#i'm writing this instead of writing fics i'm sorry

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

38 for bucktommy please? 👀

"because they're running out of time" oh god okay

He wasn't supposed to run in, but no one was going to stop him without chaining him to an engine.

The call had come through the radio, choppy and unclear, but Buck understood perfectly: the southwest corner of the building hadn't been clear, and Tommy was there when it collapsed.

He'd dropped the hose he was rolling up and sprinted, ignoring shouts and grabbing hands, and he'd ran and pushed his way through rubble until he was at a wall of concrete and metal. He'd dug out a small hole and crawled through, barely making it through before the small tunnel collapsed behind him.

And now he's kneeling next to Tommy, who has a piece of rebar through his side and is staring at the hole in the ceiling with a dazed expression. There's blood, and Buck feels helpless. He's not a medic, he's not Chimney or Hen or Eddie. All he can do after he reports through his crackling radio is pull the glove off Tommy's hand and hold it.

"Hey," Tommy says faintly, his voice slurring just a little. "You shouldn' be here."

"Yeah, I should," Buck says, squeezing his hand and smiling when Tommy squeezes back just a little. "I don't wanna be anywhere else."

Tommy blinks at him, and Buck sees tears roll down his temples. "The lake?"

"Yeah, maybe there," Buck concedes with a wet, painful laugh.

They'd meticulously looked for the perfect place to get married and settled on Lake Arrowhead after finding a spot that felt right. They're almost two months away from the day, and Buck hopes beyond hope that they'll get to be there together.

"'M cold," Tommy confesses, sniffling. "'M not--I'm sorry."

Buck shushes him and pushes his helmet off his head so he can bend down and kiss Tommy's forehead. "Don't be sorry. Just--just keep talking. They'll be right behind me. I took off like Kevin used to."

"At the fair?" Tommy recalls, and Buck nods. "Mm. Shouldn' do that."

"Well, I'm not two," Buck points out, and Tommy smiles.

There's pounding behind them. Buck had dropped his oxygen tank outside the rubble, and it's as good as a trail of breadcrumbs.

"See? They're almost here," he says, his other hand tipping Tommy's face toward his. "And then you'll get to be in the hospital, and I'll have to sleep on that fold out chair thing that makes our backs hurt. And then you'll come home, and you'll try to get up too much, and I'll have to sit through all eleven Star Wars movies so you'll stay put."

Tommy nods, but his eyes are slipping shut and his face is going gray.

"Tommy," he says, harsh and frantic, and Tommy's eyes open. "You can't go."

The back of Tommy's other hand brushes his jaw, and Tommy nods. "I'll try."

Buck bends and kisses him, willing Tommy to kiss back firmly, the way he does when Buck's in a panic about something. All he gets is a barely there press, and then Tommy makes a soft noise that might be a word.

"They're almost here," Buck says again, hearing the shouting getting closer. "Just a couple more minutes. You can do anything for a couple of minutes."

Tommy's lips move, but there's no sound. Buck turns his head and screams for help. As he does, a block of concrete drops to the ground next to them, and Hen's face appears.

"Tommy, they're here," he says, looking down at his fiancé. Tommy's eyes are closed, and his breathing is shallow. "Tommy, wake up!"

He presses his lips to Tommy's again, and he almost sobs when there's just the slightest hint of pressure against his mouth.

"There's still time," he says, as much to himself as Tommy.

When Hen stumbles through, she turns and yanks Chimney through while other people keep digging and reinforcing.

"We're taking the rebar with us," Chimney says as they work. "And then he and I get to have matching scars. But right now, you need to help me. We're running out of time."

Buck puts his helmet on and gets to work.

[posh--bee]

falling for you (into the deep end) || Aaron Hotchner

pairing → Aaron Hotchner x Reader

summary → One second, you're standing next to your father's pool, ready for a cold drink on a hot summer day, and the next you're suddenly falling into said pool with a man you have never met before in your life. A man who shortly after introduces himself as Aaron Hotchner to you, your father's unit chief and friend. Yep, this is definitely your worst nightmare come to life.

warnings → meet-cute, fem!reader, rossi!reader, reader has rossi's last name, reader wears a bikini, reader is down bad immediately, Aaron is the sweetest guy ever, but also down bad, a cuss word here and there, short description of a hypothetical crime, no y/n used

author’s note → I wanted to write something for Hotch, preferably with a reader who is Rossi's daughter. Throw in a quirky and slightly awkward meet-cute and voilà—here we are! I'm pretty sure Rossi's mansion doesn't have a pool, but who cares, now it does! This fic kinda developed a life of its own near the end so let me know what you think about it <3

word count → 4.8k

masterlist(s)

The soft ripple of the pool's aquamarine water rocks you gently, caressing your sun-warmed skin, the smell of chlorine, sunscreen, and what can only be described as summer tickling your nose.

The leaves of the trees surrounding your father's property rustle in a lazy breeze and you open your eyes, the clear sky that greets you as brilliantly blue as the water you're floating in, your arms and legs spread like you're mimicking a very happy and very relaxed starfish.

It's one of the hottest days of this year's summer and you decided to enjoy it thoroughly in the best way you know how: By lazing around your dad's house—sorry, mansion—eating his food and commandeering his pool until you're all wrinkly, while he is at work, catching the worst monsters humanity has created.

You will always be worried about him when he's gone but you've only ever known a world where that is what your father does; hunting down killers, teaching others to do the same, or writing books about understanding and capturing these dangerous people. And making a ton of money in the process.

Naturally, he never wanted you to follow in his footsteps, knowing how dangerous, how grueling, how draining his work can be, hoping that his only daughter would choose a different path for her professional life.

And naturally, you defied his wishes.

Kind of.

Only last week, after years and years of studying and researching and writing papers and pulling all-nighters and drinking enough caffeine to power an aircraft, you graduated with a PhD in Forensic Science and can now proudly announce yourself as Doctor Rossi instead of Miss Rossi.

That's why you're currently back at your father's place, simply enjoying doing absolutely nothing before you're officially joining the workforce, hopefully helping to catch many more of the monsters your father and his team hunt and developing the methods and practices of your field further.

But for the moment, you're content to simply float in the pleasantly cool water, watching a single lonely cloud drift across the endless blue sky before you decide in a stroke of pure genius that a cold and fruity drink is exactly what you need to make this perfectly carefree day even better. You let yourself grow heavy in the water, your body sinking to the tiled bottom of the pool where you remain motionless for a few seconds, admiring the mesmerizing shifting patterns the sunlight paints underwater before you kick off the tiles, your fingers wrapping around the metal bars of the pool's ladder as soon as you reach them.

You climb out of the pool, water cascading down your body and creating a small puddle on the sun-warmed wooden planks of the patio at your feet. You grab your towel from one of the fancy deck chairs and quickly dry yourself enough to go to the kitchen and make yourself a drink before leisurely sipping on it while you lie in the sun, a hopefully good book keeping you company until you decide it's time for another relaxing activity.

With your game plan fully formed, you set it in action, going over to the sliding glass door that leads back into the house when you catch sight of your reflection in it, briefly pausing to fix the top of your—if you might say so yourself—super cute and flattering bikini.

But before you can then reach for the handle, a silhouette of a person appears behind the glass out of nowhere and the door slides open all the way, revealing a man you have never seen before in your life standing in front of you.

In your father's house. That you thought you had to yourself.

Oh hell no.

Immediately, your heart jumps into your throat, your pulse spiking in pure panic and you stare at the stranger fearfully, your brain frantically scrambling to find the best course of action that doesn't lead to your pictures ending up on one of the boards at your father's workplace—one photo showing a candid shot of you smiling, probably from your recent graduation, while the others would document how the killer left your broken and bruised body behind on the patio, your blood painting the wooden planks red, seeping into the cracks between them, maybe even dripping into the pool's clear water and staining it with clouds of diluted blood.

The stranger's dark brows furrow in concern, and when he gently, carefully says your name, it does nothing to calm you—not in the slightest. Your body is stiffly frozen on the spot while your fight-or-flight response is busy flipping a coin and waiting to see which side it will land on.

But then the stranger takes a step towards you and you spring into action, yelping in alarm and instinctively taking one, two, three steps backwards—away from him—which you quickly realize was a big mistake when the terrible feeling of having missed a step makes your stomach drop.

And then time slows down.

With a startled cry you fall backwards, flailing your arms helplessly but without a chance to regain balance when your back foot is already hanging over the edge of the pool. The stranger's eyes widen in surprise and he urgently reaches for you, his warm and strong fingers actually closing around your wrist firmly, trying to pull you back towards him—but it's too late.

Your momentum makes the stranger lose his footing as well and not a fraction of a second later the two of you break the pool's glittering surface in a joint, enormous splash, instantly submerged by the water.

Little drops of it are still raining down on you when you and the stranger come back up at the same time to gasp for air, your pulse ringing in your ears, looking and feeling more than a little disoriented. Your wide eyes find the deep brown ones of the unfamiliar man next to you and he silently stares back at you with an equally befuddled expression.

He's extremely handsome, your brain notes unprompted, even with his previously styled hair now completely wet, the dark strands sticking to his forehead and sending droplets running down his sharp features, some stubbornly clinging to his eyelashes and even the tip of his nose. Naturally, his clothes are completely soaked too, his dress shirt now clinging tightly to his body and it embarrassingly takes you a moment to avert your eyes from this sight, from his chest, and shoulders, and arms, especially when you notice the way he has the sleeves rolled up above his elbows.

With warm cheeks that have nothing to do with you lazing around in the sun all day, your gaze snaps back to his face which looks like he's still trying to comprehend what just happened.

And that's when the horrible realization dawns on you.

That maybe this man who didn't show any signs of aggression towards you and even tried to save you from falling, who knows your name and is dressed in suit pants, a dress shirt and nice shoes might not be a serial killer coming to end your life after all.

And you just made him fall in the pool with you—completely clothed.

Oh no. Not good. Very not good.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry! Are you—are you okay?"

The words tumble out of your mouth franticly, your voice too loud, too shrill, a wholly different kind of panic settling in that makes your hands tremble and your stomach feel slightly sick.

The stranger lets out a high-pitched, breathless laugh, an amused kind of disbelief on his face when he answers, "I am, yes. Are you alright?"

His deep voice is good-humored and kind, the kind that makes your knees go a little weak despite yourself and all you manage in response is a quick little nod, threading your fingers together in front of your body, nervously playing with them under the water.

You watch him brush the hair from his forehead with one large hand, slicking the wet, jet-black strands back, water running down his arm, droplets getting caught in the dark hairs on his forearm and he quickly looks at the probably very expensive and now very drenched watch on his wrist before his kind gaze finds yours again, saying, "I'm sorry I startled you like this. I thought Dave texted you I was coming over. He has some old case files on his desk he asked me to review while he's still at the office."

As soon as these words leave his mouth, your cheeks and ears flame up in shame while your eyes widen in horror. Because that means this man who is currently in the pool with you is an FBI agent, a highly skilled profiler working on the same team as your dad, and it's all your fault that he took a completely involuntary dive with you.

And then, as if you're not already wishing for the bottom of the pool to open up and just swallow you whole to end your misery, he adds the one thing that makes this surreal situation even worse.

"I'm Aaron—Hotchner. It's good to finally meet you. Your father talks a lot about you."

Cool.

Cool cool cool cool.

Because of course, of all the agents your father works with you just made Aaron Hotchner, the BAU's unit chief and your dad's very serious, very important and very no-nonsense FBI boss fall in the pool with, completely clothed, and probably ruining his expensive shoes and watch and wallet and phone in the process.

Sure.

No problem.

Definitely not one of the most humiliating things to ever happen in your life.

You are going to drown yourself in this pool.

With your mind and body locked in a continuous state of distress, you exhale a trembling breath that does nothing to calm you, the words just spilling out of your mouth, your voice cracking pathetically as you try to explain yourself and apologize to him, completely distraught.

"Oh god, I'm so so sorry, I—I didn't know—I left my phone inside and haven't checked it in hours—If I'd known you were coming over, I'd—I'd never—oh my god—"

To make matters even worse you have to realize with renewed horror that tears are welling up in your eyes and you stubbornly press the heels of your hands to your eyes as you gasp for a breath, struggling to keep your emotions under control and regain even the semblance of composure. You refuse to make an even bigger fool out of yourself in front of him than you already have.

But that's nearly impossible when Aaron's voice is so infuriatingly understanding and kind, his tone soft and comforting.

"It's alright, you really don't have to apologize to me. You didn't know and I scared you half to death. It's not your fault, so don't worry about it, okay?"

But how can you not worry about how much you messed up when this is probably the worst first impression you have ever left on someone—and that includes the time you destroyed someone's side mirror with your own car only to learn a few days later that that someone was your then-boyfriend's very unamused mother when you visited his parents for the first time for a very uncomfortable and icy dinner. (Your mind still likes to torture you with this little incident when you're busy trying to fall asleep, basically dooming the relationship from the very beginning, but in the end it was for the best—because that woman would've shown up wearing a white dress to her son's own wedding. So you're pretty sure you dodged a huge bullet there.)

You risk a glance at Aaron through the gaps between your fingers, the reassuring smile on his face making you feel a little silly, a little overdramatic but it also makes you calm down enough to let your hands drop from your face. Not that you had any chance not to, not when he's looking at you like you couldn't do anything wrong in his eyes, ever.

"I mean it, it was just an accident. Don't blame yourself for that."

He says it with so much conviction that you're almost ready to believe him, but the unhappy frown still clings stubbornly to your face, still mentally berating yourself over this whole situation you actually had very little control over.

That's why you jump almost a foot into the air (the water you're still standing in) when a warm and big, big hand gently squeezes your naked shoulder. Aaron is somehow so much closer than before, looking down at you and steadily holding your gaze while all you can do is dumbly stare back into his eyes, captivated by the sparkle of amused patience in them, by the way his dark eyelashes frame them so perfectly, following his sharp features to the slope of his nose, further down to his lips, wondering just how they would feel pressed against yours—

Nope—!

That very attractive and very wet man in the pool with you is still your father's colleague and friend, you remind yourself with burning ears, letting out an involuntarily awkward little giggle that ends in a dramatic sigh, your whole body deflating under the comforting weight and warmth of his hand on your skin.

You manage to smile up at him despite your chest still feeling a little too tight with anxiety while butterflies undeniably start to stir in your stomach.

"Thank you for saying that," you murmur defeatedly as you try and fail to tear your gaze from his eyes. "But I'm still sorry about your clothes and watch, and everything else too."

But he simply shakes his head, easily dismissing your attempt to apologize once more, shutting down your offer to pay for the damages that would surely follow before it could even pass your lips.

"It's fine, really. All of these things can be replaced. I'm just glad you didn't hurt yourself."

How can he just say things like these with that stupidly attractive and smooth voice of his while his hand deliberately rubs up and down your arm and not expect you to fall for him right then and there? Because you're pretty sure that's what's happening right now, without you having the slightest of chances to stop it.

But that's a problem you will have to deal with later, you decide, because right now the two of you are still just standing in the water together, and while your attire is completely pool-approved his very much isn't and you probably should get him at least a towel and some dry clothes to change into.

So you softly tell him as much, nodding your head towards the house, "I could get you some of dad's clothes so you can change, I hope that's okay."

"That would be perfect, thank you," Aaron answers, a grateful smile on his lips and you can't help but notice and appreciate the enticing crow's feet framing his eyes while he does.

You give him a timid smile in return, mumbling, "It's the least I can do."

He only gives your elbow a final tender squeeze in reply before pulling his hand back, his fingers lingering on your heated skin for just a moment longer and you can't find it in you to complain about it, not when a pleasant shiver runs down your spine at that.

Crap. You're in so much trouble already.

Reluctantly, you look away from him and turn around, heading to the pool's ladder, your whole arm tingling with the ghost of his touch but you try to ignore it as best as you can—which isn't all that much.

You climb up the steps first before holding out your hand for Aaron even if it's not strictly necessary. You're delighted when he takes it anyway without hesitation, your whole hand swallowed in his firm grasp, a discovery that makes your stomach do a funny little flip.

"I hope this at least takes the first place of the most memorable ways you ever met someone for the first time," you joke as Aaron emerges from the pool, finding some humor in this absurd situation as you watch his soaked clothes lose probably half of the pool's content on the planks of the patio, the wet fabric sticking to his body unpleasantly. But you don't miss the quick upwards quirk of his lips despite him looking like a pretty miserable, drowned rat now. You try to cover up your amused snort with a cough, but you know he can't have not caught it.

He however takes it in stride and graciously ignores it, instead starting to take off his watch while saying, "It absolutely does. And I can't say I wasn't wishing to cool off all day today, but that wasn't really what I had in mind. Not that I'm mad at all about this spontaneous opportunity to take a swim with you."

He smiles at you, fully, boldly, and you're probably mistaken when you think you saw just a sliver of shyness shining in his eyes because you're too distracted by the rest of his face that looks somehow even more handsome than before.

"Well, in that case, you're very welcome," you play along easily despite your heart slamming almost painfully against your ribcage. "And what can I say, I just love to leave a lasting first impression."

You're blessed with that charming high-pitched laugh of his again while he lays his watch on the patio table before his hands move to the buttons at the top of his shirt—which is not something you should find as enticing as you do.

"You definitely did. I just hope you don't make everyone you meet for the first time fall for you like that."

The words take a moment to fully register in your mind as you're busy admiring his deft fingers working on the first button of the shirt, but when they do something must suddenly take possession of you because your mouth curls into a teasing smile without you really meaning to and you casually hum, "Hm, no. Just you."

Aaron's fingers freeze mid-movement, his gaze so much more intense than just moments before but to your own surprise you don't shy away from it, keeping your eyes locked with his as he carefully utters his next words, his voice just a little rougher.

"That must make me pretty special, then."

You consider his words with a slow tilt of your head, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip to keep the eager smile threatening to overtake your face contained, your heart hammering away in your chest and your head feeling slightly dizzy. The daring and impulsive part currently in control of you makes you step directly into his personal space without hesitation where you can openly admire the small amount of chest hair peeking over the collar of his t-shirt which immediately cancels out the disappointing discovery that even in this heat he's wearing multiple layers.

"It probably does, Mr. Hotchner," you practically purr in reply, your voice almost unrecognizable to your own ears as you bring your hands up to his chest.

Your eyes never stray from his when you nudge his hands away from his shirt and replace them with your own, your fingers shaking visibly as you slowly, deliberately slide another button through its respective hole for him. And he lets you, his lips slightly parted, his gaze so much heavier, so much more heated than before that you have to suppress a full-body shiver.

You know it's not appropriate to do what you're doing right now, not with a man who is easily ten years your senior, who you never met in person before today and—most importantly—who is not only your father's superior but also his friend. And before today you would have never given in to your impulses like that, simply shoving them to the farthest corner of your mind where they would come back to haunt you during sleepless nights, making you wonder what could've been if you had just taken a chance for once in your life.

You don't know why it's different now with Aaron Hotchner of all people, what it is about him that makes you act like this so suddenly, so uncharacteristically bold, but you can't stop yourself—and to your thrilled delight, it doesn't seem like he wants you to either.

Not when you can clearly see the nice blush dusting the apple of his cheeks pink. Or when you notice the anticipation in his eyes, his tongue absentmindedly peeking past his dry lips to wet them. Or when you catch his pupils dilating as his attention snaps down to a droplet of water shining on your collarbone, his eyes following its path utterly transfixed as it slowly runs down between your breasts, the soft swell of your chest on full display for him thanks to your bikini top hugging you so perfectly.

To your astonishment, his gaze doesn't make you uncomfortable or exposed and you don't shy away from his attention—quite the opposite. You let yourself revel in it, a pleasant tingling sensation spreading from the very tips of your fingers to the rest of your body, making you feel confident and desired in a way few, if any, people have in the past.

He makes you feel cherished, the (poorly hidden) want in his eyes only increases this feeling.

But most importantly—he makes you feel safe.

That's what's so different about him.

So it's not surprising that you're lightheaded in the best way possible when your fingers slowly trail further down his shirt, smugly smirking up at him when he realizes he was caught red-handed ogling his friend's daughter's scarcely clad chest.

You see his Adam's apple work uneasily in his throat as he tilts his head slightly, not being able to meet your eyes anymore, his whole posture suddenly uncomfortable and stiff and the look on his face downright terrified. You find everything about this incredibly endearing and equally entertaining, the way his cheeks are now deeply red and probably burning hot to the touch, the tips of his ears very much in the same condition and his hand flexing by the side of his body as if debating whether physically pushing you away and creating some distance between the two of you would somehow remedy the situation.

But he doesn't, instead his gaze guiltily flickers to meet yours for a split second and then his lips part for the first words of a sincere yet deeply embarrassed, stammered apology. Yes, Aaron Hotchner, the ever-serious, ever-composed, big bad FBI agent who stares down serial killers for a living, who doesn't even flinch when the barrel of a gun is pressed against his head, actually stammers, evidently not used to losing control like this, not used to allow himself to give into temptation, anything that would expose that behind his almost perfect mask is simply a man, a human, with tragically repressed wants and needs and desires.

But you smile up at him, kindly, giddily, because you're really not used to someone like him giving you this kind of attention and you refuse to let yourself feel bad about it now and start to overthink it, so you simply say, "It's okay. I don't mind."

And then, because it's the truth, you add, "Not when it's you."

Your words cause a quick succession of emotions to flash across Aaron's face—regret, surprise, doubt, relief—only to finally settle on something so soft, so gentle, so close to adoration that your first, entirely instinctual reaction is to shrink and hide away from gaze.

But he doesn't let you, holds your gaze steadily and brings his hand up to yours still lightly resting against his chest. His fingers curl around your much smaller palm and he has the audacity to smirk at your very obvious, very telling reaction to this as if your roles weren't reversed just moments before. But then he gently presses your hand against his chest, his hand still covering yours and you immediately forgive him.

Because like this, you can feel the heat of his skin slowly bleed through the wet fabric of his shirt and into your own skin. You feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the low hum forming there when your other hand moves with a mind of its own to rest on his shoulder, anchoring you to him further.

But most importantly, like this, you can clearly feel his heartbeat mirror the almost frantic, thundering pace of your own.

It's as confusing as it is exhilarating, knowing that for some bizarre reason, you and this stranger (because as many times your father has talked about Aaron, you have never met him before today) feel the same magnetic pull towards each other, and without knowing who moved in first you're suddenly breathing the same air, your faces close enough for you to count each individual dark eyelash and admire every single detail and imperfection of his handsome face.

Questions linger unspoken in the small space between you—Is this okay? Should we really be doing this?—but the small impatient noise escaping you is enough to dissipate them immediately.

He moves in even closer and you let your eyelids flutter shut, your heart stuttering in your chest when you feel his breath fan across your face, feel his lips hesitantly brush against your own, the faint touch enough to send a spark of overwhelming pleasure down your spine, the eruption of butterfly wings in your belly like nothing you ever felt before in your life, before finally—

Finally—

—the devastating sound of the front door falling shut echos through the whole house, your father's cheerful voice calling out both your and Aaron's name.

Your eyes snap open in horror, your heartrate spiking alarmingly, and like you were burned you push away from Aaron, desperate to create even the illusion of distance between the two of you. You're lucky you don't fall in the fucking pool again but only because of Aaron's quick reflexes, his arm wrapping around your naked waist and urgently pulling you flush against him, thankfully not losing his footing this time.

Terrified, you stare up at him, both of you frozen in this blatantly incriminating position—entirely too close, too intimate for two strangers, a daughter and her father's friend—his palm burning into your naked skin while your dad's footsteps are coming closer, and closer, and closer—

In a last, desperate attempt to save yourself and Aaron from being discovered like this your tardy fight-or-flight response kicks into gear again, urging you to—albeit reluctantly—exit his hold and rush towards the house, fleeing the scene of the crime and leaving poor Aaron to explain what happened to your father.

You don't stop when you run past your dad, only squeaking something unintelligently about getting some dry clothes when his confused voice calls after you, your wet feet almost causing you to slip and fall on the cold and hard marble floor but somehow you make it to the safety of the upper story, making a beeline to the master bedroom's dressing room.

With your heart beating painfully inside your chest, you curl up into a miserable ball of anxiety and regret in the middle of the room, not caring that you're dripping pool water onto the expensive carpeted floor, your shaking hands coming up to cover your face.

What the hell were you thinking? How will you be able to face your father—or worse, Aaron—ever again?!

You press the heels of your hands hard enough against your eyes that stars and shapes overtake the darkness of your vision, contemplating if staying inside this dressing room for the rest of your life is really that bad of an option.

But you're startled back into action when Aaron's calm but carefully controlled voice followed by your father's boisterous laughter travels up the stairs to you and you pick yourself off the floor before hectically digging through your father's clothes until you find something passable for Aaron to change into.

As you descend the stairs, knees weak and threatening to give out underneath you, your anxiety pressing heavily against your chest, you wonder helplessly how you will survive the rest of this day, how you will ever survive seeing Aaron again after today.

Because this afternoon, while he fell in the pool with you, you fell for Aaron Hotchner.

(And he fell in love with you, too.)

[technically-human]

You're so good at writing Robotnik! Whenever I read your comics I can hear it in his voice 😂 how do you do it? 💕💕💕 (Sorry if I've asked this already)

After how much I struggled to write that Robotnik fic, to see people think I'm good at writing him is a relief, so thank you.

I do have a few rules I try to follow when writing him specifically, but sometimes I draw a comic simply because my brain keeps repeating a specific dialogue in his voice and I need to get rid of it before it drives me to madness.

Basically!

1) this man is not constantly angry. I know it's easy to fall for this trap but you must fight it. He actually doesn't spend a lot of canon time being angry, even when he should. This is a kid's franchise after all, and angry adults are pretty scary. As much as he's the villain, Robotnik is not meant to be scary. He's still very EXPLOSIVE. He will shout a lot, and he's always frowning and he seems to always be one step away from anger, but he doesn't cross that line very often. I can't even say he's grumpy, because

2) Robotnik is basically a kid with a very extensive vocabulary. I'm not trying to disrespect Eggman here, but he throws tantrums, he insults people just because, his mood changes from one moment to the other, his emotions are BIG. I look at my 4 year old niece and I wonder if she's being possessed by the ghost of Ivo or if she's just being a normal kid.

3) he's not very self aware. He thinks he's the smartest, coolest, most impressive kid in this playground, and that results in him saying and doing very weird and ridiculous stuff with full confidence. If other people look at him funny, well, that's just because they don't understand his brilliance.

4) think of this as a game. If you want to present Robotnik with a Serious and Complicated thing and you don't know how he'd react, assume that this man is roleplaying his way out of it. He doesn't fully grasp that other people could have any value whatsoever, so he can treat it all like a game. Oh, millions are going to die? This will be good for the plot, fun. This is one of the funniest rules to break, nothing like forcing a character who Doesn't Care to suddenly care very much.

5) Robotnik's one weakness is humans. Oh he can mostly understand them, on a surface level, we see this mostly in the deleted scenes when he praises Stone to manipulate him or when he makes the fundraiser. Or even back in the first movie, when he pretends to work for the power company. He's not good at it but he THINKS he can play the part of a normal, well adjusted individual. This is very funny to me, but it's also important to remember because it means he's not above playing nice to get what he wants.

6) Robotnik doesn't say what he means, he implies it. I make him say "that's not how this works anymore" instead of "I won't leave you behind again" I make him say "no dying!" instead of "I don't want you to leave me" and I make him say "what's my full name?" Instead of "you're the only person I would ever want to hear my name from" and because I'm a bit of a romantic, most of the time, Stone gets it. But Robotnik doesn't expect him to, which is the only reason he dares to say it.

All of that is very nice, but sometimes it means I'm over here like "Come on, Rob, just say this one thing so the story can progress. Just one thing" and he replies "nu-uh, OOC + cringe + you suck, try something else" and I suffer

[writingdevil]

I LOVED the last ParaCold fic you wrote, it was so so good -- if you have any ideas for writing for them again, I'd love to read it! Consider this a request? :D

Though if you would rather, I'd also be happy to read anything you wrote for Broken/Paranoid or Contrarian/Hero~ Take your pick, I love everything you write!

(I WILL NEVER SAY NO TO PARACOLD! Thank you, because the paracold fics are some of my favorite, and I always seem to get possessed when it comes to them and also Skeptunist, so I hope this one is good as well! Enjoy!)

"I'm sorry."

Cold spoke into the darkness of their bedroom, staring at a wall for so long that his eyes were beginning to burn, his brain refusing sleep to him.

On the other side of the bed, there was the sound of light and hesitant shuffling, but nothing else.

Cold sighed, gripping the pillow that he was clutching desperately to his chest with even more strength, as if it could actually replicate the touch that he was so used to.

"I'm sorry," Cold repeated, louder this time, and the shuffling grew louder as well, until it stopped as Paranoid spoke up, "You're not sorry."

"I am," Cold replied, feeling an urge to roll around and look Paranoid in the eyes, but he knew nothing good would come from that, nothing that Cold hasn't experienced before.

Cold wouldn't have considered himself an apologetic person, but then again, he also wouldn't have thought that he would actually feel something for someone else.

He couldn't believe that Paranoid was the one to keep Cold's attention for long enough that he began to grow attached to him.

Cold thought the fluttering feeling would go away once he realised how pointless emotions like that were, and it wasn't like Paranoid, of all people, would feel the same. He kept trying to ignore how much calmer and lighter everything felt when Paranoid walked into a room, or spoke to Cold about anything.

But it only got stronger, and Cold was experiencing emotions that were maddening and exhilarating at the same time, and he wasn't sure how he could possibly numb this type of attraction.

He didn't want to, was the simple answer. Cold didn't want to get rid of these feelings for Paranoid, and the memory of Paranoid almost breaking down at the sight of Cold falling gravely ill, was enough to let Cold know that some emotions didn't need to numbed, no matter how confusing they were.

Cold remembers Paranoid never leaving his side as he nursed him back to health, and the second that Cold had opened his eyes, Paranoid had leapt with joy, throwing his arms around him and rambling how he was scared that Cold wouldn't make it.

The only thing Cold really cared about from that day, was taking Paranoid's face in his hands and seeing if kissing him was as good as he imagined.

It was better.

But right now, Cold couldn't have imagined how awful he would feel in this moment.

"I wouldn't lie to you, darling- you know that." There was the faint sound of feathers bristling against the sheets, and Cold's lips twitched in amusement, at still having this effect on Paranoid even when they were fighting.

Cold didn't really care about petnames, but they evidently had an effect on Paranoid, so he liked to see those reactions whenever he could.

Paranoid sighed, sounding heavier than Cold wished. "I know that but-"

Cold waited for him to continue, but instead, he heard more aggressive rustling, feeling Paranoid squirm and inch away on the other side of the bed. "But I'm still mad at you, so I'm not ready to forgive."

The small kernel of hope quickly died within Cold, and he became more and more aware of how much he hated this situation.

Cold was used to silence. He was used to doing things solo. He was used to the others not really understanding or indulging in his interests. That was all fine by Cold. It was usually better that way.

Cold was used to being alone. But Cold was not used to being lonely.

He wasn't used to feeling this creeping darkness drowning him, making him feel so far away from the rest of the flock, even when he was physically next to them, and right now, even when they were barely five feet apart- Cold has never felt more lonely and lost.

He hugged the pillow to his body tighter, but it should've been Paranoid he was holding onto.

"My intentions are never to hurt you," Cold tried, and was met with a curt, "I know."

He sighed, burying his face into the pillow, imagining it was Paranoid's small but soft feathers, and with the scent of lavender that constantly followed the anxious bird.

"It's just-" Paranoid began, and then he sighed sharply, "I don't want you to think that I'm mad about you discovering something, because I'm not. I'm mad because you took it too far this time."

"How did I 'take it too far'?" Cold asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice, even if he knew that would only make things worse.

"Because you left for days!" Paranoid snapped, his voice getting dangerously loud for the middle of the night. "You left without a word and I had no idea where you were or if you were even safe!"

"I was looking for something," was Cold's explanation, one that didn't mean much to Paranoid, apparently.

"I don't care what weird thing you were looking for this time! You need to tell me!"

"Would it have changed anything?" Cold quietly asked, and Paranoid had no response for that.

Cold sighed again, wishing that this argument never happened in the first place. It was getting in the way of Cold feeling the emotions that he much preferred, along with filling his chest with a warmth that he hadn't known he needed.

"I'm sorry for yelling," Paranoid mumbled tiredly. "I'm sorry that we're fighting."

"We fight all the time," Cold pointed out, and it was true. Most of their time was spent discussing topics and trying to get the other to see their point of view. Other times, it was either Paranoid berating him for being reckless or getting hurt, or Cold scolding Paranoid for not telling him that he was about to have a panic attack.

"I know but I never like it," Paranoid said, and there was the sound of him wrapping the blankets closer to him. "I never like getting mad at the people I love, no matter how often it happens- especially not you."

Cold hummed in response. He would say that arguments were something he enjoyed getting into, but when it came to Paranoid, his chest began to ache at the thought of them, and their most recent one had been bad.

'You don't even care about how others will feel! Not even me!'

'Maybe you need to stop being such a smothering mother hen to me all the time.'

Usually Cold welcomed any and all emotions that caused something to shift within his heart, that gave him something new to feel. But this feeling-this feeling of frigid loneliness when his partner was physically right there-

Cold couldn't take it.

It was torture.

He looked down at the pillow he was holding. He was using a pillow as a substitute for where Paranoid should be in his arms. Was a fight really worth being this pathetic? Was it worth this distance and pain?

No, Cold decided.

Slowly, Cold lifted his head, looking over his shoulder to try and catch a glimpse of Paranoid-and his eyes widened in shock.

He had assumed that when Paranoid took the blankets, he had cocooned himself in them for comfort, like he usually did.

But Cold was surprised to see that instead, Paranoid had taken the blanket, rolled it up, and pressed it against his back-almost as if trying to replicate someone pressing up to him from behind.

"Love," Cold whispered, twisting around to face his partner. Paranoid flinched, before glancing over his shoulder, and his eyes immediately went to the pillow in Cold's grasp.

Their eyes locked.

Then the next thing they knew, they were scrambling and grabbing for each other.

Cold pulled Paranoid flush against him, sighing at the warmth he provided, as Paranoid frantically cupped his face and brought him into a desperate kiss.

Cold's entire body relaxed as he clung to Paranoid, tossing the pillow to the side. They kissed with an urgency, as if this was the last time that they would embrace like this. It reminded Cold of their first kiss.

When they separated, Paranoid kept his arms wrapped tight around Cold's neck. His feathers were a mess, and there was a wild spark in his eyes that Cold couldn't look away from.

Paranoid took a sharp breath in, ducking his head as he whispered, "I don't want to fight with you."

"I don't want to, either," Cold agreed, and then after a second or two, he nervously added, "I don't like how it makes me feel."

Paranoid sighed tiredly, then hugged Cold as if they had been lovers separated for years, and not two hours. He rested his head in the crook of Cold's neck, nuzzling into feathers that were constantly freezing, like they were the only thing to provide comfort to Paranoid.

Cold closed his eyes, focusing on the way that Paranoid felt, how his breathing evened out, and how all the tension left his body.

"I'm- sorry for worrying you," Cold said softly, his hands running up and down Paranoid's back. "I truly never like being the reason you panic so much."

"I know," Paranoid mumbled, then leaned back to look Cold in the eye. "I meant what I said though-I don't mind if you go off and look for whatever- I just wish you'd tell me so that I'm not just running around and losing my mind over where you are."

That was fair. Cold often forgot about the rest of the world when his mind fixated on one thing, but Paranoid had to be that exception. Not unless he wanted to feel that loneliness again.

"Or better yet, just ask me to come with you," Paranoid added, and that made Cold observe him in surprise.

"You would do that?" Cold asked, and Paranoid was confused for a moment, before Cold continued, "You would follow me to whatever dark corner of the world that I find myself in?"

Paranoid looked worried for a split second, before steely determination replaced it. "If it meant keeping you safe, yes. I'd follow you wherever."

A rush of excitement and warmth was bubbling up within him, along with a wicked grin that was reserved only for Paranoid's eyes, and he brought his love into another kiss, gently resting against the pillows, sighing as sleep finally began to catch up on them.

He gently laid Paranoid's head on his chest and whispered, "Then follow me into slumber, darling. I won't be far from you ever again."

[ang3lzi]

heyyy could you possibly do an Arcane hcs fic where fem reader is insecure about her weight and how characters would help her deal with that? (if you're comfortable obviously)

i love what you do it brings me comfort ♡

⋆.˚ Arcane characters x insecure fem reader ⋆.˚

Hii!! Thank you so much for requesting again. 💗 I would also like to thank you for reading my work. I'm glad it brings you comfort!

Always remember you have no reason to be ashamed of your body. Every body is healthy and perfect. Remember that!! 💖

Summary: arcane headcanons where the reader is insecure about her weight.

Tags: arcane x reader, arcane, arcane x fem reader

Silco

When Silco sees you tugging at your sleeves to hide your figure, he'd grab your wrist and press soft kisses to your arm while murmuring “Never hide what I love."

He'd buy expensive clothes that fits your figure instead of hiding it.

Would press kisses to his favourite parts of your body as a way of telling you you're beautiful. (His favourite places to kiss are your hands, lips, fingers, neck and shoulder!!)

Every night, before you go to bed, his hands find your waist and pull you flush against him. He presses his forehead against yours and tenderly whispers; "You're perfect."

Jinx

get jinxed 😜

If you ever make a self-depervating comment, she'd turn serious immediately. She'd grab your cheeks and bore her eyes into yours. “Hey, that's my favourite person you're talking about. Be nice to her."

Jinx would constantly draw doodles of you to show you how perfect you look in her eyes.

She'd even stick her drawings onto the sides of your mirror so you can see the beauty in yourself.

On days when you feel bad, Jinx treats you to a spa day!!

She pushes your shoulders down to sit you down on the chair in front of her so she can braid your hair, she paints your nails (but you have to do her nails in return) and she forces you to put on her home-made facemasks that look like biohazards..

Vi

Vi notices how weight is such a sensitive topic for you and gets extra protective.

"You're perfect already. Ignore what everyone else says."

Vi makes sure to remind you your body is healthy already and you shouldn't change for anyone.

"You're just right for me."

She's CONSTANTLY hyping you up!!

"You're built like a dream, cupcake."

Caitlyn

Caitlyn is gentle and patient. If she ever hears you being hard on yourself, she'd sit you down and talk calmly.

"Your worth isn't defined by a number or a shape, remember that."

"You're elegant and striking, don't you see it too?"

Caitlyn would offer quick pecks to your face and hands in an attempt to make you feel better.

Mel

Mel takes IMMENSE pride in you. She loves you to the moon and back.

Mel understands the feeling of trying to be 'perfect' way too well.She'd buy custom made jewels and gowns tailored to fit your body and complexion.

"Art does not follow rules. Your body shouldn't either."

Every evening after Mel's showers, she gives you massages with comforting oils to make you feel better.

Jayce

Jayce gets worried when you skip meals. He'd make sure to cook meals and eat beside you to show you it's okay to eat.

"I know it's hard sometimes to love yourself. But I'm always here to remind you. Always."

Kisses every part of your body to get his point across.

Viktor

Viktor has very quiet but intentional love. He's not very showy but he'd trace parts of your body you're insecure of. He'd even kiss the parts from time to time and mumble his favourite things about them.

"You don't need to be more than you already are. I cherish you like this.""

He makes sure to write reminders for you every day before work

"Drink water, my love. I want you well."

(HELP IDK IF THE CUPCAKE THING WAS CRINGE IM SORRY IF IT WAS 😭😭😭)

[leithillustration]

This is likely too chaotic to be classed as a Six Sentence Sunday post, but I promise to throw in a few Snow On Ice sentences somewhere!

I've lost track of who has tagged me recently, but I've really appreciated reading some of my lovely moots' life updates. Its a good reminder that we all have highs and lows and when we talk about it we can get a little comfort and reassurance from this lovely community. I'm sorry some of you have been having a rough time. Sending hugs to you all.

I am never concise so my life update (of sorts), pics and sentences are under the cut.

Happy International Dawn Chorus Day! Niche I know, but I used to work for an arts and wildlife organisation and had to get up at 4am once to record the sunrise and the dawn chorus. After getting over the shock of being up and outside so early, it was actually a really lovely thing to celebrate. I've been sleeping terribly recently, so I was awake at 4:30 this morning anyway. Got up and sat in my parents' garden for 10 mins listening to the birds and it felt special, if a little less glorious since the clouds hid the sunrise. Here's a recording of today's dawn chorus in Norfolk, UK:

Forever WIP: Me I had a (very) minor surgery earlier this week to have a small but painful lump taken off my bicep. I've never experienced such a procedure before and it was very interesting being awake in an operating theatre (I had a local anaesthetic) getting to talk to the surgeons while they worked. (I was proud of myself for being so chill, tbh.) Since then I have been resting my achy body and my sluggish brain, forbidden from doing any heavy lifting or exercise, while trying not to stress about all the work I need to get done before running my stall at London Comic Con later this month. I showered yesterday with my arm wrapped in a plastic bag and it felt like a big achievement. (This is like a bizarre practice run for one day having top surgery!)

Some (sort of) sentences Snow On Ice Chapter 3 is taking me foreverrrr, since I'm not used to writing so many characters and it's been a lot for my adhd brain to handle. So to keep my writing from feeling stale, I've been writing some daft text chats between the characters. I'm thinking of posting them as supplements in between the main chapters, to help flesh out some of the relationships the main fic isn't focusing on as much. What do you think? Here's a chat between Simon and Agatha that will take place a little after chapter 3:

Simon: (photo of Tamagotchi the chinchilla) Simon: This is my friend Melody’s chinchilla. I think you’d like her. Simon: The chinchilla, I mean, not Melody. Simon: Though you’d probably like Mel too.  Ags: Holy shit Simon Simon: What? Ags: Who IS that? Simon: …Tamagotchi the chinchilla. I told you..? Ags: No, Simon, who is HOLDING the chinchilla!? Ags: Is that Niamh Brody??? Simon: Oh! Haha Simon: Yeah, that’s Niamh :)  Ags: How the hell do you have a photo of Niamh Brody holding your friend’s hamster!?! Simon: Chinchilla Ags: SIMON!!!

Seeing some of your posts recently, I've wanted to say more on reblogs and offer support in comments, but my brain hasn't been doing words great this week, so please take some positive vibes and fond, no pressure tags instead (:

@youarenevertooold @iamamythologicalcreature @alexalexinii @cattocavo @that-disabled-princess @orange-peony @cutestkilla @rimeswithpurple @larkral @best--dress @scribble-tier @theimpossibledemon @artsyunderstudy @raenestee @thewholelemon @nightimedreamersworld @itriednottothinkaboutit @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @angelsfalling16 @the-beard-of-edward-teach @monbons @katatsumuli @fiend-for-culture @aristocratic-otter @argumentativeantitheticalg @lovelyladzzzz @nausikaaa @blackberrysummerblog

[troutfur]

OOOOOOKAY! I'm sorry I said I'd write this post yesterday but didn't. Saturday evenings tend to be hectic for me at home. And Sundays I tend to be very all over the place as I don't have a schedule of any sort. Neurodivergence feels y'all get me? So, without any further ado: my problem with the StarClan trial as a worldbuilding element of WC!

To me the most glaring issue with regards to this addition is the way in which it undermines the lore implications of OotS. Explicit worldbuilding even because they make it a point to have Rock chastise the protagonists for the living cats remembering the stories of the Dark Forest cats and thus keeping them in existence. A huge deal is made out of the fact that their system of afterlives is sustained by the memories of living cats.

This has always been a very interesting part of the world building to me because it means the cats of StarClan effectively are a symbol for the historical memory of the Clans. The inertia inherent to any society personified as the people who set up this machinery in motion in the first place. The small-c conservative element that seeks to preserve the continuity of that which has been tested and true.

As such, I have always been of the opinion that StarClan rather than have true agency in the plot should mirror the social attitudes of living cats. It helps to explain away the flanderization StarClan cats tend to suffer once they are subsumed into their ranks and also presents a very interesting avenue for exploration. And it helps to explain as well why they would be so afraid of The Three and their meddling into their affairs. What would happen if it was uncovered that these entities posing as omnipotent deities were revealed to be little more than egregores that reflect the Clan zeitgeist back to them?

It is something that I have leaned into in my worldbuilding and fics, with the idea that StarClan cats actually change to accommodate the stories told about them. A Firestar who doesn't remember his kittypet background because the mythologizing and polite lies told about him quickly took root and made him out to be a more palatable hero of the Clans. A Mudclaw that over the generations is reconceptualized as a noble leader and foil to the ever more unpopular Onestar instead of a power-hungry opportunist who would have lead much the same. A Curlfeather that appears as both StarClan warrior and Dark Forest specter depending where one falls in the conflict over her contested memory at the center of RiverClan's ideological divide.

Thus, it bothers me that they are portrayed as if their decision to reject or accept Leafpool and Squirrelflight has true weight, rather than being something decided by the living. I would more have liked if the contested legacies of Leafpool and Squirrelflight was something that ThunderClan themselves would be deliberating at their deaths. This is one of the few points where I think WC could benefit to lean consciously into the cultural Christianity that pervades the text. It is, after all, not God who really admits the deceased faithful into the ranks of the saints, but rather the Pope.

Or at the very least I would have liked the flow of the argument to in some way obviously reflect that StarClan was acting as the mouthpiece of the living, rather than expressing opinions of their own. It would have been really interesting if the pool of seeing that was shown earlier in the chapter showed the living cats arguing in the same way as the StarClan cats were. Or that it reflected sentiments the cats across the super edition had already expressed.

Although, to tell you the truth, I don't think I would be fully satisfied by any iteration of the trial. Quite simply, that kind of institution doesn't exist in the Clans. It is by leader fiat that any punishments are ever administered so for there to be a panel of judges to convince doesn't seem like it has continuity with how the Clans operate in the living world.

[valiantroeagleangel]

Random Noah thought

NSFW

Noah's the type of guy who gives you oral with his grillz on as he places a hand on your sternum to keep you still on the bed.

"Shhh. It's okay, pretty girl."

But when you can't handle it anymore because the pleasure gets too much intense, when you arch your back again, he just grabs you by the hips, pushing your cunt to his face so he can eat you harder. His fingers imprint your skin while he's massaging your thighs, until you finally come undone on his face.

Before you collapse on the bed, he lets you rut one last time against the cold metal in his mouth, allowing you to ride your orgasm while it lasts.

"That's it, such a good girl for me." He whispers against your skin, trailing kisses from your pelvis to your lips.

Mama’s tag list: @circle-with-me @somewhere-diamond @malice-ov-mercy @smokeynaomi @darkhallcorner @loeytuan98 @sthnog @cookiesupplier @cncohshit @lma1986 @skulliecadaver-blog @talialovesmiw @to-be-written @4rtificialfolio

[secretagentspydetectiveninja]

posting this with absolutely no context

[shadesoflsk]

older leon x gn reader. suggestive towards the end.

Older Leon who loves when you guys do night routines together. He isn’t insecure about his age but he's painfully aware of the wrinkles forming on his forehead.

You love them, though. Delicate fingertips tracing the lines that are proof of his age and hard work. You couldn’t help but leave out soft praises at him whenever you're doing this daily activity of yours. A reminder of his worth.

Little things that show this beautiful process of aging is what gets you going on the day. On lazy Sundays when the sun hasn't even risen yet Leon would be awake. Newspaper in hand and glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. His eyes squinting to read the small words on the paper. You would gently laugh when you watch him disregarding the front page to play the usual sudoku that the newspaper brought.

Leon would let you brush his hair, finding the softness of your hands comforting in the middle of the afternoon. However, teasing words would break the peaceful atmosphere that had set in: "You have another gray hair," you would say, letting him know the fact that his blonde hair is slowly turning white.

"Yours will do the same, you know?" A cheeky grin as always.

Your favorite place used to be his chest, still is. Nonetheless, as the years went by, you started loving other parts of his. From sleeping soundly on his chest, you would smoothly go down until your face was pressed against his abdomen that once was toned. Nowadays, it was as soft as a pillow, slightly rounded since working out isn't his priority anymore.

And for him, it was the perfect sight ever. Every time he looked down, his thumb would brush over your cheek to your lips.

And being discreet wasn't on his top list. Especially with the way he so easily pushed his thumb past your lips.

Old habits are never lost.

[soapsbaby]

First kiss

How your first kiss with your favorite CoD character would go.

Characters: Ghost, Soap, Price, Gaz, König all x reader Rating: sfw Word count: 650ish

Ghost

He was terrified that he was misinterpreting things and that if he’d ever make a move on you that you’d ridicule him for it, that he’d ruin your entire relationship with his emotions towards you.

You, on the other hand, were too afraid since he was so cold and emotionally unavailable, so it took both of you way too long to actually admit that you wanted more from each other than friendship.

You two got into a fight because you got upset that he almost got hurt on a mission. You get so frustrated because he just doesn’t get why you are so riled up. At some point you just can’t take it anymore. The words to explain yourself just don't come to you, so you just grab him and kiss him. 

He pulls back for a second but the moment his mind catches up with you he pulls you back in and doesn’t let you go for a long, long time. 

He’s been waiting for this for forever and now that he finally has the go ahead, he can’t let go of you, grasping you like his life depends on it.

Soap

He’s actually been pretty upfront about how he feels about you from the very moment you started getting closer, however he has not yet felt brave enough to actually get physically super close to you. He’s been gone on missions a lot, he is afraid that it might be too much for you to handle and he wants to take things as slow as he possibly can. 

It's late at night, you are on your way home from a restaurant and you are in his jacket and you just look so beautiful, he can not help himself.

He asks before he kisses you, but he simply can not help himself, his arm around your waist.

"Can I kiss you? Please?"

He does once, then a few more times on the way back home and about a hundred more times throughout the night, just for good measure.

Price

He loves treating you to gifts and dates. The day of your first kiss he had taken you to a concert of one of your favorite bands. He had his arms wrapped around you from behind, listening to your favorite song with you. 

He leans down to put a kiss on top of your head and you just have to let him know how you feel about him, how important he is to you, so you turn around and kiss him back. He takes the hint immediately, just holding you close to him and kissing you over and over again. It feels like no one else is even there, just you and him. 

Gaz

You and him were at his place, just watching a movie together. Without either of you actually intending it you had slid closer to him, your legs touching.

Even though he was scared, he laid his arm around your shoulders. You are best friends, he doesn't want to overstep and he doesn't want to get his heart broken.

You just looked at him and in that moment you both knew that you wanted it and just leaned in at the same time.

Neither of you paid any attention to the movie afterwards.

König

You two had been close but never really put a definition on your relationship. Your first kiss happened when he finally felt comfortable enough to take off his mask around you. You just couldn’t help yourself as you finally saw his face, sad puppy eyes looking at you to react to what he looked like, almost as if he expected rejection.

He is so surprised when you just lean in to give him a kiss, not being able to express your emotions in any better way than to just show him directly.

You don't know at the time but it's his first "real kiss" and he wouldn't have wanted it to have any other way.

[verittean]

oK SO i ... forgot how i was gonna word this but i was thinking thoughts about wreck-it ralph and i made a realisation or two ... one i think is already pretty noticeable n i'm sure someone's pointed it out already and the other i think i could absolutely be imagining it but i have been thinking about this for days and my mind will not leave me alone about it so i have to share it anyway regardless of if i'm right or not or i think i will actually go crazy

(taffyta , swizzle malarkey and candlehead were kept for comparison but i cut the others bc i felt it was a little too much but they all have about the same cadence anyway)

so first thing ... i noticed how more enthusiastically vanellope's name is called out compared to the other racers when her name is put up on the board ... kinda like how one would announce a big event or someone of importance , almost as if it were announcing 'and now please give a royal welcome to our princess , vanellopppeee von schweetz !'

i think that part is pretty easy to notice , but now the part where i think i might actually just be hearing things and staring too hard at the colour blue that i swear i'm seeing red but i swear i swear there's something different about the way king candy's name is said ... like not just the bubbliness of the way 'kInG cAnDy !' is said which i already think is slightly odd , because everyone else is announced pretty normally , even vanellope aside from the previously mentioned extra enthusiasm , but i also swear ... the voice it just sounds ... different ? almost like it were someone else ... ? it couuuld just be the way the announcer is pronouncing it that makes it sound off but to me it almost sounds like another voice doing a really good impersonation almost ... ? regardless i have to question that if king candy wasn't supposed to be in sugar rush originally , how come he has a voice line saying his name ... ? sooooo , if the voice really is someone else's ... could turbo have done an impression ? i don't think it's tooo far off to assume bc also where tf did the kc portrait come from did he draw it himself too ? ofc you couuuld say maybe kc was a scrapped character who still had enough coding left over for the voice and portrait as well as the model but i don't think that's quite as fun

again i think i'm prooobably just hearing things and it's probably nothing , but i really can't help but feel there's something off about that voice line and it just will not leave me alone ... and i thought it'd be fun to point out anyway even if i'm wrong after all wEeEeEeE

[thegeassking-blog]

Heroes for hire

The first tendrils of dawn slithered through the cracks in the blinds, casting a feeble glow over the untidy hotel room. The air had the scent of sex and the lingering aroma of a forgotten fast-food feast from the night before. Akitsu Fenton, or Aki, as she was affectionately called by her husband, lay on the disheveled bed, her naked form a stark contrast against the rumpled sheets. The soft murmur of the city outside did little to disturb her peaceful slumber.

Danny, however, was not as fortunate. His eyes snapped open as the shrill ring of his work phone sliced through the quiet. He groaned, his hand groping for the source of the disturbance. His eyes landed on the devices with the unmistakable bat symbol on the screen. Batman was calling. A rare, early morning job offer from the caped crusader could only mean one thing, it was going to be a big one. Why was a member of the Justice League calling a glorified mercenary like him, simple really despite seemingly having unlimited finances and technology they were lacking the one resource that all law enforcement agencies were lacking, the one resource that truly mattered: manpower.

This has caused the Justice League to reach out to trustworthy freelancers like him, or as they were starting to be known to the public: heroes for hire.

Glancing up at the time and sighing an annoyance Danny pushed his finger to the screen fully intending to silence the call and call Batman back later…. but Batman was a recurring customer, more importantly, a well paying reoccurring customer.

Inhaling he accepted the call

"This better be good," he mumbled into the phone, his voice gruff with sleep.

Batman's crisp, digitally altered voice responded, "Fenton, we have a situation in Gotham. A new player has entered the game, and their methods are… unorthodox. The Justice League requires your expertise."

Danny sat up with a jolt, his hand automatically reaching for his gun. "Gotham, huh?" He looked over at Aki, her face serene even in sleep, the light playing across the curves of her breasts. "Can't say I'm surprised. That city is more curses than most old cities combined do, What's the play?"

Batman's voice remained unruffled, detailing the situation. A series of freeze-related crimes had been plaguing the city, each more brazen than the last. It was clear that they were dealing with someone who had no qualms about leaving a trail of ice sculptures that used to be people. "The Joker's involved, but he's not the one doing the freezing," Batman added, his tone darkening. "It wasn't Victor Fries, he was accounted for at Wayne's R&D, We believe it's an unknown meta with ice manipulation powers. It's too… precise for his usual chaos."

"It's not a War bride," Danny states already known where he was going. "Mine was the prototype for the ice using caster types, and you know how that turned out they can't risk it, there are literally no other ice using ones."

Batman's voice remained calm. "We're aware of that, Fenton. But your experience with Akitsu might provide some insight we're missing."

Danny rubbed his eyes and nodded, even though the Dark Knight couldn't see him. "I'll get Aki up. We're on our way." He hung up the phone, his mind racing. Aki was indeed one of the first of her kind, a powerful ice user, and if someone had managed to create another… things were about to get complicated. He leaned over, gently kissing her forehead.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she sat up, the sheets sliding off her body. "What is it, Danny?" she asked, her voice a whispery purr.

"Gotham," he said, tossing the covers aside and standing up. "We've got a job. Someone's playing with ice, and it's not your usual clown."

Aki's eyes narrowed at the mention of the Joker. She had crossed paths with the madman before, and the memory sent a chill down her spine, colder than the ice she could manipulate. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, picking her G-string off the floor as she stood. The synthskin dress she had worn the night before had been carelessly tossed aside in the throes of passion. She slipped it back on, feeling the cool embrace of the material against her skin as it clung to her curves.

Danny quickly gathered their things, tossing weapons and their clothes into their duffle bags`. Despite the urgency, "Let's see if we can track down Taki," Danny muttered slipping on his sweatshirt "we might need her help."

Aki nodded, her mind already racing with the possibilities. The Joker was unpredictable, but a new ice user was an unknown variable. She felt a twinge of excitement mingle with the cold dread in her stomach. Taki, War bride number 59, her ability to manipulate mist and fog while cooling down and providing extra humidity for her to pull from was a good compliment for her own ice abilities, along with providing excellent concealment and together they could form a formidable team.

They quickly got dressed, Danny in his usual attire of combat boots, cargo pants, and a loose t-shirt that did little to hide the bulk of his muscles, while Aki slipped into a fresh synthskin dress in a sleek black that was as much a part of her identity as the ice that danced in her veins. She fastened her underbust corset and attached her weapon harness with the ease of long practice. Her pistol and knife felt comforting against her.

As they descended to the lobby, the receptionist from the night before looked up from her desk with a scandalized gasp. Her eyes bulged at the sight of the weapons and Aki's revealing dress, and she opened her mouth to unleash a lecture on decency. However, before she could utter a syllable, Danny raised a hand and conjured a small ectoball between his fingers. It hovered there, crackling with spectral energy, an unspoken threat that sent a chill down the woman's spine. She visibly swallowed her words, her eyes widening in horror as she took in the unmistakable stench of ozone that accompanied the spell.

Akitsu offered the receptionist a small smile, her eyes glinting with mischief. "I'm actually more covered up than Power Girl, you know." The woman's face turned a shade of purple that would put a plum to shame, and she sputtered before turning away, muttering to herself about the state of the world today.

The sudden silence was pierced by the sound of footsteps from the back room. The manager, a dapper older gentleman with a meticulously trimmed mustache, emerged with an exasperated sigh. He took in the scene, his gaze lingering on the floating ectoball before settling on the two of them. "Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Fenton," he said, his tone a mix of resignation and amusement. "It seems you've had quite the… energetic night."

"Sebastian." Danny greeted, his hand closing around the ectoball and extinguishing it, his honest greeting tinged with annoyance. "I apologize for threatening your employee but we have a job to get to and no time for a lecture right now."

The manager, Sebastian, chuckled and gently pushed the receptionist, who was still frozen in shock that the fact they're upstanding manager would know the names of these… Delinquents, and her rolling chair out of the way taking over her job and starting the checkout process. "It's quite alright, Mr. Fenton. I've learned to expect the… unorthodox from you and your lovely wife." He nodded at Aki, who returned his gesture with a cool nod.

"Besides," he continued, sliding the check-out paperwork across the counter, "the Justice League has a standing tab here. Your usual room service and… other expenses… have been taken care of." He winked at them knowingly, " may I inquire where your job is taking you this time? That is as long as it's not confidential?" Sebastian questioned waiting for Danny to sign and hand back the papers.

"Gotham," Danny stated bluntly as he finished signing the papers and handing them back "can't go into details."

"My condolences." Sebastian stated, he been to the absolute shithole of the city once to visit his cousin, Alfred pennyworth, and vowing never to return, even for family.

"We'll manage," Danny replied with a smirk, after handing back the paperwork he had started pulling various weapons out of the duffel bag and tucking them into they're respected holster or sheath, tucking a gun into the back of his pants. "We've faced worse."

Aki nodded solemnly, her mind racing through the various combat scenarios that might await them in Gotham. She knew that the Joker was involved, which meant chaos and unpredictability. The thought of facing a new enemy with ice powers, however, had her feeling a mix of curiosity and trepidation. Was it possible that there was another like her out there? Someone who had also been created for war and discarded?

As they stepped out into the early morning air, the chilly breeze caressed Aki's bare skin, making her shiver slightly. Danny noticed and chuckled, wrapping his arm around her waist. "Cold, Aki?"

she only smiled at him, they both knew that the cold never bothered her, side effect of her abilities. And Danny himself only wore his sweatshirt and jacket for the extra pocket they offer.

The journey to find Taki was a swift one. Danny's contacts in the supernatural underworld had informed him of her last known location, a dive bar on the outskirts of the city that catered to those with less than legal powers. As they approached the dimly lit building, the sound of raucous laughter and the smell of cheap whiskey wafted through the air. The neon sign flickered, casting an eerie glow over the alleyway that was littered with the detritus of a thousand forgotten battles.

Aki felt a twinge of excitement at the prospect of seeing her…sister? Cousin? Extended family again. They had shared many battles and and parties in the past. Taki's misty abilities had always been a perfect counterpart to her own icy powers. Together, they could create an impenetrable fog that could both conceal their movements and amplify the chilling effects of Aki's attacks. Danny pushed open the heavy door to the bar, and the sound of a jukebox playing a bluesy tune filled their ears.

Inside, the bar was dimly lit with a thick layer of smoke hanging in the air, making it difficult to see past the first few tables. The patrons were a motley crew of metahumans and magical beings, all casting wary glances in their direction. The air was thick with the scent of various magics and the faint metallic tang of fear. The bartender, a burly troll of a man, looked them up and down but said nothing.

Walking up to the bar Danny placed a $50.00 bill down on it in front of the bartender "looking for a girl called Taki, long brown hair and Gray eyes, dressed like her," his head jerking to Akitsu "minus is the tattoo."

The bartender took the bill without looking up and slid them two shots of whiskey "she's in the back, last booth on the left."

Downing their shots they approached the booth, Aki's heart racing with anticipation. As they rounded the corner, Taki looked up from her drink, her gray eyes lighting up with recognition. "Danny! Aki!" She threw her arms around them both, her embrace warm and genuine. She was dressed almost identically to Aki, her synthskin dress a shade of gray that matched her eyes, just less…proportional in certain areas and her weapon harness adorned with a dagger.

Danny slid into the booth, pulling Aki down beside him. "Taki, we've got a situation in Gotham," he began, his voice serious. "Someone's playing with ice, and it's not the Joker. We need you."

Taki's expression grew contemplative as she took a sip of her drink, her eyes flicking between Danny and Aki. "What's the pay?" she asked, her voice a soft purr that seemed to coil around the words like the mist she could summon.

Instead of answering Danny grabbed a pen out of one of his pockets and a nearby napkin and jolting a number down on it, before folding it over and sliding it over to docking, Taki picked it up and made the mistake of sipping her drink while looking at the number, her surprise caused her to inhale some of her drink as she started coughing.

"Standard freelance rules apply, that'll be your cut," Danny said to after a few seconds "now you in or out?'

"Who the FUCK is paying you? Bruce Wayne?" Taki hissed quietly like an angry cat, giving an appreciative nod to Akitsu who had gotten up to pat her on the back.

Danny chuckled, "Let's just say it's someone who's got deep pockets and really doesn't like seeing his city turned into a giant ice rink."

Taki wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes gleaming with greed. "You had me at 'Gotham'," She stood up, the slit in her dress revealing the curve of her toned thigh" let's roll."

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

and if you write bezz/cele, 35 and 46 for them!! <3

bezzetti: 35 (hatred spell/curse/potion) + 46 (confessions during an argument)

It was the spell.

It was the spell, Celestino tells himself as he brushes his teeth, as he unclogs his bathroom sink, as he makes scrambled eggs for breakfast, as he gears up to get on the bike for a weekend that is either going to be stellar or terrible or one after the other.

But he keeps seeing it, like aftershocks after a bad head hit. Marco’s face. The revulsion there. Disgust in his curled lip, in how he angled himself away from Celestino. How he scoffed. How his own teeth clicked together when he realized what he said, the red-hot humiliation that followed.

It’s been years since Celestino felt so thirteen years old, so off place.

“We’re going to the club later,” Pecco says carefully. He probably likes the club more than even Pecco now, so the answer should be yes.

“Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Pecco watches him get on the elevator. The last thing he sees is the flash of his eyes, very brown, always sort of sad. Celestino hears Marco’s voice in his head—shut up, you weirdo, what the fuck are you even talking about? Decides that he’s fine with being angry at him.

It’s too quiet in his hotel room. Celestino keeps replaying it, their argument. He doesn’t know why he said it that time of all times—I love you. They’d been screaming for the past ten minutes already. Maybe if it’d been someone else, someone he was more used arguing with, he’d managed to keep his mouth shut. Or maybe not. Celestino always gets too into arguments.

Later, sitting shell-shocked in Valentino’s couch while Valentino dragged Marco to see a witch, he’d finally looked at the group chat. Bez got hit with a hate curse, we don’t know who’s the target.

Easy as that.

Easy as that, he’s still thinking about it at four something am, when someone starts hammering on his door.

“Celin,” Marco says, urgent, sloppy. His eyes seem wet and shiny—so it’s sad drunk Bez. He must’ve gone over loose and having fun three shots ago. It’s the third stage of his night outs, which usually comes before him throwing up.

Celestino doesn’t budge from the door.

“Celin.” He sways on his feet, mouth stained red with wine, and he thinks that maybe he should, just in case someone sees, but then Marco keeps talking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you too.”

It hurts, hurts like climbing the ivy walls in his school to skip classes, thorns lodged in his palms. Feels like it might just fill his lungs with blood, and something unsaid, and a meanness that he doesn’t think that Marco knows first-hand.

“I hate you,” Celestino says, quietly. See? I can do it too. But there’s no satisfaction, and Marco recoils like he’s been slapped, so Celestino holds his wrist and guides him inside.

It’s been three and a half weeks. Most of summer break and a race. “You’re such a bastard.”

“I know,” Marco mumbles, then toes off his shoes to get on the bed. I hate you, Celestino can’t bring himself to say again. “Sorry.”

[causenessus]

hi! i'll keep this short

i came to the realization everytime i've disappeared from tumblr to "take a break" i never really have because of other things going on in my life (which, duh, this isn't my whole life) but! i also realized that if i never actually take the time to recover and rest and think about things i should be writing i'll never feel better. so! i'm (once again)(but now more formally) going on hiatus until maybe may! i might pop in for spring break or earlier if i feel like it, but until then, not really any writing from me! with that being said, i'll still be around, doting on my moots (i.e. like, dorothea <3 wyr <3 and bug <3) because i love them so much and i will probably also post chapters of present ever so often! the reason being (i'm going to try to make this make sense but it may only make sense to me but i'm aware of how contradicting i am to me five seconds ago when i said i need to take a break from writing) present is a very personal fic for me that i've worked on for years at this point. what i'm posting now are chapters i wrote months ago after I've read over and edited them (or in the case of the upcoming chapter, i did randomly add it in and had to write it from the ground up last week lmao) but if it isn't obvious, present is a work i'm very passionate about and am just posting in case anyone else enjoys it but it feels like it's a work that is very individualized just for me and it doesn't cause me any stress or anxiety. on the topic of individualization, although i am of course so so thankful for all of the support and people that follow me, i do sort of miss when my blog and world were a lot smaller. it's something i feel like i only get when i get to reply to people in comments, but other than that, all the numbers and people on my feed give me a lot of anxiety. the hq (smau fandom especially) fandom or at least how much i'm (was) involved in it has grown exponentially and of course i'm happy about that but it's a bit too much for me. i'll be taking a huge step back from the fandom and any hq works i've written at least in the meantime, but that's not to say they'll never be finished! but i either need to grow to handle the bigger audience that now reads my works or wait for things to grow a little smaller again :) i hope to still be able to read my moots works but forgive me if it takes me a bit or i never get to them! i think at the least i'll still like them to show my support <3 thank you if you read my long ramble! i love you all <3

oh also i'll probably post self ship moodboards and the beginning of my reading list (thank you again dorothea for the idea <3)! but again, I think you get the idea by now; I want to go back to doing this for me! so this is a tiny little goodbye now i'm leaving for you all with forehead kisses and flowers and love notes and mwah <3 i'll see you around!

[bigfootsmom]

seven sentence sunday

i was tagged by the lovely and talented @smallandalmosthonest, @tizniz, @try-set-me-on-fire <3 <3 <3

i started a new wip 😔 been writing a lot of fluff and smut recently I needed some blood and guts. I'm gonna call this the helicopter crash fic and it's gonna be for my "broken ribs" BTHB square <3

Cold dread seeps into his veins. Evan was with him when he went down— where is— Tommy jerks against his harness, a sharp groan of pain getting caught between his teeth as the straps dig into his ribs and make something click and grind in his chest. He twists in his seat, head feeling too heavy on his neck but still he forces himself to hold it up. He lost his headset at some point during the crash, but he doesn’t care about that, not when his eyes land on the slumped form in the copilot seat.  “E–Evan!” Tommy shouts or tries to shout, but his voice cracks down the middle, metallic smoke cinching his throat tight. He coughs with a wince, wrapping an arm around his side. “Evan!”

tags <3

@usersiren, @honestlydarkprincess, @holdmygum, @swiftietartt, @bibuddie

@maygrantgf, @bisexual-buck, @boykisserbuckley, @icarusbuck, @devirnis

@princessfbi, @homerforsure, @mellaithwen, @shyaudacity, @eddiebabygirldiaz

@monsterrae1, @loserdiaz, @giddyupbuck, @underwaterninja13, @father-salmon

@housewifebuck, @colonoscopys, and YOU if you want to post something!