#[✿] - aims answers

[stevebabey]

personally love the interaction in the start of s4 where steve goes “ugh, you know i don’t do double vhs.” when robin suggests doctor zhivago. like ugh robin!!!! we’ve talked about this before!!! steve has a limited attention span and if robin puts on something too long, he will start shooting her with rubber bands

[canisalbus]

I know little to nothing about Ludovica's partner, but to me seems she'd wear pink or purple (tho idk if those colors were popular during the 1500s) pink because itd be a neat contrast with ludo's green, purple because its a regal color

I also keep stubbornly visualizing her in pink! Not barbie pink but something along the lines of dusty rose or light mauve. I don't think I've ever seen pictures of any proper pink being worn in late renaissance times though, it doesn't exactly fit the aesthetic (but I could be wrong of course). Most pastel colors are strongly rococo (1700's) coded to me.

[taibhsearachd]

Me: Mags, what’s the biggest shipwreck you can think of?

Mags: Ummm… Destiel?

[smovs]

sketches & screenshot studies for my Barret gold saucer date rewrite

[artieseni]

hellooooo codz fandom please let me in i offer one (1) messed up little german babygirl

[zu-is-here]

Wait, Aim wears those glasses for a specific reason? (an eye problem maybe?).

Pd: I just noticed the detail that his gap teeth are still the same TuT.

[happyheidi]

[bacchuschucklefuck]

Riz has counted four casseroles this week alone. Five, if one goes by the method of cooking, but Yelen's scary when she's crossed, and calling her burek by its proper name is important to her, so Riz does her the courtesy and doesn't include it in his mental tally.

He holds the tupperware over his head to keep it out if the way as he takes careful steps over the piles of notes in his path. The dockman case just closed, relevant documentations handed over to relevant personnels, evidences dealt with as needed; all he has lying around now is just record of the process and traces of himself thinking through it. Unsurprisingly they still haven't invented a surface more convenient for people under five feet who like to pace to put pieces of paper on than the ground.

Actual records go into the case folder with the other documents. Anything else with at least one side still blank is going to the school kids in the block - they chew through an astounding amount of paper just learning arithmetic. The rest is for the recycling basket.

Later. It's his mandated lunch break right now.

Riz sits down in front of the corner file cabinet. In an office often overrun with papers and strings and sometimes even thumbtacks, he's never really managed to clutter up this exact square of surface like every other ones. Ever since the bottom drawer rattled for no discernible reason a day long past, his eyes have always just kinda decided to slide across the space without acknowledging it.

It's years out, now. Riz doesn't know why he thought it such a big deal anymore, back then. He wasn't scared, he doesn't think. Not anymore. Maybe just uncomfortable with the idea that certain things persist despite all efforts to change.

He opens the tupperware. Dame Carabelle's experiment greets him with enough spice in the aroma alone to knock out a small mammal. When he chopped the vegetables for this casserole he couldn't really imagine the eventual heft of it, evident even through just these few ladles' worth, maybe weighing heavier for being still warm. His folk eat more through the smell and the textures and the aftertastes than the taste itself. His folk's meal is really the cooking rather than the eating. The eating is the meal's end.

"Hey," he tells the file cabinet's bottom drawer. "Um."

It's the anniversary. Riz doesn't know the exact date of his dad's death; nobody currently alive does. He and Mom both use the date of the funeral, though as he moved out to Bastion and then got more directly involved with Interplanar he hasn't really been going to Dad's grave as much. Doesn't seem like very efficient use of his time, catching a train or borrowing a car or spending a whole spell slot on going somewhere he knows Dad isn't at. They're sorta coworkers now. They talk on and off every other week between missions. When he goes now, it's just to clean up the place, keeping the landmark tidy and respectable.

Without that work to mark the date he doesn't really know what it serves anymore. But he still remembers it. Still takes note, absently or not, when it comes around.

There's not really a good way to tell the drawer that. Riz looks for another way to start the... conversation, hopefully. The question at play, he'd guess, is why he's doing this. He's been pretty content ignoring all the rattlings and the knocks from inside and the times it sits slightly ajar without him ever opening it himself; hell, he still uses the three drawers on top of it. Space is fucking precious in Bastion.

Precious enough to finally fix this damn drawer so he gets his turn to use it? Riz asks himself. Is that what we're getting to? Then he dismisses the thought - he didn't manage to fix it the times he actually tried, let alone-- now. When he doesn't really care that much to.

That's probably a good place to start. "'s fine if you keep being in there, turns out," Riz says.

The lunch hours are quiet in the block, sleepy and bright with the brief window of sunlight that manages to break through roof overhangs and extended balconies and laundry lines and climbing vines. Riz's work isn't loud here (the loud parts happen away from his office, if everything goes right), but the fragment of early summer heat reflected in the steady warmth his meal still carries compels him to lower his voice even more. It makes the words feel intimate, in a way he's never been familiar with - if he says something he just says it. He doesn't whisper. If he gives his friends something, he gives it open-palm. He's found out, along the way, that people usually don't think of rituals and courtesies the way he does.

Small voice for a diminished monster. "You know why I think so?" Riz asks. "Because almost two decades ago you kidnapped me and almost killed me, and now you rattle a drawer in my office."

It doesn't sound as much like a taunt as Riz wanted it to; the drawer has made a lot of noises again this morning when he checked the calendar, and he was definitely annoyed at it. Now, though, facing it like this after cooking the whole morning with more grandparents and peers from the block than he can count on both hands to cater for a tenant union meeting, he thinks the annoyance has morphed. Changed shape.

It has the shades of something like pity. Riz is not prone to pity, and especially not at these kinda matters. It's slightly maddening that he coheres perfectly outside of this one spot. That he commands his spaces, except for a drawer.

He puts the tupperware onto the floor between himself and the cabinet. "I know we're aware it's the anniversary," he says at the drawer. "You do this every year. You make a ruckus every time I decide to go do my job instead of mooching off my friends' aircon, and every time I get an invitation to some stupid social thing I want to turn down, and every time one of the old people tries to introduce me to a child or a nibling, because being a bachelor over thirty is weird," he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I have three fucking jobs. I love doing my fucking jobs. I'm forcing funds into infrastructures. You're never leaving, are you."

The drawer vibrates lightly. It's a very, very mild acknowledgement, considering the history of reactions Riz has gotten from this thing. Riz thinks it's emanating joyous agreement, or satisfaction.

It only sharpens the pity. Riz doesn't like that, but it's how it is. That's, ultimately, the lesson he's been taught over and over and over again, just by existing as himself, turned every which way by space after space that don't see him eye-to-eye: it's not like he'd quit living over any of it. It's not like any of it can sand off these fundamental pieces of him.

He's outgrown a lot of things, he's found out. Again, and again, and again. A childhood home, a yearly trip, a monster.

"'s probably scary for you, huh?" He asks. "Because I left."

He thinks he hears joints creak that sound like you did. Probably the way a scorned lover would say it, in a movie or a yellowback. He has no more connection to the idea than he did as a kid. Less, because it doesn't even scare him.

"That's what it is, right? That it's the anniversary, and I'll never be like Dad." He raises a knee from the floor, pulls it back closer to him. Slings an arm over it. "You love to remind me. The thing is, Dad also left. He loved Mom and he loved me, and none of us wanted it to happen, but it still did. Because love does fuckall to make anyone stay on its own."

He's long past being bitter about it. It's just the facts. Once upon a time he looked into the future and the specter of his friends' happily-ever-after casted lightless, fathomless shadow over him. Love, marriage, that kind of devotion, to a fifteen-year-old with more solved cases than friends seemed so eternal. Final.

But you can only watch your friends build up apps' worth of jilted lovers for so long before getting over it.

"You know what I learned?" Riz tells the drawer. "Love doesn't make anyone stay. Project management does."

He stands up, and picks up the tupperware of Dame Carabelle's casserole, that he helped make, that he helped share with a block's worth of neighbors and members of a community he's at home with, and goes sit at his desk to eat. "Last chance to get any," he drops an offer over his shoulder as he walks away.

He doesn't eat all of his share in one go. What he's spared he leaves on the desk when going outside for a smoke break. Baron looks the exact same as when he saw them last, when he catches a glimpse; they haven't grown at all. They aren't there when he comes back inside, but the leftover has gone days-old cold, like someone's sucked the future out of it.

[soaps-mohawk]

Price is absolutely the type to hide training within activities like hiding a dog's medicine in a piece of cheese.

Oh? Fun date night? Well, it's an escape room. Let's work on your problem solving abilities.

Oh? You want to play video games? He finds games to buy that work on your reaction time and perception.

Wanna stay in and play a board game? We're playing chess. Let's work on your strategy.

I stand by this headcanon 100% 😆

Oh absolutely. He's gotta make sure you're fully prepared for anything, that you're always aware and capable of making snap decisions when necessary.

Gotta keep that brain sharp.

[ask-the-monster-nest-xxx]

"I want to be with the demon king" for Aim

Eiden yawned as he sat on the throne in the pride sector. He was doing his best to get in with all the other sectors but lust was proving difficult. How do you offer something to Lust?

[diazsdimples]

Some inspo for you 😘

Hooooo boy yeah this definitely inspired some Things™️

The kiss is sloppy, wet, and the taste of Eddie's cock is still on his tongue. It’s fucking intoxicating, sending Buck’s head spinning into the stratosphere. He licks into Eddie's mouth, trying to chase the taste, and Eddie groans in response to his enthusiasm, low and loud. They don’t come up for air, just keep kissing and kissing and kissing, their mouths and tongues slotting together like they were made for this. Buck could kiss Eddie forever and never get tired of it. "I want to fuck you," Eddie murmurs against his mouth as he pulls away, and Buck feels his cock give an almighty twitch in response. "Yeah, please," he whispers. He would give anything to have Eddie's cock inside him. To be filled up, stretched out, to bring them as close together as two people can get. His body aches for it, and the heat of the room has everything feeling like an out of body experience. Eddie kisses along Buck’s jaw, his tongue swiping across the hot skin to lap up an errant bead of sweat. “Do you think,” he murmurs between kisses, “we should move somewhere else?” Buck whines in confusion as Eddie sucks a mark into the hollow of his throat. “Move? Somewhere else? What do you-?” Eddie chuckles, the noise low and rumbling against Buck’s chest. He feels it vibrate through him, sparking at his nerves and generating a pool of heat deep in his body. Eddie nuzzles at the hollow of Buck’s throat, just above the mark, and runs his hands over Buck’s sides, his fingers exploring the expanses of his friend’s body. “You’re burning up, baby,” Eddie breathes against Buck’s skin. “Don’t want you to pass out on me.” If Buck’s mouth was dry before, it’s nothing compared to the way the pet name seemingly sucks all the moisture from him. It knocks the breath out of him, and he sits there blinking silently while his brain comes back online. “I – uh – yeah, okay. Where would we go?” Eddie captures Buck’s lips in another soft, sweet kiss. His thumbs caress Buck’s cheeks and he gently nips at his bottom lip, running his tongue over it to soothe the faint sting. Buck knows this isn’t a permanent thing – they’re not together by any means – but he can’t help the warm flood of love that washes over him at Eddie’s gentle touches. They’re intimate, a far cry from the primal, lust filled grinding of a few moments ago. “There’s a spa pool just outside, and no one else is here. We could…” Eddie trails off as Buck wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Or not? What’s wrong with the spa?” “Eds, I love you, but I’m not having sex with you in a vat of warmed up human soup.”

[pocket-watcher]

Okay but what if someone made a deal with a hypnosis demon/entity/whatever to get better sleep, but he started invading her waking life too :)

OKAY but what if this was a great idea and I love your beautiful mind Anon. What if.

It had been a month since Ashley had started sleeping better.

It was bliss.

From 11pm to 7am she sank into the deepest sleep, awaking refreshed and energised always. She’d finally been able to catch up with her chores. She’d brought her coffee intake from 3 cups a day to 1. And she had enough energy to actually go for a run every morning.

And all she’d had to do was sell her soul.

Okay, that sounds bad. But it wasn’t as weird as it sounds!

After countless sleepless nights Ashley had found herself scrolling endlessly through forum after forum of Life Hacks to cure her insomnia.

Medication? Nope. Exercising until exhaustion? Nope. A nice warm glass of milk? Nada.

But then, she found a link.

This sketchy website full of summoning spells and incantations and potions.

But, honestly, she had almost fallen asleep at the wheel a couple hours ago so she literally had no choice.

Ashley gathered the candles, dimmed the lights, and began reciting the spell.

That’s when everything went black.

She woke up 7am the next day, and despite being hunched over on the floor surrounded by half-burnt candles she had never felt better!

And every night since she had done the same. 11pm rolls around and she simply drops into sleep.

The first few times had been a bit precarious, but once she’d realised the timing of it all she made sure she was safely in bed by 10:59.

It was weird though, she kept having the same dream about the same man.

But she thought nothing of it.

Until she bumped into him inside a coffee shop.

“Woah, sorry about that! Are you okay?” He said, a voice like heaven.

She stuttered and stumbled and nodded, scrambling for a seat. Face flushed.

It was him. She knew it was him. But she second guessed herself anyway.

“Is this seat taken?” He said, already setting his espresso down.

Blankly, she shook her head. What was she supposed to say? I’ve been dreaming about you for the last month, are you a sleep demon?

“Thanks. Are you okay? You look flushed.” He smiled.

Something about his smile just made her feel a lot more comfortable.

“Yeah, sorry, lost in thought.” She chuckled and sipped her coffee.

“Oh?” He mused.

She stifled a yawn, taking another sip of her coffee and willing for the caffeine to kick in.

“Yeah… You just look familiar.”

“Do I? I’m afraid you don’t. I’d remember a pretty face like that.”

She blushed.

It was so easy to talk to this guy. She lazily swished her remaining coffee around in her cup.

She yawned once more.

“Late night?”

Her eyes were heavy as she raised them towards him.

“No, actually… sorry. I don’t know why I’m -“

He placed his hand on hers.

“Maybe you just need to relax and take a nap, Hm?”

The warm tones of his voice and his gentle touch drew her in. So familiar.

It was like the comfort of staying under the covers on a winter morning.

She allowed herself to stand as he guided her upwards.

“Yeah… Maybe I need a nap.” She parroted back to him, voice hollow and her stare glassy.

The coffee had long gone cold now. Time had passed without her even realising as she allowed the stranger to lead her out of the coffee shop.

But she didn’t mind.

She had wanted sleep more than anything, after all.

[canisalbus]

I know people sort of stopped talking about the whole "victorian child vs modern fast food" debate a while ago. but I was scrolling your page today and Machete really looks like he would NOT survive a big mac

.

[tswwwit]

Reading the cult AU stuff really got my brain going, I just began imagining another Dipper but one so embroiled in monster hunting that when he first meets Bill it's after defeating a whole group of lower rank demons trying to curry favour with our favorite Angle man.

Bill is welcomed by a crossbow to the face and a distinct feeling of actual pain because this Dipper is able to do some damage. And Bill...the absolute smartest idiot himbo demon you will ever meet.

He just opens his gob and says;

"oh, skipping the first date and going straight to the foreplay?"

(Dipper makes him look like a pincushion for his troubles, or at least tries to. 😂)

[teecupangel]

Random thing: I just wanna imagine that scene where Desmond gets hit by Bill and just the second that his fist connects Desmond’s mom appears ready to go mama bear on this jackass for punching her son.

Desmond has no idea what just happened.

One moment, he felt then the pain blossoming from his cheek, his feet staggering a few steps back, his mind reeling as his body reacted instinctively to weaken the blow he just received.

Then…

Shaun and Rebecca shout.

For a moment, he had thought they screamed because of what happened to him.

But that was impossible.

Their reaction was a second too late.

They did not expect Bill to hit him but they also didn’t believe they had any right to go between them.

His head was still ringing when he saw her slap Bill with enough force to topple him to the ground. She wasted no time, kicking him while he was down.

Their shout had been a warning of her appearance.

Her movements were meant for speed, not strength, but she had always used that to her advantage. She tried to teach him that.

She also taught him to fight dirty and always aim for the weak spot. And that was what she was doing.

Her first kick was aimed between his legs.

As was her second.

Her third.

On and on, she continued to focus her quick strikes between Bill’s legs.

It was the Assassins who came with her that tried to drag her away from Bill, begging her to stop and to calm down.

It took three of them to drag her away.

He recognized them.

They were from the Farm.

What were they doing here?

Desmond has no idea.

She didn’t bother to say anything, pulling away from their hold and walking away from Bill who remained on the ground, twitching as he coughed up saliva.

She walked towards Desmond and placed her hands on his neck, his hands warm.

“Desmond…”

When he was growing up, he had always found her to be cold and distant.

But reliving Altaïr’s memories…

He finally recognized the softness in her gaze. The way her tone would becomes a bit gentler.

She reminded him of the many Levantine Assassins Altaïr had seen, unable to show their love for their children under Al Mualim’s reign.

So he smiles even if his cheek ached.

“Hey, mom.”

(Desmond’s mom’s main combo is Altaïr’s bitch slap followed by nuts or nothing)

[distant--shadow]

I got you