#an unprompted reflection

[zirconpetals]

Somebody make some kind of smart observation about their relationship or Spock's character arc based on this

[burningcheese-merchant]

Okay, so I literally just thought about this after reading your eternal sugar wishlist (myth edition) a couple of hours ago. Anyway, if you are right on, the story taking some inspiration from Greek mythology of Persephone & Hades as well there being an ally cookie to help hollyberry. I can see said cookie possibly take some inspiration from Hecate, the goddess of witchcraft.

If you remember, Hecate was the one who guided Demeter through the underworld (and helped Persephone adjust to her new home).I can see this cookie guiding hollyberry onto the right path to her awakening. So the prophecy is fulfilled.(also sorry if this was already sent something happened with my Wi-Fi, and I am not sure if I 'm sending this again-)

It was already sent, yeah haha. I got confused for a split second when I first opened my inbox. "Why did you send me the same ask twice homie" lol

First, I just want to gently correct you on some things you said here

Hecate did not lead Demeter through the Underworld to find Persephone/Kore. She took her to Helios, titan of the sun (and Apollo's predecessor, technically) to seek further information on her whereabouts, as his position as the "seeing-eye" that watches all the world from his place in the sky lent itself to the possibility that he saw who took her and where (which was correct. He did see what happened and told Demeter everything). It was Hermes that ventured through the Underworld (as ordered by Zeus, because by that point Demeter had long since caused an unending winter and basically slaughtering all life on earth through cold and starvation as retaliation for no one giving her her daughter back) to find Hades and Persephone and beg the former to PLEASE let the latter go home so Demeter would stop killing people. Demeter never once set foot down there. (It makes more sense for Hermes to go, anyway. He is known as the messenger of the gods and was the only non-chthonic god given unlimited free and safe passage through the Underworld as he also served as a guide for the dead, shepherding people's souls there after they passed on)

This isn't really a correction, I'm just not sure where you heard that Hecate comforted Persephone while she was down there? I don't remember that in any telling of the myth I read or was told. It's not in the original myth, I remember that much. I remember that she acted as a substitute ruler when Persephone was gone, basically holding down the fort until her return in the winter. But I don't remember any version of the story that has that part in it. Maybe it's a version I just missed, a good portion of Greek myth was oral tradition and different people had different ideas (also Ancient Greece was a collection of autonomous city-states with wildly different cultures and customs and that did not answer to one another. They would not be one unified nation for an extremely long time. The Greece we know today is VERY new). Many myths and legends are like that in general, that's why there are often so many versions of the same thing and people often bicker over which is the "real" one

All that aside, to actually talk about my Beast-Yeast hopes and wishes. Me acting like a wannabe oracle haha

I don't necessarily want the entire arc to take after the myth of Hades and Persephone. I don't really think the themes or vibe fit, you know? I just thought the consumption of a "weird" fruit as offered by the one holding Holly hostage in her weird little world would be a neat allusion to that story. Bonus if the pomegranate has some sort of toxin that puts Holly to sleep, enabling Eternal Sugar to do with her as she wishes, and keeping in line with "sloth"

Regardless, I'm not sure about any of it because I don't actually know if Holly will end up taking after Demeter at all. I sincerely hope she does. (At the very least I hope her awakened form doesn't have anything to do with Pitaya or dragons at all lol. I am legitimately tired of everyone always making Holly's life and character revolve around Pitaya (and vice versa. In fact it's 10x worse for Pitaya, I NEVER see anyone say anything about him other than in relation to Holly). Dark Cacao is already the dragon lord guy so hopefully that deters Devsis since they can't have 2 dragon-themed Ancients)

Also here is the original myth as told by Homer just because haha. It's actually titled "Hymn to Demeter" as it's really more about her and her struggles and journey than anyone else. It's quite long and extremely sad but worth the read. (It's actually also quite progressive, for the time it was written. While all versions of the myth, this one included, are meant to explain the cycle of seasons, this one in particular was also meant to serve as a commentary on Ancient Greek society and how it treated women and girls. Women had few rights and little freedom or agency, and seen more as property than people (yes social class could influence this a little but by and large women were treated horribly). When a woman was married off, it was common for her to never really see her family again (she's supposed to be with her husband now). The myth is special in that it showed reality for what it actually was - women having their lives and well-being toyed with by men, decisions made for them by men, being sent away from their homes and their loved ones to go live with and serve men until they die - instead of just kind of nodding along like everyone else did with these practices as they were the norm at the time and weren't seen as illegal or morally wrong. It was Homer expressing sympathy for all of those mothers that had their daughters taken from them to carry out others' wishes and demands at the cost of their own autonomy, because the same thing had already happened to them (fun fact, there are versions of Persephone's origin myth where she's a product of assault 🙃) and now they're just watching history repeat itself without any way to stop it. It's actually a pretty feminist story, all things considered)

[summergoodwife]

Gonna say it again, "Just stop consuming the genre" is THE WORST POSSIBLE RESPONSE to someone complaining about the lack of representation in their preferred genre!! And "Consume other stuff too" is not much better!!! I don't care how much you think varying media consumption is a Good and Holy lifestyle, not everyone wants to do that! There is no obligation to do that and there should not be! Because it's fucking entertainment. It's not a college major.

And! And and and. I would be remiss to not point out that when you tell someone, "If you want well written (minority) just get out of (genre fandom)" you are, regardless of your motivations, rhetorically aligning yourself with the exact same bigots who just want the pro-representation crowd to shut up and go away.

[finalset]

I love drawing <3 I just bought some rainbow pencils that I’m excited to use and incorporate in my art. I’ve been having so much fun since I let myself do smaller artworks in my sketchbook instead of big fully shaded pieces or nothing.

[sapientiiae]

Once again, they found themselves in the gardens, watching the sun set over the horizon. Again, his hand twined with hers, fingers lacing together warmly and keeping her close. But this time, Clive turned to her, cupping her cheek with his free hand, tilting her head up to his ever so gently. And then he pressed a gentle kiss upon her lips, letting it linger for a short moment before pulling back just a bit, his nose gently nudging hers.

While the castle gardens had always been a place of serenity for the Princess of Hyrule, a place visited in solitude so she could breathe and clear her mind, it was nice to not always be alone when visiting a place she favored. To know the gardens was no longer a refuge solely for herself but instead for them made something stir in her chest she could not quite describe. 

The pair sat perched on the edge of the stone fountain, watching as the sun began to bow below the horizon, a cloak of coral, lilac, and buttercup billowing behind it to shroud the sky.

Clive’s hand was warm within her own, the male having reached for it again once they stepped out into the fresh air to begin their stroll through the gardens. They’d walked with their fingers intertwined, the warmth of his skin radiating into her own, providing a level of comfort that only the gardens themselves had ever done. It was this comfort and the way he’d held her hand that encouraged the Hylian maiden to sit so close, nestled into his side when they’d stopped at the water fountain to watch the sun set. 

His body was like a protective wall that she leaned against, firm and secure, allowing the princess to feel safe at his side. Luckily, he hadn’t seemed to mind the close proximity — Nayru no, he seemed to encourage it by keeping his hold on her hand, the two sitting in a comfortable silence as the sun dipped lower and lower. 

It was out of her peripheral that Zelda noticed the man move. She’d been about to turn and face him, perhaps even ask what it was he was thinking, but his free hand reached her cheek before she could turn or say anything. The caress of his hand was gentle, his calloused touch soft against her smooth flesh. He moved so carefully, not applying too much force as he coaxed her to look towards him, guiding her to lift her chin. 

Briefly did her blue topaz eyes meet sapphires, gaze softening just before Clive leaned in, pressing his lips to her own. It was such a delicate kiss, though the touch left butterflies dancing in her stomach despite how light and fleeting it was. That kiss, however brief, made her heart slam against its cage, and while she would have liked for that kiss to continue, she instead settled for still having him close. 

Inhaling a shaky breath, Zelda’s forehead pressed to his as she felt the tip of his nose brush against the side of hers. 

“I shall forever thank the Goddesses for bringing you to Hyrule…” 

[pumpking64]

anxiety logic is a weird thing.

i have this problem where if i’m lying in bed in the evening and hear a helicopter or a plane flying relatively low outside i will be convinced it’s an air attack and the only thing that works is to wait it out until the sound is gone.

and that’s one of the reasons i want to move out of the city centre. because why would an air attack be on a village instead of a big city?

like logically speaking there shouldn’t even be an air attack in the first place, we’re not at war. but that logic doesn’t work for me. the completely made-up hypothesis, however, that air attacks wouldn’t be on the outskirts of the city? that logic works

[snistr]

I think I've had a weird sort of epiphany.

I think I've come to the realization that I'm not so much into race play, but just generally degrading relations between interracial couples. Like, degradation and humiliation is all well and good, and like some of the power dynamics could be interesting... but beyond that, I can't really vibe with it. Dirty talk is fun, but like... slurs? Nah, I can't go there.

I guess the best way I can abbreviate this is... I can do mild race play, but not like overt or aggressive racism.

[andivmg]

My experience with Luke (Punz)

CW: toxic relationship, racism, dubious consent

I know in the past i said that i would no longer speak about him publicly, and when talking about my experiences with abuse and emotional mistreatment i begged to keep it anonymous but after reflecting on this for a week and seeing so many incredibly smart and strong women tell their stories. they have given me the strength to say his name.

this is really scary to talk about because of the copious levels of harassment i have received from his fans in the past so if this spreads or gets out of hand i will simply log off.

If you read my last post, i nicknamed him 1.

So aside from everything i said there, there were a lot of things i didn’t include because they would’ve made it obvious that it was him and it could potentially backfire on me so, i’m very afraid to post this. but i’m going to do it scared anyway, because it’s not fair that he gets to just go and live his life worry-free as if he didn’t practically ruin mine.

Because I already made a very lengthy post about him, i won’t include everything i said last time to avoid being redundant but if i repeat myself, please bear with me.

In our year long relationship i had to endure emotional neglect, gaslighting, verbal abuse, one instance where there was dubious consent, and much more.

Starting off at the beginning of our relationship, that’s when i was getting copious amounts of hate and harassment from his fan base (warranted or not), he decided that our relationship must be kept private. he said it was to “protect” me from his fanbase when in reality it was to protect himself. it was so he wouldn’t get all the backlash i was getting. this is funny because one of the things i got called out for was saying the B slur (derogatory term used against mexicans/latinos). I won’t get into the nuances of if i could say it or not as a puertorican because that’s discourse that does not pertain to this specific situation. But you know who definitely can’t say it? A white boy from Massachusetts. When i was getting cancelled for this and getting thousands of tweets calling me names, he decided that was the perfect time to say “I mean you are a b***** aren’t you? my little b*****.” Now, he said this completely unprompted. I was in the process of writing my apology and he just said that. I tell you this because i immediately shut him down and told him that there was no universe in which it was okay for him to say that word and especially not one where he could just call me that. While i was reprimanding him, he was smiling and laughing. he apparently found it amusing to call me a slur. regardless, he gave me a half-assed apology and said he wouldn’t do it again. and he didn’t. but this wasn’t the only time he was weirdly racist to me. this was my first time being in an interracial relationship so i was led to believe that this was normal by all the white people around me at the time. But, sometimes my spanish accent would come out and he would make fun of me and the way i pronounced some words. He also refused to visit me in Puerto Rico when i lived there or come meet my family when i really wanted him to because he “didn’t like the heat” or “it’s dangerous there isn’t it?”. Once, while we were watching season 2 of Bridgerton, he implied that the Sharma sisters were “too dark” for him to be attracted to them. This hurt me because they are brown skinned girls. I am a brown skinned girl. Then this, combined with the fact that he told me once he wasn’t attracted to me made me feel like my skin color was unattractive. These are only a few examples i can think of at the moment, but i’m sure there were more. Our relationship ended in 2022 so some of my memory is a bit hazy. But, I do remember feeling inferior to him throughout the relationship because he was white and I was not. I chalk that up to all the micro aggressions i had to deal with because i had never felt that way around white people before.

Another thing i had to endure was him constantly making me feel like he was embarrassed to be with me. Because i was cancelled, he didn’t want to associate with me too much. He did defend me on multiple occasions, I’ll give him that. But, he only did it because his name was getting dragged in the mud along with mine. Excusing my actions made him look better for being around me. In reality he didn’t really care. Because he was such a big content creator and someone i looked up to professionally, I took his advice as law. He told me to tone down my personality, to keep a low profile, to change things about myself to be more palatable to his audience. The same audience that spoke about me like “The pussy can’t be that good punz please stop defending her”. So i changed a lot of things about myself and my content to better suit what his audience liked. He made me feel like if his audience liked me, he would be public about our relationship and stop hiding it. He told me the reason why he wanted to keep our relationship a secret was because he didn’t want to get hate for it. But this wasn’t true. On my 20th birthday he went to Las Vegas for a twitch rivals event. That night i asked to facetime him to say goodnight and he refused because he was at a hotel room with his friends and he didn’t want them to know that we were together. It was as if my mere presence or the utterance of my name was a source of embarrassment for him. And he didn’t let me forget it. It wasn’t just a public thing at that point. He didn’t want people to know we were together, period. This was devastating to me because I would talk to all my friends about him. I was so proud to be with him and I was just one more problem to him. He made me feel so small and insignificant just because his fans didn’t like me.

He would berate me a lot. Not just due to getting heat online, although he did do that a lot. But in general whenever we would get into an argument or a disagreement he would always call me names like annoying or weird or stupid. He would raise his voice at me if i did something he didn’t like and call me an idiot. And that really hurt, i felt like i couldn’t bring up anything or do anything without getting insulted. If I hadn’t seen him in a few days because he was too busy streaming and i asked to hang out he would call me needy, clingy, and annoying. Granted, he might not have been wrong, but that is not something you say to someone you claim to love. He also insulted me when i was in depressive episodes. I have BPD and at the time i was not being treated properly for it. So, I was all over the place emotionally and he was what i clung to for validation, reassurance, and love. I talked to him when we first started dating about my disorder and told him that if it seemed like something he couldn’t handle that he could opt out of the relationship. I guess he didn’t think it was that bad or something idk because whenever i had really bad depressive episodes, he would tell me I was too sad to hang out with. He said that my sadness was a burden to him. Which would be fair. But, once my mother had a conversation with him about me. She told him that i am someone who needs a lot of love and caring. She said that if he wasn’t willing to put in that kind of effort into a relationship to just leave me alone. He reassured her that he would be there for me no matter what. He told my mother that he would protect me and my heart. He did not. He took all the warnings I gave him and ignored them and then made me feel like I was the problem. And even worse, he would say that i was pretending to be sad to get his attention when he would neglect for days at a time.

There were also some smaller things like the fact that he made me feel really guilty whenever he would spend money on me. Also, he would be really mean about my eating habits. For context, i used to suffer from an eating disorder. I was anorexic and had a really unhealthy relationship with food during high school and my first year of uni. This relationship began when i was recovering from my ED. For me, eating was really hard. So i had certain comfort foods that, while sometimes unhealthy, at least it was something to eat when i didn’t feel like eating anything. He knew this. Yet, whenever i would crave some of these foods he would call me fat. Constantly told me I’d gain weight from eating all that junk food. Saying that to someone with an eating disorder is crazy. Other smaller things were that whenever I would post tiktoks where i was lip syncing or just looking good he would yell at me and say i was looking for attention. Same with Instagram or Twitter whenever i would post photos where I looked hot. He never planned out a single date for us. I would beg him to get me flowers and he did maybe once but i’ll get into that in a bit. He would make fun of me in front of his friends to make himself look better. He let his friends say really degrading things about me in his presence. For example, once when i was showering, i overheard him on a discord call with George and Sapnap and i heard George say “if you don’t go in the shower and have sex with Andi, i will”. Once, when i was really struggling with my legs (for those of you who don’t know, i have arthritis and it’s very painful. at the time i wasn’t diagnosed but i was in a lot of pain) I literally could not walk. I had to beg him to take me to the ER because i didn’t know what was wrong with me. He didn’t want to take me but eventually i convinced him, and while we were there all he did was complain about how long it was taking and that he would have rather been at home streaming. Whenever I would talk about my interests that i was excited about like shows or books he would be incredibly uninterested and say that those things were stupid and he didn’t want to hear about them. I know all of these seem very silly or superficial but cumulatively it was awful.

Now for arguably the most serious thing i’m going to talk about. I want to preface this by saying i am just telling my side of what happened. You can come to your own conclusions about this.

On April 25, 2022 it was our one year anniversary, and i had made a dinner reservation for us. I expected him to plan something throughout the day for us to do. He told me he was going to spend the whole day playing Valorant so I got upset and cancelled the reservation. After a very heated argument, we calmed down and i asked him to come over. He came over about an hour later with flowers and drinks (I was 20 at the time so I couldn’t buy the drinks myself). He brought Smirnoffs and Trulys. For context, I am a lightweight. I always have been. I literally get tipsy on half a cocktail. And that day, I hadn’t eaten anything because i was in distress over our argument. So we get to talking and drinking. I blacked out after my second Smirnoff. Apparently I drank 3 but I genuinely cannot remember anything after finishing the second one. The next morning i woke up naked in my bed. I woke him up and asked him “Luke, why am I naked?” and he said “Because you didn’t want to put your clothes back on.” When I clarified to him that that was not what I meant, he got defensive and said that he didn’t realize how drunk I was. He proceeded to tell me that I initiated sex with him and that i was very enthusiastic about it. He said he didn’t know i could black out on three smirnoffs. He made fun of me for being a lightweight and continued to make light of the situation. Then he mentioned that i fell off the bed at some point in the night and that it was funny how drunk I was. I then questioned him. Because if he thought that me tripping and falling off the bed because i was so drunk was funny, how did he not know that i was too drunk? He responded by saying that i fell off the bed only after we were done. That day I broke up with him. I’m still really confused about what happened that night. I don’t remember anything and all I have to go on is what he said to me. We were in a relationship at the time and he says he didn’t know how drunk I was so I’m not sure what to call what happened. A while after that day, his friend that hmu while we were broken up and I started talking again and i confided in him about that night. He told me to be careful saying things like that because they could get me into trouble. I spoke to some of our other friends about it and they told me it was no big deal and that it wasn’t his fault that he didn’t know how drunk I really was. Because I don’t remember, I have been led to believe that this is not a serious matter. You can think what you want, come to whatever conclusions you want. That is just my side of the story.

I want to add that I’m not proud of how I acted after the relationship ended. I felt really angry at all the shit he put me through and I guess a part of me wanted him to hurt even a quarter of how I did. So I started talking to his friend and got involved with him. This backfired on me because his friend ended up really hurting me too so ig i got my karma. But the thing that hurt the most is that because of what I did, some of our friends took his side in the break up. I was told that I did something terrible by getting involved with his friend that he was already insecure about and that he didn’t deserve that. These are the same friends who were witness to the dumpster fire of a relationship we had and all the things he did to me. They turned their backs on me because of this one thing I did. But stood by and watched as he treated me like garbage for over a year.

I will conclude this by saying that while this relationship has been “over and done with” for almost two years now, I carry a lot of trauma from it still. I still talk about him in therapy and have had to put in a lot of work to heal from what he did and i still cannot say that i am okay. I am very blessed to now have a patient and understanding partner who has helped me heal from that trauma and i just want to quickly thank him for that. Nobody deserves to go through what I did. While yes, it was a toxic relationship, and I had a part in that, it does not excuse all the awful things he said and did to me. This is my truth, thank you for taking the time to read it.

[parfaitblogs]

persimmon ❀ s. reid x reader

in which you wake up to your first morning on your honeymoon. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: smut (18+ mdni) tags: oral (f receiving). praise. he loves you you love him!!! newlyweds. word count: 1.2k a/n: couldn't tell you where the fuck this came from tbh. very short + very simple little thing i wrote instead of doing assignments after seeing a tweet about persimmons :)

You were beautiful. Maddeningly. Iridescent, as sunlight reflects off your skin and golds the room in which you lay with him. Gentle breaths that lift and deflate your chest evenly, bringing you closer to him, ripping you away soon after. He ached to hold you closer. To the point of your chest never cutting contact with his own. He knew better; knew to let you sleep.

The things he feels for you seem too demanding for a human being. Too overwhelming. How can one man hold so much adoration for another person? His heart was always so full when he woke up like this; before you did.

Things were more beautiful today, though. The ring around your finger, for you had refused to take it off despite his efforts, sparkled amongst crinkled white sheets. Legs entangled with his own, skin resting against skin, warm enough to provide an enormous amount of comfort. 

Never one to curse unnecessarily, Spencer Reid was. Yet, all his thoughts were consumed with, fuck you were beautiful. 

It seemed too inconsequential of a word to describe you. Every word did. A thousand adjectives and he would still believe he's not loving you as much as you deserve. 

You stir, and his entire bloodstream burns. He couldn't count on his hands how many times he had watched you wake up in the morning, but this morning was so special, and before you had even fully fluttered your eyes open, he was kissing you. Gently, for he wanted to take his time with you. 

You're smiling. He can feel your lips stretch against his, and he's proud to have enough self restraint to pull away from you so he could see it. He's sure the sun could develop a rivalry with you when you were this happy. 

"Good morning," you murmur, a little breathless from the half asleep kiss you were still trying to recover from, "husband."

He relishes in the way the word leaves your lips, and it takes a considerable amount of strength to not kiss you once more. Though, he wants to. Desperately. 

Then again, he wishes to do a lot of things this morning. So many different activities he yearns for (many of them not very appropriate, if he's honest), and he is quite content to cancel the schedule you had developed for today to complete them. 

He knows better than to do that unprompted. So, he asks, "How much time in bed do we have?"

Perhaps it was the way he looks at you while he's above you, hair falling down and gently tickling your face from how close he was. Perhaps it was your own personal desires seeping into your strong willed mind. Whatever it was, you were probably on the same wavelength as him, and you were discarding whatever else you wanted to do that day. 

"As much as we want," you reply, and it's a shit-eating grin on his face that promises you a good morning. 

"Thank God."

Never one to be religious, you know he's wanton if he's thanking a figure he doesn't believe in. You bite down a remark about it. 

Amongst all the doctorates he had attached to his name, you were sure worshipping your body had to be one of them. For the way he kisses down your body is practised, and it is a trail of flames he leaves on your skin. Benign kisses on every patch of skin he can find, paying extra attention to the pulse point on your neck that drags whimpers from your lips. 

Fingers find your thighs to push them apart, hands sliding up and down the skin and encouraging goosebumps to lift. He is breathless as he laughs at you, but then he is pressing kisses into your hip bones, and you truly forget how to argue with him. 

"I love you," he says, lifting his gaze up to you, breath warm against your skin, all whilst his head lowers further down your body. He presses a kiss to each thigh, repeating the adoring phrase in between. 

Wasting no time to put his lips on you, he's teasing with his tongue licking a stripe up the centre of your folds, before he's attaching them to your clit. 

He probably mumbles something about how good you taste, as he usually does, but you're too overwhelmed already to actually register the words. For you had been inside the cabin David Rossi had gotten the two of you less than twelve hours, and he had drawn four orgasms from you already. Something about spending your honeymoon loving you in every way he can. 

You're writhing beneath him already, and he's sure if he focusses any more on that, he'd lose his mind. His tongue flicking over your clit elicits more moans from you, and the broken sound of your voice. 

"Spenc—er—oh," your head digs into the pillow beneath it, back arching. "Please."

Usually, he would force your hips back to the mattress, and he would concern himself with keeping you still. Then again, usually, you aren't this sensitive. He lets you lift yourself off the mattress, though he moves with you, and you're provided no respite from his mouth.

He's never once eaten you out with this much tranquility; he likes to devour you like you are his first meal in months. But today, he is taking his time, and he is dragging out every quiet moan and cry from your throat that he possibly can. 

Persimmons can sometimes be so incredibly tender they split themselves open. The osmotic pressure that is built up by the sugar tends to cause the skin to burst. When he touches you like this, you consider whether or not you are but a tender persimmon, splitting under the duress of how good he feels. 

"My beautiful girl," he breathes out against you, and God if you believe nothing else in this world, let it be how much this man loves you. 

His hand reaches up to find your left hand, interlacing your fingers with his own and bringing them both down to your stomach, where he finally pushes you back down onto the mattress. 

You are too tired to even warn him, but your moaning becomes incessant, and your fingers are digging into the knuckles of his hand within your own. You're sure you don't need to say anything.

He coaxes you through your orgasm, obscene praise leaving his lips every chance he gets, his eyes so fixated on your face you can feel it, even through your now closed eyelids. 

He's pulling away and kissing his way back up your body, each kiss more drawn out than the last, until he's got his lips back on your own, and he's swallowing the gentle moan that leaves your lips. 

"I love you," you finally murmur, and he pulls back to bury his face into the crook of your neck, kissing the skin there so delicately you wonder if you could fall apart all over again, for an entirely different reason. 

"I love you," he punctuates his words with his hand squeezing your own, which he still had interlaced with his. 

"Can I cut our bed time short for a shower?" you ask him, quietly. 

"Mm," he considers it, or pretends to, hair tickling your jawline. "No, I'm not done with you here yet."

"You're insatiable."

You squirm when he nips at your neck. "You married me."

He pulls back to look at you, eyes sparkling, and you breathe out a quiet huff of amused laughter. 

"Yeah, I did."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[ssa-dado]

Burgandy Swim Cap

triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: meet-a-cute but you're mainly just ogling at Hotch as he swims in a speedo. Summary: You know those encounters that last, like, five seconds where literally nothing happens but still manage to blossom into a full-blown crush? Yeah. That. Partly because you're chronically single. Partly because you’re starved for attention. Mostly because you saw him in a speedo. A tight speedo. A tight, half-metallic speedo. A tight, half-metallic, very low-waisted speedo. So really, it’s not a crush, it’s cause and effect. Also… he’s a dad. Too. Warnings: objectification of the Hotchner body (called out twice for not having an ass, affectionately), implied age gap, sexual jokes and cuss words Word Count: 4.7k Dado's Corner: I genuinely don’t know how to tag the reader... but she’s giving me fleabag energy… so, uhmmm, let’s roll with that. Huge thanks and smooches to @hotchology for developing and proofreading the snippets I dropped in your dms at 11 pm unprompted 🧎‍♀️

masterlist(s)

It’s not your fault you’re staring out the cafeteria window that just so happens to overlook the pool. You’re literally facing it. What else are you supposed to do - dislocate your neck inhumanly to look the other way?

That window was meant for people-watching.

Specifically, for anxious parents to spy on their kids mid-paddle without interrupting the lesson every time little Aiden coughs. It’s not your fault you’re childless and currently repurposing the feature to ogle burgundy-swim-cap guy in lane four.

You’re just… respecting the building’s original design intent.

You needed the distraction. Desperately.

Because beside you, your friend is once again delivering the extended director’s cut of that five-minute interaction with the guy she’s allegedly, absolutely, 100% over.

The conversation happened three months ago.

You know this.

Because she has broken it down line by line for three months.

Every pause. Every blink.

So maybe you are a bad friend. Possibly a terrible person. Because while she unpacks every microscopic detail of his “Oh, I’m sorry I stepped on your toe”, you’re mentally calculating burgundy-swim-cap guy’s exact height.

From twelve feet up. Through water. And glass.

And okay… maybe it’s not just the height.

Maybe it’s also the length of his... arms.

Arms.

His arms.

Long, sinuous things slicing through the water like art. Like poetry. Like that one ballet you pretended to enjoy but secretly napped through.

This is different. This is science. You’re just appreciating form. Physics. Hydrodynamics, anatomy, geometry… all the -ometrics.

You’re not objectifying. You’re observing. A selfless academic pursuit, really.

Especially when he glides under one, two, three lane dividers in a single breath, back muscles shifting and flexing with each kick.

And God… his back. You can’t stop staring at it.

Wide. Solid. Disproportionately large, especially considering the man has absolutely zero ass. None. Negative ass. Just ten uninterrupted feet of legs. Stunning.

But it’s the manners that do it.

Because the moment he reaches the ladder and sees the lady from lane one headed there too?

He pauses. Actually waits. Even though he got there first. Doesn’t try to squeeze past her or pretend he didn’t see - no, he stops.

Gives her space. Gestures her to go. Looks away, even.

Eyes politely drifting up the tiled wall, to the stands below you where the suburban invasion of moms has taken hold, to the bright flags swaying just behind the cafeteria window -

Until he lifts his head a little too high.

Fuck… did he just catch you mid-stare? You can’t tell. The goggles - those hideous, mirrored cheap goggles - reflect everything and nothing at once.

Maybe he sees you.

Maybe he doesn’t.

Maybe your face is just a blurry little ghost in his periphery.

Either way, your entire body goes hot and rigid. You peel your eyes away - casually, discreetly, nod to your friend to pretend you’re still listening to her - but not entirely.

You still watch. You have to.

Because he’s about to rise from the pool. And you need to see it.

For research purposes.

For the sacred cause of scientific accuracy. You have to confirm if your earlier measurements were correct the moment he steps out of the water.

They weren’t.

Because he’s bigger. So much bigger.

You can’t tell exactly by how much, though, because the moment his biceps flex - thick and veiny - as he hauls himself up the ladder, your brain just… packs its bags and leaves.

Bye.

All higher function is instantly rerouted to the way the water clings to him - refuses to let go, even gravity is struggling to move on.

(Honestly? Fair. You wouldn’t want to let go either… you’re actually kind of jealous.)

Jealous of how those droplets trace his body - how most of them drip obediently, following the grooves of his muscles, but some linger. They pool in the thick mat of dark curls across his chest, clinging for dear life.

And why wouldn’t they? He’s covered in them.

A slick, glistening mess of wet hair clings to his pecs - dark curls matted down and glinting under the pool lights, looking so soft and stupidly biteable you could probably get arrested just for thinking about it.

Then the curls start to gather. Real organized.

Forming this tidy relatively thin line that runs straight down the center of his chest, gliding over the elegant suggestion of abs - not shredded, but sculpted. Classy, if that’s even possible.

The line of hair dips past his belly button and practically screams into your long-gone neural functions: lick here.

(And you would. With honor. For science. For the flag.)

Because then the trail spreads at his waistband, curling out along his obliques, a pair of sirens luring you to the main event: his very, very low-waisted speedo.

Duo-chrome. Black and something... metallic. Wicked.

The black half pretends to behave.

It lies to your face, “Look at me, look at me,” it says. “I’m discreet. I’m functional. I’m keeping things tasteful.”

But it’s a filthy little traitor. Because right next to it, the metallic side is doing everything but staying subtle. It wasn’t camouflaging a damn thing.

Topography: fully visible. The contour. The definition. The godforsaken outline.

Traceable. With a pencil.

Or your tongue.

Preferably your tongue.

Preferably slow. Possibly kneeling. Definitely grateful.

Because whatever anatomical miracle is happening beneath that lycra – truly might be the eighth wonder of the world built between two hipbones.

These are sickeningly good dick proportions.

Burgandy Swim Cap guy peels off the ugly goggles.

Be fucking damned. That is a hell of a face.

The suction rings frame his eyes - tender little indents where he clearly strapped those goggles too tight.

He’s a try-hard.

A confirmed overachiever - you can tell. It’s in the way he did those laps earlier - efficient, ruthless, mechanical - and in the speed too. Like every stroke was on a timer. Like there was something at stake.

Is burgundy-swim-cap guy training for something?

Maybe he’s a professional swimmer.

Maybe he’s training for a triathlon. The 2012 Olympics in London. A shot at some world record no one else cares about.

Maybe he’s an eldest son.

Maybe he’s got a dad who never said “I’m proud of you” without a follow-up critique.

Maybe he’s still trying to earn praise that never came.

Maybe it’s daddy issues - maybe it’s mommy issues. Issues… in general.

Maybe he’s spent his whole life needing to be exceptional just to feel enough.

Maybe he’s been through a heartbreak. A divorce. A loss.

Maybe he just has a lot of feelings and refuses to talk about any of them unless he’s actively swimming them to death.

Or maybe he’s just that guy - the kind who doesn’t do anything unless he can do it at 120%, even when no one’s watching. Especially when no one’s watching.

Maybe he holds himself to impossible standards because he doesn’t know how not to. Who swims like this because it’s the one place he can fail in private.

Who knows. Who cares.

He’s just a guy.

A man.

A stranger you’ve never even spoken to.

You don’t know his name, his voice, anything.

And yet, there’s something about him.

Something in the slope of his nose, in the way his flushed cheeks are still chasing the rhythm of his pulse, in the rise and fall of his chest. It’s not bodybuilder-big, not exaggerated - but it feels massive.

Maybe it’s just because it’s him.

Because every breath he takes stretches that hairy chest just a little wider, a little broader, until the space around you feels like it’s shrinking, like there’s not enough air left in the room that isn’t his.

You’re fine. You are totally fine.

You’re also clenching your thighs for absolutely no reason. None.

Until - he removes the burgundy swim cap.

Now you do have a reason.

Because beneath it is this obscene head of raven-black hair.

Thick. Damp. Unruly.

Some of it’s clinging to his forehead, but the rest is sticking out in a thousand different directions like it doesn’t give a single shit about streamlining or aerodynamics.

He looks deliciously messy.

But he doesn’t let it stay.

No, he runs his hand through it almost immediately, slicking it back, a man who cannot stand the chaos of hair across his eyes, he can’t stand being out of place.

Control freak. Freak in general.

That tracks.

Still hot.

Hotter.

And still, he doesn’t play to the crowd.

He could - he should - scan the room, make eye contact, maybe throw in a wink or a casual flex. He could at least give a nod to the fact that half the people on this side of the glass are currently 1,461 words deep into mentally drafting smutty fiction with him as the main character.

But no.

He just looks down, slides into his pathetic little (from where you’re standing… sitting.) pool slippers, and rushes toward the changing rooms like he’s late to something.

A loser. An absolute loser.

It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

You’re completely captivated - so much so that, when your friend finally finishes her emotional postmortem and disappears down the corridor toward the pool, you subtly change seats to get a better view of the hallway.

A strategic move, just in case burgundy-swim-cap guy decides he’s earned a post-swim coffee after all that aquatic foreplay you projected onto him from the safety of your horny little imagination.

Well. You’re getting coffee, at least. You deserve a reward. A hot, mildly burnt one.

You’ve been through a lot.

Except it’s possibly the worst line you’ve ever stood in because you had the genius idea to go for caffeine at the exact same time the children’s swim class ended.

Now you’re trapped - shoulder to shoulder with a damp, shrieking mob of underdeveloped humans all demanding hot dogs, pizza, cheeseburgers, and, from the look in one child’s eyes, possibly the cashier’s soul.

You’ve entered a purgatory of sticky fingers and pure indecision, where time slows and the line somehow clogs even more with every passing second.

It’s not their fault - children are absolute demons in Crocs. They don’t know what they want. They pause. They backtrack.

One child is negotiating for “just the cheese from the cheeseburger, but on a hot dog bun,” and you are watching, in real time, the unraveling of Western civilization.

…You hate that you respect the innovation.

It’s fine. You’re fine.

You just really, really don’t want to miss Burgundy Swim Cap Guy if he happens to pass by - maybe in jeans, maybe (if there’s any justice left in the universe) grey sweatpants, or a hoodie two sizes too big.

Something casual. Unassuming.

Something that dares to cover everything you now know is under there - and somehow makes it worse.

Something that’s the reason your mouth is dry and you’re stuck in this line, mentally begging for something warm to wrap your lips around and feel vaguely hydrated again.

You’re trying to be patient. You’re trying not to hate the one kid crying because his juice is too red and his dad fumbling with his wallet.

You’re a monster. The worst kind of person.

These kids are innocent.

They’re not responsible for the slow-burn, will-they-won’t-they fantasy you’ve constructed entirely in your touch-starved brain - just to distract yourself from the fact that you haven’t been held in actual, human arms in months, your last situationship ended because they “forgot they weren’t single,” the closest thing you’ve had to intimacy this year was a barista remembering your name – once - and, okay, technically there was also that one time a man with a van asked if you “liked adventure,” but you don’t count that unless you're feeling especially pathe-

“That’ll be $2.50,” says the cashier.

Snaps you instantly back to the cruel reality where the only thing you're taking home tonight is a stupid plastic bracelet that’s already cutting into your wrist and the lingering scent of disinfectant.

(Good luck taking that away.)

You hand him a twenty.

He looks at you, deadpan, like he’s about to ask if your sad little wallet also holds the answer to the mental math problem he just did in half a second - the kind of calculation only a man with a degree in math or engineering could do, now tragically stuck working in a depressing public pool cafeteria.

Not even a cool street café. No latte art. No jazz music. Just chlorine and despair.

You give him a sheepish half-smile.

The twenty is all you had.

Okay - technically you had 50 cents too.

Maybe.

In loose change that’s probably fused with gum wrappers and lint at the bottom of your bag but explaining that feels like a one-way ticket to having a burnt cappuccino tossed in your face.

It’s 2011. Surely cafeterias still carry change.

…Apparently not.

“Card?” he asks.

You have exactly $1.78 on your card. You know this because you checked this morning, like the responsible adult you pretend to be.

This is bad.

This is humiliating.

This is the exact kind of character-building moment that turns into a core memory your brain will randomly replay at 3 a.m. for the next seven years.

The kids behind you are screaming. (Except one. One child is calmly and confidently negotiating a pizza-inside-a-burger situation with his father, who looks like he lost custody in the divorce and also in this conversation.)

And then there are the dads, too. You can feel them. Judging you.

You don’t even need to turn around.

Which is a shame, really. Because you love dads. You’re hopelessly, helplessly, filthily attracted to dads.

Hot dads? Daddy dads? Men with crow’s feet and deep voices who say things like “I’ll take care of it” and mean it? Slightly emotionally unavailable men with strong forearms, guilt complexes, and unresolved trauma they process exclusively through precision lawn edging and Sunday barbecue duty?

Inject that straight into your bloodstream.

You want them tired. You want them emotionally repressed. You want them to carry patio furniture like it weighs nothing and grunt when they sit down. You want to be a problem.

But these dads?

Their suburban dad disapproval is so potent it might as well be playing on loop over the intercom right between announcements for lost goggles and swim meet fundraisers.

These dads would ask about your five-year plan, nod thoughtfully, then ghost you via a LinkedIn message.

These dads are not for you.

These dads can go.

And so you panic. Sweat. Freeze. Until-

A hand.

A large hand.

Chubby-fingered, hairy, left-handed and wrapped in the crisp white cuff of a very expensive white shirt, peeking out from an even more expensive black suit jacket.

There’s a Rolex on his wrist. A real one.

That same hand, gentle and unbothered, slides a credit card (which looks comically small in those thick fingers, by the way) right into the reader, where $2.50 is already floating on the screen.

“I got it,” says a voice.

Oh.

Oh no.

It’s deep. Unreasonably deep. The kind of voice that should be illegal before noon.

And soft, too, absurdly soft for how deep it is because the vibrations travel straight from your ear to your… there. There, there.

You turn. Slowly.

And there he is.

A man.

(Surprise!)

Not just a man – a Man. Capital M, bolded, underlined, possibly trademarked if your bank account could handle the licensing fee.

He’s in a suit. In a full suit. Black jacket. White shirt. Burgundy tie.

You blink… wait is that- no way.

It’s him.

It’s Burgundy Swim Cap Guy.

Now in Burgundy Tie.

He matched.

Goddamn it. What a loser. What a hot, meticulous loser.

Oh, Burgundy Swim Cap man.

Yeah, let’s get that correction in there. Man.

Because up close, in proper daylight and expensive tailoring, he’s clearly way older than he looked in the pool. Deliciously older kind of old.

… And here you thought he was your age. (You were wrong. Again.)

All the better.

You barely recognize him in this polished version of himself - drenched in a cologne that costs more than your monthly grocery budget and somehow isn’t obnoxious.

It’s that expensive.

It’s not that aquatic bullshit guys in finance wear.

No. It’s warm. Inviting. Woodsy. A little smoky.

Expensive in the way that makes you want to bury your face in his neck and inhale until you black out while pretending you weren’t about to fall in love over his clavicle. (Yeah… too specific?)

And beneath it - just a trace - chlorine.

God help you.

You’re going to die here.

He even has a cowlick. A perfectly smoothed cowlick.

The kind that clearly took time, effort, wrist action, and probably a round brush.

He blow-dries.

He has a routine. A regimen. He has systems.

He’s probably terrifying in the morning. The kind of man who folds things. The kind who knows where his passport is right now.

Now, now.

But now he’s looking at you, brows thick, slightly furrowed.

Do you have something on your face? No. Can’t be.

No, you’ve just been staring at him like a feral raccoon. You still haven’t spoken.

…right.

“…Thank you,” you manage, barely audible - just as his phone starts ringing in his jacket pocket.

Drowned out by technology. Your gratitude swallowed by a default ringtone, who would have ever guessed.

He pulls the phone out, and just before he lifts it to his ear, you catch something - someone’s voice on the other end. A name? His? Yes they’re calling him it must’ve been his. Something clipped, ending in -chh or -shhh.

Josh?

Oh. Huh.

…Kind of disappointing.

You thought his name would be more... posh. Like something that comes with personalized cufflinks and generational trauma

….but Josh? That’s a guy who texts “you up?” at 11:48 PM from his blackberry pearl.

You hoped for more… syllables.

Whatever. What really surprises you is that Burgundy Swim Cap Man-slash-Josh-slash-Posh doesn’t say a word during the call. Not one.

He just holds the phone to his ear and stares - intensely - at a spot inside the glass food display. Not blinking. Not moving.

You’re genuinely concerned for the sandwich he’s glaring at. (It’s about five seconds away from bursting into flames.)

And you - you ache for that stare.

You want it on you. Burn it into your skin. You’d commit actual, punishable crimes for that kind of violent visual attention.

“Garcia, send me the files. We’ll brief the team as soon as I arrive,” he says - voice all business, clipped, calm, so authoritative it almost makes you bite your lip on reflex.

Then the phone disappears back into his pocket like it’s never existed, and without missing a beat: “An Americano, please.”

…Why doesn’t this surprise you? Could he be any more predictably boring? Go on, order a plain bagel and a side of unseasoned guilt while you’re at it.

But his eyes flick to the pastry shelf instead.

Brows furrow, slightly, sexily, offensively; he’s clearly doing some kind of emotional calculus about whether his swim earned him the moral right to a treat.

(He probably didn’t get many growing up.)

“And, uh… can I get the rainbow muffin to go?” he says, pointing with his chubby index finger toward the kids' menu.

You follow it (like an idiot).

And there it is. The muffin. Rainbow-sprinkled. Rainbow dough. Probably tastes like chemical vanilla. Pastel wrapper. Comes with a bubble blower, too.

A muffin. With a toy.

…This man.

You hate him. You want him. You’d marry him on sight.

He picks up the phone again. Dials. Calm. Efficient.

“Hey, can you pass me to Jack?” he says.

The frown - just a flicker ago, all sharp lines and no-nonsense jaw - melts. His face softens like he’s been flipped to a different setting and you actually flinch a little because how is that the same face?

“Hey, buddy.”

Oh. God, his voice. It goes soft. Stupidly soft.

“I’ve gotta be at work a little earlier today,” he murmurs, gently gripping the phone. “But I got you something… did you finish your homework?”

May you be absolutely, irreparably damned.

He’s a dad.

“Good job, buddy. I’m coming home soon, okay? Got you a surprise,” He glances down at the rainbow muffin. A little fond. A little sad, even. “Yes, you can do movie night with Aunt Jessica if I don’t manage to be there tonight…”

You wander how many other movie nights he missed.

“Yes, buddy,” he chuckles (you want to bite through drywall), “No, I didn’t forget the popcorn this time. You can have them with Aunt Jessica, she knows where they are… Yes, with salted caramel too. But don’t eat too much, alright?”

He pauses. Adds, with a soft little dad scold, “Make Aunt Jessica have some too this time. Save a few for Daddy, okay?”

Daddy.

Your knees give out.

No, not literally. You keep standing. But spiritually? Morally? Muscularly? You’ve dropped to the floor.

And then, casually, cruelly, he reaches for his coffee. With his ringless - yes, ringless - hand.

Not that you’re thinking about it. Not that you noticed. Not that you checked. Twice.

“Alright, buddy, I gotta go,” he says. His voice lowers again, not serious, just softer. Like he doesn’t want to hang up but he’s used to having to. “I’ll see you tonight. Be good, okay?” And then he smiles. To his phone. Like his whole face is a love letter.

Dimples. Of course. Of course this man has dimples. A loser dad with dimples.

“Love you too, bud”

And that’s it.

Phone call over.

You should walk away. You want to walk away.

But now you’re locked in that awkward limbo of mutual acknowledgment - the cursed micro-social contract that binds all humans in public spaces: you made eye contact, you must now exchange a minimum of one sentence to confirm shared reality.

He turns to you.

You are sweating. You are visibly short-circuiting.

No one is saying anything.

Fuck.

You shouldn’t have listened to his very personal call to his very personal son.

You shouldn’t have looked.

You shouldn’t have stared so hard you could recite the ingredients list on that muffin.

Fuck.

His shoulders look even broader in the suit.

Not just handsome - no, broad. Imposing.

Too bad the slacks are hiding his massi-

“The bubble blower’s for my kid,” he says, suddenly.

A preemptive strike. A full-grown man in what has to be his mid-40s, clarifying that he is not, in fact, personally invested in aquatic toy acquisition.

Funny, though - he didn’t feel the need to defend the rainbow pastry.

Interesting.

Bad for him.

“The muffin’s for the dad instead?” You nod toward the sad pastel pile in his hand.

(You’re a bit of a mean flirt - not because you’re heartless, but because it’s the only way you know how to hold on to a little power when someone makes your brain turn to mush.)

If you can’t stop yourself from falling for them, at least you can make sure they’re a little off-balance, too.

“If the dad’s lucky, he’ll probably get just a bite,” he replies, deadpan - like, completely expressionless except for the slight raise of his eyebrows at the end. You don’t even know where the voice came from. His mouth barely moved.

…Ventriloquism, probably.

Then he glances down at the linoleum floor. Smiles, almost shy.

“My son has a sweet tooth.”

Fucking hell.

This man is gushing about his kid to a total stranger in a pool cafeteria. No hesitation. No shame.

You are two seconds away from him flipping open his photo gallery and showing you twenty-five nearly identical pictures of a child covered in chocolate frosting, all while holding the phone in those massive hands.

God, his hands.

You really need to stop noticing them.

“Get a muffin for yourself too,” you say, tossing it out like a joke. Half-meaning it. Mostly-meaning it.

He chuckles, raises a hand, shaking his head. “Oh no…”

“Scared of food coloring?”

“No, no,” he laughs again. “Just…” He shrugs. Doesn’t finish. Leaves it there, hanging.

Is it because he doesn’t think he deserves a little treat?

Or because he’s afraid of getting that crisp, probably dry-clean-only shirt stained with rainbow frosting?

“How much is one rainbow muffin?” you ask the cashier.

(You two are best friends in your head now.)

He barely looks up. Dead inside. “One seventy.”

(This friendship might be one-sided.)

You blink.

$1.70 for frozen dough and a toy that doubles as a choking hazard… meanwhile, your cappuccino cost more than a gallon of gas.

Fucked up economy for real.

Then you glance at the cashier’s hands… he’s already typing it in.

Okay. Take it back.

That’s the real sign of late-stage capitalism: rainbow muffin doesn’t even require your consent to be rung up… but hey, at least you can afford it.

You’ve never been happier to be $1.70 poorer in your entire adult life.

You pull out your card.

He notices.

He pulls his, too.

Two cards. One slit. (Now this reminds you of your browser history from last night-)

“No, please, I got it,” he says - again.

Oh no, a damsel mustn’t pay for herself. (You hate him. You want to climb him like a tree.)

Watch her do it anyway. With confidence and $1.78 in her account.

You both arrive at the card reader at the exact same time.

Hands bump. Wrists brush. The tension is… stupid.

It’s awkward. It’s ridiculous. It’s… romantic?

Maybe.

Or maybe you’re just touch-starved.

Still-

You win.

Swipe clean. Transaction approved.

Victory, feminism, and low blood sugar all in one swipe.

“Enjoy the bubbles,” you say, smiling as you hand him the pastry and the overpriced soapy water.

He takes it, eyes flicking between you and the muffin, and for a second he gives you that look.

That slightly tired, slightly amused look men give right before they tell you you’ve done something reckless. Or charming. Or both.

He looks like he’s about to scold you. Fatherly. Disgustingly (hot).

He doesn’t.

“Sure,” he says, deadpan. “I’ll cherish them.” (Who even uses ‘cherish’ in the 21st century?!) And then, at the very end of it, a smile. Small. Real.

He opens his mouth again, “I-”

A breath.

“I have to go.”

One last smile. Quick. Tight.

And he’s already turning. Already halfway to the exit.

You stare.

Helpless.

Unwell.

For a second, you hope this modern-day Cinderella in a suit might drop one of his wildly expensive Italian leather dress shoes so you’ll have something to hunt him down with across D.C.

Track him by scent and shoe size.

But no. The shoe stays on.

He probably triple-knots them like the terrifying overachiever he is.

He does stop, though - just for a second - to check the time on his very expensive Rolex.

Hot. Unforgivably hot.

This brief, chaotic muffin-flavored detour has probably set him back exactly one minute and twenty-one seconds, and you know he’s internally recalculating his entire schedule down to the microsecond.

And yes, the panic is subtle. But it’s there.

In the clench of his jaw. The twitch of his temple. That microscopic furrow in his brow that says: How dare I entertain myself with flirtatious nonsense when I have 7,000 emails to check by 5 P.M.

Incredible. You’ve rattled a man with a watch that costs more than your rent. You’ve won.

You are going to be insufferable about this when your friend finishes her class.

Forget “stepped on your toe” guy. That man is dead to the narrative.

This dad is going to be the main character of every single conversation you have for the next four months.

You will tell her everything. Every glance. Every gesture. The muffin. The bubble blower. The nonexistent ass. From the moment you first locked eyes with this burgundy-swim-cap man named-

“…Aaron,” the cashier mutters.

You blink. “What?”

“That’s his name,” he says flatly. “Aaron. He comes here a lot.”

The cashier really doesn’t get paid enough for this.

Aaron.

Wow.

Two syllables.

“FBI,” he even adds casually, like it’s no big deal, as he hands a slice of pizza tucked inside a cheeseburger to a damp-haired five-year-old.

So.

Aaron owns a pair of handcuffs.

Government-issued. Handcuffs.

That tracks.

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[verekatt]

Don't Go To Amity Park

Amity Park changes people.

At first, no one notices. The residents are all changing at the same time, and so new social customs and more violent greetings aren't seen as odd. Their senses changing and expanding is easily dismissed too. After all, if grandma can hear what's happening a city block away, maybe that's just normal. Humans can hear that far, right? Everyone you know can, anyway. And the reflective, feline eyes, sharper teeth, pointed ears - that's all normal, right? Kids compare with their friends, and yeah, everyone looks like that. Everyone's normal, everything's fine.

The visitors and outsiders notice though. Anyone from Amity Park looks unnatural, predatory, like a wolf trying to blend in with sheep. They move too quietly, they see too much, and something about them is just inherently terrifying. Casper High's football team starts winning more through pure, unintentional intimidation (with a side of unnatural strength and durability). Their debate team has the same effect - no one wants to argue with someone who looks like they could and would rip your throat out with their bare hands. Amity-based businesses start thriving as their competitors fold in meetings. Eventually, the wider world decides to just avoid the town and anyone from it. The GIW, however, moves in to study it.

The drifters, the people from surrounding cities who work in Amity or go to school there, they change too. It's slower than the residents, but their access to an outside perspective means they notice it more, so they can't deny the changes like the Amity Parkers can. Their bodies are changing, their minds are changing, and some think to follow the rest of the world in avoiding Amity.

They can't, though. They're always drawn back. Whether it's by choice or impulse or drunken walks that somehow end in the woods on the edge of town, everyone who's been changed by Amity Park will end up back there eventually.

And the change happens faster and faster. At first it took weeks or months in town to see or feel any effects, but after a year or two, even a couple of days in town was enough to change you. To see your face in the hotel mirror at night, and not recognise yourself when you look the next morning.

The Amity Parkers take a long time to notice it, but when kids start developing real powers, it's undeniable. The goth can grow a whole garden in minutes, the cheerleader can breathe fire, and the basketball player will tell you your deepest, darkest secrets unprompted. It's not just the high schoolers either. Toddlers are floating out of their beds like something from the Exorcist, and old folks are outpacing Olympic sprinters. Most people hide their powers when the GIW comes around, but the unlucky few caught unaware disappear overnight. Some return, with haunted eyes and new scars and whispered gratitude for Phantom, but not all of them. The Amity Parkers learn to shut up and work together to try and keep each other safe. They learn to cultivate and train their abilities in secret, ready and waiting for the time to fight back.

The borders of town become dangerous - the GIW has learnt to camp along roads and capture the drifters who wander in. Phantom patrols just outside the GIW's range, intercepting people before the GIW can. The changed ones are smuggled to safehouses and families with free couches, warned and trained and supported by the community. The random travellers are redirected or scared off, left with nothing worse than a ghost story. There aren't tourists or amateur ghost hunters anymore, the outside world knows to stay away or risk disappearing into Amity Park.

This could continue in a few directions - my first thought was a DC crossover with a junior team like Young Justice or the Titans. They hear about the ghost town and decide to investigate, and meet Phantom as they're walking through the woods. He warns them that if they go any further, they will be permanently changed and won't be able to leave. They dismiss his warnings, and enter the town anyway.

Full psychological horror as they observe the eldritch nightmare of a town and learn about the GIW, only to go to sleep at night and wake up Different. They freak out, and their host explains the rules and customs of town, basically saying "We told you so, you're one of us now, get used to it".

After freaking out, they run to tell the Justice League about what happened (and to prove to themselves that they can leave). As they give the JL their inadequate information (because they ran before finishing the investigation) and get scolded/medically examined, they realise they're itching to go back to Amity. Undeniable, like a magnet pulling them in, or like sharks following the scent of blood. They realise they won't be able to resist the pull forever. Cue another team panic attack.

The JL investigates remotely, buys protective equipment from the GIW/Fentons, and plan their strategy. While they're distracted, the young heroes find themselves drawn back to Amity, regardless of their dread. They learn more about what they are now, coming to an uneasy acceptance of it. They join the Amity Parkers in planning their revolution against the GIW. By the time the JL finally shows up, Amity Park is a warzone, with their kids on the front lines with glowing eyes and bared fangs.

Amity Park is freed, but at the cost of their kids' humanity, and now the kids can never truly leave. Sure, they can stay away for a few weeks or even months, but eventually they'll end up back in Amity Park, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. The world notices how different these young heroes look, how terrifying and violent they've become, how they all go missing regularly. What was once quiet whispers in the towns around Amity becomes loud, international news.

Don't go to Amity Park, or you'll never come back.

[sulfies]

I do think Altair, Ezio and Connor would be mortified by the concept of Animus but At first they would probobly think that its funny, like Ezio would be going "so you just lie down, watch us go about and wake up with our skills?.... Thats cheating!!!" Altair would be prob a bit salty. Connor would wish he had that of an easy time training.

Then they learn its not like "lying down and resting while animus does the work" at all;

Desmond wakes w muscle spasms and phantom pains from injuries he never got. He has chronic insomnia because his sense of time has been blinded so much he is basically jetlagged 24/7. He doesnt remember how long a day is supossed to go, how slow a month passes, how decades indeed take decades. He has backpain from lying down all day without being able to move, then his muscles protest when he has to move out of animus because thats the only time he used them. He forgets to eat, sit, drink, shower till someone tells him because he didnt have to in animus. He is shocked when people speak to him unprompted because there was always a reason for someone to talk to him first in animus.

Then they learn about his bleeds, how he became a puzzle of their skillset but also their minds. How he forgets his likes and dislikes because he has been others daily, longer than he has been himself in a while. He forgets where he is, if he is supossed to be there, if what he is seeing is supossed to be there. He forgets his name sometimes, replies to anything but his own even if the person is in the room as well. How he freaks out when he sees his reflection sometimes, remembering it as a strangers face. How he sees and talks to things that arent there but maybe was or will be.

They learn he isnt even himself sometimes, cant remember how to be. He doesnt know if he is mad at someone because he doesnt like them or if its Others feelings bleeding. They learn some of his own memories been forever replaced by their own and he doesnt even realize he never met that person only Connor has met before. He cant remember the day his mom got him his 5th birthday gift but Ezio's 5th birthday and his new gift of a carved horse figure is fresh in his mind. He doesnt remember his girlfriend from when he was 19 but he remembers Altaïr's one crush that lasted a week. He cant remember if he ever tried a dish but knows if one of them would like it based on the ingridients. He cant remember faces of his classmates at the farm but knows the novices names by heart.

They learn while they might have sacrificed their bodies and years for their training Desmond has sacrificed his whole self for it.

And it doesnt seem like cheating anymore.

[meanbossart]

Astarion isn't smart like Gale but he is one of the most actually insightful companions. He does the most consideration of motive. He may not be able to put together a plan but all of your own plans will be better after taking what he has to observe into consideration.

I appreciate your characterization of Astarion. It always feels like the right ratios of still a bastard and discovering he has a heart. But that also sounds like DU Drow too lol.

I don't know why but you saying it doesn't matter to Astarion what you look like, he wants you, helped me to cement his affection towards my shorty Tav.

I agree. I think what compels me about Astarion's breed of smarts is that while he may not be bookish, extremely empathetic, or have some sort of special interest or penchant, he continually catches himself on his own and frequent mistakes and shows an understanding about people that reflects his age and experience. This is my favorite kind of "smarts", I guess.

When he fucks up, he owns up to it instead of doubling down, even if he's clearly displeased about it; when he has an outburst, he brings himself down with or without your help; when you, especially as a romanced companion, expresses distress, insecurity, or fear, he always responds with a disarming level of earnestness. He always acknowledges your feelings and does his best to be upfront about his own, often unprompted, and he does it calmly and with a surprising level of maturity that, once again, feels fitting to a man of his age. A worse writer would have made these displays feel completely jarring, but in his case they are subtle enough that it works. It of course helps that he is never forced through a hero's journey and remains rough around the edges; his development doesn't hinge on being a better person, it hinges on being a person at all, after all.

I've said it time and time again: Astarion is a nice to the date, rude to the waiter type of character. An asshole, but not an idiot - I think that, sometimes, people want to go with the Idiot perception because they don't want to acknowledge the Asshole - that's okay, but not the fun option for me, personally!

[jupiter-letters]

I can't stop thinking about Dad Jayce

(Modern-AU sort of)Jayce Talis x Fem!Reader TW: Pregnancy-mention

A/N: I've held this in for 4 days now I need to get it out. He'd be such a fantastic dad omfg, I'm giving him at least 10. This is gonna be kinda quick and not really proofread sorry y'all.) Divider Link

Jayce is already a pretty touchy guy while you're dating but imagine what a monster he turns into when you guys get married. He acts so sickly sweet with you every moment you're together. He likes to jokingly treat you like royalty, doing a slight bow when you enter a room.

The theatrics get worse when he finds out you're expecting, he won't you do anything till you tell him off. You get up in the morning? He's bringing you breakfast. You just wanna walk around the house, he'll carry you around instead. You're not moving around without him he just acts like a lunatic about it. This is your pregnancy it's OUR pregnancy. If you have nausea, it's OUR nausea. If you're feet hurt, OUR feet hurt, he stops what he's doing to rub your feet and ankles.

Now when the delivery date comes you're relatively calm about it but Jayce is actively losing his mind. Along the course of your pregnancy he has created a very detailed plan on how everything will go. In that moment thought he's floundering, he forgets all the steps and counter measures. He eventually abandons the plan and calls his mom to coach him through everything.

Once the hard part is over it's relatively smooth sailing from there. Jayce ends up completely whipped, regardless of the child's sex he's locked in. Whatever they want he'll get it for them. It makes him so emotional seeing them get older and they start looking more like you. Even though they are a new person he still loves them because they're a piece of you.

Jayce prefers the baby be in your shared bedroom just to keep a closer eye on them, 9/10 he's the one to put them back to sleep when they get fussy at night. During the day he'll always have them in his arms, talking to them about his job or some article he read the other day. He loves just talking to the baby, he likes the baby talk but seeing him have a full on conversation with the baby is hilarious.

He loves showing off the baby to his friends and literally anybody who gives him the time of day. He's got a bunch of pics of you and the baby in his wallet. Sometimes he'll just do it completely unprompted, "Viktor check out this new onesie I got for my son/daughter." He'll post pics in the groupchat with Caitlyn and Vi, he'll send them at least 5 every day.

The child does end up becoming a tiny bit spoiled, Jayce can be firm but the sight of one tear will make him fold. Over the years he gets better at it but when they hit him with the "I hate you daddy!" He gets so depressed he'll sit in his room like this:

Fortunately being the good parents you are, they don't get super bratty very often and are pretty chill. They inherited that go getter attitude from Jayce and it's interesting for him seeing that reflected back at him.

[maxlarens]

pairing(s): lando norris x driver!reader

okay haven't teased this anywhere but i needed a little warm up to get back into writing as i basically haven't written a full sentence in a week. it has felt like so much longer tbh😭 (hmm also this is a driver!reader AU? like rb driver!reader)

Lucky. Lucky.

You’re supposed to feel lucky that you’ve been accepted into this apparently exclusive boys club. That’s what people tell you (unprompted) at least. You’re supposed to be glad that Mad Max Verstappen has accepted you as one of his own. Hasn’t shunted you to the side in favour of a more experienced teammate.

You’re supposed to be glad that he’s also accepted you into his social circle. This place you were never supposed to be, that no one ever expected you to be.

And you are. You are.

Max is a good friend. Charles, Alex, George too. You’re a fairly fresh rookie, you’re a girl, and it’s nice to be accepted so readily into this space. It’s not all smooth sailing, but they’re kind, supportive, always ready to offer advice, for the most part.

It’s just—

well, Lando.

You’d not quite realised the depth of his friendship with Max. The amount of stuff he’d also be invited to. Nights out, dinners, Discord calls, late night iRacing sessions, pádel—

Always pádel,

and here’s the thing. You have to go.

It’s competitive, you’re keeping score. You’ve never ever been any good at backing down from a fight. It’s simply not an option to flake or give up entirely just because you hate Lando Norris’ guts. That would be showing weakness, that would basically be rolling over and showing your fucking belly.

You’re not weak. You’re not a coward.

So you’re here.

Knees bent, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. Padel racket discarded on the court next to you. Lando and his Max have won. You’re tired and you’re sweaty and you’re pissed. Honestly, you’d rather not have your Max as a teammate. He sucks. Plain and simple. He’s four lanky limbs bouncing around the court with utterly no coordination. He’s too focused on the ball, so much that he forgets about the walls and the net and you. You’d taken at least two tumbles after he’d knocked into you today. No harm no foul, but you’re too competitive to be happy with him currently.

If you had to pick anyone as a teammate it would honestly have to be

Lando.

You can see his sneakers, somehow McLaren branded, in your peripheral vision. You sigh, tip your head back to look up at him, trying to stymie the scowl on your lips.

“Good game,” he holds a hand out to help you up, a tight little smirk on his face because he knows how you feel about losing.

You roll your eyes, take the hand anyway. Not bothering to wipe your hand free of sweat and letting him heave as much of your weight as possible.

“Yeah,” you bite, “Might’ve won if playing with Verstappen wasn’t like dragging dead weight.”

He lets out a laugh, rare from him when he’s around you. Looks at you, almost through his dark eyelashes, green eyes bright, reflective in the light, like he’s—

You stifle that thought before it can bloom into anything that might get away from you.

His particularly long canine pokes out from his upper lip, you watch him suppress a smile. Think for a moment about how you might not mind if one of his smiles were directed at you. You bite down on your tongue, curl a hand into a fist, your fingernails digging into your palm.

“Y’know,” he says, shoulders rolling with a kind of nervous energy, his face betraying nothing of it, “I reckon we’d be a good team. Especially against the Maxes’. We’d thrash ‘em I bet.”

You raise an eyebrow, stare at him a little dumbfounded for a little too long. So long that he opens his mouth to backtrack, to make a snide remark, something.

You shake your head, shrug, “Yeah. I guess. Might work if we didn’t hate each other.”

“Dunno,” he answers, rubbing his chin, “Might work anyway. Wouldn’t hate you so much if you made me a winner.”

You feel like something sharp hits you in the chest, leaves you a little winded. You try to let it roll off your back, hum evenly in response, “Mm, touché, Norris.”

He sends you another smirk, a punchy thing that makes you feel like your insides are on fire. Leaves you burning.

short i know! but it was just a warm up😭 hope u guys enjoyed anyway, i’ll def write more of them one day!!! rivals to lovers is delish🥰 also ugh it felt so good to write something ive been missing it

[crazysodomite]

i never know how to phrase this right bc i dont want to seem like one of those people who thinks Sexuality Is Evil. i don't have any problem with sexuality at all. please dpnt assume😭

that being said, i feel like some people overcompensate for sexuality being shamed by making everything sexual... idk how to phrase it better to not sound weird like that but its like this: society says nudity is inherently sexual, and thus disgusting. and people overcompensate for it by going "yes, nudity is inherently sexual, but that's good, because it's Hot and Sexy" instead of just being "nudity isn't inherently sexual, its just neutral" and something being or not being sexual isn't a reflection on its moral quality. going to a sauna isn't inherently sexual, it can be, which doesn't make it good or bad, but it just a neutral action at the same level as being in a room of people who aren't naked in a sauna.

in the same fashion people think sexualizing someone = good and signals respect. i respect you as a person because i think you're Hot and i say sexual things about you uninvited because sexuality = good and finding someone sexy is respecting them and flattering to them.

in the same fashion people see art and say "this is obviously sexual, which is fine, because sexuality is good" while ignoring the author's intent/wishes. my drawing of a nude figure isn't inherently sexual, seeing it that way is fine, but i don't enjoy that interpretation pushed onto me.

i might get flak for this but i don't even think there are clearly defined borders of what is and isn't sexual and trying to define it isn't productive. something that is Inherently Sexual to you might not be sexual at all to another person. and seeing something and going: clearly the author intended this to be sexual because i see it that way 🧐isn't appreciated. im an adult and saying sexual things to me unprompted is still inappropriate, that's to say nothing of Not fucking checking age in bio before commenting on someone's post.....

sexuality isn't bad in any way but seeing certain things or displays of affection or nudity as inherently sexual presents A lot of Issues, even if you think sexuality is Good