s a sugar-loaded snack before dinner. he finds her tantrums funny rather than frustrating, which makes you roll your eyes—but secretly, you love how much he dotes on her.

RELATIONSHIP WITH HER MOM you’re the one who has to deal with poppy’s “I want this NOW” demands. poppy has you wrapped around her little finger, and she knows it. she’s also the first to notice when you're upset and will crawl into your lap to comfort you, even if it’s just by offering you a cookie.

FUN FACT she has rafe under her spell and often drags him into her mischief.

FAMILY DYNAMICS

DINNER TIME at your house is a mix of chaos and love. ava will be sulking about curfew, milo will be chatting about his day with such enthusiasm that you and rafe can’t help but laugh, and poppy will spill her drink all over the table, leading to more chaos.

RAFE WILL ALWAYS try to sneak in action-packed movies (and somehow convince you to let the kids watch them). you’ll try to suggest a family-friendly comedy, but it’s usually a battle. in the end, everyone ends up in the living room, snacks everywhere, with rafe on the couch like a proud, mischievous child.

RAFE GIVES THE WORST, but most well-meaning advice. he’ll tell ava to “not let anyone tell you what to do” when she’s dealing with bullies at school. when milo gets in trouble for a school prank, rafe will secretly high-five him while you give rafe a disapproving look.

EVERY TIME ONE of the kids gets in trouble, rafe somehow shows up with a spontaneous adventure—a trip to the beach, a surprise boat ride, or letting them stay up an extra hour to do something “fun.” it’s his way of showing love, but it doesn’t always help their behavior.

YOU’RE ALWAYS THE ONE to solve the problems rafe causes—whether it’s calming down ava after an argument or cleaning up after poppy’s mess. but your kids know that, despite the chaos, you’re the rock of the family. your love for them is unshakable, even when things are a mess.

a/n: meet the maybanks coming tm <333

🏷️: @rafecameronswifeyy @papercranesandinkstains @akobx @delicatevamps @sereneera @ethanthequeefqueen @zuccheromorena @theanonymousloser @chalahyung01 @mystic-megumi @acidfeens @judesgfirl @rubiehart @callieyanderechan @amterasuu @smithieandy @theeternaloptimistt @marleymarleymarleymarley @lilygrxcem @fieryghxul @luvelola @aias-fxtns @starkeysbaby @brxght-world @drewsswifeyy

[herrmannhalsteadproduction]

Buck's at the grocery store buying his umpteenth bag of flour when he sees a very familiar silhouette waiting in line at the cash.

Tommy.

Three months apart and now they finally run into each other?

At two am at the closest twenty-four grocery store Buck could find? When he's dressed in a pair of holey sweatpants and a stained hoodie with dirty hair and a face full of scruff? No cart! Just him and his twenty-pound bag of flour that he's cradling to his chest like a powdery security blanket?

Amazing.

Awesome.

Fucking perfect.

Exactly how he's pictured it.

As Buck gets closer though, his eyes narrow at the sight before him.

Not at all like he's pictured it.

Tommy's shoulders curl inward as he hunches over his cart, head low. His threadbare shorts hang off of him in a way they never would have three months and one day earlier. His feet are shoved into his shoes without socks.

Tommy hates going without socks.

His curls have grown long and messy, lying limp against his scalp.

Buck carefully sidles up beside him, not quite in his field of vision yet, frowning at how pale Tommy's skin is. Practically grey.

He looks like shit.

For one whole moment, Buck wishes he could feel some kind of vindication—gloat, maybe—but he doesn't have the energy.

Or the heart for it.

And one glance into Tommy's cart has him refocused on being incandescently enraged over the bullshit currently sitting in there.

"What the hell, Tommy?" Buck bursts out, making the man jump and whirl around.

"Ev—Buck, what? What are you doing here? What's—what's happening right now?" Tommy stares at him, wide and unblinking, like he's afraid to take his eyes off him.

"What's happening is I'm saving you from this cartload of crap," Buck says, elbowing his way past him to gain possession of the cart.

He shifts the bag of flour to one arm and uses his free hand to pull out the package of bakery donuts that somehow manage to look cracked and soggy all at the same time.

Then the box of cookies that he knows for a fact taste like they're one step away from cardboard.

Then the cake that says 'Happy Birthday, Leo!' and has a seventy-five percent off sticker on it. He side-eyes Tommy for that one.

Tommy makes a face right back.

Buck keeps going, pulling out the lemon loaf that doesn't actually look too bad, but whatever—his is better.

Everything of Buck's is better than this crap.

...Tommy just doesn't know that yet.

"Just stop! For one second." Tommy reaches out to grab Buck's wrist before he can grab the package of—gross—bran muffins. He takes a deep breath before he finally meets Buck's eyes.

"What is this?" he asks again quietly.

"Me, actually stopping you from making a mistake this time," Buck says, yanking his wrist back with a scowl. He falters for a second when his own words register in his brain, but he shakes it off and grabs the muffins out of the cart, dumping them beside the cookies. "This stuff is all terrible. You deserve better, Tommy."

"It's what they have," Tommy said tiredly.

"Yeah, well, I have better stuff at my place." Buck sets his flour down in front of the unimpressed-looking cashier. "Sorry about that," he says, digging out his wallet. "We'll just take this. And these."

"Oh, I'm allowed to keep the oranges?" Tommy rolls his eyes as Buck grabs the bag out of the cart and places them alongside his flour.

"For now," Buck snips back.

Maybe he'll make an orange loaf.

Right after he convinces Tommy to come back to his place and he feeds him edible baked goods and—and maybe they talk and...

Yeah.

This isn't a half bad plan.

He can work with this.

"Just the flour and the oranges," he says to the cashier, pulling his card free as he flashes a grin at Tommy. Feeling it spread wider when the corners of Tommy's mouth twitch reluctantly in return.

He can work with this.

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝒷𝓊𝓃𝓃𝓎 𝓈𝓊𝒾𝓉 𝜗𝜚 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒, 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑔𝑒𝑜

· ───────⋆⋅♤⋅⋆─────── · 

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Who doesn’t love a good bunny suit fanfic? This little piece was inspired by the incredible artwork of @alienfreak124. I’m always in awe of her creations—her OC is so cool! Honestly, every time I see her work, I wish I had the talent to draw. T-T Always wanted to see what my OC would look like in the Tkatb fandom.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

Also, I’ve been thinking about branching out into other fandoms—Creepypasta is definitely at the top of the list since it was such a huge part of my childhood. Ticci Toby has always been my favorite, and I’m super excited to dive into that world. I’m also considering Death Note and Black Butler, but who knows? 

For now, I’m pretty set on exploring the creepy side first, especially with all the dark, twisted fandoms.

Anyway, I’ve got about three fics in the works for these lovely men—Crowe, Sol, and Geo. But it’s gonna be one day at a time because, let’s be real, I need to stop posting these things so damn late. College life is getting hectic, but I’m making it work, even if it means less sleep. Priorities, right?

· ───────⋆⋅♤⋅⋆─────── · 

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

You’re in your room, standing in front of the mirror, tugging at the hem of a plain black dress.

It’s simple, safe, and exactly the kind of outfit you’d usually wear to a small party. You tilt your head, trying to decide if “simple” is too boring. The party isn’t exactly a big deal—just a casual gathering—but there’s a nagging thought in the back of your mind: 

Crowe’s going to be there.

Before you can overthink it, there’s a sudden knock at your door. “Hey! Open up!” Brittney’s voice is unmistakable—high-energy and impossible to ignore. You sigh, already knowing she’s about to upend whatever plans you’ve made for the evening. 

When you open the door, Brittney bursts in like a hurricane, her arms overflowing with what looks like… fur? No, it’s worse. It’s a bunny costume—a black bodysuit with matching ears, thigh high socks, and heels so high they look like a twisted form of punishment. 

“Oh no,” you say immediately, holding up your hands in protest. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on!” Brittney waves the outfit in front of you like it’s the Holy Grail. “It’s perfect! It’s fun, it’s flirty, and you’ll steal the spotlight! Imagine the look on everyone’s faces when you walk in wearing this. Especially Jericho.”

Your stomach flips at the mention of his name, but you shake your head. “There’s no way I’m wearing that. I’ll look ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous?” Brittney scoffs, planting her hands on her hips. “Please. You’ll look hot. Besides, when was the last time you did something bold? Live a little!” She leans in, grinning mischievously. “And, you know, like I said he might notice.”

You roll your eyes, before releasing a sigh, “Britt, I’m not trying to ‘steal the spotlight.’ I just want to blend in.”

“Blend in?” She gasps like you’ve just insulted her personally. “Blending in is for cowards. And you’re not a coward, are you?”

“...You’re guilt-tripping me.”

“Is it working?”

Unfortunately, yes. You stare at the bunny suit like it’s a wild animal that might bite you, but part of you can’t help wondering: What if Brittney’s right? What if Crowe actually notices?

“Fine,” you say, at last, snatching the costume from her hands. “But different heels and if I look stupid, I’m blaming you.”

Brittney claps her hands in triumph. “You’ll look amazing, trust me! Now, hurry up and get dressed—I need to see the final look.”

You sigh and shut the door, holding up the bunny suit with a mix of dread and curiosity.

This is either the best idea or the worst mistake.

The moment you step into the party, a hush falls over the room—or at least it feels like it. The warm glow of string lights strung across the ceiling doesn’t do much to soothe the nerves twisting in your stomach. You keep your head down, gripping a drink you barely remember picking up, and try to focus on anything other than the fact that you’re dressed like a bunny in a room full of people dressed... normally.  

Brittney, of course, is loving every second of it. She’s practically glowing as she flits around the room, dropping comments like, “Isn’t she adorable?” and “Doesn’t she look amazing?” to anyone within earshot. You glare at her from across the room, but she just winks and mouths, “You’re welcome.”

You hover near the edge of the crowd, trying to blend into the background. It’s ironic, considering the ridiculous outfit, but you figure if you keep still enough, maybe no one will notice. That plan works for about five minutes—until you catch a familiar figure out of the corner of your eye.  

Crowe.  

He’s leaning against the wall near the bookshelf, casually sipping from a glass, his posture as effortlessly relaxed as ever. Even in the soft glow of the party lights, he’s sharp, dressed in his usual clean, put-together style that somehow manages to look both formal and casual at the same time. He always looks like he belongs on a magazine cover—button-up sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he listens to someone talk.

You freeze, torn between retreating to the nearest shadowy corner and pretending you haven’t seen him, or... well, doing something else. But then, as if sensing your eyes on him, Crowe looks up—and the moment his gaze lands on you, it’s like the rest of the party fades into the background.  

You brace yourself, half-expecting him to laugh or make some snide remark. Instead, his eyebrows lift slightly, and the corner of his mouth quirks up into what might just be the faintest hint of a smirk. He takes another sip of his drink, sets the glass down, and begins making his way toward you.  

Oh no.

Before you can figure out an escape route, he’s standing in front of you, tall and composed, with that cool, unreadable expression that makes your heart do ridiculous things.  

His expression is calm and unreadable, but there’s a sharp glint in his eyes that immediately sets you on edge. The drink in your hand suddenly feels useless as you clutch it tightly, wishing you had anything to focus on besides the way Crowe’s gaze is very obviously trailing over your bunny suit. Slowly.

“Nice to see you decided to... dress up,” he says, his tone dripping with amusement as he comes to a stop in front of you. His eyes flicker from your bunny ears to the tights and back to your face, where your mortified expression only seems to fuel his teasing.

“This wasn’t my idea,” you say quickly, feeling the need to defend yourself. “Britt made me wear it. She said it’ll steal the spotlight or whatever…”  

Crowe raises a brow, “Britney suggested this..?” then soft smile appears once again as he leans just slightly closer. “Oh, I believe you. But she didn’t make you come to me wearing it, did she?”

You sputter, your face heating up. “I didn’t come to you! You walked over here!”

“Did I?” he asks innocently, his smirk widening into something outright devilish. “Must’ve been the bunny ears. Hard to miss.”

You glare at him, your mind racing for some kind of witty comeback, but it’s hard to think when his gaze keeps darting to your legs, the curve of your waist, and then back to your face, like he’s deliberately making a show of it.

“Well,” he says after a beat, his tone maddeningly casual. “She wasn’t wrong.”  

Your brain short-circuits. He did not just say that.

“Excuse me?”  

“About the spotlight,” he clarifies, his smirk softening into something almost... fond. “You’ve certainly got everyone’s attention.”  

You rolled your eyes, “I look ridiculous,” crossing your arms over your chest, turning your head away from his gaze.

It wasn’t long before you felt his finger under your chin to look at him once more, his deep blue eyes filled with warmth, “I wouldn’t say that now,” he counters smoothly. His voice drops a little lower, just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “Not that I’m complaining, of course. But I’m curious—how many people have tried their luck with you tonight?”

Your eyes widen. “W-what?”

You can’t decide whether to tell the truth to him or strangle him. 

“Come on,” he says, his smirk turning positively wicked. “In that outfit? Like you said, half the room is staring. Though...” He leans in, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I doubt anyone else is appreciating it quite as much as I am.”

Your breath hitches, and you’re sure your face is about to burst into flames. “Crowe, you can’t just—”

“Say the truth?” he interrupts smoothly, stepping just close enough that you can catch the faint scent of his blueberry cologne. “Oh, I can. And I will.”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can, Crowe’s gaze shifts, scanning the room. The teasing glint in his deep blue eyes is replaced with something sharper, almost protective, as he takes in the prying eyes of the other partygoers.

“It’s way too many people here,” Crowe mutters, his voice low enough that it feels like the words are meant only for him. Then he glances back at you, his eyes softening in a way that makes your breath hitch.

“Let’s leave.” He mumbled.

“What?”

“I said, let’s leave.” His hand brushes lightly against your elbow, the fleeting touch sending a spark up your arm. His gaze lingers on you, unreadable but heavy with something unspoken. “Unless you’d prefer to stay here and let everyone keep gawking at you like you’re... on display.”  

Your eyes dart around the room, catching a few glimpses of the subtle but unmistakable stares in your direction. The air feels suffocating now, and the idea of staying in this crowded space seems unbearable. Still, you hesitate, caught off guard by the sheer intensity of his presence.  

“Fine,” you say at last, forcing an air of nonchalance even as your pulse quickens. “But if you’re planning to tease me, I’m leaving the second you start.”  

Crowe chuckles—a deep, smooth sound that does nothing to steady your nerves. “Don’t worry,” he says, his lips curving into a slow, knowing smirk as he places a hand lightly on the small of your back to guide you toward the door. “I’ll behave.”  

You’re not entirely convinced, but before you can second-guess your decision, the two of you are stepping into the cool night air. The sharp contrast to the party’s stuffy warmth sends a shiver down your spine, but it’s not just the chill that has you trembling.  

Crowe’s steps are deliberate, his presence magnetic as he walks you to his car. He unlocks the passenger door with a smooth motion, holding it open for you before rounding the car to slide into the driver’s seat. The quiet thud of the door closing feels heavier in the silence, the hum of the engine breaking the tension only slightly.  

“Brittney’s going to wonder where I went,” you say softly, partly to yourself, as Crowe pulls out of the driveway.  

“I’ll text her later,” he replies, his tone calm but firm. “She’ll survive.”  

The car is dimly lit, the glow of passing streetlights casting fleeting shadows across his sharp features. You can feel his gaze flicking toward you every so often, lingering just long enough to make your skin tingle.  

He doesn’t speak for a while, but the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable. It’s charged—like the air before a storm. You’re hyper-aware of every detail: the way his hands grip the steering wheel, the faint scent of his blueberry cologne filling the small space, the way his jaw tightens whenever you catch him sneaking glances.  

“You shouldn’t let her talk you into things like that,” he says suddenly, his voice lower now, almost rough.  

“Like what?” you ask, even though you know exactly what he means.  

He glances at you briefly, his lips pressing into a thin line before his expression softens. “Like wearing something that makes every guy in the room look at you like they’ve forgotten how to think.”  

The words are sharper than you expect, tinged with an edge of possessiveness that makes your breath catch.  

“I thought you didn’t mind people staring,” you counter, trying to keep your voice steady.  

“I don’t,” he says, his fingers tightening on the wheel. “Unless it’s you.”  

The confession hangs in the air, heavy and electrifying. You look over at him, your heart pounding in your chest. There’s no teasing smirk now, no easy charm—just raw, unguarded honesty in his gaze as he pulls the car to a stop at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.

He turns to face you fully, his expression unreadable but his eyes dark with something unmistakable.  

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, the words rough with restraint.  

Your lips part, but no sound comes out. The heat in his gaze is overwhelming, and you feel pinned in place by the sheer intensity of it.  

“I’ve been trying to keep my distance,” he continues, his tone rough and uneven now, “but seeing you tonight, dressed like that, letting everyone else see you like that…” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “It drove me crazy.”  

The air in the car feels thick, charged with an unspoken tension that’s almost suffocating. Your pulse pounds in your ears, your breaths shallow as you sit still, unsure of what to say—or if there’s even anything you should say. The silence stretches out, heavy and electric, until Crowe shifts closer to you, his movements deliberate yet almost hesitant.  

His hand rises, and for a moment, you think he might stop midway. But then his fingers gently brush against your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is light, almost feather-soft, yet it lingers—his fingertips trailing against your skin just long enough to leave a burning imprint.  

“Please tell me to stop…” he murmurs, his voice deep and velvety, the faintest edge of uncertainty in his tone. “…before I do something I’ll regret.”

A shiver races up your spine at the feel of his touch, and the heat of his proximity makes it impossible to think straight. Your breath hitches, and you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. You manage to meet his gaze, his eyes dark and searching, as though he’s looking for any sign of hesitation.  

“And if I don’t want you to stop?” you whisper, your voice trembling but carrying a weight of undeniable desire.  

His breath catches, his chest rising sharply as though you’ve just knocked the air out of him. His eyes widen, a flicker of disbelief flashing across his usually composed face. His lips parted slightly as if to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he tilts his head, studying you like he’s trying to convince himself he heard you correctly.  

You don’t reply right away—words feel clumsy in the intensity of this moment. Crowe’s gaze still lingers on you, steady and deliberate, traveling down the length of your figure and then back up again. His deep blue eyes seem darker in the dim light, their usual warmth replaced by something unreadable, something that makes your pulse race. His soft smile was still there, faint but unshakable, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.  

Your breath catches, and for a second, all you can think is how badly you don’t want this moment to end. Then, before your mind has time to catch up, your body moves on instinct. Slowly, deliberately, you move your body forward—out of the passenger seat closing the distance between you and him.

His head tilts slightly as he watches you, his soft smile faltering, replaced by a soft gasp for just a heartbeat as you climb onto his lap. Your knees press into the seat on either side of him, the soft material of your tights brushing against his thighs as you warp your arms around his neck looking at him.

For a brief moment, neither of you speaks. The air feels heavy, charged with something neither of you can name. His reaction is filled with disbelief.He inhales quickly, his chest rising against yours, and his hands lift instinctively to your hips. His grip is firm yet hesitant, his fingers flexing slightly on the tight spandex of your bunny suitas though he’s testing the reality of the situation.  

You’re glad you caught him like this—off-guard, unguarded. It’s rare to see him anything but happily composed, but now? Now, his usual teasing and confidence feels shaken, his calm veneer cracking just enough to let you peek underneath.  

“Don’t regret this…” you whisper, your voice low and thick with emotion. “Please don’t stop, Jericho.”  

The tension in his shoulders eases, but only slightly. His body remains taut beneath yours, every muscle coiled like a spring. His hands tighten against your hips as if anchoring himself—or maybe anchoring you. He leans forward, and the closeness is dizzying.

His breath fans against your neck, warm and teasing, and goosebumps rise across your skin in response. His hands shift from your hips, sliding upward in slow, deliberate movements that leave you breathless. His thumbs trace over your waist, the faintest pressure sparking heat in their wake. His fingers move higher, brushing against your sides, and you can’t stop the way your body responds, arching slightly into his touch.  

Soon his lips hover near your ear, his voice low and husky, dripping with intent as he murmurs, “I won’t.”  

May got a little carried away here…

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

You don’t know how it happened. 

So okay, you do know how it happened—you were dumb enough to bet against Hyugo. The guy might be obnoxious, loud, and silly as hell, but unfortunately, he’s also good at literally everything. Somehow, that fact slipped your mind when you let him talk you into betting on the last round of a stupid game at a party.

It was one of those chaotic, anything-goes types of games, the kind where people are shouting over each other, rules barely make sense, and luck has just as much sway as skill. You don’t even remember what it was called—something involving a blindfold, ping pong balls, and a lot of yelling. I’m kidding here…

All you know is that Hyugo had that stupid grin on his face, the one he always wears when he knows he’s about to win.  

“Come on,” he’d said, his voice dripping with smugness as he leaned against the table. “You scared or something? What’s the worst that could happen?”  

And like an idiot, you fell for it. “I’m not scared,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “You’re on.”  

Big mistake.  

Because five minutes later, you were standing there in stunned silence, staring at Hyugo’s triumphant face as he held up his winning ping pong ball like it was an Olympic gold medal.  

“Wow, that was almost too easy!” he said, laughing as he clapped you on the shoulder. “You really thought you could beat me?.”  

You scowled, already regretting your life choices. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. What do you want?”  

His grin widened, and you instantly knew you were doomed. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said, his voice practically oozing with fake innocence. “It’s nothing crazy. Just a little outfit change for, let’s say... an hour?”  

Your stomach dropped. “What kind of outfit change? I have a movie night at Sol’s place later,”  

And now here you are, standing in Sol’s dimly lit studio apartment, wearing a bunny suit that makes you feel about three sizes too exposed and questioning every decision you’ve ever made.  

How the tf did Hyugo knew your size anyway?

The small space smells like popcorn and energy drinks, and there’s a paused horror movie on the screen, but all of that pales in comparison to the look on Sol’s face.  

He hasn’t stopped staring since you walked in.  

The guy is sitting on his beat-up couch, one leg tucked under him, the TV remote hanging limp in his hand. His mouth is slightly open, and his face?  

Bright red.  

Like, glowing tomato-red, borderline matching the devil on the movie poster behind him.  

“…What are you doing?” he finally chokes out, his voice cracking just enough to make you raise an eyebrow. He clears his throat and tries again, this time deeper: “I mean, what’s this?” He gestures vaguely at you, but his hand is shaking a little, so it’s not exactly smooth.  

You cross your arms, trying to tug the hem of the crotch area down to show less skin, but there’s no saving it—it’s just too short. “Lost a bet to Hyugo from party earlier today,” you mumble, your voice flat, as if that explains everything.  

Sol squints at you, the disbelief radiating off him in waves. “Hyugo made you do this?” His tone flips between outraged and incredulous. His eyes dart down to the whole getup— floppy bunny ears, the thigh-high socks, even a little button tie—and then snap back up so fast you think he might’ve given himself a neck cramp. “Ugh… He’s the worst sometimes.”  

“Yeah, thanks for the groundbreaking insight,” you deadpan, shooting him a withering glare. “I figured that out the moment Hyugo handed me this thing.”  

Sol drags a hand through his perpetually messy hair, clearly grappling with some kind of inner turmoil. “You didn’t have to wear it, though,” he mutters, his usual grumbly tone edged with something oddly defensive. “You could’ve just… I dunno, said no.”  

You blink at him, unimpressed. “Oh, sure. And let Hyugo post that video of me tripping like an idiot in front of the entire campus? An excellent alternative, Sol. Really genius stuff.”

He makes a weird noise in his throat, half a groan, half something else, and he mutters, “Still better than this…” But his eyes betray him.

Because despite the whole “ugh, this is dumb” act, Sol keeps looking. Like, really looking. His gaze lingers on your bunny ears, the curve of the bodysuit, and the thigh-high socks that are making you wish the couch would swallow you whole. Every time his eyes travel down, they snap back up so fast you’d think he got whiplash.

“What’s your problem?” you snap, crossing your arms over your chest, mostly for your sanity. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, dragging his hand down his face with a groan. “Whatever. I’m not the one dressed like…” His words trail off as he waves vaguely in your direction, his ears reddening again as if even describing the outfit is too much for him.  

You sigh and plop down on his old couch because there’s literally nowhere else to go in this shoebox of an apartment. As soon as you do, Sol freezes like you’ve just stepped on a landmine. His whole body stiffens, his hands gripping his knees, and you swear he stops breathing.

“Relax,” you say, kicking off your heels with a sigh. “It’s not like I want to be here in this dumb outfit either.”

“You don’t look unhappy,” he mutters, barely audible, but you catch it.

Your head snaps toward him, catching the faintest flicker of his eyes darting to your outfit before immediately locking onto the popcorn bowl on the coffee table like it’s his last lifeline. His face is ‘burning’, and it only gets worse when he realizes you caught him looking.  

“Excuse me?” you ask, leaning in slightly because you can’t let him off the hook that easily.  

“I didn’t—” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat so violently it’s almost painful. “I just meant—uh, never mind.��� But his ears are practically glowing, and you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.  

“Sure, okay,” you say, sighing as you settle deeper into the couch, before you mention, “It’s not like you’ve been staring at me like a creep since I walked in or anything.”  

“I wasn’t staring!” he blurts, far too defensively for someone who was. He drags a hand through his hair, the strands sticking up even more as he groans like he’s on the verge of losing it.  

“Oh, you weren’t?” you tease, tilting your head. “Are you calling me a liar?”

He shifts uncomfortably, his eyes flicking to your legs for half a second before darting away. His hands curl into fists on his lap, and his breathing sounds... uneven.

Fast.  

One second, you’re sitting on the couch, awkwardly avoiding his gaze, and the next, you’re swept up off the cushions. His arms slide under you, one wrapping around your back and the other hooking beneath your knees, lifting you effortlessly into a bridal carry.  

“Sol!” you shriek, your hands instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders. “What are you—put me down!”  

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lowers himself back onto the couch, keeping you securely in his hold. Your legs dangle awkwardly over his arm, your heels threatening to slip off, and you’re acutely aware of how close your faces are now—his warm breath brushing against your skin, his sharp eyes fixed on yours.  

“Relax,” he mutters, his tone gruff but oddly soft. “You were fidgeting too much. Thought you were about to hurt yourself or something.”  

“Hurt what now?!” you snap, glaring at him even as your cheeks flush. “I wasn’t—Sol, that doesn’t even make sense. Let me go.”  

“Not yet,” he says simply, his grip tightening slightly as if daring you to try and wriggle free.  

You glare at him, but the heat of his gaze makes it hard to keep your composure. His eyes flicker down for a moment—trailing from your flushed face to the curve of your legs draped over his arm. He’s trying to play it cool, but the way his jaw clenches and his ears turn a faint shade of pink gives him away.  

“Your legs are cold,” he murmurs after a beat, his voice quieter now.  

“I wonder why,” you deadpan, trying to ignore the way your heart skips at the hint of concern in his tone.  

His lips twitch a shadow of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “This outfit isn’t practical.”  

“Well, I didn’t exactly pick it,” you grumble, squirming slightly in his hold.  

“Stop moving,” he mutters, his voice dropping an octave. His hands shift slightly, one sliding along your back and the other brushing against your thigh as he adjusts his grip. The casual intimacy of it makes your face burn hotter.  

“Sol...” you warn, your voice shaky.  

But instead of answering, he leans back slightly, settling you more comfortably in his lap. The movement makes your head spin—partly from the sudden shift, but mostly because of how close he is now. You’re practically curled up against his chest, his arm still supporting your legs while his other hand rests firmly against your back.  

And then he looks at you again. Really looks at you. His orange-red eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, the teasing, grumbly version of Sol you’re used to is nowhere to be found. There’s something different in his expression now—something serious, almost vulnerable, and it steals the breath from your lungs.  

“You should be more careful,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing lightly against your knee. His hands slide from your hips to your legs. “These heels could’ve hurt me,” His thumbs trace slow, deliberate circles along the tops of your thighs, sending shivers up your spine.

Your mouth opens to respond—maybe to defend yourself, maybe to yell at him, you’re not sure—but then his hands shift lower, skimming over the curve of your calves. He grabs one of your feet, his fingers curling around your ankle as he starts tugging off your shoe.  

“Sol, I can do that myself—”  

“N-No,” he practically begged. His cheeks are pink, his expression strained like he’s trying to keep it together. “Please, just let me.”  

You’re too stunned to argue. He’s slow about it, almost hesitant, his calloused fingers brushing against your skin as he removes one shoe, then the other. When he’s done, he lets his hands linger for a moment, his thumbs brushing over your bare ankles.  

His eyes flicker back up to yours, and there’s something desperate in his expression now like he’s holding himself back from doing something stupid. “Why do you always have to make this so hard?” he mutters, half to himself.  

“I’m making 'it' hard?” you blurt, your voice shaky.  

“You showed up like this,” he counters, his gaze sweeping over you again. “Looking like... this.”  

He leans closer, so close you can feel the heat radiating off him. His hand slides up, tracing a line from your ankle to your knee, then up your thigh, stopping just shy of where the hem of the bunny suit begins. His knee presses a little closer, and you suck in a sharp breath.  

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me right now?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.  

Your brain short-circuits. You don’t even know how to respond to that, especially not when his eyes are locked on yours like he’s waiting for an answer.  

“Sol,” you finally manage, your voice barely audible. “You’re being weird.”  

“I know,” he mutters, his lips twitching into a crooked, almost self-deprecating smile. “I’m always weird. But you make it worse.”  

And with that, he dips his head lower, his breath ghosting over your lips like he’s daring you to stop him.  

Please don’t make him stop…

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

Geo hadn’t thought much about your text at first.

You were running late—what else was new? He was used to it by now. You’d told him to let himself in with the key under the mat since you were still getting ready, and, well, that’s what he did.

Your apartment was as familiar to him as ever: the faint smell of your scented candles. Geo plopped onto the couch, scrolling through his phone to kill time. After about ten minutes of waiting, he sighed loudly, tossing his phone onto the coffee table.

“Why do I let you do this to me?” he muttered, dragging himself to his feet. He made his way down the hall, the hardwood floor creaking faintly under his boots.

The door to your bedroom was cracked open, soft light spilling out into the hallway. He tapped lightly on the frame with his knuckles. “Hey, we’re gonna be late, y’know. What’s taking you so—”

He pushed the door open mid-sentence, stepping inside. And then he stopped.

His brain short-circuited.

There you were, standing in front of your full-length mirror, fiddling with a pair of floppy bunny ears.

A very, very skimpy bunny suit clung to you like a second skin, all shiny black fabric and sheer tights that showed just enough to drive someone insane. The plunging neckline, the dangerously high cut of the bodysuit, the tiny bowtie collar around your neck—it was absurd. Ridiculous. And yet somehow…

You looked stunning.

Geo froze in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His trademark sarcasm, his quick wit, his effortless aloof expression? Gone. His brain? Absolutely empty. 

His mouth opened like he wanted to say something—anything—but no words came out.

You noticed him then, spinning around so fast that your bunny ears flopped dramatically to one side. “Geo!” you shrieked, your voice an octave higher than usual. “What the hell are you doing? I thought you were on the couch.”

“What am I doing?” he echoed, his voice cracking slightly as his eyes flicked over you, up and down, up and down, like he couldn’t stop himself. He quickly snapped his gaze upward, focusing on the very uninteresting ceiling. “What the hell are you wearing?”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “It’s for a charity event,” you muttered defensively. “Crowe asked me to help raise donations.”

Geo’s jaw clenched, his fingers twitching at his sides as he tried to keep his gaze anywhere but directly on you. His eyes betrayed him, though, darting back to your legs, your waist, your— “What kind of charity involves… that?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at your outfit like it was some kind of alien artifact.

You groaned, turning back to the mirror to adjust the bunny ears again. “It’s a themed event, okay? College students are more likely to donate if there’s… I don’t know, incentive?”

“Incentive…?” Geo repeated, “And Crowe ask you wear that? Crowe?” His tone was somewhere between disbelief and outrage. “What is wrong with him? Is he insane?”

“It’s not that bad,” you said defensively, though your voice wavered because, yeah, it was kind of bad. “It’s for a good cause!”

Geo crossed his arms, his lips pulling into a tight line. “No. Nope. Not happening. You’re not walking out of here dressed like that. I don’t care if it’s for world peace.”

You threw your hands up. “What are you, my dad? Relax, Geo. It’s fine.”

“Fine?” He frowns, irritated, his eyes accidentally drifting downward before snapping back up to your face. He looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. “You look like—you—ugh, never mind.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I look like what?”

“Forget it.” he sighed, his face turning an even deeper shade of red. “Just… just go change or something."

“I can’t!” you said, exasperated. “This is the whole point of the event!”

Geo groaned, dragging a hand down his face in pure exasperation. His usual sharp wit was dulled by whatever internal battle he was clearly losing. “Why do I have to be the one to see this? Literally anyone else would’ve been better. Anyone.”

You crossed your arms, giving him an incredulous look. “You’re the only one with a car who wasn’t busy,” you shot back, matter-of-fact as ever.

Geo huffed, throwing his hands up dramatically. “You should’ve just taken the bus, then!”

“And have creepy men ogling me the whole ride? Absolutely not,” you retorted, your tone sharp. “You’re a much better option. Like it or not.”

“Well,” he muttered, clearly flustered as his hand shot to the back of his neck, his eyes darting anywhere but at you, “I’m regretting it now.”

You sighed, turning back to the mirror and fiddling with the bunny ears again, your patience wearing thin. “Look, if it’s that big of a deal, just wait outside. I’ll be done in a sec—I just need to put on my shoes.”

For a moment, you thought he might actually listen. But then Geo took a step closer, his posture shifting. The embarrassment still lingered in his tense shoulders and flushed face, but there was something else now—something almost… resolute.

Before you could ask what he was doing, he reached out and grabbed your wrist, turning you around so fast you nearly stumbled.

“Geo?” you asked, startled by the sudden intensity in his gaze.

He didn’t answer. Instead, without missing a beat, he pushed you backward with a firm but careful hand, and your back hit the edge of your bed. You let out a startled gasp, barely managing to catch yourself as you propped up on your elbows.

“Hey! What the hell—”

You froze as Geo knelt in front of you, his hand gripping your ankle firmly but gently. His other hand reached out for your heels, which had been discarded nearby, and he snatched them up with a quick, fluid motion.

“You need to hurry up,” he grumbled, his voice low and laced with irritation as he slid the first heel onto your foot. His touch was surprisingly gentle, his fingers brushing against your sheer tights as he adjusted the strap. His face, however, was a different story—flushed red and rigid, like he was barely holding himself together. “So just—shut up and let me handle it.”

You blinked, your mouth opening to protest but no words coming out. Geo hadn’t spared you a glance, too focused on fastening the strap with a level of concentration that was almost comical.

“You’re—” you finally managed, but your voice wavered as his hands moved to your other foot.

“And you’re taking forever,” he shot back, not missing a beat. His grip on your ankle tightened slightly as he secured the second heel, his eyes resolutely fixed downward.

Is he blushing?

Your eyes narrowed, “You seem red there,” you teased, leaning back on your hands and watching him with a growing smirk. “What happened to all your sarcastic remarks, Mr. Smartass?”

“Shut up,” he muttered through clenched teeth, still not looking at you as he finished adjusting the second strap.

His fingers brushed against your ankle again, lingering just a second too long, and you swore you saw his ears turn even redder. Deciding to test your luck, you slowly crossed one leg over the other, making the movement deliberately graceful.

Geo’s aquamarine eyes flicked up instinctively at the shift in movement, and when he realized what he’d done, he snapped his gaze away so fast it was almost whiplash-inducing.

“Stop doing that,” he muttered, his voice lower now.

“Doing what?” you asked, feigning innocence as you tilted your head and batted your lashes at him.

“You know what,” Geo shot back, his jaw tightening as he focused way too hard on the buckle of your heel, his fingers fumbling slightly.

“Aw, is Geo embarrassed?” you teased, your voice dripping with playful mockery as you leaned forward slightly, one of your legs crossing just enough to invade his space. The toe of your heel pressed lightly against his chest, and you tilted your head, a mischievous grin tugging at your lips. “I didn’t think you’d get so flustered over a little outfit.”  

Geo, ever the picture of calm composure, froze mid-motion. His hands, which had been casually adjusting the cuffs of his jacket a moment ago, were now completely still. For a second, it was like time itself had paused. Slowly—deliberately—his gaze lifted, locking with yours.  

Fuck.

His aquamarine eyes, normally narrowed and calculating, were different now. They seemed darker, more intense, clouded with something you couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t annoyance, nor was it the usual stoic indifference he wore like armor. Whatever it was, it had you swallowing hard.  

The teasing smirk on your face faltered just slightly as curiosity crept in. You tilted your head to the side, your lips parting faintly as you tried to read him, to figure out what was going on behind that icy stare. “Geo?” you prompted softly, your narrowed eyes searching his face.  

Still, he didn’t look away. He couldn’t seem to.  

It was unnerving—and kind of thrilling, if you were honest. Normally, a jab like that would earn you a dry, sarcastic retort, something sharp-edged that would put you right back in your place. But this time? Nothing. Whatever comeback he’d had locked and loaded vanished the second your teasing grin softened into something more uncertain.  

The silence stretched, tension thickening between the two of you like a coiled spring. You couldn’t tell if it was your own heartbeat hammering in your chest or his, but the moment felt impossibly fragile.  

“Seriously, say something,” you murmured, a hint of nervous laughter creeping into your tone. You pressed your foot just a little harder against his chest, trying to get any kind of reaction. “You’re starting to freak me out.”  

His gaze flicked briefly to your leg—the curve of your calf, the ridiculous heel perched at the end of it—before snapping back to your face. “You shouldn’t play games you can’t win,” he said finally, his voice low and even.

Your breath caught for half a second. His hand moved, wrapping firmly around your ankle—not harshly, but with enough pressure to make your pulse skip a beat. With one smooth motion, he guided your leg away from his chest.

“You don’t get it,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet but firm, his tone a complete shift from his usual snark.

The intensity in his voice caught you off guard, and your expression faltered. “...Don’t get what?” you asked, your playful tone slipping into something more hesitant.

Geo’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white as if he were trying to hold something back. He stood abruptly, the sudden motion making you flinch slightly. His eyes immediately flickered with regret at your reaction, and he took a deep breath, trying to collect himself.

“Shit,” Geo muttered under his breath, running a hand through his already messy hair. His back was turned to you, but the stiffness in his posture betrayed his frustration. He exhaled sharply, shoulders rising and falling as though wrestling with something he couldn’t quite say.  

“Geo…” you started softly, the sharp edge in your tone from earlier now replaced with concern.  

“Don’t,” he cut you off, his voice strained and hoarse, like the words were being dragged out of him. “We’re not going to the charity event. You’re staying here. End of discussion.”  

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “What?” you exclaimed, still perched on the edge of the bed. “You can’t just decide that for me!”  

He turned to face you, amber eyes blazing with a mix of irritation and something you couldn’t quite place. “Watch me.”  

Before you could react, Geo stalked toward your desk, snatched a hoodie draped over the chair, and swung it around your shoulders with surprising precision. His hands lingered just long enough to tug it snugly over your frame, the fabric swallowing the delicate silhouette of your bunny suit.  

“You’re not going anywhere in that,” he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. He stepped back slightly, his gaze flicking over you as though ensuring his makeshift cover-up was secure. “If Crowe wants donations that badly, he can wear the damn bunny suit.”  

Your jaw dropped, words caught somewhere between outrage and disbelief. “Geo, you’re being absolutely insane!”  

“Yeah, probably,” he admitted, flashing a grin that was more sharp edges than warmth. “But at least I’m not letting you walk into a room full of idiots who won’t be able to keep their eyes—or their thoughts—off you.”  

Heat crept up your cheeks at his bluntness, and you folded your arms tightly across your chest. His words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, and the tension between you grew like a palpable thing.  

“You’re seriously overreacting,” you muttered, but your voice lacked its usual bite.  

“Am I?” Geo shot back, stepping closer. His towering frame cast a shadow over you as his gaze locked onto yours, burning with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. His voice dropped, low and deliberate. “Do you even realize how—” He stopped abruptly, his jaw clenching as if swallowing the words was the only way to keep them from spilling out.  

“Realize what?” you pressed, your own voice barely above a whisper now, caught somewhere between defiance and curiosity.  

Geo’s eyes darted to the floor, then back to you, before he let out a low, frustrated growl. In one swift movement, he stepped forward, his hands gripping your shoulders as he pushed you gently but firmly down onto the bed.  

“Geo, what the hell—”  

Your protest was cut short as he followed, his weight settling over you in a way that was far from aggressive but left no room for escape. His arms slipped around you, pulling you into a tight embrace as his head dropped to your chest.  

The world seemed to stop as you felt the warmth of his breath against your collarbone. He didn’t say a word, his face buried against you, his grip almost desperate.  

You froze, your hands hovering uncertainly in the air. “Geo?” you murmured, your voice soft and unsure.  

“Just… shut up for a second,” he muttered, his voice muffled against you. His tone was softer now, tinged with vulnerability that made your chest ache. “Let me have this.”  

Your hands hesitated before they slowly lowered, one settling against his back, the other threading cautiously through his hair. His body tensed at first but then melted into yours, his hold tightening as if he were afraid you’d disappear.  

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he mumbled, his voice raw and unguarded. “And not in the way I’m used to handling.”  

For a moment, neither of you moved, the weight of his words—and his closeness—stealing the air from the room. Whatever you were going to say died on your tongue as you let the moment stretch, the sound of his breathing steadying against you.  

“Oh,” you said finally, your voice quieter now, “You’re not making any sense. We’re going to be late for the event,” you murmured, trying to keep your tone soft but firm.

“Good,” he muttered into your chest without lifting his head.

“Good?” you echoed, your brows furrowing. “Crowe’s going to kill us if we don’t show up. And you promised to drive me, remember?”

“I don’t care about Crowe or the stupid event right now,” he grumbled, his voice low and slightly muffled. “It’s not important.”

“Not important?” You leaned your head back against the bed in disbelief. “You’re acting like the world’s ending because of a bunny suit, Geo. What’s really going on?”

He finally lifted his head slightly, just enough to look at you. His amber eyes burned with an intensity that made your breath catch. “You still don’t get it, do you?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, a mix of irritation and something deeper. “I don’t want anyone else looking at you the way I am right now.”

Your heart skipped a beat, his words sinking in and leaving you momentarily speechless. “Geo…” you started, but he didn’t give you a chance to finish.

Instead, his arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer as his lips brushed the curve of your neck. You tensed under his touch, your breath hitching as his teeth gently grazed your skin.

“Just give me five minutes,” he whispered, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. His lips pressed softly against the spot he’d just bitten, lingering for a moment before pulling back slightly. “Five minutes, and then I’ll get up, and we can go. Deal?”

You blinked, trying to process what just happened, your body feeling like it was on fire where his lips had been. “Geo, that’s not—”

“Five minutes,” he repeated, cutting you off. His tone was quieter this time, almost pleading as his eyes locked onto yours, filled with a vulnerability he rarely let you see. “Please.”

Wow. Five minutes it is then.

· ───────⋆⋅♤⋅⋆─────── · 

[revelboo]

If You did a Vehicon Crack fic you would absolutely make my day! I love the Vehicons they have so much personality and its adorable!

Just one request: more fluff than smut <3 I’m a sucker for some sweetness (You dont have to its just a personal preference that I’d enjoy) TY! Happy writing! X3

Sure! Poor guys really got the short end of the stick in TFP (and TF One.)

Coin-Operated Boy

Vehicons x Reader

• Breath catching, you go still at the sink and the wet plate in your hands slips from your fingers to shatter on the floor. Staring as the thing dragging itself across your yard goes out of sight. What the heck did you just see? And it didn’t just crawl in your open garage, did it? Not really sure, you pick up the half finished glass of wine on the counter and tip it into the sink with the soapy water. You know better. That this is exactly how those idiots in the horror movies die as you grab a broom and head toward the door that leads down into the garage. Turning the knob and cracking the door, you can hear something moving around down there. Common sense screaming at you to run instead of leaning in to look.

• Dragging himself further into the shelter he found, he finally touches his side and feels the wet, warm energon he’s bleeding. He’s had close calls before, though. Always comes through. Knows the other Vehicons have a running joke about how many times he should have offlined by now. Like when Megatron had chucked him off the Nemesis. He’d survived that, he can survive anything. Sure. Head lifting as something breaks, he growls a low warning when he spots the little organic standing at the top of the stairs with its pitiful weapon.

• It’s a robot. A big, weird looking alien robot bleeding glowing stuff on the concrete. And a childish part of yourself is absolutely delighted, remembering The Iron Giant and Short Circuit, while the rest of you is trying to remember what the Terminator theme sounds like. Because this giant is as likely to crush you as be friendly. And its flickering visor stares at you before its head swings toward the road. Starts trying to drag itself deeper into your garage and you tear your eyes from it to the road, seeing a big semi truck idling slowly along. Is it in trouble? Hiding?

• “Don’t,” he snarls when you start down the stairs and you set the weapon aside, holding up your empty hands. You’re either deaf, fearless, or dumb. Not that he trusts you at all, engine grumbling as loudly as he dares with the Autobot so close. And you flatten yourself against the wall to scoot past him, keeping just out of reach. Tensing as you get to the opening, he waits for you to bolt. Knows it’ll get the Prime’s attention. That his luck has finally ran out.

• Biting your lip and hoping you’re not making a terrible mistake, you hit the button to close the garage door. Aware of the thing staring at you, still growling. And it scoots itself, a leg dragging and you freeze. Because now you can’t squeeze by without getting within grabbing range. It’s head tips, visor still flickering and you lift a hand. “Hi,” you say, realizing you’re trapped. Now you remember the Terminator theme.

• Had you just protected him? Why? Moving slowly, he lifts his own hand to mimic your greeting and you bare your little teeth at him. Are you smiling? Painfully shifting your get his back against the wall, he lays his head back. Watching you edge closer to him. You’re no threat, too little to hurt him. Gritting his denta behind his mask, he vents softly.

[muletia]

I'M BAAAACKKKKK

Here, have some angst written at 3 am

:3

A headcanon of mine is that Optimus is so obsessed with keeping you safe because he has already lost Elita, and he'll be damned if he lets his second love die as well. Optimus probably gets horrible flashbacks anytime when you're in danger :c

Do you know about that TFP deleted scene? The one where Optimus punches Ratchet after an argument about his decision-making skills? Imagine you just happen to pass by, and you hear:

"Where's Elita now?"

*BLAM!*

You've never seen Optimus lose control like that. You let out a gasp, and only then does he notice you're in the room with them. You decide to give Optimus time to calm down so you leave.

A few days later, after the whole Synth-En problem has been dealt with, you visit the autobot base. There's an awkward silence between you and Optimus, and when you finally ask:

"Who's Elita?"

What happens next? Well, I'm not sure, but Optimus sure knows one thing...

War took the love of his life once. It won't happen again.

Anyway, I love making myself sad :)

hello there Leri <3

oooooohhhh love me some overprotective angst deluxe

It’s a shame they decided to cut that scene, but honestly, it doesn’t fit Optimus’ character in tfp. He would never hit his friend knowing they were under the influence of space crack (bayverse Optimus, on the other hand...).

Ahhh, so many uncertainties swirl in Optimus’ processor after you witnessed his loss of control. Will you be afraid of him? Will you hate him? He wouldn’t be surprised if you wanted to sever your bond with him, no matter how much he wishes to nurture it further.

So he gives you space for a few days. He doesn’t show up at your driveway during patrols, and doesn’t message, though his worry about the future of your relationship eats him alive. The fact that he can’t actively protect you also weighs heavily on his processor — especially after your conversation about his late beloved, who lost her life in exactly that way. Because he failed her.

Pathetic, unworthy. A disgraceful Prime. A stain on honor to all his predecessors.

It’s easy to spiral into self-loathing, but more than punishing himself, Optimus wants to see you alive. He must focus on the present but also the future if he wants to weave it with you. He will protect you. At any cost, from any danger. Will not make such a terrible mistake again.

Ahhhh, the question about Elita — ugh, that will be so hard for him. But a conversation about a deceased ex, lost on the battlefield, with the one who now holds his heart can only be handled properly by Optimus. It won’t happen without regret over broken promises and guilt about things left undone. Maybe even tears if you’re at the stage where Optimus allows emotions to seep through the cracked mask of the Prime. But he will certainly make it clear to you that he will protect you at the cost of his own life.

He will never allow any harm to come to you…

[suugarbabe]

Lovely lovely Sab, I have another thought for you 🫡

Imagine kind, loving, sweet Enzo getting super pissed and lashing out at Snape in class after he's said something really mean to reader. And Snape's actual low key scared because we all know sweet Enzo is the actual psycho of the group and his quite, direct anger is terrifying coming from someone so sunshine-esque ✌️

Enjoy the day dream love, and happy belated new year 😘

hi keke my love my darling i love you. I struggled a liiiiittle with how to make enzo seem psycho but also not too far from how i normally write him so i did kind of go for like a threatening menacing psycho versus physical violence towards a professor. i hope this is good enough if not please tell me i suck <3

Lip held between teeth your do your best to continue concentrating on the order you're supposed to add your ingredients. Potions was your worst class. Not for lack of knowledge; or even lack of ability. Outside of the classroom you would almost be labeled of proficient, rivaling even that of Blaise Zabini.

But in the potions classroom you might as well be a squib. What was the difference you ask? That would be one Professor Severus Snape. He glides in front of your and Enzo's table just as you're adding the infusion of wormwood. You knew this particular potion called for four shakes exactly. Any more and there would be an explosion of smoke.

Snape's piercing black eyes watching you had your hands shaking. Enzo's placed his hand on the small of your back in a soothing gesture, trying silently to help you stay focused, to breathe. But Snape continued to watch. Each agonizingly slow shake you made his eyebrow rose higher, a low humming noise in the back of his throat.

And it's that noise that has you losing count of how many shakes you've already added, leading to you adding just one too many. You can see the potion start to turn the wrong color, and the top begin to bubble in the wrong way. Enzo has a grip on the back of your robes like he's about to pull you down under the table for protection.

But Snape is quick to correct your mistake more as a means to not have to clean his classroom, or his robes, because of your error than really any care for you. "You're lucky I knew you'd fail. If I weren't prepared your mistake would've destroyed part of my classroom," Snape looked down his long crooked nose with a look of disdain. "I should deduct house points for your incompetency. A sure disgrace to the pureblood you're supposed to be."

Enzo's hand on your back quickly fisted the material. A surefire sign he was angry. "Careful how you talk to them, professor. They're technically ranked higher than you in society, isn't that what you believe?" Enzo's tone wasn't loud. Purposely not drawing attention to anyone else in the class who were still working diligently as to not be Snape's next victims.

Snape straightened at Enzo's statement, hands still behind his back as though he were not truly bothered by the teenager in front of him but there was no missing the flair in his nostrils, "I have no knowledge of what you mean, Berkshire. But if I were you, I'd watch how you talk to a professor."

Enzo's head tilted slightly, a smirk of a grin forming on his lips that you only ever see when he's going to go for a kill. "Well you're a half blood, aren't you professor?" Enzo's biting his lip as his grin is growing; Snape is glowering. "Wouldn't that make you...below them?"

Snape slams his hands down on the table in front of you, causing you to jump back slightly and a few others to look your way. "Eye's on your own cauldrons," Snape spat, everyone's heads quickly turned back to their own work.

He leaned in closer towards Enzo, a raging whisper spitting from his lips as he spoke, "How dare you speak to me that way, boy. Do you forget who I am?"

You've not seen it personally too many times, but you've heard about it from Mattheo and Theo. The switch that sometimes flips within Enzo when he's getting angry. Around you he's usually good at controlling it. But for some reason Snape must have struck a nerve.

The switch was palpable in the air, in his energy that shifted. Enzo placed his hands on the table opposite his professor, leaning forward to shorten the distance. Even though it was a whisper, his voice was still coated in the thickness of what seemed like a threat, "Do you forget who I am? I've seen you at those meetings professor."

A snarl overtook Snape's features, "You don't know what you are talking about, boy." Enzo let out a low laugh, eyes casting down to the table as his tongue ran over his teeth with a smile, "Oh I know exactly what I'm talking about, Professor. I know more than you think; am being taught more than you think. You created a spell when you were a student, didn't you?"

Snape stayed silent, eyes darting back and forth with Enzo's who's seemed to get darker by the moment. "Curious to find out what spells I've come up with? Wonder if they're just as...dangerous."

"Enz!" you whisper shouted through your teeth, "did you just threaten a professor?" You were getting nervous, but Enzo never appeared more confident than in this moment. He picked up some extra ingredients in his hands, "Don't worry love, nothings going to happen. Snape here is actually going to excuse us early from class."

"And why...would I do that," Snape was doing a poor job at keeping his composure, arms now crossed as he responded through gritted teeth. Enzo dropped the billywig wings into the cauldron, "Because in about twenty seconds that little...mistake of mine is going to coat anyone within a five foot radius in sticky black smoke. So we're going to have to leave early to change for our next course."

By time he finished speaking the potion began bubbling once more, Snape hurrying to back away as Enzo held you still in place. With a loud pop and a few laughs from peers you and Enzo now found yourselves coated in a thin black sludge.

"Eugh, gross," you shook your hands towards the floor, plops of essence of your potion hitting the dungeon floor with a splatting noise. Enzo simply wore a devilish grin, keeping a challenging eye contact with the professor.

Snape pointed a long and boney finger towards the door, "Out! The both of you. Go clean yourselves up and get out of my sight at once!" You nodded your head quickly, still intimidated to speak. Enzo just gave a curt nod, still smiling, "Of course, Professor."

[dedise]

comprehensive list of things CriMi fans need to accept:

both JJ and Reid were valid in their reactions in season 7: JJ didn't have a choice, as much as she saw her friends hurting if she had told just one of them that Emily was alive Emily's life would have been in serious danger; likewise, Spencer had a right to be hurt by it, and as a recovering addict it's fair that he might have thought of relapsing. both points of view were fair, JJ's comment on Reid's profiling skills was probably made so that Spencer would talk to her

people getting hung up on Rossi's comment of what he had done to the black kid when he was a child in the 60's (or around then) are incapable of accepting that people can change, and that the world isn't black and white. wether it truly happened or not, it happened during a time period where racism was, in fact, the norm, and where Rossi might not have had an easy time either (Italians weren't exactly liked by Americans at first, that's a fact). it was poor person versus poor person, an unlucky and uncomfortable situation. the fact he was wrong in his actions doesn't mean he wasn't able to grow and become better, people change

JJ's character ended up being used to shoulder everyone else, she was demonished in lieu of elevating others

Derek's "Devil's advocate" persona was unnerving, he was never right in his assumptions. sometimes he was an horrible friend, referencing to when Penelope wanted to visit the guy that almost killed her and Reid in the season 9 finale. get a grip my dude, emotions are conflicting

as much of a light in the darkness Penelope is, she was objectively too much sometimes. her being unable to keep secrets is not quirky or cute, it's embarassing. y'all defend her because she is a fictional character, if you had someone like her around you probably wouldn't be able to stand her

Hotch leaving the way he did did not make sense. he didn't leave when his wife was murdered while their son was in the house, bfr

Jason was NOT a good mentor. he brutally ignored Spencer's addiction (technically it was his problem, as Reid was his protegé), called Hotch on his birthday even tho he had the weekend off, and probably knew Hotch and Haley were having issues. he was kind of a dick tbh

Haley had her rights. she married a lawyer, not a fed. they had a child. she was worried and wanted her son to have a father, and Hotch to know his son

fans baby Spencer way too much. he's a grown ass man, the fact he's "hot" doesn't mean he can't make mistakes. "uwu autistic" he's an adult

the CriMi writers jump from one money bag to the other; when Hotch left Spencer became the sole focus of everything, now that Spencer isn't in the show anymore they're queerbaiting with Jemily, and their quirky one liners for Voit are just cringe

they're trying to paint Voit as the new Foyet, only problem is that Foyet was actually terrifying, and had a sarcastic and cynical sense of humor. Voit tries, and fails

Evolution is NOT good. the team went from incredibly smart to a bunch of idiots, Voit did not need to appear for season 17, let alone 18. Bailey's "master plan" to dismember the BAU is empty, he tells them "don't", they do, and nothing happens to them. he's there as a place holder because the writers needed a way to reach the 45 minute episode mark

the "family dynamic" in Evolution does not exist. they left Rossi to his own devices for a whole year, where's the family in that?

Luke Alvez is a good character, argue with the wall

"BAU gate" existed for years, the Unit Chiefs knew, yet Hotch didn't say anything, or Penelope (master hacker) wasn't able to close it and track the creator? yeah, no, that plotline sucks

Will DOES NOT deserve the hate he gets. he's a great husband, great father, Jemily shippers are hating on him because it gets in the way of their fantasy ship

back to Derek, when he was angry he said hurtful stuff indeed, unfortunately tho some people do react that way, it's very realistic (also considering that due to what happened when he was child, he tends to be distrustful). he's very well written, and people ignore that at his core he is a teddy bear. he's complex, and it is interesting to see the two worlds collide lmao

every BAU member is human, they all have good and bad qualities, humans are not monodimensional

maybe I left something out, lmk your thoughts (asks are open if you wish to stay anonymous)

[hemoglobinjuicebox]

I want this nerdy wizard man carnally

You stared at him, mouth agape. “You want to do what, exactly?”

Gale shut his book and set it on his nightstand. He turned, propping himself up on his elbow to look at you with those wholesome brown eyes and that cheeky little smile.

“It's just an experiment,” he said. “It's no soul-intertwining metaphysical love-making, but I believe just a touch of magic could make our time in the bedroom just a bit better. Only with your express permission, of course. Just say the word, and we'll be right back to the good old fashioned romp in an instant.”

You were still hesitant, but you decided to humor him. “What would this ‘touch of magic’ entail?”

“It could entail a multitude of things depending on how you want to use it. Mage Hand is a very variable spell.”

You let out a breath of disbelief. “Mage Hand? Is that safe, Gale?”

His face was that of a kicked pup’s. The very notion of him doing anything to hurt you made every inch of his body ache. He drew closer and wrapped you in his arms. His chin sat stop your head, his hands rubbing the curves of your hips. By instinct, you snuggled up to him, tucking your face in the warm crook of his neck.

“It's safe,” he murmured. “But I'd never want you to do anything you didn't want to do. You've been through that enough.”

The two of you lazed in your silence. His lips occasionally brushed your forehead or your temple. Your hands gently scratched his nape and his back, getting all the spots he could never reach alone. Yet, your thoughts lingered elsewhere.

Knowing Gale, if he said something was safe, it most certainly was. He’d never want to hurt you. You were his everything; he repeated it daily. He would likely do so until he drew his last breath.

A touch of magic couldn't hurt, could it?

You spoke up. “Gale?”

He let out a low hum of acknowledgment. You swallowed.

“I… I want to do it.”

He pulled back from you, his hands still resting on your hips. His eyes gleamed with excitement. In the firelight, dim just enough for you to see him and hardly anything more, you could almost mistake them for pools of gold. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and whispered:

“You won't regret it. I promise.”

You soon found yourself reclining against the headboard with your legs spread, cushioned by every pillow Gale could find. There was one for your head, one for your upper back, two for your lower back, and one to keep your hips up. Gale knelt between your knees, keeping your thighs apart with loving hands that explored everywhere they could reach.

“Do you want me to use it before or after you're prepared?” he asked.

You replied swiftly, “After. I… I want your hands first.”

“Your wish is my command. Now, shall we?”

You nodded and took a deep breath. His hand came up to cradle your flushed cheek. The other rubbed small circles around your bud, eliciting a series of lewd noises from your lips. Your thighs twitched with every touch.

“Gods,” Gale breathed. “Look at you. There's nothing more beautiful than the way you look right now. How you always look. How you looked since you first pulled me from that portal and saved my life.”

He caught your lips in a brief, sweet kiss. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

Every tender word, every stroke brought you closer and closer. You could feel it building: that special heat that filled your entire body. It made your eyes blur. Sweat glistened on your neck and chest. Your core dripped with your need for him.

You heard the ethereal wisp of magic forming. You saw the glowing blue through the misty haze of your tears. You shuddered as the two digits grazed your folds with a featherlight stroke, the Weave humming against your sensitive skin.

Then, they pushed. You let out a wanton moan as you struggled to take their girth. Gale's thumb loved on your bud as the Mage Hand's fingers curled inside you, hitting exactly where you wanted them to with every thrust. You could barely make out Gale's encouragement as the fingers ravished your core.

Your walls pulsed. Your breathing quickened to short, sharp gasps. Your hands gripped the sheets so tightly that they threatened to rip—

You threw your head back with a cry of pure ecstasy as you came on the fingers of the Mage Hand. Your soaked core fluttered and clenched, drenching the Weave in your release.

Gale leaned in and pressed a long kiss to your lips. He pulled away with a soft whisper:

“You are wonderful.”

[acepalindrome]

Based on The Flame Eternal, it’s canon that Johanna will go places and do things she’s doesn’t want to if she thinks Emmrich needs protecting. She’ll bitch and complain and act like he forced her, but she’ll do it. Somebody has to make sure he doesn’t get himself killed.

After multiple unsuccessful attempts to get Johanna to come with him to parties by way of pleading, bribing, trying to convince her that she’d enjoy it, and pulling the old ‘it would make me ever so happy if my best friend in the world came with me,’ Emmrich decides to appeal to Johanna’s protective side AND her love of vengeance by mentioning that one of the attendees at the party will be that motherfucker who publicly humiliated Emmrich at the Post-Mortem Communications Conference by falsely accusing Emmrich of plagiarism.

It was, of course, complete hogwash. Anyone who knew Emmrich even in passing knows he would sooner die than stoop to plagiarism, and that’s from the guy with severe thanatophobia! The guy making the accusation, on the other hand, had clearly borrowed very generously from Emmrich’s paper on the capacity for literacy among spirits, so he was definitely trying to cover up any suspicion coming his way by throwing Emmrich under the carriage. The accusation was dismissed fairly quickly and the damage to Emmrich’s reputation was mostly repaired in a few months, but the bastard in question got away with a mere reprimand because he knew enough people in the right places to claim that it was just an honest mistake.

Emmrich was furious and more than a little hurt that a colleague he thought he got along decently with would do something so cruel. Johanna, on the other hand, was ready to spill blood over it. Plagiarism is already an offense that should be punishable by death, in Johanna’s opinion, but accusing Emmrich of such a vile deed? Johanna’s best friend favorite rival and best lab partner? Unforgivable. Death is too good for him. She is not letting Emmrich go this this party without her. What if that piece of shit tries to pull something again?

She’s so fired up and fuming about the whole thing that Emmrich is able to drag her out to buy new clothes for the party with him, and she only complained about half the time! The rest of the time was spent scheming about exactly what she’s going to do if that fucker tries anything, but this is progress. Yes, yes, you’ll stab him with an hors d'oeuvre fork if he breathes in my direction, but what do you think of this waistcoat? Is the pattern too garish?

He realizes that perhaps this technique of getting Johanna to go outside her lab wasn’t the best, because she isn’t socializing at all. She’s just lurking by the buffet, aggressively eating fancy cheeses and glaring at That Guy from across the room. Later Emmrich catches her trying to slip something into his drink.

“Relax, Volkarin! It’s not poison, it’s just concentrated Nevarran dragon pepper extract. It won’t kill him, but he might wish it did when he feels like he’s shitting out fire later! Now go mingle on the other side of the room so you have an alibi if anyone tries to pin this on you.”

Emmrich is a man of morals, but he’s also a man who thinks psychologically torturing someone for selling him a fake charm is acceptable, and someone who thinks this bitch got off way too easy for what he did. He casually goes off to chat with some friends elsewhere and keeps pleasantly sipping his wine when there’s an agonized scream and great deal of commotion across the room. The criminal ends up turning over the punch bowl in his haste to try to extinguish the fire in his mouth. Oh my. What shameful behavior at a party.

Johanna decides she’ll go to the next party Emmrich invites her to. If he wants to invite her. Whatever. She doesn’t care what he does. Obviously.

[scrabbleg]

as promised, MORE GAIA!!! got the full design from the wonderful GoowahGoon on instagram and i literally cannot stop thinking about her at any given point so HERE IS SOME LORE:

Working as a negotiator and diplomat for the Mud Kingdom on behalf of Queen Evermore, Gaia is skilled with her words and talented with persuasion -- however, like everyone, she is not infallible. Normally, this would not bother her, but when an important meeting with the SkyWing queen goes wrong, caused by a slip of the tongue, she finds herself lamenting over her failure.

It is after this, during a long walk in the woods, that she encounters a strange dragon -- a merchant, friendly and understanding, who offers a place to rest and a listening ear. In her stress, Gaia can't help but confess her situation, describing to the stranger just what happened -- strangely, the merchant does not seem surprised in the slightest by her words. Instead of consolation, he offers her a solution -- an amulet, enchanted by an animus of the distant past, that will grant her the ability to speak without flaw or mistake, and to persuade and twist minds as easily as one could shape clay. In spite of Gaia's skepticism, the merchant urges her to take it, if only for the beauty and unnerving similarities it shared with the jewelry she already owns.

She accepts his offer and just as quickly as he appeared, the merchant vanishes, the only trace that he had been there to begin with being the amulet in Gaia's clutches. After trial and error, she quickly discovers that the merchant had been truthful in his tale about the amulet -- it does exactly as he had said. Dragons believe her almost immediately when she speaks, even when she lies, which she avoids as much as she can -- situations that usually would have taken effort to control are now smoothed over with nothing but a few calming words. Her job becomes infinitely easier, and quickly she becomes known and renowned for her success, especially during times of war.

It takes several years for the true cost -- curse -- of her new charmspeak capabilities to become known to her. It starts with the tips of her claws and tail, primarily where she already has vitiligo; the scales and keratin, over time, begin to turn to gold, replacing organic material with solid metal. A strange side effect, Gaia finds no problems with the development -- the success she has achieved with the amulet's aid is worth too much for her to lose it over something so simple. Over time, however, the symptoms grow more severe -- gold replaces her scales, claws, and eventually bones, though not the muscle and tissue. It leads to arthritis and pain in her joints, making everyday tasks much more painful -- even still, she refuses to give up using the amulet.

and here's without background and shading because I LVOE HER DESIGN SHES STUNNING

[spacebabesuki]

Ok, I know it’s silly, so bear with me, but I’m genuinely over the moon about hitting 500 views and 36 kudos in just one week on my first-ever work on AO3.

I’ve been writing Hellcheer on Brazilian platforms for nearly three years now, and while I somehow ended up with the most-read fic in the category—not because it’s the best (it’s far from that), but simply because I had the luck of being the first to write about Hellcheer there—I’ve always been absolutely terrified of writing in English since it’s not my native language. Honestly, I’ve been toying with the idea of posting on AO3 since 2022, but every time I’d get too scared, convinced it would turn out bad or full of mistakes, so I’d just abandon the thought.

Knowing that people are actually reading it, even now in 2025, with the ship nearly forgotten 😭—and seeing them leave so many thoughtful, kind comments while asking for more of this chaotic, unhinged story—makes me feel so, so grateful and genuinely happy. <3

And I’m so sorry for the emotional mess—I’m just a girl doing something silly that she’s wanted to do for over 3 years but only just now found the courage to try, at not exactly the best time, but yayyyy!

And if you haven’t read it yet, here’s the chaotic mess I’m talking about:

Ah, the summer of 1988... warm winds in the air, the sun burning high, and laughter spilling out of the fun fair. Ice cream dripping down sticky fingers, lollipops melting under the unforgiving heat. Girls in short skirts and cowboy boots, popcorn salt mingling with the sugary pull of candy. Bon Jovi on the radio, beer cans cracking open, milkshakes shared between glossy lips.

It was the kind of summer that felt too perfect to last.

And, well... it didn’t.

A string of brutal murders begins to haunt the town, each victim tied by one thing: they were high school royalty, the so-called "kings" who ruled the halls with arrogance and cruelty. And then there’s Chrissy Cunningham—queen of short skirts, killer smiles, and, apparently, next on the masked murderer’s list.

...

Or basically, it’s a story where he’s the killer, she’s his little victim... or maybe not? Hmm, hard to say. There’s a lot of blood, cowboy boots, and questionable choices.

[jo-harrington]

Corroded Coffin Fest Pop-Up: Birthday Boy Prompts: Gift, 21

Summary: Every year for his birthday, Eddie gets a special gift. When they stop coming, he feels an unexpected way about it.

Word Count: 1502

Rating: T

Warnings/Themes: No Upside Down AU, Friendship, Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Unseen Character Death

Notes: Thanks to @corrodedcoffinfest for another fantastic pop-up. I’m glad to be able to get back into these. I missed one and it was like I was missing a part of myself.

This entry is one that doesn’t make the most sense, logically, to a canon Eddie. But, like many other things, this is incredibly personal and something I’ve been wanting to write for a while. So I’m using this prompt as an excuse to do it for myself. It’s not my exact story, but it’s taking from both of my grandmothers. Nonna, who spoke English very well but couldn’t read or write it. And Babcia, who knew no English and I, of course, knew no polish. Still, she wrote novels in all of her cards to me. And my piece of shit father always refused to translate them. Eddie, you deserve all the love of a dearest grandparent, so I’m loaning you some of mine.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

He doesn’t know why he cares.

There are plenty of other things to think about today; it is his 21st birthday, after all.

But there are some things you just take for granted when you’re younger, and when they suddenly aren’t there anymore, you can’t help but realize the mistake you made. Hindsight is 20/20 and all that shit.

He used to only care about the crisp $20 bill that was tucked into the cards. A fresh note, straight from the bank. Used to buy toys, then candy, then books, then records. For birthdays and christmases and Easters.

Eventually he paid attention to the cards themselves. Pretty things with cartoons and pictures and, on birthdays, the numbers coinciding with the age he achieved. There were inscriptions inside, lengthy passages in fancy handwriting that he couldn’t read.

Not because they were illegible. He simply could not read them.

Dniu Urozdin. Wesołych Świąt.

Paragraphs upon paragraphs of words. And he wasn’t sure what they meant. Or the emotion that he was supposed to feel reading them.

“But who are they from?” He asked Wayne once when he was finally old enough for curiosity to spark.

“Your grandma,” was the simple response. But he knew no grandma, beyond old Nana Munson who passed right after his mom did. “I’ve told you that before.”

There was no return address for him to send a letter back to, no telephone number for him to call. Just a simple “Kocham cie, Busia” at the bottom of the novel his supposed-grandma wrote.

“Buss-ee-ah,” he pronounced slowly, and then looked to his uncle again. It felt wrong on his tongue. Not only in English but somehow also whatever that language was. He felt it in his gut. “Is that her name?”

Wayne scratched his chin, and looked at him sadly, then explained that he had only met Elizabeth’s mother once. Twice, at most? A small, elderly woman who spoke English very well—if accented—but apparently couldn’t write it much. He couldn’t remember her name or address or anything that would be useful in contacting her.

Of course, Al would have been some kind of help, but a long lost grandmother wasn’t exactly the first—or last—thought on any of their minds when the eldest Munson deigned to come to town.

”I’m sorry Ed,” Wayne whispered and mashed a hand on top of Eddie’s buzzed curls. “Maybe one day she’ll put her phone number in.”

Of course, by that time Eddie had developed some degree of self-loathing, and he chalked it up to a grandma who felt obligated enough to send a card, but didn’t care enough to really want to know her only grandson.

That’s when the cards started getting put away. In a drawer. Out of sight, out of mind til the next one came. Then the $20 bill would be slid into a wallet and the card would join the rest.

“Thanks Busia,” Eddie would whisper and offer a stiff and sarcastic salute as he slid the drawer closed. It never really felt right, but his hardened heart couldn’t care much more than that.

Jeff had seen them once, the stack of cards in his nightstand. He’d stayed the night and had been snooping.

“What’re these?” He asked, a laugh partially escaping from his mouth. A dozen greeting cards with illegible stories inside.

“They’re my lore,” Eddie explained, only slightly sarcastically. “I just haven’t leveled up enough to read them yet.”

“Guess you need to find a better DM,” Jeff joked back. He took one more look at the gently written closing, then slid it back into its home.

More time passed, more $20 bills spent.

But now, it was Eddie’s 21st birthday. Nothing in the mailbox. Nothing waiting for him on the counter amidst the bills and circulars. Nothing.

He didn’t think much of it at first. Distantly, during lunch, he wondered if the snowstorm that had blown through the previous week had delayed the mail at all. Because Busia’s cards always came through on time. Always.

So that had to be it.

And he tried to make excuses. Because it was just a card. Just a $20 bill. They weren't important; he didn't know why he cared.

Beer was drunk, weed was smoked, fun was had with his friends, who gifted him with new cassettes and a leather-bound notebook for him to write his stories.

But the next day, the only birthday gift waiting for him was a hangover.

Nothing the next day. Or the next.

“Nothing for me?” He asked Wayne anxiously a week after his special day.

And Wayne knew what it was he was asking for, even though he hadn’t said it aloud.

A hand was clamped down on his shoulder.

“She was old,” Wayne whispered. “Same age as Nana Munson, I’ll bet.”

The words rang in Eddie’s ears, an uncomfortable ringing, even as Wayne tried to blame the lack of a card of forgetfulness.

Because there had been a Christmas Card. And Eddie’s birthday had only been a month later. She wouldn’t have forgotten. Not after she’d sent one for almost two whole decades.

He sat at home late that night, in the dim light of his bedroom, trying to decipher something from those cards. Some kind of hint that Busia would excuse the lack of a birthday card. Maybe in a language he didn't understand, she would explain that she was having surgery or going on a trip, and that her birthday gift would be late this year.

Deep down, as he saw her beautiful handwriting get messier as the years went by, he knew why there was no card.

And he sat there every night, for days, amidst the only thing he had from his grandmother, mourning something that he never really had at all.

Jeff stopped by on the third day, backpack clutched in his hand, and he pulled the comforter off of his supposedly sleeping friend.

"Wake up! Come on, we've got character sheets to write! Gah, it smells like stale Cheetos and farts in here." Jeff laughed, then stopped, as he spotted the stack of cards beside Eddie's supine form. "Oh no."

"I'm feeling human feelings, Jeffy," Eddie groaned and curled up on his side. "Avert your eyes."

Jeff huffed a sigh and plopped down on the edge of the bed. "If anyone knows how many human feelings you have, Ed, it's me."

He tried to reach for one of the cards and Eddie had the audacity to hiss at him.

"What if I said I had a present for you?"

Of course, that piqued the older boy's interest.

Jeff heaved his backpack over his shoulder and rooted through it, searching for small object that he'd been keeping for a while.

"I've had it for a while," he explained. "I didn't want to...listen Ed I know how much you keep things close to the chest sometimes. But Timmy Kaminski was my lab partner last year, before we graduated. I recognized something in that one Christmas card. He calls his grandma 'Busia' too."

Eddie groaned and ran a hand over his face.

"I don't call her Busia," Eddie scoffed. "I don't call her anything. I don't even have a grand--"

But Jeff shoved a book in Eddie's face. A small yellow paperback thing, edges a little worn from being tossed around Jeff's backpack, but otherwise relatively new.

Polish to English Dictionary.

Eddie hesitantly took the book from Jeff and stared at it.

"I'm not gonna pry," Jeff said softly. "But obviously...obviously something upset you. Because of these cards. And last time...last time they upset you, you said that you hadn't leveled up enough to know what they said yet. So I decided I would take over as DM...and Level 21 is enough to start unlocking basic translation as a skill."

"But--"

"You know enough Klingon and Sindarin, you might as well learn what your god damn birthday cards say! I'll even help you, damn it!"

Jeff stared at Eddie expectantly.

And Eddie felt the pit that had formed in his stomach over the past few days begin to close a bit.

There was a pang in his chest as he sat up and stared at all the cards surrounding him. The little yellow book might as well have been made of gold, how much it suddenly meant to him.

"Thanks Jeff," he muttered, holding back tears.

"Of course, man," the younger boy nodded and patted a hand on his shoulder. "And if you ever...ever want to talk...you know I'm here. God knows I've talked your ear off plenty."

"Yeah you have," Eddie snarked, earning a scoff.

He was about to pick up a card, ready to begin the slow process of translating it.

However, an idea struck him, and he began flipping through the book.

Not an idea. Words. Simple words that he'd read over and over for years, let alone the last few days.

He reached the page, and he felt his heart grow.

Kocham cie. I love you.

*a handful of cards I had gotten over the years. I (proxied by my mother when I was too young to know) kept them all. The oldest card I have is from my first birthday in 1995. I hope she knows how loved they are.

[valeriefauxnom]

The Only Tierlist that Matters(tm)

'Best in Element' this, 'Best character that'...

Here's the only thing that you need to know about Dragalia and its lore: who's the best at Alberian Chess.

A fair portion of this is both evidenced and guesswork. Evidenced guesswork? I'll just walk through my analysis for anyone going ??.

In short, I think Leonidas is the best chess player shown. Leif outright states him to be a 'particularly cunning opponent' in comparison to Chelle and Phares, whom he both considers very skilled. Leonidas is the only one to have beaten Leif.

So if 1st and 2nd are locked, I'd say it's a more blurry picture between Phares and Chelle. Chelle I put lower just for the fact she explicitly finds Alberian chess a bit 'too restrictive' in rules and thus might not be quite as studious or caring of its games, and with Phares seemingly capable of getting Leonidas heated while appearing calm himself in "A Royal Tea Party", I think he might be better by at least a little bit. We know the current Chelle vs. Leif meta is a Leif win (though starting to tax/surprise him), but alas, we've no Phares-Chelle or Phares-Leif matchup to settle the big dog league for good.

A tier brings in Regina, who is only A just because I don't have any evidence to suggest how she might stack up against our formidable S-tiers. She's also native in a different variety of Alberian Chess, which further complicates how she could adapt against the southern rules most other players use here. In her own league, who knows? She could be S.

Discount Deku-looking-creature- er, Eugene, is shown to be a very skilled player, and yet his record is 0-2 vs. Leif, Leif not feeling incredibly threatened both times, and so A he goes.

Valyx here is mostly from a lack of evidence, as we never really see him play chess to my knowledge, but Leif at least will endorse him to be a skilled player. For Leif, no.2, that counts for something, and so into A he goes. We would need more sibling match-ups to see how he stacks up against his elders.

Ilia is similarly fuzzy in exact placement but we do know that Leonidas does not feel threatened by her, implying at least some tangible gulf in talent that I think bumps her down at least one tier. That being said, he also compliments her as skilled in reading his intent in chess, which, since Leo is no.1, having good reads on him is likely a very strong point to succeeding in Alberian chess. Besides, if it's 'Alberian' chess to begin with, she very well might have only recently learned the game, as Alberia as a state only started to exist 700 years after her time. That she's this good already is impressive!

Aurien provides some distinguishment between himself and Eugene by losing against him. He's still high up because Euden is very surprised he lost, and had made it in the chess tournament far. He seems to be pretty keen on the strategic understanding of the game, as well.

Falling all the way to D, we've Pinon, who understands some of the principles of strategy, etc, but still is inclined to making big mistakes for players like Regina to exploit. Even when she tries to bring back and challenge Regina with the southern rules she's learned from her travels there, Regina can still beat her comfortably.

Euden just wanted to be in 'E' tier because of his name No, it's mostly because he only just started learning at Gala Leif time in canon. And Euden... doesn't exactly seem to have a natural gift, as, per him when learning:

Or, more eloquently,

In short, he's not quite 'moving pieces at random' F tier for a complete novice, but we just have no evidence he's grown since. He's simply too busy fighting a war and having identity crises and stopping the Halidom from being blown up for the 3rd time today to have much time to practice, either. That being said, since Leif was the one to first start instructing him, he might very well have an edge when it comes to getting better over time!