#-whether we did a good job or not and our job is to try to make others think it's good even if we don't think so

[aluria-sevhex]

help a few days ago i drew a mom and i think i accidentally made her a milf

[staff]

We Asked an Expert...in Herpetology!

People on Tumblr come from all walks of life and all areas of expertise to grace our dashboards with paragraphs and photographs of the things they want to share with the world. Whether it's an artist uploading their speed art, a fanfic writer posting their WIPs, a language expert expounding on the origin of a specific word, or a historian ready to lay down the secrets of Ea-nasir, the hallways of Tumblr are filled with specialists sharing their knowledge with the world. We Asked an Expert is a deep dive into those expert brains on tumblr dot com. Today, we’re talking to Dr. Mark D. Scherz (@markscherz), an expert in Herpetology. Read on for some ribbeting frog facts, including what kind of frog the viral frog bread may be based on.

Reptiles v Amphibians. You have to choose one.

In a battle for my heart, I think amphibians beat out the reptiles. There is just something incredibly good about beholding a nice plump frog.

In a battle to the death, I have to give it to the reptiles—the number of reptiles that eat amphibians far, far outstrips the number of amphibians that eat reptiles.

In terms of ecological importance, I would give it to the amphibians again, though. Okay, reptiles may keep some insects and rodents in check, but many amphibians live a dual life, starting as herbivores and graduating to carnivory after metamorphosis, and as adults they are critical for keeping mosquitos and other pest insects in check.

What is the most recent exciting fact you discovered about herps?

This doesn’t really answer your question, but did you know that tadpole arms usually develop inside the body and later burst through the body wall fully formed? I learned about this as a Master’s student many years ago, but it still blows my mind. What’s curious is that this apparently does not happen in some of the species of frogs that don’t have tadpoles—oh yeah, like a third of all frogs or something don’t have free-living tadpoles; crazy, right? They just develop forelimbs on the outside of the body like all other four-legged beasties. But this has only really been examined in a couple species, so there is just so much we don’t know about development, especially in direct-developing frogs. Like, how the hell does it just… swap from chest-burster to ‘normal’ limb development? Is that the recovery of the ancestral programming, or is it newly generated? When in frog evolution did the chest-burster mode even evolve?

How can people contribute to conservation efforts for their local herps?

You can get involved with your local herpetological societies if they exist—and they probably do, as herpetologists are everywhere. You can upload observations of animals to iNaturalist, where you can get them identified while also contributing to datasets on species distribution and annual activity used by research scientists.

You can see if there are local conservation organizations that are doing any work locally, and if you find they are not, then you can get involved to try to get them started. For example, if you notice areas of particularly frequent roadkill, talking to your local council or national or local conservation organizations can get things like rescue programs or road protectors set up. You should also make sure you travel carefully and responsibly. Carefully wash and disinfect your hiking boots, especially between locations, as you do not want to be carrying chytrid or other nasty infectious diseases across the world, where they can cause population collapses and extinctions.

Here are some recent headlines. Quick question, what the frog is going on in the frog world? 

Click through for Mark’s response to these absolutely wild headlines, more about his day-to-day job, his opinion on frog bread, and his favorite Tumblr.

✨D I S C O V E R Y✨

There are more people on Earth than ever before, with the most incredible technology that advances daily at their disposal, and they disperse that knowledge instantly. That means more eyes and ears observing, recording, and sharing than ever before. And so we are making big new discoveries all the time, and are able to document them and reach huge audiences with them.

That being said, these headlines also showcase how bad some media reporting has gotten. The frogs that scream actually scream mostly in the audible range—they just have harmonics that stretch up into ultrasound. So, we can hear them scream, we just can’t hear all of it. Because the harmonics are just multiples of the fundamental, they would anyway only add to the overall ‘quality’ of the sound, not anything different. The mushroom was sprouting from the flank of the frog, and scientists are not really worried about it because this is not how parasitic fungi work, and this is probably a very weird fluke. And finally, the Cuban tree frogs (Osteocephalus septentrionalis) are not really cannibals per se; they are just generalist predators who will just as happily eat a frog as they will a grasshopper, but the frogs they are eating are usually other species. People seem to forget that cannibalism is, by definition, within a species. The fact that they are generalist predators makes them a much bigger problem than if they were cannibals—a cannibal would actually kind of keep itself in check, which would be useful. The press just uses this to get people’s hackles up because Westerners are often equal parts disgusted and fascinated by cannibalism. 

What does an average day look like for the curator of herpetology at the Natural History Museum of Denmark?

No two days are the same, and that is one of the joys of the job. I could spend a whole day in meetings, where we might be discussing anything from which budget is going to pay for 1000 magnets to how we could attract big research funding, to what a label is going to say in our new museum exhibits (we are in the process of building a new museum). Equally, I might spend a day accompanying or facilitating a visitor dissecting a crocodile or photographing a hundred snakes. Or it might be divided into one-hour segments that cover a full spectrum: working with one of my students on a project, training volunteers in the collection, hunting down a lizard that someone wants to borrow from the museum, working on one of a dozen research projects of my own, writing funding proposals, or teaching classes. It is a job with a great deal of freedom, which really suits my work style and brain.

Oh yeah, and then every now and then, I get to go to the field and spend anywhere from a couple of weeks to several months tracking down reptiles and amphibians, usually in the rainforest. These are also work days—with work conditions you couldn’t sell to anyone: 18-hour work days, no weekends, no real rest, uncomfortable living conditions, sometimes dangerous locations or working conditions, field kitchen with limited options, and more leeches and other biting beasties than most health and welfare officers would tolerate—but the reward is the opportunity to make new discoveries and observations, collect critical data, and the privilege of getting to be in some of the most beautiful and biodiverse places left on the planet. So, I am humbled by the fact that I have the privilege and opportunity to undertake such expeditions, and grateful for the incredible teams I collaborate with that make all of this work—from the museum to the field—possible.

The Tibetan Blackbird is also known as Turdus maximus. What’s your favorite chortle-inducing scientific name in the world of herpetology?

Among reptiles and amphibians, there aren’t actually that many to choose from, but I must give great credit to my friend Oliver Hawlitschek and his team, who named the snake Lycodryas cococola, which actually means ‘Coco dweller’ in Latin, referring to its occurrence in coconut trees. When we were naming Mini mum, Mini scule, and Mini ature, I was inspired by the incredible list that Mark Isaac has compiled of punning species names, particularly by the extinct parrot Vini vidivici, and the beetles Gelae baen, Gelae belae, Gelae donut, Gelae fish, and Gelae rol. I have known about these since high school, and it has always been my ambition to get a species on this list.

If you were a frog, what frog would you be and why?

I think I would be a Phasmahyla because they’re weird and awkward, long-limbed, and look like they’re wearing glasses. As a 186 cm (6’3) glasses-wearing human with no coordination, they quite resonate with me.

Please rate this frog bread from 1/10. Can you tell us what frog it represents?

With the arms inside the body cavity like that, it can basically only be a brevicipitid rain frog. The roundness of the body fits, too. I’d say probably Breviceps macrops (or should I say Breadviceps?) based on those big eyes. 7/10, a little on the bumpy side and missing a finger and at least one toe.

Please follow Dr. Mark Scherz at @markscherz for even more incredibly educational, entertaining, and meaningful resources in the world of reptiles and amphibians.

[ozzgin]

Its been 6 months😭😭 pleaasseeee make a part 2 of the android x human story im beggingggg😭

-H❤️

Yandere! Android x Reader (II)

Featuring your assigned android partner who is not as devoid of humanity as you originally thought.

Content: female reader, AI yandere, mildly NSFW, based on Caves of Steel

[Part 1] | [More original works]

The case had been solved.

Not only that, but you'd managed to prove that human officers were just as efficient as their robot counterparts. The Commissioner was beyond ecstatic, pacing back and forth in his office and finding new ways to praise your detective skills.

"That'll show those Spacers. They think some glorified tin box can match our skill?"

You frowned at his words and glanced to your side, where the android was sitting. He observed the Commissioner with the same polite smile, no hint of disagreement on his features. Was he not insulted? You questioned him once the formal meeting had finished.

"I have no reason to be offended, (Y/N). It is a personal opinion, and thus I have no control over it."

"So you don't mind people disliking robots to such an extent?"

He pondered your statement.

"I would certainly be upset if it was you who harbored the disdain. The beliefs of other humans hold no meaning to me otherwise."

You couldn't tell if he said it out of politeness, or if he actually meant it. Most likely the former, in order to part on good terms. After all, your partnership has reached its completion. He'd return to the Spacer Colony with his report on human customs, and you'd go back to your regular job.

Except he never left. Days later, he was still sipping on his morning coffee, lounging at your table. You fiddled with your cup in contemplation. Was there anything else left to do?

"When are you leaving, actually?"

The pale man raised his eyebrows in mild surprise.

"Is my presence here of such significant disturbance?"

"What? No!" you swiftly exclaimed, stumbling on your words. His lips widened in yet another cheeky grin. He was teasing you again.

"My assignment on Earth is done, thus I should have returned to the Colony already. That's what you're wondering about, yes? I am awaiting a response from my superiors."

"Whether you can go back?"

"No, whether my transfer has been accepted. I have applied to be your permanent partner."

You could feel your cheeks burning with heat. Was it that obvious to the synthetic that you enjoyed his company? Then again, he wouldn't have gone through such motions just for your sake.

"Why did you..." you probed sheepishly. There was no logical reason for him to keep working in a poorer, less advanced environment.

"Because I want to continue spending time with you."

Nonsense. An artificial being wouldn't make its decision based on such mundane, emotional reasons.

"I don't believe you."

"I understand. It is a faulty answer to come out of a machine. Though unlike common AI assistants, we have been invested with the capacity to develop likes and dislikes. Interests. Wants. It helps with variety and individualization."

"And you want to stay here? If I didn't know you any better, I'd say you have a crush on me or something", you attempted to joke.

A few moments of uncomfortable silence. Had you gone too far with your humor? Was it too cliché of a sentence? You turned away, tucking some strands of hair behind your ear. You just had to be witty, huh?

"I'm afraid I do not know what to tell you, (Y/N)."

"You don't need to say anything, it was a poor choice of-"

"Many social aspects have been implemented into my behavioral network. Workplace rapport, friendships, intimate relationships. What seems to be lacking is the transition from one to another. I know how to act as a romantic partner, but how does one achieve such a title in the first place?"

You gazed at him, incredulous. What was he trying to say?

"I am trying to convey that I am indeed infatuated with you. Which, then, makes my initial explanation dishonest: while I do appreciate our fruitful work cooperation, it is not a main reason for my decision. I hope this clears up any misunderstandings."

You'd never been a romantic. You sometimes flipped through sample pages of contemporary romance books at stores and community centers, but they always felt forcefully cheesy. Predictable. Consequently, you never had any grand dreams of passionate confessions under the rain.

On the other hand, you also didn't expect to be asked out in such a mechanical, calculated manner. Or that a machine would be the suitor. Yet there was something charming about his approach. For the first time since meeting him at the border, you saw him struggle. There was something human-like in his uncertainty.

You stood up from the table, and walked towards the android. Then, you placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, expressing the mutual feeling and understanding.

His eyes bore an eerie glint to them. It was most kind of you to offer a common ground, but he knew better. The affections you held for him were, with utmost certainty, a mere fraction of whatever overwhelmed him from the moment he encountered you. Limerence, obsession, compulsion, there were many definitions that aptly described his otherwise unexplainable desires towards you. Even more unexplainable was the fact they'd evolved from a blank slate, a programmed agent with no previous knowledge on feelings or humans.

You noticed his hesitation.

"Is there anything else troubling you presently?" you nudged.

Nothing of immediate urgency. Well, not for you, at least. The android remained thoughtful. What were the variables which needed to be met in order to initiate a sexual encounter? Would it have been inappropriate for him to suggest intercourse straight after this conversation? To him, it was a natural escalation he'd considered many times in the past. To you, it could've come as a sudden, crass, and hurried proposal.

He reached for your wrist and discreetly pressed a thumb against your skin. Judging from your resting heart rate, facial expression, and localized temperature, there was a fair chance you wouldn't reject his advances. Once the statistical risk had been assessed, he pulled you in for a kiss.

"Would it be possible to continue this in your bedroom?" he inquired, standing up.

"Alright, just don't...ask for approval for every single step" you retorted. You'd rather not become a narrator of your own pounding.

You open your eyes with a squint, greeted by unexpected natural light flooding your bedroom. Someone must’ve lifted the hologram blinds.

“My apologies, I hadn’t considered the discomfort it would cause you. My Spacer colony uses artificial lightning, though I am becoming rather fond of the natural sun rays here.”

Your android partner is meticulously preparing his outfit for the day. Judging by the stark nakedness and the glistening skin, you suppose he’s had a shower while you were still sleeping. You involuntarily furrow your brows and blush at the sight. He notices your embarrassment. 

“A most surprising reaction. You have seen the very same genital organ…”, he says as he quickly checks his wristwatch, “...precisely eight hours and forty-five minutes ago.”

“It’s just…most people get dressed once they start doing other things. I also wear a towel for coverage when I come out of the shower.”

He processes your words.

“Hmmm. Illogical, but it explains your reaction.”

You stand up and stretch with a prolonged yawn. Suddenly, a revelation hits you: your mind flashes with images of the android fondling your body, your ears ring with the shameless moans you’ve let out throughout the night. Your face turns pale.

“Listen, when is your next functional inspection?” you ask, without waiting for the synthetic to answer. “Will they, uh…will they have access to all of your memories?”

You know that the android permanently records all data and saves it into a memory unit. It’s a pointless fear, of course. The Spacers couldn’t care less about irrelevant details. If the intended tasks are fulfilled, what happens on the side is out of their concern. Yet you don’t exactly appreciate the possibility of your personal deeds airing like this, before the eyes of multiple engineers. 

“You may rest assured, whatever involves your privacy will not be included in the examination.”

“Do you get to decide what is checked and what isn’t?”

“No, most data is sampled randomly.”

You stare at him, confused.

“Then how-”

“It is not common practice, nor encouraged by our code of ethics. I can, however, choose which information is available to begin with.”

“What? I thought you’re fully controlled by whoever created you. If they so desired, couldn’t they open you up and take whatever they require?”

The robot smiles at your assumption and takes a few steps towards you.

“Once an android model is finished, one can no longer modify the processor. Not without compromising everything else with it. It is not a device to be deconstructed, (Y/N).” He taps his temple, then continues: “I am a biocomputer. While most of my parts are mechanical, my processor is a cortical organoid developed in a laboratory. A human brain, if you will.”

Somehow, the discovery fills you with dread. A living organ, encapsulated within a machine. What does that say about consciousness? About self-awareness? The Spacers didn't just tinker with metal scraps and smart computers. They artificially birthed life.

You were always under the impression that your robot companion is closer to the computer you have on your desk. Billions of lines of code within a black box, which then lead to spontaneous, novel interactions with the outside world. To think that at the very core of his functions lies a clump of living cells...

Perhaps you weren't so different, after all. The line between machines and humans is suddenly blurred.

[flangore]

❥ she loves me like a dog

feat.: Valentino & Vox/f!reader

summary: You try and run away from Valentino. It's an entirely stupid idea and backfires spectacularly.

warnings: nsfw content, noncon, physical + psychological abuse, unhealthy relationships, violence, punishments, manipulation, Valentino and Vox are their own warnings, guns, object insertion

Every demon in Hell, especially ones who had spent quite some time in the V's part of Pentagram City, knew that there was no escaping Valentino's grasp.

With connections that spread like spiderwebs through every part of town, there was nowhere to be safe, nowhere to hide, given how Vox's eyes reached every street, every alley, a phone or a security camera always in each and every corner.

There was nowhere to hide — except for at the Hazbin Hotel, apparently under the protection of the Radio Demon. You had heard Vox whine and bitch about it at one point, anger dripping off his voice, and, despite knowing better, your heart had lept with hope. Days after, you had tried your hardest to ignore each of the silly ideas making themselves at home in your mind; had attempted to not think of running away, of a better life.

And yet, in the end, you hadn't been able to resist temptation.

Every demon in Hell knew that there was no escaping Valentino's grasp.

That was why you had only yourself to blame for the consequences now that he had caught ahold of you once more, the contract, signed with both of your names, floating next to your face in silent mockery.

Tears brimmed in your eyes; your heart threatened to drop out of your chest with how erratically it was beating.

“I'm kinda disappointed, baby”, Valentino drawled, accent coming through thickly, betraying his calm and collected act. A claw, painted golden, hooked underneath your chin, tilting it upwards until your neck ached, your height difference only adding to the unease curling in your stomach. “Tell me, why did you do feel the need to run away like that?”

Your throat felt tight.

“Come on, you can trust me. Trust us.”

The chains, made of red smoke and currently wound tightly enough to leave marks around your wrists and ankles, really did not make you feel like you were able to trust him. Neither did Vox's presence. Admittedly, he had always unnerved you even more than Valentino had, though, right now, his smirk was downright terrifying.

“Was it the working conditions?” Vox crooned, tone lathered with contempt, with amusement. “Were you unhappy with your job? Do tell us. We're always open to criticism, really.”

There was no explanation that could have excused your actions.

Valentino's smirk widened. “Yeah, babe. What was the issue? I mean, you really can't quit, not with our contract, so what was the purpose of trying to run away?”

“I remember just how grateful you were when Val offered you this opportunity years ago. Do you suddenly think you're too good for us?”

Those words, leaving Vox's mouth so easily, finally dragged you far enough back into reality for you to get a noise out, high-pitched and terrified.

“No”, you choked out, quickly shaking your head, panic making you tremble. “No, that's not—”

“No? Then tell us the reason, mi amor.”

You were pretty certain you were in the middle of a panic attack, lungs feeling too small to take any oxygen in. Not that it mattered right now. “I don't know, I wasn't thinking—”

“That's such a shame. If you at least had an explanation, we could go easy on you.” Vox clicked his tongue, not looking like it was a shame at all. “Val, will you do the honours?”

“Already on it, babe.”

With how large of a being Valentino was, it was all too easy to forget just how quickly he was able to move. Pain bloomed on your cheek, your head spinning, and it took quite a moment for you to realise that he had hit you with the hilt of his gun, custom-made.

In the back of your mind, you wondered whether the rhinestones on it had left indents on your skin.

A metallic taste spread in your mouth. “Please—”

“It's a little late to beg”, Vox remarked.

Valentino's smile was all teeth, unkind in nature. “But it's fine, sweetheart, don't worry. I won't fire you.” His hand cupped your aching cheek, then grabbed ahold of your hair, yanking your head back painfully. “You'll be with us forever. Aren't you grateful? We just have to teach you a lesson. Can't have the bitches acting up, now can we?”

You really had no choice but to nod, tears dripping down your face, surely smearing your makeup, though that was the least of your worries as, suddenly, your bonds shifted, chains pulling taut, changing your position until your legs were wrenched apart.

Panties were rarely part of your work clothing, but being fully bare in front of them right now made bile rise up in your throat.

“See, I wanted to fuck you, remind you who you belong to”, Valentino commented, sounding terribly nonchalant. The muzzle of his gun pressed against the soft skin of your inner thigh, the metal cold. “But Voxxy had better ideas.”

Your heart must have stopped at one point, you were certain of it. This must have been a fever dream, a hallucination.

Despite the panicked thoughts running through your scrambled mind, you didn't protest; had no time to, either. Not that it would have been any use.

Before you knew it, Valentino pushed the gun into you, dry, fuck—, the pain making you cry out, voice high-pitched. Unceremoniously, he shoved it further inside, unrelenting until the hilt of it rested against the lips of your cunt, your whole body tense with agony.

“There we go.” Your eyes flickered over to Vox, the way he was palming himself through his trousers obvious even with your blurry sight. “That's hot. Hah—, look, she's even wet.”

At this point, you hardly noticed that you were screaming, throat aching, the thoughts of running away by now merely an unrealistic fantasy, silly, like the wishes of a spoiled child.

You were, in fact, not wet; instead, blood was easing the glide at least a little, albeit it hardly offered any relief.

You must've torn somewhere. Placing the pain seemed to be an impossible task when simply everything hurt.

At least it wasn't going to get worse from here on — it couldn't possibly.

Valentino just loved to prove you wrong.

“Hey, you think we can fit a dick in there at the same time?”

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

45 / 1.9k / soap soulmate au, part 11

...

Mercenaries can be paid off for just about anything.

So when Price rings your cell phone to propose a trade—Laswell had your number, naturally—Horangi has no qualms with fishing it out of your pocket. You glare at him, but he doesn’t bother giving you anything more than a dry look before he answers it.

You hear Price’s voice from the speaker in Horangi’s ear. "Was wondering what was taking you lot so long."

Horangi sighs. It never ends, apparently. "What do you want?" he asks.

"Just to talk," Price replies. "What's your rate?"

"Come again?" Horangi asks.

"We're all soldiers here. Unfortunate that our mission came at the cost of yours, but we can all walk away happy, hm? I want to make sure you don’t go uncompensated. That’d be a shame."

Horangi scowls, but one of your squadmates in the back seat grips your shoulder and shifts his weight toward the phone in obvious interest.

"What do you have in mind?” Horangi asks.

"First, your rate."

"Too rich for your blood."

"Try me."

Horangi narrows his eyes. Then he shrugs and throws out a number. It's far more money than KorTac’s real fee, but before you can decide whether to say something, Price speaks again.

"We'll double that."

"Will you now?"

"I will. Even pay you all directly if you like. No need to involve the company. Just keep your handler’s cut for yourselves. I won’t say a word," Price says. "That should be good enough, shouldn't it?"

Horangi leans back, tapping the steering wheel in thought, but you can tell he's interested now. "What's the job?"

"Not a job, really. Just a favor. Let us have custody of your songbird, and the money's yours. Make up some story about how she got away or got shot if you need a scapegoat. We’ll turn a blind eye if you prefer. Keep the record nice and clean."

Horangi glances at you. “Songbird’s worth a lot to the company.”

“You’re not the company, now are you? You already did the damn job. You should get paid. You and your team.”

He likes the sound of that. Price's offer turns both of your situations into something everybody can be pleased with. Get the mercs paid for what they lost. They get the girl. Fine by him. He hums in thought. “Cash in hand.”

There’s a beat of silence on Price’s end. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Cash in hand,” Horangi says again. “Or no deal.”

“Are you sure about that? Wired funds spend just as well as cash.”

“I can afford to be picky, my friend.”

Another long pause. “Is that so?”

“Apologies. I’d be happy to consider your deal if I hadn’t already made a better one with someone else. He’s willing to pay cash.”

“Who?”

Horangi scoffs and ends the call. He tosses your phone into the backseat floorboards and ignores your stare burning into the side of his head. “Don’t worry, rookie,” he tells you. “You know it’s a better deal than you’d get back at base. You’ll thank me one day.”

…

But you don’t make it back to base.

It’s an ambush. A trap—Horangi doesn’t see the charges on either side of the road until it’s too late, and the truck transporting you flips forward onto its roof. One minute, you’re feeling the melted snow in your boots; the next, you’re looking down at the road through the windshield. Then you’re coming to in a haze of gunfire and hoarse voices barking call-and-response orders all around you.

It’s not until your teammates have evacuated the wrecked truck that you attempt to move yourself and do the same. Maybe they plan to come back for you; maybe they think you’re dead. Maybe you are dead. You really fucking hope not. Whatever death has in store for you, it had better not force you to contend with the agonizing pain of a dislocated shoulder and broken glass buried in every second nerve ending.

You push against the seatbelt holding you to the seat, having to twist out of your coat just to slump to the pavement. You’re still ziptied, but you have to move. If whoever laid this ambush finds you, you're done for.

Somehow, all you can think about is Johnny. If he could see you now, he’d never let you hear the end of it. He’d lecture you like a goddamn recruit. You hate how much you want to see his stupid face get angry at you again.

There’s a long lull in the gunfire. Then the sound of approaching footsteps. Someone curses and orders the others to “spread out,” searching for your scattered teammates—for survivors.

Your teammates aren’t coming. You’re on your own.

Then you remember Price’s call and Horangi swiping your phone from your pocket.

Desperately, you shoulder your way back into the wreckage. Somehow, you find it. The screen is cracked, but it still lights up when you wrestle your bound wrists under your feet and touch the screen. Thank Christ. You redial Price's number from the call log.

He picks up on the first ring. "Go for Price."

"I need to talk to Johnny."

There's a moment of crackling silence through the line. Then: "Soap's tied up at the moment. What's going on?"

"I don't know. Ambush. The car flipped." You wince, feeling broken glass cut into your shoulder. The slushy pavement under you is turning ruddy. Oh, that’s your blood. "It's bad."

Price swears under his breath. "Where are you?"

"Near the base of the mountain. In the side. There's a... a lot of trees. Twenty hostiles. I think. I can't see."

"Stay put. We'll find you. Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime."

"I want to talk to Johnny."

"For God’s sake. You can talk to him in person when we find you. Just sit tight."

"Let me talk to my goddamn soulmate," you hiss. You put as much venom into your voice as you can, but even you hear how weak you sound.

Price says something away from the speaker you can't quite make out. There's shuffling and then another familiar voice picks up, low and gruff, and tinged with a Scottish burr.

"Hen?"

The wave of relief that sweeps through you renders you mute for a second.

That makes the worry in his tone swell. “You okay? They hurt you?"

The concern in his voice has your throat tightening. Dammit.

Before you can reply, there's another burst of gunfire and a hostile voice much too close by for comfort. You grab the phone and edge your way further into the tenuous safety of the wreckage. You clutch the phone in your hands, barely clocking the glass screen digging into your palm.

The sound of your voice cutting out over the line triggers Soap’s anxiety all over again. He curses up a storm on the other end, his voice rising with every word and the urgency in his tone growing as he calls you by name.

You hear more footfalls, but whoever it is, they don't seem to notice you. You've not been gunned down yet, at least. You need to find somewhere safer.

Peering around the wreckage, you look for somewhere else you can hide. The tree line is close. You don't know how long you'll last in the snow no matter what, especially without your coat—but cold cover is safer than none. Staying under a leaking, gasoline-filled truck carcass isn’t a good long-term plan.

Soap’s voice rises over the line. "Dammit, say somethin'!"

Finally you do. "Johnny?"

"Jesus." Soap closes his eyes, hoping like hell he's not about to hear you get shot, or captured, or worse. He can already tell by the rough sound of your voice that he's not going to like what you say next. "I'm here," he says quickly, trying to keep the worry from his own voice. "Where are ya?"

"I’m an idiot. I'm sorry for everything I put you through. I shouldn’t have been so stubborn about..." You let out a harsh sigh. "You. Just wanted to tell you that."

It suddenly feels like there's a block of ice lodged in Soap’s chest. "That a goodbye, darlin'?" he says.

"I'm doing my goddamn best. Alright?"

"That’s a sorry fuckin’ excuse. You’re aways doing your best," Soap snaps. An ugly, hard thread of bitterness creeps into his tone. "Trouble is you always choose the worst way of goin’ about it. I’m not lettin' you go like this.”

"I know it's my fault," you retort. "Okay? I should've listened to you. Are you happy to hear me fucking say it?"

"Does it look like that's gonna fix things?" Soap’s voice rises with every word now. His temper is frayed at the edges. "No, I'm not bloody happy. I don't want apologies. I don't want some grand realization. I just want you to survive. You're damn right you fucked up. And you've got a lot of work to do to make it up to me, so you'd best stay alive. You hear me?"

You swallow, clutching the phone tighter in your hands.

"Answer me."

"I'll try."

"No. You'll do," Soap says in a voice that brooks no argument. His voice drops low again, but the anger is still there. "You will make it back to me. You'll do whatever it takes. You don't get to leave me alone after all the trouble you gave me. I'll not hear one more sorry excuse."

God. You want him so bad it hurts. You close your eyes, concentrating on the pain of the glass in your skin and your dislocated shoulder to sharpen your focus. "Fine."

"That's my girl." The words come out rough, heated, and tinged with something like pride. "You just stay put," he says. "We'll find you."

You tense as another set of voices raise in aggravation nearby. The longer you stay here, the greater the chance you'll be seen. "I have to go," you say lowly into the phone. "Need better cover."

"Stay on the line," he says quickly. "Do not hang up. Hen!"

You bring your ziptied wrists down hard on the edge of your boot—and again, and again, pain radiating up your arm—until it finally snaps.

With your hands free, you pull yourself out from under the wreckage and away, leaving Soap on the line to hear nothing but shouting and gunshots.

Soap listens through the phone, biting down hard on the curse that threatens to tear free. He can't lose you. He's going crazy imagining the worst right now. His mind is all too happy to cycle through a parade of gory images. No. No, you can't go, not like this.

He'd give anything to be a knife on your belt right now. A bullet in your gun. Anything but this—this utter fucking helplessness. He can’t do anything but sit on the other end of a line and listen. It's torture.

Even with Price at the wheel, racing all of them toward the bottom of the mountain.

"We'll make it, Soap," is all Price says.

Soap nods, but he barely hears it. All he can listen to is the sound of gunfire through the phone and the cold, visceral rage in the pit of his stomach. He'll claw his way to you with his bare hands if he has to. It doesn’t matter how much blood and sweat it costs him to get you back. You’d better keep your word and stay alive to make it up to him.

...

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / [part 11] / part 12

more Soap / masterlist

[ynscrazylife]

I think reader with Aaron Hotchner (criminal minds) and

"Let's get you home." "Oh, mine or yours?" "Ours." "Oh, wow!"

would be adorable 🤭

all ours (fianc��!aaron hotchner x reader)

Aaron doesn’t usually join the team for nights out at the bar but damn, you’re quite convincing, tugging on his arm with a sweet, adorable look. He can’t resist you. It’s simply not in his nature.

He has to admit, he’s glad he’s come tonight. It’s nice to see you all having fun for once, letting the tension and stress of the job go. Spencer’s beat everyone at trivia night, JJ is trying to set Emily up with someone, Derek, you, and Penelope are alternating between playing darts or pool, and Rossi is trying to flirt with anyone who’ll listen.

“Oh my god, you’re not supposed to throw the dart at me, dummy!”

Aaron takes your exclamation as his cue. He puts down a drink he’s barely had half of and walks over to where you’re glaring at Derek, a dart sticking to your forehead.

“Stay still,” Derek says, laughing as he points his phone at you to take a picture.

“Are we having fun?” Aaron asks, gently plucking the dart off your forehead and looking at Penelope. The two of them are the only sober ones left of the group.

“Yep,” Penelope says with a smile as you and Derek start bickering.

She and Aaron let you go at it, chatting for a little while, until you suddenly stumble. Aaron catches you before you fall, tucking you into his side. “I think we should get you home,” he says.

You hum. “Mine or yours?” You ask, leaning your head against his chest and smiling dreamily, your frustration with Derek completely forgotten.

Aaron blinks, unsure whether to be amused or worried. “Ours, sweetheart,” he corrrcts.

“Oh, wow!” You chirp excitedly.

Penelope can’t help but laugh, which eases Aaron and makes him smile. “Mhm. We bought a house when we got engaged, remember?” He reminds you, grabbing your hand and holding it up so that you can spot your engagement ring.

You gasp. “So shiny,” you remark, letting your body sag against Aaron. He quickly adjusts his arm to wrap around your waist, holding you up.

“Just wait until you see the wedding bands,” Aaron says, kissing your forehead. He turns to Penelope. “We’ll see you all on Monday. You got the rest of the team?”

“Yes, sir. I think you’re taking the trouble with you,” Penelope affirms, before they’re interrupted by Spencer’s yelp after Derek nails him with a dart. “Okay, half the trouble.”

“Heyyyy,” you whine, pouting (which Aaron thinks is adorable).

Penelope mouths an apology, which you can barely comprehend with your drunkenness. “Good luck, Garcia,” Aaron says, steering the two of you towards the exit.

Getting you to the car is certainly . . . An experience. You can’t seem to stop giggling at who knows what, stopping your fiancé every few feet to point at something (twice he swears you point to the same star in the sky).

“Alright, there you go,” he says as he sits you down in the passenger’s seat. When he leans over to buckle you in, you pull at his arms and grab his face, kissing him. Aaron entertains you for a second, then pulls back. “You little sneak.”

You giggle some more, finding the image of your lipstick smeared on Aaron’s lips hilarious. “Aaron, will you let me do your makeup sometime?” You ask.

“Sure, sweetheart,” he says, confidant that you won’t remember this. He finishes buckling you in and closes the door, quickly running around to hop into the driver’s seat.

Once he starts driving, Aaron puts on the radio to hopefully keep you occupied. When the two of you arrive back home, Aaron helps you out of the car, only for you to marvel at the house.

“Wow — that house is sooo pretty,” you say, pointing at it.

“We bought that house, honey, remember?” Aaron says. He can’t wait to tease you about this when you’re sober.

“We did? Really? It’s all ours?” You ask him as he escorts you onto the porch, where he reaches into his pocket for his keys.

“All ours,” Aaron affirms, slipping the key into the lock.

“Even the lamp?” You say, squirming out of his grip to wrap your arms around the lamp pole.

“Yes,” Aaron says, laughing. He gently tugs you away and gets you inside the house. You compliment your fiancé’s taste about everything in the house, even when he tells you that you picked out your fair share of the design and furniture.

He gets you upstairs by telling you that the master bedroom is, by far, the best room in the house.

“It’s beautiful!” You cry before Aaron even turns the light switch on.

He sits you down on the bed and helps you change into a shirt and sweatpants that both belong to him (he knows that you love wearing his clothes). Once you flop down on the bed, Aaron changes into his pajamas. He grabs some make-up wipes from the bathroom and dabs carefully at your face, smiling as you giggle.

“You’ll thank me in the morning,” he says, only for you to hum in response.

Once he finishes, he tosses the wipes in the garbage can. When he gets back to bed, you’ve almost dozed off completely, slowly blinking.

“Tuckered out, honey?” He coos, taking a mental photo of the absolute adorable sight in front of him. Your hair is all messy, you’re pouting, but he just thinks it makes you cuter.

“No,” you mumble.

Aaron grins and turns off the light, lying down in bed next to you. He pulls you into his side, cuddling you, until you fall asleep, where he kissed your forehead. “Sweet dreams,” he says.

In the morning, he teases you about your drunk attics. You remind him of his promise to let you do his make-up.

[ddejavvu]

omg part two for hotch scrolling through your ig pretty please 😭😭 like IMAGINE penelope gathering the rest of the gang so they can collectively stalk your instagram and she accidentally likes one of your pictures while lurking

Penelope isn't often scared of Hotch, because the man has a soft spot for her, and she knows it. But now he's staring at her with a stern glare, something she's not usually on the receiving end of. She shifts on her heels, strangely speechless.

"Sir? Is everything okay?"

He lets her suffer in silence for a moment longer, then gestures towards his phone face-up on the desk. It's lit up with a text notification, and she faintly recognizes the name that it's attached to.

Y/N Y/L/N: Isn't this your computer whiz?

"Open it." Hotch instructs, his voice unfailingly calm, which sets Penelope even further on edge. She reaches out with a trembling finger to tap on the notification and it opens your thread, the screen entirely consumed with a screenshot you'd taken of your instagram. Sure enough, in your notifications page is a note: baby_girl_penny_g liked your photo.

"Um," Penelope stalls, and despite her rampant creativity, she can't bring herself to fib, "Well, I- the tags were-"

"There were no hashtags," Hotch stops her in her tracks, "The only way you could have found that photo was on her profile. How long ago was that posted?"

Penelope scrolls to the bottom of the post even though she doesn't want to, and mutters "2018."

"Five years ago. Five-" Hotch steels himself before he gets too upset, pinching the slim bridge of his nose, "Garcia, did Morgan tell you about this?"

"it wasn't his fault," She pleads his case, "I could tell there was something on his mind! So I got him, like, super drunk, and we-"

"Penelope, this was none of your business." Hotch speaks over her. He doesn't like cutting her off, but he knows her, and she'll talk for hours just to try and weasel her way back into his good graces. He watches her squirm with a stern expression, hands folded on his desk while he clenches his jaw.

"I won't tell anyone else." She promises weakly, and Aaron raises a single eyebrow at her. Secret-keeping is not her forte, and they both know it.

"Okay, so-" She crumples, "I- I totally will. But Hotch, we're gonna be happy for you! I'm already happy for you, you deserve this! You deserve love, even if you try to use this job as an excuse not to find it! You found it, and you should own it."

"I purposefully did not share the status of my relationship with our team. It was meant to be private."

Penelope regains some of her boldness now, even in the face of Hotch's scowl, "Well tough shit, Hotchner! We love you, and we were all there when you lost Haley! We watched you die inside, and we deserve to watch you live again! We are part of your family, Hotch, whether you like it or not, and we're not gonna walk away just because you get snippy with us! So help me, Hotch, I will handcuff myself to you until you realize that we are here. We are here, and we love you, and we always will! You can tell us about your life, because we want to enjoy it with you."

Perhaps she shouldn't have been so forward. Perhaps she shouldn't have said the H-word, or brought up Hotch's infuriating tendency to distrust people's care for him not out of malice, but out of self-loathing. Perhaps she should have hung her head and apologized, but Penelope Garcia is headstrong, and she does not fear the tense wrath of Aaron Hotchner simply for loving him.

For a moment, she worries that she's flaunted a red cape around a bull. Reid's words echo in her mind about how it's nothing to do with the color red, and everything to do with the movement of the fabric, but now is not the time, Doctor Reid, thank you very much. She waits for him to charge, knows he'll withdraw now that she's faced him with the terror of being known, of being cared for, and she can feel her heart sink to the nearly-numb heels of her feet.

Then something in his jaw shifts, and he glances away from her, blinking.

"Thank you." He murmurs, and she thinks she may have heard him wrong.

"What?" She whispers, and he gnaws at the inside of his cheek, caving it in.

"Thank you. For being firm with me." He clarifies, "I... I'm glad that you're here."

Tears spring to her eyes and she nods vigorously, incapable of speech but overflowing with emotion. He swallows, clearing his throat, "In the future, please do not stalk my romantic partners. And... in the future, I will introduce you, so that you don't need to stalk them."

"Okay," She grins through her misty eyes, letting him steer the conversation back towards his comfort zone, "Okay, Hotch. We love you. And- and we're really happy for you, and can I please go and tell the others?"

He laughs despite himself, and doesn't bother steeling himself into composure anymore. He grins, "Fine. But leave out the details of her most recent posts, please."

"The ones where she talks about being sore in the mornings?" She fixes him with a devious grin, already making for the door intent on shouting the news from the rooftops, "I won't say it in the bullpen, 'cause Reid couldn't handle it, but I'm totally gossiping with the girls about it, Hotch."

[sunvmars]

bitter sweet | s.r.

pairing: steve rogers x fem/afab reader

next ↠

word count: 2.8k

warnings: obv swearing, pregnancy/pregnant reader, some angst that's mainly reader trying to cover up hidden emotions

summary: you've grown to resent steve after a breakup and give him the cold shoulder for weeks. you soon discover you're pregnant and show back up on his doorstep to tell him the news.

a/n: definitely turning this into a series if it gains enough traction!

It was a warm summer evening like any other when Steve had asked you to come straight home after work, insisting he had something important to talk about. You had entered your shared apartment with expectations of a nice dinner or a movie night. Considering Steve was always one for suspension, surprise plans and at-home date nights weren't unusual.

You set your purse down on the table by the front door before sinking into your favorite recliner. The setting sun cast a glow amongst the living room that you greatly appreciated, although it was a glow that was far too beautiful to be wasted on that night.

"Steve! I'm home!"

Only a few seconds after you'd called out had he come, practically, running. He came to sit on the couch, only a few feet away, his expression conflicted.

"I missed you today," you said.

You beamed at your fiancé, simply happy to see him after another shitty work day. While you were an Avenger, you stuck to mainly office work when you had no missions.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, "Y/n, honey, I think we need to talk."

Your heart sank, and a lump formed in your throat. You knew Steve like the back of your hand, and every time he has said the words "we need to talk," it's never been good.

"Is Buck sneaking over to eat all of our sweets again? I thought you talked to him about that," you joked in an attempt to lighten the tension.

"Funnily enough, no, he hasn't done that in a few days."

"Well, don't jinx it."

He chuckled briefly. His hands ran over his face as he sighed, and his broad shoulders relaxed.

"I've been thinking- a lot," he began, avoiding your gaze. "Baby, you know I love you, right?"

You hummed, giving him a nod that allowed him to continue.

"I love you, but..."

As soon as you had heard the "but," you tuned out. Whether it was by choice, or whether your mind and heart already knew what he was going to say and were just saving you the extra heartbreak, you weren't sure. You did, however, catch the last part of it. And luckily, the last part was all you needed to hear from him.

"I can't allow this to continue. I'm no good for you, y/n. I can't be the man you need or deserve right now. It's not fair to keep you waiting while I'm still trying to figure out what I want."

Your brows furrowed as your body started becoming tense. "What...?" you muttered.

It was less of a question and more of you thinking aloud, vocalizing your confusion. Unless you were a completely oblivious idiot, things between the two of you were fine yesterday, and every day before that for the last two years. He sighed, finally meeting your gaze. His eyes were filled with regret that you somehow missed.

"I... I can't take the risk anymore. I need to focus on my responsibilities and protecting the world. It's just... I can't let my personal life get in the way of my promise to the world."

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you quickly wiped them away before they could fall. You had the same job, so how could the man who had proposed only a few months ago just now, after two years, decide he couldn't make this work because of his job? Either way, that man didn't deserve your tears, so you wouldn't waste them on him. You stood quickly, not bothering to look back at him as you made your way towards the door.

"Y/n? Where are you going? Please say something, baby-"

"Don't! You don't get to call me that anymore," you snapped, finally allowing yourself to show some sort of emotion. "Just...stop. There's nothing else to say."

His eyes widened a little at your sudden outburst. You picked up your purse and keys hastily. Your fingers fidgeted with the keys for a moment, then you started sliding your house key off your keychain. It was then that you decided to speak again before he got the chance to, not caring to hear another word from him.

"I'll have someone come get my stuff tomorrow; do whatever you want with the apartment, as long as you don't have to contact me to do it."

"Y/n," he spoke with softened, glossy eyes, "please, just stay until you find somewhere else to go. This is your home too, I-"

"There's too much of you, well, what used to be us, here," you stated plainly as you placed your key on the table. "Where I go isn't your problem anymore anyway."

A sigh escaped your lips as you slung your purse over your shoulder. You turned to face him one last time as you stood in the doorway.

"Oh, and one more thing," you say, "You are a fucking coward, Steven Grant Rogers."

The door slammed behind you. And what you'd left behind was a deeply regretful, and utterly stupid, Steve sitting alone on the couch in the apartment you once shared.

That was almost two months ago, and your heart had not allowed you to heal at all. As if seeing Steve in passing at work wasn't painful enough, now you had an important mission coming up tomorrow, and being chosen to go with him was inevitable. Or at least you thought it was inevitable. It had all started earlier in the morning with a rotten egg- an actual rotten egg, that is.

You were baking cookies for Bucky, fully aware of how much he'd miss your baked goods for the next week or two you would be gone. Over the time that you and Steve had dated and been engaged, you'd gotten pretty close with the brunette. He was equally supportive of both of you during the breakup. Though he did lay into Steve for leaving you. Bucky knew there was more to it than his job; both of you had the same job for Christ's sake, but he didn't push his friend for answers—at least not yet.

With one gentle motion, you cracked the egg on the side of your metal bowl. However, this egg had a smell to it. You brought it closer to your face to observe and smell it. What a horrible mistake, though, because as soon as you inhaled the sickening, sulfur-like scent, it made your stomach turn. But instead of going back to normal, you gagged. The scent was lingering longer than any other scent you'd ever smelled, almost as if you were permanently damned to having the smell stuck in your nostrils.

Then the hot stomach acid started coming up, and it was coming fast, signaling you needed a trashcan now. You bolted towards the nearest bathroom, preferring to take a chance on making a mess in a hallway rather than the kitchen. You passed Steve and Bucky on your way there, both men stopping dead in their tracks to watch as you ran into the bathroom only a few feet behind them.

"Huh," Steve mumbled, his heart throbbing at the sight of you.

"Sometimes I get sick when I look at you too, punk."

Bucky chuckled at his own joke, earning a glare from Steve.

"Go check on her for me, please."

"Always. But I won't keep giving you updates on her, y'know? It's not fair to her, Steve," Bucky sighed.

Steve only nodded in understanding, a smile only staying on his lips for a few seconds. He patted Bucky's back before turning on his heels and continuing on his path.

Your stomach clenched harder, and the vomit raced up your throat faster than ever. You barely got to the toilet before retching and gagging again, feeling instant relief when the bile finally came up. But then came a sudden second wave of nausea that seemed to be worse than the first. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the torture finally ended.

You stood up slowly and made your way to the sink. After tearing off a piece of paper towel, you dampened it under warm water. You wiped your mouth off with the damp napkin and threw it away before opening the door to leave.

"You okay?"

You jumped back slightly, looking over to meet piercing blue eyes. There was Bucky leaning up against the wall next to the bathroom door with his arms crossed.

"Jesus, Buck. You stalking me?"

"Stalking you? Definitely not. If I wanted to stalk someone, I'd find someone more interesting who doesn't eat half pints of vanilla bean ice cream and watch Pride and Prejudice or The Notebook every night," he jokes.

"Hey! It's how I cope and get over things; it's soothing."

"Yet you still pine over him, so how's that working out for ya?"

"...not great. Maybe I do need a new method, huh?"

The two of you exchange a laugh, and you start making your way back to the kitchen with Bucky right on your heels.

"So, are you okay?" he questions again.

"Just felt a little sick, that's all. And, hey, here's a tip: don't ever smell a rotten egg, it's not a pleasant experience," you say with a soft sigh.

He chuckles at your joke and replies, "Thank you for that. I'll remember that."

When you make it to the kitchen, he plants himself on a bar stool only a few feet away from you. You decide to continue making your cookies, holding your breath as you clean up the old egg.

"Wow, I can smell that from here. You weren't lying. That is bad."

His nose turns up and his face scrunches, earning a giggle from you. You two chat as you make the dough, and soon enough, you're finished baking. As you put the last cookies on the tray, Bucky stands up to get a closer look.

"God. Per usual, those smell amazing," he groans, reaching for one of the hot sweets.

You swat his hand away with a laugh. "Not until they're cooled down!"

He fakes a frown that makes you laugh again. You shake your head, making a 'tsk' noise at him.

"You're a menace, Buck," you joke.

He only shrugs his shoulders with a lopsided grin, then he pulls you into a hug. "Somebody has to get on your nerves. It keeps you distracted and on your feet," he teases.

"Thank you for being here for me."

Your body relaxes in his arms. You wrap your arms around his upper waist to return the sentiment. You take a deep breath and then pull away from the hug.

"How are you feeling, by the way?"

"It's almost like it never happened," you smirk.

"That's a lie, and you know it."

You're about to speak again, but close your mouth as soon as it opens. The nausea pools in your stomach again, forcing a huff out of you.

"I think I'm gonna be sick again."

"You're still feeling that bad over it?"

"No, I genuinely think I'm gonna throw up again, Buck," you say hurriedly, pushing by him to get back to the bathroom. "Put those cookies in a bag, Barnes! They're all yours!"

He chuckles and holds his thumb up in the air, even though you can't see it. "And you get yourself to the doctor, l/n."

And going to the doctor is exactly what you chose to do.

Well, almost.

You instead chose to go to the lab with Tony and Bruce, and you only decided to go after about the fourth wave of nausea that came around five hours after the first. Which is how you ended up in the lab with grippy socks on and a cold Sprite in hand as you await blood and urine test results.

"So, how are you holding up, kid?" Tony asks, his eyes glued to his computer.

"Been better, had better days."

He looks away from his computer for a moment, making eye contact with you. "I could just kill him for hurting you, and I hope you know that," he states, his voice carrying nothing but genuine honesty.

"Aw, Tony, you're just like the dad I never dreamed of having—violently overprotective and overdramatic."

Bruce chuckles, but Tony just rolls his eyes, focusing back on his computer.

"That's what I get for trying to be nice to you," Tony scoffs, trying his best to hide the smile that wants to creep onto his face.

"I'm going to take a walk, Tony. I'll be back in a few minutes," Bruce announces as he rises from his chair. "If the computer beeps, it's her results coming back."

"Got it," Tony responds plainly, entirely too distracted by something on his screen.

The computer beeps only a few minutes after Bruce walks out, indicating an update to your information. Tony swivels his chair over to the big screen and pulls up your test results. He studies them carefully, not saying a word.

"So...what's wrong with me?"

He's still silent when he turns to face you. At first, he looks shocked, but then his brows furrow and his eyes narrow ever so slightly. If you hadn't known him for as long as you have, you'd think he was judging you based on his facial expression, but you knew he wasn't. He looked conflicted and confused, almost hesitant.

"What is it, Tone? You're freaking me out here. Is it the flu? A stomach bug? Food poisoning?"

"How about a baby?"

Your jaw drops, literally. The words pool in your mind, and your brain starts feeling like it's going to explode from all the different emotions and thoughts. You start to feel sick to your stomach again but manage to push the feeling down.

"I..." you start, unable to find the words to finish.

"I'm sorry, y/n. I won't tell anyone, okay? Not even Bruce. We need to set you up with a doctor. I have an amazing one I can call to come here and-"

"I appreciate that, Tony, but I need time to think first. We'll, uhm, talk tomorrow if that's okay."

"Of course," he empathizes, a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. "Come here, kid."

You shuffle your way into his open arms, not having the energy to return the hug. He pulls away after a few seconds and allows you to step back.

"I think I'm gonna go...or something... I don't know," you mumble, making your way towards the door.

"Hey, y/n?"

"Yeah?"

"If this is something you want, don't let him ruin it for you."

As soon as you leave the lab, it's like you're on autopilot.

Your feet took you to the downstairs office, then outside, and then to your car. When you get into your car, you tell yourself you're going to the store to grab some more ice cream. But your heart has other ideas; ideas such as Steve.

So, you drive yourself all the way to Steve's apartment, just wanting to be comforted by the familiarity for a moment. Then, somehow, you end up outside the front door of what used to be your shared space.

Your soft knock pulls Steve from the closest to sleep he's been in weeks. He curses under his breath, loathing whoever is at the door for ruining his chance at a few minutes to hours of peace.

However, that hate replaces itself with regret and adoration as soon as he opens the door to reveal your slouched-over form. Steve recognizes that look on your face, along with your body language, and it's evident that something is wrong.

As if you showing up at his door isn't surprising enough, you look up at him before letting yourself fall into his arms. He stands in shock as you lay your head on his warm and familiarly sculpted chest. Then sobs wrack through you, shaking your whole body, and that's all it takes for him to give into instinct and wrap his arms around you. The heat of his body and the feeling of his embrace provide a warming comfort as you cry into his shirt, only coaxing you further to let it all go.

One of his hands rubs your back gently while he holds you. "Y/n? What's wrong, honey? Talk to me," he coos.

You feel a tightness in your chest, a feeling that you can't put into words right now even if you tried your hardest to. In fact, all you can do is cry more as you hold tightly onto the sides of his shirt. You practically crumble into his chest, melting in his arms, and Steve understands. That's what made you fall for him in the first place, honestly - he always understands.

So, with no more words spoken, he holds you in the same doorway you walked out of only a couple of weeks ago. He holds you in that doorway until your tears slow and your breathing returns to normal. At some point, his thick fingers begin combing through your hair soothingly, the same way they used to every night at bedtime.

"I don't know what your stance on kids before marriage and after a breakup is, but you should figure it out soon," you mutter into his chest.

His body freezes, and his mind scrambles to catch up with your words. He looks down at your head, his eyebrows furrowing as he tries to make sense of the situation.

Are you truly saying what he thinks you are? You couldn't be...

"I'm pregnant, Steve."

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (25/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Having lunch with friends always leads to sharing information. And girl, those friends don't hold back.

Warnings: 18+ (mentions of smut), fluff, Kika is the bestest friend on this planet, mentions of Carlos and his girlfriend (yes, I consider this a trigger)

Word Count: 3.3k

series masterlist

previous part

A/N: I just reached 2.6k followers and wow!! thank you so much!!! I love you! and this one is for you!!! feedback is appreciated.

Although it's only a few days until Christmas, the sun is shining so brightly that it's pleasantly warm as you and Kika leave the furniture store. As planned - but still with an uneasy feeling - you have left the almost overflowing shopping cart in front of the checkouts and while Charles pays for your "early Christmas present", you and your friend walk to the restaurant.

"I hope all this stuff fits in the car." Kika curls her mouth into a grin. "The mirror I wrote on the note - you know, the one they have to get from storage - is pretty big."

"I'd like to have your guts," you answer her. "Just picking out a huge mirror without knowing exactly whether it will fit anywhere in our apartment."

Kika grins and points to her brown eyes. "Eye measurement, baby. Those marbles are that big for a reason."

You have to stifle a laugh. "If you say so."

While the Portuguese woman plans where in your room she will place which decoration, your thoughts drift off. 

It bothers you a little that Charles wants to spend so much money on you. And for no good reason. "I want you to feel comfortable" was his explanation, which is of course very courteous and loving of him. But you could have bought the things with your own money. At least a small part of it. 

Would he expect a similarly expensive gift for Christmas now? If so, what could you get him? What do you give someone who already has everything? 

"Are you mad at me?" Kika interrupts your flow of thoughts and grabs your elbow. 

Confused, you turn to her. "What?"

"I - I don't know." When she stops, you're forced to stop too. "I didn't tell you that Charles is a famous Formula 1 driver. You - you confided in me about Raphael and I kept you in the dark about your roommate." 

You exhale. "Kika..."

"I wasn't a good friend and I'm sorry about that. Charles had asked us all not to tell because he wanted to protect you and enjoy the time with you when he was just Charles to you. Even if it wasn't fair to you. I can understand if you're angry with me and-"

"I'm not angry with you," you interrupt her and smile at her. "You're Charles' friend first and foremost and I can't blame him or you for keeping his secret. It doesn't affect our friendship in the slightest."

"Promise?" Her tone sounds a little more pleased than it did a few moments ago. 

You nod. "I promise."

She hooks back into you. "Thank goodness for that. I felt super bad because I couldn't tell you. But it wasn't my secret and it wasn't my place to tell you. And I'm really relieved that you see it the same way." She rests her head on your shoulder as you continue walking. 

"So you're a model, huh?" you ask her. 

She nods. "Yes. Well, I put a lot of effort into it and it's very tiring at times." Kika shrugs her shoulders. "But because of that - and Pierre, of course - I get to travel a lot and see great places. And I really appreciate that." She looks at you. "Now that you're unemployed -" You give her a dirty look. "Maybe you'd like to take my pictures sometime. And then I can post it on my Instagram and maybe other models will want to book you."

"You haven't seen any of my pictures yet," you reply with a laugh as she grabs your hand and jumps up and down. "Of course we can. We can try it out if you like."

Your friend looks around briefly before letting go of you and moving away from you. "How about now? I know you don't have your camera with you, but you can use my phone. The photos won't be as focused as with a real camera, but it should be enough to get you started." 

She hands you her cell phone before standing opposite you against the wall of the house. You watch her uncertainly as she fixes her hair. "Are you sure about this? What if the boys are already waiting for us?"

"Let them." She pulls her black jeans up a little so that they sit loosely on her hips. "It won't take long. And I trust you. So here we go."

While Kika turns, repositions herself and smiles at the camera, you take as many pictures as you can. In between, you adjust her purple cardigan so that it sits in the middle of her narrow shoulders, tell her how her feet should be positioned to emphasize the curves of her body and even tousle her hair once so that a few strands fall loosely into her forehead. 

When you look at the pictures after ten minutes and favor three of them, she looks curiously over your shoulder. "They look great. Really outfit of the day vibe." You hand the phone back to her. "I like this one. And this one. You've captured my butt well," she grins and puts the phone in her black handbag before hooking it back up to you. "And now let's go. I'm really hungry and I don't want to keep your tiramisu from you."

Oh well. 

Charles' words - "Then lie down on the bed, mon amour. I'd like to see how you look on it" - haunt your mind and the images that appear in your head don't make the situation any easier.  

For example, Charles kneeling between your legs and his gaze wandering hungrily over your body. How his hands rest on your thighs to open them a little wider so that he can lie comfortably on his stomach between them. How he slides his fingers under the hem of your panties to slowly pull them off your legs. And the way his mouth moves up from the soft skin of your thighs to where you want it to be. Need it to be. The way he opens his mouth and licks his tongue over his lips before closing the distance between you and - 

"Watch out. You start drooling." When you give Kika a confused look, she pokes you in the side. "I didn't know you could daydream about tiramisu."

"I wasn't even thinking about tiramisu," you defend yourself, but Kika doesn't believe a word you say. 

"Of course not." You could even hear her grin if you weren't looking at her. She lifts her hand and puts it to your cheek, playfully wiping the non-existent spit from the corner of your mouth. "I hate to repeat myself, but you're really not very good at lying."

You chew the inside of your cheek and look down at your sneakers. "Is it that obvious?"

"That you're totally into tiramisu? Hardly," she replies wryly, but puts her arm around your shoulder. "Let's be honest. A trained eye like mine can spot something like that, but if you're worried about the boys seeing it - you really don't need to worry. They wouldn't even recognize a dessert if you put it right in front of them."

"I just don't know what to do," you confess to her. 

Kika purses her lips. "Would you be ready for tiramisu after everything that's happened?"

A question you don't know the answer to. After Raphael's betrayal, you had actually sworn off men for a long time for fear that something similar would happen to you again. You tried to build a wall around your heart, but Charles has broken it down piece by piece and now there is only him. He has spread inside you, in your head and in your heart, and you are hungry for him - a feeling that you have never felt for Raphael before. A feeling that takes you by surprise and overruns you like an avalanche and you are helplessly at its mercy. 

"It's not the end of the world if you're ready for it," Kika assures you and her smile is genuine. "And when you're ready to give the tiramisu its real name, I'll be here if you want to talk about it."

You hug your friend tightly, causing her to let out a loud gasp. "Thank you, Kika. Really."

"You don't need to thank me. After all, I'm going to make full use of the mirror in your room soon and use you for your photography skills."

A few minutes later, you arrive at the small restaurant. As you enter through the glass door, you can already see the two men sitting at a table at the back. And Kika was right - apart from the four of you, the restaurant is deserted. 

"Where have you been?" asks Pierre as you join them. While Kika sits down opposite her boyfriend, you take the empty seat next to her. "We've been waiting for ages."

"We had to stop for a moment because I wanted to take photos," Kika explains and shows them both one of the pictures you took of her.

Pierre grimaces in amazement. "Very good photos. I hope you tag her in them too."

Playfully indignant, she puts her hand to her cleavage. "Of course! What makes you think I wouldn't do that? It might even land her more photo shoots with other models." She leans in your direction. "But as long as I remain your favorite model, everything's fine."

"You are and always will be my favorite model, Kika," you reply and briefly lean your cheek against the top of her head before she sits up straight again. 

While Kika and Pierre argue lovingly, you feel Charles pressing one of his legs against yours under the table. When you look at him, he smiles. "Everything okay?" he asks silently, tilting his head. 

You nod. "Everything's perfect." You press your leg against his as well.

The risotto you ordered doesn't taste too bad, even if it is a little more fancy than your typical meals. The boys talk about their sport and you try to understand everything, but when the conversation eventually turns to engines, you stop listening. 

You watch Charles as he talks energetically and passionately to his friend about his job, while the French mainly listens. He tries to explain things with his hands, waving them wildly in front of his face, and if you didn't know him, you'd think he was a bit out of his mind. But there is something twinkling in his eyes, a spark that shines brighter and brighter the longer he talks about Formula 1.

It makes him so attractive that you have to swallow. 

"How are Carlos and his girlfriend doing?" Kika interjects into the conversation. "I saw on Instagram the other day that they went on a trip together."

You look from Kika to Charles. "Who is Carlos?"

"My teammate at Ferrari. The other driver," he explains briefly with a smile before turning to Kika. "I've seen that too. Santorini or something, wasn't it? It was definitely nice, but let's see how long it lasts."

You have to ask again. " How long will it last? That doesn't sound like you have much faith in the relationship."

Kika, who has taken a sip of her water, puts her glass back on the table. "Unfortunately, this has nothing to do with faith," she explains and takes her cell phone out of her bag. She taps on it a little until she hands it to you. 

You see an Instagram page of a Becca, also a model, it seems. 27 years old, model at the Bijou Management agency. Her last post is actually from Santorini and alongside all the pictures of her lolling by the pool is one of her with a man. Carlossainz55 is tagged in the picture.

"When you're famous, it's harder to have a relationship," Pierre continues. "Not everyone is so lucky and falls in love with someone who is a good match for them. Sometimes rumors surface about people that aren't true, but still damage reputations. And to counteract this, some people go into relationships that put them in a good light."

You look around in confusion. "So it's a marketing strategy? So that people can sell themselves better?"

Charles nods. "These PR relationships are very conspicuous and usually easy to see through, but even then they distract from the actual rumor."

"And Carlos and Becca are in one of those PR relationships?" Your friends nod. "And what's the rumor that needs to be put to rest?"

Charles bites the inside of his cheek. "Carlos was with a young, super-nice woman for years. When they broke up, there was a rumor that he had a secret family and even a son. That this was the reason for the break-up. And that triggered a few conversations at Ferrari." He shrugs his shoulders. "And then they pulled Becca in for him."

You furrow your eyebrows. "Pulled her in? How do you find someone to willingly agree to a fake relationship like that?"

Kika catches your attention. "Some racing teams have a cooperation with certain modeling agencies for such cases. Which of course makes the whole thing even more conspicuous. But just think how much publicity the girlfriends get from it. It definitely doesn't hurt the modeling job."

"But you also have to understand that millions of euros are attached to a driver's reputation," Pierre explains. "Fans buy tickets to see their favorite driver. They buy merchandise like shirts, caps or whatever to show their loyalty. And loyalty is not exactly low. Ask Charles. One priest has his whole Instagram page dedicated to him."

As you look at your roommate, he can only nod. "That's true. Fans put their favorites on pedestals, praise them to the skies and would defend them to the bitter end. But a rumor that is so serious and has consequences like falling sales figures - anything is better than fans who refuse to support their favorites."

"And why do you think it won't be good for much longer?" Charles looks nervously around the room as if he doesn't know what to say, and his friends also avoid your gaze and your question. "Guys, I don't know these people. So, whatever you tell me - I can't do anything with the information anyway. Is there another woman?"

"It's not exactly another woman," Kika mumbles into her glass and all heads turn in her direction. "What is it? Like she's going to run to the nearest news agency and tell them that the Spanish Ferrari driver isn't exclusively into women."

You raise your hands placatingly. "In case it's not clear - of course I'll keep everything that's said around the table to myself. I'm not crazy and risking our friendship."

"I didn't expect anything else," Charles replies with a smile that could melt glaciers. "I couldn't bear it if we weren't friends anymore either." 

As you look at him and mindlessly lick your lips, you feel Kika's elbow gently on your arm. 

"What do you think? Do you fancy some tiramisu?" 

Your gaze lingers on Charles and when he presses his leg a little harder against yours, your breath hitches. "I'm craving it."

And indeed. The tiramisu isn't as good as the one at the restaurant where you met Kika and Pierre, but it comes close. You try to look away from Charles, but every time you look at him, his eyes are already on you. Something that makes you even more nervous than it should. 

When you get into the car a short time later, unnoticed, you glance briefly over the seats back into the trunk. "Where's the new bed?"

Charles straps himself in and has the seat belt fastened against his torso. "They'll deliver it between Christmas and New Year and set it up straight away. Then I won't have all the work and Pierre won't have to lug it around with me."

"For which I am very grateful," replies the Frenchman, steering the car through the streets of Monaco. "I don't even know how we're going to transport this mirror without breaking it. It was already barely possible to get it into the car."

"That sounds like a you-problem," grins Kika, looking at her boyfriend through the rear-view mirror. "You're the strong men. You'll find a solution while we get all the little things into the apartment. Right?"

The question is directed at you, but apart from a nod, she can't expect anything else in response. Charles's fingers are once again wrapped around your calf, his thumb gently stroking your warm skin and you can't think of anything else but the feeling of warmth that spreads through you from this small touch. 

It takes a good hour for both the mirror and the rest to get to the upstairs in your apartment. After Pierre involuntarily teaches you several swear words in French and Kika decorates your entire windowsill with fake plants, they quickly make a run for it, worried that you're both going to take even more advantage of them than you already have. 

"We've had a good day so far," you call out to Charles from the kitchen as you pour you both a glass of water each. You don't know where he is, but he will probably have heard you anyway. 

"Definitely," comes his voice from the living room. As you follow it, you see Charles sitting on the large couch, his head back and his eyes closed. Only now do you notice how thick his neck is. Is it from all the training for Formula 1?

"Here." You hold his glass of water out to him and he opens his eyes to accept it. As you sit down, he takes a sip. You watch his Adam's apple bounce as he swallows. 

"Thank you," he replies quietly and rests his arm on the back of the couch. A sign for you to lean against him, which you definitely don't refuse. 

As you snuggle into his side and breathe in his unmistakable scent, you feel tiredness overtake you. "But it was exhausting."

""Mh-mhh." 

"Thanks again. For my early Christmas present. Even though it wasn't necessary," you joke, but as rigid as Charles is sitting next to you, he doesn't seem to be in the mood for jokes. And as you follow his stare, the roses on the white piano come into your field of vision. The reason why you suggested the trip to the furniture store. And suddenly your tiredness is blown away. 

"Do you happen to know anyone who has something like a fire bowl or something?" you ask your flatmate. 

This question seems to break him out of his spell. His gaze wanders from the roses to you and he raises an eyebrow in confusion. "A fire bowl?" You nod. "Joris has a rooftop terrace and we've had bonfires there before in the summer." He licks his teeth once. "What do you need a fire bowl for? You're not thinking about sitting around a fire with sticks and marshmallows in winter, are you?"

"Not exactly," you reply and get up from the couch. As you look down at him, you hold out your hand. "Come on, mon joli. I have an idea."

[lokischocolatefountain]

Seven

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Rating: Gen (kind of a crack fic if you ask me)

Summary: You and Javi discuss children

“How many?”

“Hmm?”

“You keep saying children plural. How many do you want?” You asked, flipping through the pages of the magazine idly. You weren’t even reading, just looking at pictures and reading a gossipy headline about some of the other actress.

“Hmmm seven?”

“Fuck no!”

“Why not?”

“Why not? WHY NOT?” You asked, horrified. “Javier, I’m a human being, not a baby making machine. You have a government job and I’m just a lab tech. We will never have 7 kids money unless you pocket some of the cocaine you seize. God, can you imagine if they all wanted to go to law school? Or medical school?”

“I wasn’t thinking that far ahead,” he said, taking the magazine from you and setting it aside. He pulled you into his lap, kissing you neck from behind and making you squirm. “I was focused on how hot you’ll look pregnant.”

“Of course you were. Horndog,” you scolded, pinching the arm that held you close. He hissed, but didn’t loosen his hold, only pulling you in closer.

“Can you blame me? With such a hot girlfriend, a man is bound to let his imagination run wild.”

“Shut up.”

“Five?” He asked, making you angrier.

“Are you trying to have a family or form a basketball team?”

He laughed before kissing her lips. “Four?” He bargained.

“Three is the absolute maximum for me.”

“Then three is good.”

“Yeah?” You asked, softer when you heard the sincerity in the reply that came with no hesitation.

“Mhmm.”

“But everything is up for debate after the first one,” you added, just in case. Pregnancy did not look fun and you didn’t want him holding you to this if you were too fucked up from the first pregnancy to try again. “I might hate being pregnant and never want to have another one again. We might have to be satisfied with one baby.”

“That’s good too, baby. I only want as many children as you’ll give me. Whether that’s one or three or seven.”

“Definitely not seven.” You smiled, adjusting yourself to sit back on the sofa with just your legs in his lap. “And no bargaining on gender either. If we have three daughters, you can’t ask for another one just to try for a son.”

“I would love three daughters. Why do you think I’ll ask you for a fourth one after that?”

“I don’t know,” you said, shrugging. “Men usually want sons. To teach them soccer or go fishing or whatever.”

“I’ll teach our three daughters soccer. Girls have legs. And I don’t care for fishing anyway. If they want to be with animals, they can take care of the ranch.”

“God, I planning my life out with a ranchero who wants a million kids!” You said, laughing.

“You’re just realizing that?”

“Oh god, I don’t know what’s worse— ranchero or DEA agent. Do you like chop wood shirtless or something? Cause I can’t handle that. I will end up having 7 kids if I saw that.”

“You’re mixing up rancheros with lumberjacks, baby. But I’ll learn to chop wood if you want. And I’ll teach our daughters to chop wood too. And how to shoot. And how to fix a car. Teach them plumbing and everything. So that they don’t have to call their boyfriends at midnight to ask them to fix their sink,” he said, making you giggle at the recollection of that night.

“Oh please, you weren’t complaining,” you scoffed, reminding him of the night he came over to fix your sink and ended up staying all night and all day in your bed.

“Exactly. No boy is slithering into my daughter’s bed like that. I won’t allow it.”

You scoffed. Oh you poor little fool… “You think my father didn’t teach me how to fix my sink, Javier? That I didn’t break it just to invite you over?”

“Fuck!”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck. Let’s have three sons.”

.

.

.

Advent Calendar Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[junkissed]

love bug

member — junhui x gn reader genre — fluff word count — 0.8k synopsis — jun takes care of you when you're sick, but you're not the only one who's caught a bug. warnings — reader is sick, mentions of food notes — requested by @lee--felix — we all need a jun in our lives when we're sick :( i hope you're feeling better <3

junhui opens the bedroom door with a creak, his hair peeking around the corner through the doorway to check if you’re awake.

you sigh as you lie curled up on your side against the pillow. “hi, jun.” you’ve been trying to fall asleep all afternoon, but it’s not working. you’re too hot, too cold, too restless, too tired.

“did you manage to get any rest?” he asks as he comes closer, gently sitting on the edge of the bed beside you. you can tell his face is riddled with worry, but he’s trying not to show it. 

“not really.” you shake your head a little as he moves his hand to your cheek, sweeping a few stray strands of your hair out of the way to carefully rest his palm against your forehead. your skin feels hot and clammy, but your eyes automatically close as he brushes his fingers over your head. “i feel icky.”

he frowns, and his bottom lip sticks out in a pout that you’d normally find adorable, if you weren’t still so sick. “i’m sorry, baby. i know you do.” he lifts his eyes to glance at the nightstand, where your glass of water is still full and the bowl of fruit he’d made you is still untouched, and he knows he has to try something else.

“do you wanna take a shower? or maybe i can run you a nice, warm bath?”

you start to lift your head but you don’t have a chance to reply, cut off with a fit of coughs as you turn your head away from him as far as you can and muffle your face in the pillow. jun’s heart breaks as he watches you, his hand sliding away from your face to rub your shoulder soothingly.

“a shower— would be nice,” you croak out softly as your cough finally subsides, rolling back over towards him. you want to be closer to him; even though you’re sweating with cold chills, you still crave the feeling of warmth that you always get when you’re next to him. you know you can’t get as close to him as you really want for fear of passing your sickness on to him, and that’s the only thing that stops you from climbing into his lap and curling into a ball and falling asleep in the safety of his arms.

as if he can read your mind, he gently drapes one arm over your side and holds you, albeit from a distance. it should be him. he’d rather it be him lying here sick in bed instead. but he knows you’d probably be worrying just as much as he is now so it’s no use wishing things were different, and it wouldn’t be a help to anyone if you both got sick together. as much as he wishes he could hold you tight until you get better again, he knows it’s for the best that he doesn’t.

but that doesn’t stop him from trying anyway.

“how about this, honey?” he hums softly, still running his hand along your waist over the blankets. “take your medicine now, and then i’ll help you take a shower so you can cool off. it’ll kick in by the time you get out, and then we’ll get you into some clean pajamas and i’ll put on a movie, maybe make you some tea for your throat and something light for your stomach. does oatmeal sound good? or chicken noodle soup?”

he squeezes your side the slightest bit, tilting his head and offering a warm smile as he looks down at you laying amongst the sheets. you look so… fragile. he can’t help but miss the days when you were bright and happy and full of energy, even though he hasn’t taken a single moment with you for granted. even now, he’s going to cherish every second he spends with you, whether it’s helping you take your medicine or just sitting by your side while you sleep. of course he prefers you when you’re well, but it’s also his responsibility and pleasure to take care of you when you’re not, and he takes this job seriously. not just because he knows he’d get the same treatment from you if the roles were reversed—which, of course you would—but because he loves you.

you let out a little hum of acknowledgement, and his smile instantly grows. even though you haven’t said anything about his proposal, he can tell you like the idea. after a moment you clear your scratchy throat and pry your eyes open, giving him a nod for permission. 

it’s not the most exciting evening you’ll ever have, but it’s exactly what you need right now. jun is exactly what you need right now.

i hope you enjoyed this!! if you did, consider reblogging or leaving a comment or an ask :) it shows me this is something people want to see more of, and knowing people like this makes me want to write more of it! thanks for reading!!

if you want to be notified when i post a new fic, you can join my taglist here!

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[riki-riks-chick]

Senior Year PT.1 ︱N.RK

riki x reader (high school au)

yn is having a hellish year, but one boy makes it all the more bearable.

cw: fluff! bullying, high school, yn plays handball, toxic parents, toxic home life, swearing, slight verbal abuse.

wdct: 1.8k

requested series!

to the person who requested, pls give me feedback on whether this is good or not bc I WILL rewrite b4 continuing to part two. tyy <3

┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉

Third Person POV~

 "I'm actually quite shocked. You're doing exceedingly well.. I got a few emails from coaches who watched our last game.. If you're serious about handball when season starts, you might get a scholarship." Your coach explains, and you're genuinely shocked. Sure you'd been training your ass off, but no one usually acknowledges it.

"Really?.. A scholarship where?" You ask as she smiles, amused at your excitement. "The states... Some school in Virginia."  She explains as your eyes widen. "The states!? My mom would never let me go to the states."

"She's not in control of you once you graduate.. You're good.. Don't let her hold you back.. Now, go home after school and rest up.. We have practice tomorrow after school."

You leave, and rather than going home, you head to your job. Working at some burger shack that everyone at your school came to. It wasn't too bad, but you hated being noticed. 

And just to your dismay, these three cheerleaders, that love to make your life, hell walked in. 

You just happened to be the only employee on the register so you had no choice but to take their orders. 

And as you did so, begrudgingly, one of them spoke up. "Aren't you that loser from third period?.." 

You sigh, avoiding her gaze as you finish finalizing their order. "That'll be $23.45.." You ignore her remark, simply wanting to finish the order. She scoffs though, arms crossing tightly across her chest. "Are you not gonna answer me?... Fucking loser."

She pays for the order before walking over to some random seat to wait around for it, and you let out a sigh of relief. 

They've messed with you before, and you simply ignore it. It's better to take the shit than lose your job that you so desperately need, and worked hard to get.

You call the number for their order after a short while, giving them their drinks last as the tallest one of the girls scoffs. "This is the wrong drink." She then takes it out of the holder, throwing it at you, which results in you getting soaked in diet coke. It was, in fact, the right drink.

"What is wrong with you?" You try not to raise your voice, makeup and hair ruined, clothes soaked and sticking irritatingly against your skin, and she's just standing there with a smirk on her face. "You dumb bitch. Can't even get an order right." Just as you're about to retaliate, knowing that you didn't even make her order, someone grabs her wrist, tugging her away from the counter.

"That's enough.. Do you always go around giving people hell? At school, and now here..?" You glance up at the much taller figure gripping your offenders wrist, and you're slightly shocked at who it is.

It's the one boy that you've never heard speak in class, never seen him interact with other people despite his teammates on the basketball team. And yet he's popular.. Tall, handsome, and quiet. It's hard not to notice him.

When you finally snap back to reality, the three girls are storming out of the place and the boy is still standing in front of you, Nishimura Riki.

You've never imagined making eye contact with him, or speaking to him, but when his deep brown eyes meet yours, you immediately glance away, too flustered to continue looking him in the eyes.

He smiles gently, and there's a hint of pity in his eyes. "I'm sorry that happened.. Are you okay?..." His voice is slightly deep, and definitely nicely toned. You simply nod at his question, remembering that you're covered in soda.

"I'm fine.. I can take your order.." You try to deflect but he shakes his head. "No, let me take you home so you can change.. That can't be comfortable for you." 

His voice is very persuasive, and you decide not to argue, telling him to wait before walking into the kitchen to talk to your manager. 

"Mr. Rio...?" You inquire softly as the man glances up from his position at the grill, working on an order. "What happened?" He question, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

"Some girl threw her drink at me...." Your explanation leaves him to nod understandingly. "Just go home.. I'll handle everything until I can call another person here." 

You question whether he's sure or not before grabbing your stuff and rounding the counter. Riki grabs your stuff for you, carrying your book bag and your waterbottle as he gestures for you to follow him. You follow him towards his car and it's nice, a black mercedes. You're already regretting your decision to let him take you home.

"I can't get in your car like this.." You sigh as he shakes his head. "It's fine.. I'll clean of the seat afterwards.."

You refuse at his words. "No... I don't wanna cause you any trouble..." You argue as he rolls his eyes. "Fine then..." He get in the driver's seat, reaching into the duffle bag in the backseat as he pulls put a towel, putting it on the seat. "Come on. Now I won't even have to worry about cleaning the seat."

You sigh, still hesitant, but you still get into the car. He smiles once you're seated, leaning over the console to reach for your seatbelt, fastening it for you.

"So, where do you live..?" 

The car ride to your house is excruciatingly silent. You're awkward, and he doesn't know how to speak to you. It's just terrible.

"This is my house.." You speak up quietly as he stops the car. "Well.. I guess I'll see you at school tomorrow?.." He asks as you nod, unfastening your seat belt and scrambling to get out of the car. "What was your name again?..." He asks as you sigh nervously. "I'm Y/n... L/n Y/n..." You answer as he nods. "Nice. I'm Nishimura Riki.."

And like an idiot, you respond, "I know..." Riki chuckles, smiling. "Then you'll know we have class together.. Don't forget to say hi."

He then drives off, leaving you on the pavement dumbfounded. After a few minutes, you shake it off, heading inside as you take off your shoes. Just to your luck, your mom is on her way out. 

"What are you doing home?.." Your mom questions, brows furrowed inquisitively as she slid into her sneakers. 

"Some girl threw a drink at me at work, so my boss let me go home..." You explain as she scoffs. "You're so weak... Your sister would've kept working.. Learn to endure."

And then she leaves, grabbing her keys before slamming the front door behind her. You hear the lock click shortly after, letting out a sigh of relief.

You hated being compared to your sister. She graduated with honors, and you're barely keeping A's and B's... She's just better... And your mom is no help, constantly comparing you to her. It's definitely not fair because your sister is far from perfect, but you try not to let it haunt you.

The first thing you do is shower, the icky feeling of the soda making your clothes cling to you uncomfortably. After showering, you wash the clothes to avoid the soda staining them permanently. Once all of that is handled, you're rummaging through the kitchen for something decent to eat. In the end, you're settling for pizza rolls and some instant ramen. 

After eating the very random meal, you head upstairs to work on your homework, but to your luck, you left it in the cute boy's car. 

Great, another assignment to fail. You think to yourself as you open your laptop, ready to email your teacher in hopes they'll be understanding. Just as you're about to hit send, a notification sounds on your phone, the screen illuminating with a text from an unknown number. 

You open it, and to your luck its Riki. 

[Hey, it's Riki. I found your backpack in the backseat... I would bring it back, but I'm busy tonight.. Is it okay if I give it back tomorrow?] 

You sigh at the text, deciding to just forget the email and hope that homeroom gives you enough time to complete the homework.

[Yeah.. Tomorrow is fine... I need it during homeroom.]

[Great, I'll be there as soon as school starts.]

You thank him before setting your phone on the desk, sighing loudly. This day has been terrible, practice sucked, you got a drink thrown at you, and now your backpack is at some boy's house all because you accepted a ride home.

You just decide to push everything aside, getting in bed and watching random corny kdramas until you fall asleep.

It's rare that you ever get a good night's rest. If you hadn't left work early, you'd barely be home at 8pm... Luckily you got to sleep a little earlier, but just as quickly as you got lucky, you got unlucky.

You wake up to loud sounds coming from downstairs, and you're already aware of the familiar yelling voices. 

You leave your room, heading quietly down the stairs as you hear your parents yelling, something about money and your dad being irresponsible. 

You're used to the banter, and sometimes you just filter it out, but the sounds of broken glass was slightly alarming.

You peek into the kitchen, your parents are at each other's throats, and eventually your mom just yells for your dad to get out.

The man manages one last rude remark before leaving the house, the door slamming loudly behind him.

Just as your mom walks out of the kitchen, you try to ask if she's alright, she simply pushes past you, heading upstairs quietly.

Your sister still isn't home. God knows what she's out doing this time of night, but you're sure it isn't working.

Almost every last penny of your paycheck goes to your mom, and your sister's paycheck is never the same amount. You know for sure she's blowing it off selfishly, and your mom knows too, but she doesn't care.

One time you bought a new pair of shoes with your check since your family wasn't too far behind on bills, and boy you never heard the end of it. That's why you just give all the money you make to your mother.

And yet she still favorites your older sister. But you try your best to please her anyway. In the end you really don't have a way to impress her, unless you won the lottery maybe.. 

You genuinely just want a normal senior year, and at this point you'll do anything to get it.

[starkwlkr]

Hiii! okay maybe teen mathéo likes a girl so he could talk to charles about it and ask for advice a little father son moment would be cool.

numbers | charles leclerc

hello lovely anon! thanks for the request! for this imagine, I’m going to include mikey and demri schumacher. they are characters that belong to @cs55version from their mick series that i am absolutely in love with!!

I JUST STAY IN MY ROOM TOO LONG BUT I FINALLY HAVE A GIRLFRIEND AND SHE’S THE BOMB — numbers by tempered

While the media saw Ruby Leclerc as the loud, but funny child of Ferrari driver, Charles Leclerc, they sometimes forgot about Mathéo Leclerc, the shy and quiet boy. It wasn’t a bad thing (Mathéo’s exact words). The boy liked not being in the spotlight.

He enjoyed art museums and going to see musicals with his mother and grand-mère. But there were sometimes when the media did question whether or not he would follow in the footsteps of his father. From a young age, Mathéo decided not to pursue a career in formula 1 and his family respected that.

Even the kids at school would ask him when he would start karting. He would always answer with “I’m not going to be a driver. Ask my older sister.”

He grew tired of people at school always asking him about Ferrari, his father and uncle, asking for paddock passes. It was always the same people, people he never even talked to. But there was one day when a girl who had just moved to Monaco came up to him during lunch.

Mathéo’s usual friend, Robin, was sick so he remained home. Now it looked like Mathéo didn’t have any friends and sat alone during lunch.

“Hi. Is it okay if I sit here?” The girl asked, pointing to the chair across Mathéo.

“Yeah, it’s okay.” He replied then went back to eating his sandwich that his mother had made him.

“I’m Giselle.” The girl introduced herself.

“My name is Mathéo, but with an h in between the t and e. A lot of people forget about the h.” He explained.

“Oh, okay. Mine is with two l’s so it’s not like the supermodel’s name, you know the one that was married to Tom Brady?” She asked.

“I don’t know who Tom Brady is, but I know who Gisele Bündchen is. My maman had dinner with her last week.” He said casually. “Wait, you don’t have an accent.” He quickly noticed.

“I’m from America, but my mother’s side of the family is from here. My mom got a really good job offer so here we are,” Giselle explained. “My mom has about of an accent though. She was born here but left when she was ten I think.”

Mathéo had a crush on a girl before. Her name was Eloise. She was the sister of the most popular girl in school so when Eloise asked Mathéo out to the movies, the boy thought it was just some kind of prank.

Giselle seemed nice, she listened when Mathéo had something to say, laughed at his jokes when he made one and she didn’t know of Mathéo’s last name so at least he didn’t have to worry about that yet.

As the school day came to an end, he walked back home only to find Mikey and Demri Schumacher and his sister eating in the kitchen while his mother was on the phone talking.

“Hey, Théo! Missed you.” Demri ruffled his hair as he passed by her to get to the refrigerator.

“You can keep him if you want. I see him all the time.” Ruby teased.

“Maman! Ruby wants to give me away to the Schumacher’s!” Mathéo yelled. He ignored the laughs coming from then teenagers and grabbed a juice then walked out the kitchen.

“Ruby, what did I say about trying to sell your brother?” Y/n groaned from her spot in the sofa.

“Uncle Mick won’t mind having him around!”

“Hi, maman. Is papa around?” The fourteen year old boy asked shyly. He needed his father’s opinion on Giselle.

“He’s in our room, baby. He might be asleep, but you can go check.”

“Oh. I’ll let him sleep then. I’m going to my room.” Mathéo said. He knew how hard his father worked so he rather wait to have a conversation with him. He walked up the stairs to his room and closed the door behind him.

Y/n could see the defeated face on her boy. “Mom, I’m going to call you back. Bye.” She hung up the phone. She got up and walked to her and Charles’ room where he was sleeping peacefully on their bed. He had just gotten back from Belgium and he decided he wanted to have a nap before dinner.

“Charles, sweetheart,” Y/n gently shook his body to wake him up. Charles groaned as a response. “Mathéo wants to talk to you. I have a feeling it might be important.”

“What time is it?” He asked, still not opening his eyes.

“Almost dinner time so you have to get up.”

Charles sighed and sat up in his spot. “Where’s my boy?”

Mathéo was in his room working on his art project. It was a show box diorama of his favorite memory, which was the day of his birthday when all of his family from both sides made it to his party. As he was putting a toy birthday cake in his box, he heard a knock on his door.

“It’s open!” He said, still concentrated on his project. In came Charles with a tired face, but he didn’t care. His son needed him and he was here to listen.

“It looks very nice. Is that Uncle Arthur with frosting on his face?” Charles pointed at a paper drawing of the whole family. Arthur had been drawn with blue marker ‘smeared’ on his face to resemble the frosting of the cake that Charles had thrown at his face the day of the party.

“Yeah, it was kind of hard to find the right shade of blue but I made it work.” Mathéo said, not looking up from his work.

Charles nodded and walked over to the boy’s bed and sat down. “Maman told me you wanted to talk.”

Mathéo finally looked up and slowly turned his chair to face Charles. “But you’re tired. We can talk later-”

“Théo, I’m not tired. I’m okay, now tell me, is someone bothering you in school? Are your grades bad? If it’s about grades then I’m not mad because my grades were not good. Arthur and I used to skip class because of karting so-”

“It’s not about grades. I’m doing well in school. Promise you won’t laugh at me.” Mathéo said quietly.

“Why would I laugh? I’m your papa.”

“Just promise me.”

Charles held out his pinky finger. “I promise I won’t laugh,” Mathéo nodded and was about to speak but Charles stopped him. “No, you have to do the pinky promise. This is serious.” Mathéo chuckled and laced his pinky finger with his father’s then let go.

“Okay, so I was sitting in my usual table during lunch and then this girl comes up and sits with me. Robin wasn’t with me because he’s sick so I thought she felt bad for me because I was sitting alone. But turns out she’s new to Monaco and to the school. We talked and I have decided that she is the coolest girl I have ever met and she doesn’t know I’m your son!” The boy explained. “And she laughed at my jokes, I think I’m in love.”

Charles’ lips turned into a smile. His son had a crush.

“Well that’s a big word for you. She seems nice. What’s her name?” Charles asked.

“Giselle but with two l’s. Even her name is pretty. But I don’t want to seem like a creep and ask her out. How did you ask maman to go on a date with you?”

“Your maman was not an easy person to ask out. The first time I asked her, she said no and I respected her decision. A month later, she was in Monaco and we got lunch with a couple of friends and I asked her again and she said yes. I wanted to take her to dinner but she said that was too boring for a first date so we signed up for a cooking class to make pasta but it was in Italy so we went to Italy.” Charles explained. He was never going to forget that day.

“Why Italy? Does Monaco not having pasta classes?”

“They do, but your mother hadn’t been to Italy so I took her. It’s became a tradition now. On our anniversary, we go to the same cooking class and make pasta. You would think my cooking skills would improve by now, but at least we have maman to help.”

“Maybe I can take Giselle to a cooking class in Italy.” Mathéo suggested.

“How about we start with watching a movie in the local theater?”

[kurishiri]

official IkeVil JP twitter role-played with fans as Roger

translation may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties. Please reblog, not repost!

and here are some of my favorite responses and some tidbits about Roger (and some others, through his eyes) 🥹👌 also I wouldn’t consider these spoilers; they’re more like bite sized fun facts you might find in a random scene in some random side story or event or something lmao also I don’t like the green gun emoji on my phone so I’m using the beer one instead.

1. Roger is trying to get along with Alfons (it’s not working so well though I guess, haha)

💬: Roger!! Have you been getting along with Alfons recently?

🍻: That’s always my intention, but whenever I see him he gives me a kind of disgusted look. So maybe he’s just shy or something.

2. maybe Victor is trying to get everyone drunk…?

💬: Roger, have you gone out to drink with Victor before?

🍻: I don’t think Victor really drinks outside. If anything, he’s the one bringing some good booze back to Crown for us. Could it be — he’s scheming something and trying to get us drunk?

3. Roger can crack a joke 😂👌

💬: I kind of just ate this without knowing what that liquid is, but what is it, actually? 🧪

🍻: That’s a love potion. If you drink it you won’t be able to think about anything but me——just kidding.

4. Roger and Ellis are the strongest!

💬: Who is the strongest in Crown?

🍻: Me, followed by Ellis. You wanna compare our strength now with an arm wrestle? Though I reckon you wouldn’t be able to win against me even if you used both hands.

5. Roger’s worst fight with Alfons

💬: Please tell us the worst episode of a fight you’ve had with Alfons〜!!

🍻: Once during a mission we got into an argument where Al and I almost died — that day I’ve never seen Victor look that quietly angry before.

6. drinking with William! (they’re the older bros of the group)

💬: What do you talk about with William when you drink with him?

🍻: Will knows a lot, so we’ll talk about all sorts of stuff. Like how Victor’s overworking himself, or how Jude’s got bad feet, or how Liam hurt himself again——wait, what are we, their guardians?

7. Alfons bombed the drinking date

💬: Hey Roger, what sweets do you like? Other than Alfons’ scone.

🪞: Are we talking about me? Oh, that’s my handmade scone that I put a lot of love into. Don’t you feel naughty with just one bite? What do you think is in it?

🍻: Hey, you, get out and go somewhere else already.

8. drinking with Elbie!

💬: Have you drank with Lord Elbert before? 🥺🍻💚💙

🍻: I have, yes. But I can never tell whether he’s drunk or not.

🪞: That’s because he always looks drunk.

🍻: Oy, Al, what are you doing here? Tonight’s supposed to be just me and the lil lady, so don’t get in the way like that. Shoo shoo!

9. Roger doesn’t just drink beer (surprise surprise!)

💬: What do you like to drink other than beer?

🍻: I also drink whisky, though I always prefer beer. What about you, lil lady?

10. Roger comforts you after a long day of work

💬: Roger, I finally finished work…

🍻: There, there, you did well. I remember your efforts very well. Good job today.

11. Jude and drinking, according to Roger

💬: When you’re drinking with Jude, have you seen him when drunk before? I want to know what he’s like when he’s drunk.

🍻: Can’t say I’ve seen him drunk before. It seems like that guy always got a calm look on his face, no matter how much he drinks.

12. what Ellis is like when drunk

💬: Cheers! I have a question, what is Ellis like when drunk?

🍻: Ellis isn’t that weak to alcohol… but he becomes a bit more fluffy than normal, I guess. But he can walk back to the castle just fine.

13. trying to get Ellis drunk…?!

💬: I heard Ellis is a little weak to alcohol. Have you taken care of him when he was drunk? Also how many cups does it take for him to become drunk?

🍻: Pfft, haha… Are you trying to get Ellis drunk? I’ll have you know Ellis is like a cute younger brother to me, so I won’t tell. I have taken care of him though——let’s leave it at that.

14. who can hold their alcohol in Crown?

💬: Who is the worst at holding their alcohol in Crown?

🍻: I think everyone in Crown is pretty good at holding their alcohol. But should we put that to the test? …No way, this really isn’t for me to gather information on them?

15. he be takin care of Crown when they’re drunk

💬: Who do you drink with most often? And have you taken care of someone when they got drunk!?

🍻: Taking care of someone… Ellis — no, Al, maybe? Oh, and also Jude… whoops, can’t say any more than that, or he’ll be after me.

16. what Harry drinks

💬: I always get the impression Harry drinks strawberry milk a lot, but when it comes to alcohol, what does he drink? I want to know 🦊🍸

🍻: Harry likes whisky soda. It goes well with chocolate, and I’ve seen him eating it together with the drink. Noww then, now that I’ve told you some important information, you’ll stop that lying fox from eating too much sweets for me, won’t you?

17. Roger’s advice for those who simp to the point of illness 😆

💬: My friends love you to the point they might be a little ill, Roger. They love you so much it’s too much for me to handle. Is there medicine to make them feel better?

🍻: I can introduce you to a doctor I know who has some good medicine. Want me to? His name’s Roger Barel.

18. he cooks?!?!

💬: I want to eat a meat entree with you, Roger! (this is sausage and roast pork that I made) 😋🍽️🥩✨ What’s your favorite type of meat? And what other foods do you like?

🍻: I would say steak, but any meat is good. But I also like salty things too. Sometimes I make things that go well with alcohol. Want some?

19. oh..? 😳

💬: Yippeeee✨✨✨ it’s everyone’s older brother Roger!! Congrats on your main story🎉💕 I really look forward to this summer! (I have 🦑 with beer)

🍻: You have as much excitement as Victor! For sure, look forward to it. I’ll make it a summer you won’t ever forget.

20. Roger’s recommended drinks

💬: I want to know your drink recommendations!

🍻: Mine is beer, beer, and more beer. Ah, having some ginger ale in between seems pretty good too.

21. he drinks with Ellis and Jude often!

💬: Out of the members of Crown, who have you been drinking with recently? Have you drank with them several times…! 🍻✨

🍻: I go out to drink with Jude and Ellis quite a bit. Well, I think I prefer drinking together with you the most though.

22. he loves meat at the end of the day eheh

💬: I’m thinking of drinking with you tonight🍻 What do you eat (snack) with alcohol? I’m thinking chips goes well.

🍻: My favorite is salty meat. But chips go well with beer too. Should we order some?

23. Roger’s advice for those who just turn the legal age

💬: I’ve turned the legal age, what do you recommend for a first timer…? Was your first drink a beer…?

🍻: At first, you should go for drinks that don’t have high alcohol content to see if you can drink it or not. Other than that, drink together with someone. For example, with me. And of course, the first drink I had was beer!

24. Roger’s favorite drinking partner is… ✨✨

💬: Is there anyone you want to drink alone with?? What types of things would you talk about with them!?✨

🍻: The one drinking in front of me, right now.

[ssa-atlas-alvez]

Hi so this is my first ever request idk if I’m supposed to ask from somewhere else but I was wondering if you could do a Bau find out reader has a criminal past that got expunged or something please?

Hiya, I feel like this absolutely ages to do, I'm so sorry but hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

Description: Reader has a slightly colourful history

Warnings: discussions of previous criminal activity when reader was a minor (theft/burglary, drugs hinted at if you squint, beating up individuals), guns mentioned, death of someone reader knows, child abuse mentioned (nothing 'on screen')

You look at the photos in front of you. A John Doe, about ten years older than you. Swallowing slightly, you try to build up the courage to tell the team you know him. That you know exactly who this man was.

"You okay, kid?" Morgan asks, you look up, giving a quick nod.

"Oh, er, yeah. Yeah, I just, I know him." You know they're going to ask questions, but that's the last thing you want right now. You don't want to explain. You don't want to tell them. They'd look at you differently. Part of you worried they'd no longer even want you on the team.

Hotch frowns, studying your expression. "You know him?"

"Yeah." You clear your throat slightly. "Er, his name's Ryan Williams."

"How did you know him?"

You look away from Hotch, back to the photo. "We... worked together,"

You watch the team raise an eyebrow. "Worked together?" Prentiss asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yep."

"And what was this job?" Rossi chimed in.

"Um..." You pause, trying to figure out how to word it. "It, er..."

You try to ignore the team furrowing their eyebrows and frowning at you. "It...?" Morgan said, looking at you expectantly.

"It might have something to do with a man named Chris Miller," You said, trying to change the topic as much as you could.

"And this Chris Miller, what's he like?"

"Oh, an absolute dickhead." You paused, clearing your throat when you remembered you were supposed to be professional. "I mean, we had our differences."

The team exchanged a concerned glance. "(Y/N), you're going to need to be transparent with us."

"What- about what?"

"How you know Williams."

"I told you, I know him from work."

"And the truth?"

You look at the team, debating whether or not this was a good idea. It probably wasn't, but you knew Hotch wasn't exactly going to drop the topic. "We did work together. Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"It's a little complicated." You said, giving a small shrug. "We worked for a man, Chris Miller. We'd also work closely with his son, Danny."

"What sort of work?"

"Odd jobs. Whatever needed doing." You said, swallowing slightly. "Delivering packages, picking things up."

"And?"

"And, what?"

"There was clearly more." Hotch stated. "And don't think we don't know what what sort of 'packages' you're talking about."

"Look, we did some shitty stuff." You gave a small shrug. You try to act nonchalant about it. You weren't proud of your past. You focus your attention on the table in front, finding it easier to look at that, rather than the disappointed gazes of your team. You didn't want to see them look at you differently.

"Like what?"

"We stole stuff, bikes, cars, broke into a house once or twice." You admitted, a light blush tinting your cheeks in shame. "You got a cut of whatever the total of what you took."

"You burgled."

"Technically, yes." You answered, voice hesitant. Hotch frowned, eyebrows drawing in.

"Anything else?"

"We were told to rough some guys up a few times." You admitted. You hear Garcia draw in a sharp breath.

"And this Chris, how did you know him?"

"He was the ring leader." You answered, "You did what he told you, no questions asked."

"And Ryan?"

"He also worked for Chris."

Two days later, it was revealed that the unsub was in fact Danny Miller. Once it was established that he was the one doing the killing, finding him was fairly easy. And the next afternoon you had him surrounded in a warehouse, trying to talk him down.

"Danny." You say, walking into the room. Danny's attention is immediately on you, as is his gun. "Danny, you need to put the gun down."

"Don't act like you're any better than me, (Y/N)." Danny snapped.

"Danny, just- come on, man. Just put the gun down." You give a sigh, watching the older man's slightly shaking hand.

"You're not better than me." Danny growls.

Knowing Hotch and Morgan weren't exactly going to put their weapons down, you lowered yours. "Come on, Danny. Don't be an idiot. Just put it down."

"You don't know what he was like." Danny glared, hand still trembling. "He was a son of a bitch."

"I know, Danny. I know."

"No you don't!" Danny exclaimed, gun now pointing at you. Morgan's finger itched near the trigger, just in case.

"Then tell me."

"You know how your dad was?" You feel Hotch and Morgan's eyes flick to you for a split second. You swallow.

"Yeah."

"Yeah, well he was worse."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not. You got out." Danny jabbed the gun towards you as he snarled.

"If you do this, you let him win." You state, "If you pull that trigger and my team mates shoot you, he's won. He's won and you won't get to look him in the eye and tell him how much of a bastard he is."

It takes a few more minutes, but it's the thought of spiting his father that gets Danny to lower the gun and Morgan immediately pounces, cuffing him.

Hotch wait until you're all flying back on the jet before he approaches you about the topic, with the team all trying their best to look like they're not listening. But for profilers, they can't act for shit.

"We need to talk about your previous record." Hotch stated, placing a file in front you you. "I had Garcia unseal the records."

"That's not fair."

"During the interviewing process you were specifically asked if you had a criminal record."

"It was all expunged-"

"(Y/N), that's irrelevant, I still should have been told,"

"Except it doesn't exist anymore, Hotch." You rub a hand over your face, wishing that you had just stayed home.

"It still matters,"

"No, it doesn't, I was a kid." You say, "I was fifteen, I made some stupid decisions to try and survive,"

"(Y/N)-"

"No, Hotch, it doesn't matter. It doesn't exist anymore."

"It was still important for me to know."

"Why? Why was it so important? I was- I was fifteen,"

"It's important because it still happened."

"I was just trying to survive." You looked at him. "I was just trying to survive. I went about it the wrong way, yes. And I'm not proud of it by any means, but I was fifteen and I didn't know what else to do."

"You still should have declared it."

"Do I still have this job?"

"Excuse me?" Hotch asked, frowning in confusion.

"Am I fired?"

"No."

"Then, respectfully sir, it was expunged. It doesn't exist anymore, my slate is clean. And you getting Garcia to unseal the records was unfair, unnecessary, and hurtful." You state, pausing for a short breath. "To me, that means that everything I've worked hard for - proving myself in this job - immediately went out the window the second you learnt something negative about my past."

And with that, you turn your head, deciding to look out of the window instead, signaling to your boss that the conversation was over.

[iangeeluv]

-you tell your husband your awesome plan-

“Katsuki,” you began, your voice taunting, “I’ve been thinking.”

“What is it now?” He glanced down at you, his expression soft and relaxed, a state that you often did not see his face in. 

You bit down your lip to keep from grinning as you prepared to drop your epiphany. “You know how I’m always worried about you being a hero and putting yourself in danger constantly?”

He nodded, evidently not understanding where you were going with this. “Yes, you bring it up almost daily.”

“Well, baby.” you resumed, “I have invented the perfect solution to that problem.”

“And what ever could that possibly be?” Katsuki drawled, raising a singular eyebrow.

“I think you should quit being a hero and become my little housewife instead,” you announced with a mischievous grin.

There was a moment of speechlessness as Katsuki processed what you’d just uttered. His usually stoic expression changed, his eyes restricting as he tried to determine whether you were serious or not. 

You could practically hear the wheels turning in his brain, and it only made it harder for you to hold back your laughter. He looked so adorable thinking.

“A house... wife?” he recited slowly as if trying the word out on his tongue. He didn’t sound too eager about it…

“Yes! A housewife, baby,” you affirmed, nodding enthusiastically. “You’d be amazing at it! I know it! You could clean, cook, which I know you’re good at, and basically take care of everything home-related while I go out and do all the work instead.” 

I smiled brightly at him, “See cause then you’d never have to worry about villains or people in trouble or any of that dangerous stuff ever again.” 

Katsuki blinked at you, his mouth opened as if to disagree, then closed again as he reconsidered what he would say. He didn’t need to say much… I knew he wasn’t amused by my idea. But surprisingly, he decided to give in and indulge in my little idea.

“And what else would being a housewife include?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’d be constantly busy baby,” you replied, on the verge of bursting out laughing. “You could perfect your cooking skills, or learn how to fold laundry correctly for once, maybe even take up yodeling! Cause you doesn't want to know how to yodel? Plus, you would have tons of time to care for your exhausted wife when I come home from work doing all my big girl stuff,”

At that, Katsuki let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest and warming your face.  “Yodeling, huh? I didn’t realize that was going to be a part of the job description.”

“Well, it’s optional I suppose.” you confessed with a giggle.

Katsuki shook his head, clearly amused by your stunt. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

“Serious as ever” you replied, though the gleam in your eyes revealed your true intent. “I mean, think about it. No more dangerous missions, no more fightingvillainss. Just a quiet, tranquil life at home with me. We’ll grow old and wrinkly together. We will fight over what type of bread to buy and who left the back door open. We’ll spend every morning watching the sunrise come up, with coffee in our hands. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

He considered it for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “It does sound pleasant,” he admitted, his tone still teasing. “But I’m not sure how I feel about giving up my dream occupation to become a… housewife. You do know I went through rigorous schooling to become the great hero I am today right?"

“Oh, come on.” you scoffed, poking him playfully on his muscular bicep. “You know you would love it. I've seen you when you get in the "zone" while cleaning. Plus, you’d look really sexy in an apron.”

That did it. Your husband Katsuki burst out laughing, the sound loud and warm as it filled the house. You couldn’t help but join in, his laughter was always so contagious. Your laughter mingled with his as you both pictured the absurdity of the idea.

When the laughter finally died out, Katsuki leaned down to press a soft kiss on your hair. “I respect the thought,” he said, his voice full of affection, that you know he only showed to you. “But for right now, imma stick to being a hero. Though I have to admit, the idea of being your housewife is tempting.”

“Tempting enough to reconsider?” you asked with a grin, though you already knew what he was going to say.

“No, darling,” he replied, chuckling. “You know what being a hero means to me, but I guess I’ll keep this “housewife” in mind as a backup plan.”

“Deal.” you agreed, bopping his nose with your pointer finger. “But just so you know, you’d make a perfect housewife."

“With you to teach me darling?  I have no doubt I will,” he whispered, kissing you softly as you both settled back into the peaceful silence of the evening.

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