#like most of the time it’s just like ‘the bag is purple’ translated back and forth like seventy times

[maybeimamuppet]

duolingo today being just weird enough to make me question my entire reality

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 SNEAKIN' A PIC (ATTEMPT: FAILED)!

FEATURING: fyodor dostoevsky

SUMMARY: you never get to see him like this. is it really so awful that you want to capture the moment eternally? evidently to him, it is. (wordcount: 1.4k; sfw; fem!reader)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: i'll never not make fun of that one panel of him sitting at his computers with his greasy ass hair even if he does look like a pretty princess in every other panel he has. my obsession with naps is being translated into my fics, i already posted a nikolai one posted and also have a dazai one in the drafts HAHA

When you wake up, you feel a weight on your bicep. Your brows furrow a bit in confusion, glancing to your right to where your arm is extended across the bed, but then your eyes fall upon Fyodor, fast asleep and using your arm as a pillow, and you can barely stop the small smile that rises to your lips.

Your arm is numb, but you don’t dare move in fear of waking him up—the clock on your nightstand reads nearly eight am, and you wonder when he finally came to bed last night. You know that he’s been pushing himself day and night to finalize the last parts of his plans, denying himself both sleep and food as he sits at his computers dealing with meetings and preparations 24/7. 

He hadn’t even changed into a pair of pajamas before falling into bed with you, nor had he bothered to get beneath the covers. a part of you wonders if he even meant to sleep, or if he’d just pushed his body too far and only barely made it to the bed before it gave out on him. 

It wouldn’t be the first time. 

You bite back a sigh as your gaze traces over the stubborn man—he always looks delicate in his sleep, in a way that he never does when he’s awake with his eyes shut and his long, dark lashes brushing his cheeks. His expression is the picture of serenity rather than the cold and unapproachable face he wears when he’s awake. 

You think that he’s pretty all the time, but there’s something special about being able to witness Fyodor Dostoevsky in his most vulnerable moments, knowing that you’re the only one he allows to be with him in them. 

You’re half-tempted to reach over to your nightstand with your free hand to try to grab your phone and snap a picture of him. You look over, wondering if you can reach it without jostling your other arm around, but before you can even consider your chances, you hear: “Do not.”

Fyodor’s voice is still thick with sleep. you glance over at him, surprised, but his eyes are still shut, and he hasn’t budged an inch. You wonder if you imagined it, but then his eyes crack open, thin slivers of purple glaring at you.

“Just one for me?” you ask quietly. “No one else will see.”

“No.”

You pout softly but roll back to look at him. He still looks exhausted, the bags beneath his eyes are dark and heavy, and he can barely even hold his eyes open. You reach out, cupping his cheek gently and watching as his eyes slide back shut, a soft exhale spilling from his lips as he lets the side of his face sink back into your arm, dozing back off.

You smile lightly, shifting forward a bit to press your lips to his forehead, stroking his cheek lightly with your thumb.

“I need to get up,” he murmurs, but his eyes are still shut and his voice is thick with sleep. “I need to finish-“

“You will not finish anything adequately in this state,” you chide gently. “If you get proper sleep, you’ll be much more efficient and effective.”

Fyodor looks as if he wants to argue, brows furrowing at your words even with his eyes shut. You only jostle him a bit closer, watching as he shoots you an irate look, but then settles down when he realizes you’re only dragging him closer so that he can rest his head on your chest—a place far more comfortable than your arm.

“Wake me up in an hour,” he finally orders, and you agree absently, knowing that you absolutely will not.

You think, as Fyodor lets himself doze off on your chest, that it’s hard to remember he’s quite literally one of the most dangerous men on this planet. That if he so pleased, he could activate his ability and kill you without a moment’s warning. That he’s a man who is so terrifyingly intelligent that it sometimes comes across as prophetic, and you can’t help but wonder if he speaks the truth when he claims to be led by the Hand of God. 

Your hand smoothes across his back in steady circles, tilting your face down to press your lips to the top of his head. His hair is a bit oily, as he usually lets it get when he deprives himself of basic necessities while he works. You’ll have to convince him to take a bath with you when he wakes up, but you figure it’ll be a battle because you already convinced him to sleep in a little longer, he’ll not want to waste any more time. 

You almost want to pinch him, wondering why everything with him has to be a war when it comes to taking proper care of himself. He rarely even remembers to take his iron supplements on the daily without your prompting, and he knows if he doesn’t take them, he’ll be prone to dizziness and fatigue. For all of his intelligence, you feel like sometimes that you’re a mother dealing with a stubborn child, not your lover. 

“Stop that,” Fyodor sighs, shifting a bit to get comfortable. “Dim your thoughts, dusha moya. I can feel you getting yourself wound up.”

You scowl. “You know, Fedya, maybe you should just drop the whole terrorist plot and become one of those preachers on the radio who pretend to be prophets. Build yourself a cult, make some money. You already seem to know everything, wouldn't be too hard."

Fyodor tilts his head up to look at you, expression so deadpan and unamused that it nearly makes you snort, but you only dip your head down to kiss between his eyes.

"Sleep,” you say, voice softer. “You need it.”

Fyodor doesn’t respond, and when you tilt your head to the side to look at him again, you find that he already dozed back off again, shoulders rising and falling steadily underneath the arm you have wrapped around him. 

You smile lightly and you tighten your arms a bit as Fyodor lets out a puff of air in his sleep, turning his head to lay the side of his face on your chest. In this position, you can see the way his eyes flit beneath his eyelids rapidly, his brain still running rampant even in sleep.

You bring your fingers to his hair to card them through the dark locks, slow and soothing in the way you know he likes, watching as his eye movements slow and his body relaxes into yours. 

Your smile widens a bit before it abruptly falls, laying your head back against the pillow as you finally begin your next challenge: drawing out a battle plan for convincing Fyodor to take a bath with you when he wakes up. 

You sigh to yourself heavily, knowing well that you're about to be facing the most difficult argument of your life with the most stubborn man alive. You can already feel the headache, and you think that you deserve a new picture for your lock screen from how much trouble Fyodor gives you on the daily, but as you side eye your nightstand again and try to calculate whether or not you can reach your phone without waking him up, you feel fingers wrap around your free hand.

You gape in disbelief as you look down to see Fyodor grab your hand in his sleep, as if he knew what you were planning even when not conscious.

Unbelievable, you think bitterly, plan entirely thwarted, but your gaze softens at the sight of him fast asleep on your chest, clutching your hand with one of his.

Maybe you don't need a picture, you realize, because you think there's no way you'd ever allow this image to fade away from your mind.

Still, you think he should severely reconsider his line of work.

Even more so now, in fact, because there is something entirely abnormal about his seemingly perfect foresight, evidently flawless even in his sleep too.

[dapandapod]

Reaching

Hello there! You know when you have not an idea, but a mood, and you also have the words, but not the story, and you just wants the mood to translate into paper? Yeah, that is what happened here haha! Thank you very much @magdelanesingerin for helping me beta read <3 well needed! Please enjoy! <3 On Ao3 here

The fire shines like a beacon between the trees.

Most likely because it is, Geralt muses to himself, as he approaches their little camp through the woods. It is late in the eve already, the clouds hanging sullenly between them and the canopy of night sky that is his usual companion during these nights.

It is more gloomy than usual, though, and he has to take care where he sets his feet. Of course there are things he could do about it, but well.

The Cat potion washes out a lot of colors, and despite its usefulness he rarely drinks it. Geralt prefers to witness the midnight blues, the stars, the dusted purples and pinks stretching infinitely far above.

He enjoys watching how the fire gives their tent, their packs, Jaskier’s hair, all a golden sheen, how the sparks of the flames reflect in the bard’s eyes.

Not that he would tell anyone that is the reason.

It is a fairly calm night, almost no wind to speak of, so the smoke twists and curls around itself up between the branches. It’s a familiar smell, the burning wood, the wet leaves, the greenery and the somewhat humid air.

The light calls him home, and he feels himself longing for it, reaching with all his heart towards it. As if you can catch light with your fingers.

Geralt makes sure to announce his presence with some shuffling steps. He learned the hard way how Jaskier reacts to a fright, and as amusing as it is, that one light grey tunic of his will never recover from the fistful of stew that was flung at it.

“Better than gory innards, at least,” Jaskier had said later with a sniff, shaking his hand from the stinging heat of the stew. “Smells better too.”

This time there is no surprise, and Jaskier looks up from the book he is reading and smiles. The shadows and the flickering light gives his face strong angles, like the rough strokes of a painting, and there is a familiar something curling up in his chest, something warm and pleased.

Geralt enters their clearing, noting the slight tilt of the tent that Jaskier set up, and the canvas spread over the saddle and their bags. Roach stands a bit further away, working on the underbrush, her tail swishing away the insects preying on her.

Jaskier returns to his book, his bedroll spread out a safe distance away from the fire, but close enough to let him read comfortably in the golden light it casts.

Their habits are well practiced by now, there is no need to explain himself, no need to break the companionable silence.

Geralt sits down next to him, carefully extracting his finds from the foraging bag Jaskier got him a year or so ago.

Valerian, thistle, an assortment of roots, Yarrow, and other useful, human friendly finds he keeps picking up for Jaskier, although exactly how human he is is up for debate.

Some of them will be tied together to be dried, and some of them needs to be used immediately, so he leans back and reaches for the saddle bag with his mortar.

The heat of their little campfire warm his knees and his feet and the sliver of stomach that is revealed as his shirt rides up.

He already knows Jaskier’s eyes will be on him as he sits up again, and allows them both another few seconds, pretending not to know which pocket of the saddlebag it’s in.

Indeed, Jaskier is watching him over the edge of his book, eyes following the lines of the shirt across Geralt’s chest, the movement of his hands as Geralt rolls up his sleeves to work.

When Geralt pauses before picking up the first herb, Jaskier’s eyes meet his. For a long moment, they just look at each other, and Geralt pretends that the heat on his face is from the fire warming his skin.

The shadows outline Jaskier’s finger around the book, the dim depths plummeting down his neckline where his shirt is carelessly untied, the corner of his mouth, his brow…

“What?” Jaskier asks quietly, a smile tugging at his lips. For a moment longer, Geralt allows himself to look, the contentment and the longing for what is right there squeezing his heart.

“Nothing,” he says back, just as quietly, returning to his task.

He feels Jaskier’s eyes on him a moment longer, until he hears the flipping of a page. He knows that if he really listens, he will be able to hear the bard’s pulse. It feels like an invasion of privacy, but sometimes, like when he is on potions, he can’t help it.

There is something there, something in Jaskier that reacts to Geralt, even if he doesn’t show it. When he catches Geralt watching him, or when their hands brush, or when Geralt comes up to stand behind him, his back inches from Geralt’s chest.

Such is the dance of theirs, the reaching, but never catching. Like magnets, every move pulling them closer and every shift pushing them apart.

The book Jaskier is reading is not very thick, but well loved. They have both read it many times over, and even when the opportunity to trade or sell comes, this one always stays. A story of knights and wonder and hope and magic and loyalty, the longing for belonging and the home they make together.

A fantasy, but a loved one.

The first drops of rain fall just as Geralt is tying the last herbs together. With a swear, Jaskier hurries to put the book in the safety of the tent before helping Geralt to put their things away and dousing their little fire.

Back under the canvas the mortar and herbs go, and Roach shuffles deeper among the trees for shelter.

The small oil lamp is lit inside the tent as Geralt pours dirt and stomps on the remains of the embers, and the shadows of Jaskier moving about inside the canvas makes him stop and look once more.

Wherever Jaskier goes, he brings that beacon of light with him, Geralt thinks, drawing the witcher’s attention to him. He stands there a moment too long, the rain now picking up to a proper drizzle, quickly soaking his shirt, when Jaskier pulls the tent flap open.

“You coming?” he asks, squinting out into the darkness, spotting Geralt.

Instead of responding, Geralt thinks of reaching, and steps into the light spilling from the tent. There must be something in his face, because Jaskier stays where he is, watching him approach, watching him kneel, and with his free hand does the unthinkable.

Jaskier reaches forward and catches a drop of rain from his cheek, tracing the path down with his thumb as another takes its place.

Reaching and catching, Geralt thinks, finally being let inside the tent, kneeling too close to where Jaskier sits, still holding the tent flap open for them.

Jaskier is lowering the tent flap, shutting out the night and the rain and the dark, when Geralt, too, reaches. More truthfully, he is leaping forward, throwing himself over the edge that he has been eyeing for so long.

Leaning into Jaskier’s space, holding his gaze all the way, the smallest of sounds when Jaskier parts his lips to pull in a breath and reaches for him. Geralt, too, is reaching.

His hand is cold against Jaskier’s cheek, exploring where the shadows once were sharp and deep, they are now smooth and glowing in the lamp light.

Their noses brush together, then again with more intent.

“Why now?” Jaskier whispers, and indeed, why now?

“Haven’t we waited enough?” Geralt whispers back and Jaskier gives the smallest of smiles, resting his hand on Geralt’s leg.

“We have,” he agrees, but still they both linger in that between.

The rain is smattering against the canvas, the air in the tent warming up fast with the both of them in there.

“We should tie up the flaps,” Jaskier whispers, tilting his head and their lips touch by accident.

It sends electric sparks down Geralt’s spine, his other hand comes up to cradle Jaskier’s face, his neck, to brush a thumb along the shell of his ear.

“We should,” Geralt agrees, but instead stands a little higher on his knees, pushing a little closer into Jaskier’s space.

The kiss is soft, lingering. Just a press of lips, catching each other’s breaths as they kiss again.

It takes too long for them to notice that the rain is dripping onto the woolen blanket of Geralt’s bedroll, so they part to finally tie up the bedflaps.

The tent was never big, and the distance that felt unsurmountable before is shrinking into nothing now.

Jaskier lays his head on Geralt’s arm and reads out loud from the book they both love, with Geralt’s hand resting on his stomach.

Change is weird, Geralt thinks to himself as he presses his nose into Jaskier’s hair, enjoying the light shiver it causes, the hitched breath in the middle of his reading as he presses a kiss to Jaskier’s temple.

When the bard’s eyes droop closed at last, Geralt reaches over him and turns off their little lamp.

Jaskier turns into him, curling into his chest in a way that is familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

This, Geralt thinks, is where he always was meant to end up. The beacon of light that finally led him home.

[sagesolsticewrites]

Sleepy for Ruthie & scrunch for Juliet 🫶

oh gosh well this request has been sitting in my inbox for like a month but I finally finished it! So so sorry for the delay, darling Nonnie, and thank you so much for your patience!

kiss prompts

[ sleepy ] for a half-awake kiss - Ruthie x Benny

The door of Benny’s apartment swings open to reveal an exhausted but smiling Ruthie, blush pink Pyrex in her hands.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Benny beams, stepping aside to let her in.

“Hi,” she says, shifting up onto her toes to press a kiss to his cheek as she passes, “Long time no see.”

“I know, it’s been forever,” he laughs, knowing full well she was here just last week, “What’d you bring this time?”

“Samosas,” she beams, gesturing excitedly with the Pyrex, and Benny smiles, though it doesn’t escape his notice that there’s something slightly less cheerful about her demeanor today.

“How are things at the hotel?” He asks in what he hopes is a casual manner, following her into the kitchen, “You said a while ago that business wasn’t great, is it getting better?”

“You remembered?” Ruthie pauses as she removes a pastry, in the middle of moving it to a plate.

“Of course,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Ruthie ducks her chin in an attempt to hide her growing smile, busying herself with plating another samosa.

“It’s actually gotten really busy,” she says happily, “I… don’t really remember the last time I slept? I’ve been doing laundry and making beds and cleaning practically all the time to try to keep up with the guests, but if it means business is good and my parents have one less thing to worry about, then…” she trails off with a shrug.

Now that she’s said it, Benny can see tiredness etched into every line of her face, the poorly hidden dark purple bags under her eyes now crystal clear even through her ever cheerful smile.

“And you still came here?” He asks, frowning slightly as he steps closer to scan over her face.

“Of course,” her brow furrows, “I wanted to see you, and how can I keep up with my lessons if I skip a week, hm? Besides,” she says through a yawn that utterly destroys the point she’s trying to make, “I’m not that tired, I promise.”

“Sweetheart— Ruthie, look at me honey, please?”

Ruthie looks up from where she’s sweeping crumbs off the counter, still very much in cleaning mode, as Benny takes her hand and guides her to the living room.

“We’re gonna skip the lesson today.”

“Wait, what?”

Ruthie frowns. She’d been practicing her Italian all week to keep it fresh in her mind for today— she’d made very good progress since Benny had offered to teach her more than the simple phrases Val had taught her in a rushed, impromptu lesson, and she wanted to keep improving.

“Vika,” Benny sighs, thumb stroking gently along the back of her hand as they sit, “You need rest, honey. Lesson for today? Vai a dormire.”

“Vai…” Furrows appear in Ruthie’s forehead, adorable as always, as she tries to translate.

Benny brushes a kiss to her forehead, wonders if she knows he can feel how much she’s leaning on him, if she’s aware of how heavy-lidded her eyes are.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart.” He murmurs, moving to kneel beside the sofa and shifting a pillow under her head as she lays down despite her protests.

“Benny—” she mumbles, stubborn even when she’s half asleep.

He leans in, silencing her tired protests with a gentle kiss, “I promise I’ll wake you when it’s time for you to go home.”

Finally, finally, she relaxes, eyes closing as she gives his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Th’nk you, Benny.”

“Dormi bene, sweetheart.”

[ scrunch ] for a kiss on the nose - Juliet x Brady

“Honey, are you almost ready?” Juliet calls from her vanity, checking that the Victory Red on her lips is still immaculate before slipping into her heels.

“Ready, sweetheart,” John says from behind her, and the sight of him in the mirror has her beaming before she turns to look at him properly.

John Brady stands there beaming in one of his nicer suits, ready for the first proper date night they’ve had since their daughter was born.

“Oh, Johnny,” she breathes, standing to get a better look, her hand coming to rest gently on his chest, “You look very handsome, darling.”

He always did, of course, but the suit was a welcome change from the usual somewhat creased button downs he wore, as was the neatly combed hair from the usual rumpled brown waves (caused by a certain six-month-old finding endless fascination with her father’s hair).

“And you,” her husband smiles, arms winding around her waist, “Look as beautiful as ever, Mrs. Brady.”

Even after over a year of marriage, a thrill still runs through her at both the compliment and the use of her married name.

Smiling, Juliet leans up for a kiss, but John pulls back slightly.

“I don’t think I can bring myself to mess this up just yet,” he says, eyes soft as his thumb traces along the edge of her red-painted lip, “So I think I’ll just…”

He leans in and pecks her nose, eliciting a delighted giggle from his wife.

“As sweet as that was,” Juliet teases with a raised eyebrow before her eyes turn pleading, “Please kiss me properly, John Brady.”

Captain John Brady — who once threatened to “smash the living shit” out of the pilot who was taking up his slot in a formation while in the air with no regard for the very expensive planes that would be damaged by this action — is helpless against his wife’s doe eyes.

Grinning, he leans down to press his lips tenderly to hers, his heart going soft at the sigh that escapes her as he pulls away.

“Better?”

“Much,” she grins, thumb swiping over his lips to rub away the Victory Red that transferred from her own, “Shall we?”

They step out to the living room, greeted with the sight of Rosie Rosenthal playing with his newest niece.

“Thank you so much again, Rosie,” Juliet smiles, “We really appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” Rosie grins, “You know I’ll never pass up a chance to hang out with this little peanut.”

Little Olivia lets out a delighted giggle as her Uncle Rosie tickles her, reaching for his pomaded curls.

“Wait, no, not the hair—”

Once he’s disentangled Olivia’s tiny fingers from his hair, he lifts her into his arms with an ease that comes from months of practice with Little Croz.

“Say bye to Mommy and Daddy, peanut!” Rosie lifts her little hand to wave at them as the Bradys make their way into the foyer.

“We should be back around 10,” Jules calls as John attempts to herd her out the door, “And don’t hesitate to call us if you need to!”

“Or your mother!” John calls with a grin from his place by the car door.

“I’ve gotten better, I swear!” Rosie replies, playfully exasperated, “Have fun, you two.”

“You too, Rosie,” John grins at the same time as Juliet says “Be good for your uncle, Livvy!”

The couple says their final goodbyes and heads out, John Brady leaning over at a red light to press a kiss to his wife’s nose.

“What was that for?” Juliet laughs.

Her husband smiles and shrugs, turning his attention to the road as the light changes.

“Just because.”

[zaeliaeve]

ꜰʟᴏʀᴇꜱ [ꜱᴇʀɢɪᴏ ʀᴀᴍᴏꜱ] Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: this is purely fiction and there are things that will be inaccurate to real life. This is all for fun! I do not speak Spanish so please excuse any mistranslations, I literally just used Google translate haha. Thanks for reading!

2009

There are two things in this world that everyone can agree to hate mutually. The first being twenty three year old Sergio Ramos; the long haired defense player with a loud mouth and short temper seems to rile everyones feathers. Perhaps one of the worst things about him is his immense talent, meaning everyone will just have to put up with him because he knows with his skill, he is not going anywhere.

The second thing this world hates is nepotism, and who wouldn't? Nobody likes the lazy bosses son walking around the office being the nuisance that you can't say anything to just because he hit the family lottery. Nepotism is a direct reminder that life is unfair and favors some more than others.

Catalina Flores didn't feel life favored her most of the time. There was never anything special about her, no dazzling beauty that would get her anything she wanted; nor spectucular social skills that would let her build the friendships she always wanted. All she had ever been seen as was invisible. Catalina's life had been a lonely one and that was no secret to anyone around her.  

Perhaps that's why her father's sister, Maria took pity on her and offered her a job with the team her husband coaches. A photographer for Real Madrid. 

There was a couple of things that made Catalina hesitant to accept the kind gesture.

Number one, too big of a stage at only twenty years old. Photography is something Catalina has and always taken seriously, but to go from doing what she has been compared to one of the biggest football teams in the world is a lot of pressure, rightfully so. Maria assured her that there would be other photographers there and that all the weight didn't land on her shoulders souly. 

Number two, was Catalina even good enough? There is many photos she's proud of, but like anyone around her age she makes mistakes. When she was sixteen she shot her brothers birthday party completely out of focus and the ones there were in focus were totally unflattering. That's something that always creeps back into her brain as she's trying to fall asleep at night. So embarrassing. Her aunt shushes those thoughts as she reminders Catalina of the photography contests she has won in recent years. 

Truthfully, she felt a bit guilty taking the offer but to say no is something she feared would regret. Although football is not something she had ever necessarily cared about, it was a huge opportunity. It's not something she felt truly unqualified for. Why not just see how it goes?

On Catalina's first day it was luckily a bit easier. They were only training, and truthfully only needed shots for their new star player, Cristiano Ronaldo. who brought a lot of good press for the team.

Dark purple circles lay under Catalina's eyes as proof of the sleepless night she had prior, tossing and turning with anxiety of the day to come. The black camera bag strapped around her body felt heavier than usual, blocking the badge her uncle gave as permession to be there. 

The training grounds felt massive and unfamiliar, she couldn't imagine what it felt like to be inside the actual stadium. There was a sweet older lady who showed Catalina the way outside where the players had yet to assemble onto the pitch.

That is when Catalina took the time to prepare her camera, adjusting it to the settings she deemed best as not to repeat her brothers birthday incident all those years ago. One by one each player shuffled out onto the field in their training clothes, all smiles as the sun beamed against their skin.

It was only then Catalina realized how unprepared she was.  I really should have googled their names before this. She made a mental note to study their faces and names tonight. The only one she could point out was Cristiano, who she knew was a big deal for the club. 

Anytime she could catch the Portuguese star flashing his bright teeth or with the lighting just right she made sure to snap an extra picture. There seemed to be one player being rougher than the rest, slapping the back of his teammates heads, or outright tackling them to the floor with a wide smile plastered on his face. 

"Get off of me Sergio! What have you been eating, gordito?" One with large curly hair laughed, slapping at the long haired one's sides.

Sergio. Sergio. Sergio  Catalina repeatedhis name over and over in her head as to not forget it as she captured the duos tussle back and forth on the grass.

It ended with another one coming in plopping on the both of them, causing both of the players to groan in pain. That's when the coach came in and told them finish the task at hand, and they followed orders accordingly but Catalina didn't miss Sergio getting one last smack on the back of the brunettes neck.

Apparently, Cristiano didn't miss it either as he busted out laughing before quickly putting a hand over his mouth to restrain himself.

 Click click click

The team seemed to know when to calm down as for the rest of practice they took their jobs seriously without it being a drag. Of course they still had fun, but not too distractingly.  

One with a buzzcut stopped to smile and wave at her very briefly in the middle of running up and down the field. Catalina's lips upturned as she waved at him back with her free hand, the other gripping the large camera for dear life. 

Click click click

Catalina felt she got pretty good shots of them all, a small weight lifted off of her shoulders. Maybe it wasn't as big of a disaster as she thought. 

The sun was setting so she knew it was almost time to go. The last thing they were doing was shooting balls across to each other in random pairs. As Catalina went to adjust her settings to accommodate the now deep orange sun, there was suddenly loud shouting all at once "cuidado!"

Before she could even process what they were saying, a large round object bounced off of her forehead; the force of it sending her backwards onto the soft grass. Instinctively she held her arm up to make sure her camera didn't fall as hard as she did. 

Many players rushed to the side where Catalina layed on the ground, looking up at the white clouds above. "Are you okay? I'm so sorry! " Number 3 gasped as he leaned over her, blocking her view of the sky. 

Soon, each cloud got blocked by a member of the team's head, faces filled with worry as they looked down to the girl below them. All she could feel was the throbbing of her eye and scalp. "Pepe hijo de puta!" The buzzcut one exclaimed as he hit number 3's shoulder from beside him.

In the dead center of Catalina's vision she seen Sergio with the faintest smirk on his face. It felt like for a split second, time froze and all she could feel was this man laughing at her. Suddenly reality came crashing back to Catalina and she sat up abruptly, almost headbutting Sergio in the process. "I'm fine, it's no worries. You have really great aim, this is good for the team right?" Catalina tried to laugh it off, although her tone was unconvincing.

The curly haired one ruffled her dark locks in a way that commended her for being a good sport. Catalina could feel her face was heating up from not only the pain, but the huge feeling of  embarrassment creeping into her chest. Slowly they backed off, but Pepe stayed and apologized profusely. 

Catalina waved it off with a smile and assured him that she truly was okay. In the background she could hear number 11 running to get something that she would quickly find out is an ice pack.

As she pressed the cool fabric to her eye all she could think about was Sergio's face staring back down at her.

[korraofthereef]

Hey! Don't know if you're still doing Neteyam requests, but if you are, could you make an imagine where the reader loves to cook but is just really bad at cooking, like burning up the house, melting plastic bowls, exploding food kind of bad at cooking and Neteyam is just being the dreamy boyfriend he is and being supportive of them, you can change it if you want to, or you can just not write it at all, thanks for reading anyway, hope you're doing well!

Baby, of course I’ll do this. 💋

Preparing meals for your friends and family is not as easy as it used to be when you lived within the Omatikaya clan . . . adapting to the lifestyle of the Metkayina people was easier said than done. You were a great swimmer, strong in the currents— but you stumbled upon the much simpler ways of the people. For instance, cooking.

Neteyam Sully (21) x fem!reader (21)

Warnings : pure fluff , loving mate Neteyam , (not really warnings)

Na’vi translations

- ‘emyu ; cook

- uturu; sanctuary

- skxawng ; idiot

- ma muntxa ; my mate

- payoang ; fish

- prrnen ; baby

It wasn’t necessarily about the food being done well and safe to eat— more so about being able to master the task at hand.

You were a cunning warrior, filled with passion for the forest and your fellow people of Eywa . . . that’s exactly what drew Neteyam to you in the first place.

The two of you were a lot alike in that department— raised by the skilled ways of the Omatikaya clan. But none of that mattered. Not anymore at least.

You were trained to adapt to the most challenging of tasks— what you weren’t expecting was having to adapt to the simplest of tasks.

Cooking.

You were a fine ‘emyu, prepared to cook anything your family desired. Except the way of food was different in the clan that so kindly offered you and your family uturu. You had to learn to scale a fish properly and wrap the bass after caught.

This was nowhere near roasting tapirus or breaking apart a teylu. You missed your home.

But you weren’t going to stop practicing the art of cooking in the Metkayina way until you mastered it.

Neteyam was out with his brother, Lo’ak, hunting for fish and such for you to so kindly cook for them. Meanwhile you say in your marui with an open fire in the centre, waiting for the fish to heat to the right temperature to scale it.

An hour or so later you had successfully rid the fish of every last one of its scales— your first time correcting that step. Now you needed the spice grounded from the hermit bug seeds.

Quickly scrambling to your feet from your criss-crossed position on the floor, you go to check your bag in the corner of your marui where you had placed the spices Tsireya let you borrow from her and Lo’ak.

The pouch contained three spices— two purple grains and one orange grain. You clearly remember Tsireya mentioning the spice was purple . . . if only the caps on the spices were labeled like the ones you had back in the forest were.

Your mother in law, Neytiri, had prepared the meal many times, surely you could decipher the taste of the spice by trying both purple spices.

The first one was strong and definitely familiar, while the second one was less strong and did taste quite similar, it had more of a pasty taste.

Deciding to go with the first choice, you sprinkled it on the pale skin of the fish as it slowly cooked over the continuing fire.

The condensation on the oily skin of the fish started to drip from the dead animals scale-less body and into the fire . . . within the blink of an eye, flames engulfed the air and you were sent flying backwards, out the entrance of the marui and landing on the soft padding of the springy ground.

“Skxawng!” You cursed at yourself. You stared at your marui as a small crowd started to form. The walls a charcoal black, still lit with fire.

You brought your knees to your chest and rested your forehead on them— the faint sound of your mate’s voice coming from somewhere in the crowd. “Ma muntxa!”

Finally, you lifted your head to see Neteyam’s concerned gaze set on you as he pushed through the crowd and kneeled next to you.

“Are you all right?” He soothing ran a hand down your spine.

You simply nodded. A scoff escaping as you spotted the multiple fish strung around his shoulders.

Without hesitation, you pushed them off his broad muscle-defined shoulders, “Stupid payoang.” You mumbled.

Neteyam let out a laugh as he hauled you to your feet. Some of the village people came rushing by with pales of water to put out the fire while you and Neteyam walked to his parents’ marui.

As the both of you entered Neytiri paused as she was cooking dinner, taking in your smoke stained face and pinched eyebrows. She sighed, grabbing a cloth and pale of water and handing it to your mate. “Thank you mother.” He said quietly.

Jake was whittling a weapon in the corner of the marui when you walked in, he glanced over at you taking a double take at you disheveled appearance.

You took a seat in front of Neteyam as he washed your face affectionately, ridding it from the grime of the fire.

“Are you going to tell us what happened?” Neytiri asked while she dusted the top of the fish with orange spice. The orange spice? Seriously?

“The fish hate me—” you quickly answered. “The fish was dead, my love.” Neteyam chuckled.

Jake then walked over with his whittled spear assumably going to put it in the pile with the rest of his weapons. “You set your marui on fire or somethin’?” He said gesturing to your charcoal stained face with the end of his spear.

“That’s exactly what happened.” Neteyam swiftly replied. His parents looked taken aback but quickly recovered from their shock.

Jake sighed, placing his spear in the pile with his collection of deadly tools. “I guess I should go see if Tonowari needs my assistance.”

Neytiri put out the fire and placed the fish on a weaved eating mat, cooked and prepared to be eaten. “The two of you can stay with us tonight. I will go and grab a sleeping mat and cushions.”

You nodded at your mother in law, thankful for her hospitality. The older blue woman left the marui pod and off towards the weaving pod to gather some mats for you and your mate.

A moment a silence passed by as Neteyam gently fondled with one of your braids that hung in front of face while your head face the floor of the Marui in your criss-crossed position in the floor.

You couldn’t help but feel as if you have disappointed someone, anyone, just by failing the simple task of cooking a meal for your family.

Neteyam audibly sighed, gathering your attention to his striking features. “You are no failure.” His four fingered hand swiped the braid behind your ear, collecting it with the mass of your other braids that sprouted from your striped skull.

Your jaw clenched at that dreadful word: failure. The children in the Omatikaya village used to call you that all the time when you were simply just a prrnen. How could a baby be a failure if it was still learning it’s way of life? Possibly, that is what drove you to succeed at every task that fell upon yourself.

“Not only did I ruin our dinner, but I set our home on fire!” Your eyes rounded at the corners while grief flooded your system. “I don’t really like eating fish. Plus, our home could use a makeover, I really do like the colour of charcoal black.” Neteyam smiled at you.

Without realizing, the way the corner of his lips reached upwards started to pull yours in the same direction. Eywa, his smile was beautiful.

Your head dropped to your lap once again, the smile never fading. “I know you don’t mean that but that you, Neteyam. I love you.” You peer up at him through your thick lashes. Your mate stands to his feet and you follow in suit and large muscular arms wrap around your smaller frame.

“I love you more— to Eywa and the waters that flow beneath us for eternity.” He whispered to you, leaning down to place his cheek against your shoulder.

The two of you were a match made by Eywa herself. A strong woman seeking approval for every little thing, and a man who would love her through every success and downfall. Eternity wouldn’t be long enough for the both of you to share your love . . . you’ll just have to settle for what time you have now and focus on eternity when it arrives.

Sorry this took so long to upload, just really wanted to put my emotions into this one. <3

I’m fairly new to Tumblr and desperately in need of a taglist so please let me know in the comments!

[aesthetic-solar-space]

I think to a point we underestimate Rose Typer and The Doctors connection. She didn’t need to be possessed by the Tardis or see into his mind, she just knew him and then went farther than he thought someone could and she accepted him for everything that he was, and everything he had done.

Whether they were lovers, or friends, or something even more, it still stands. She knew him, and accepted him.

She saw how some days he’d have these purple bags under his eyes from sleepless nights filled with haunting memories.

She saw how sometimes his hand would tremble when he was taking them towards one timeline or another because there was a connected memory playing in his head.

She would hold him close and calm him through his ptsd and panic attacks, though she did not blame him for his past - she didn’t push it away and tell him it was okay because she knew that wasn’t what he needed.

Sometimes she would take one look at him in the morning over tea and know he needed a day in. He’d tell her about things he’d seen that didn’t hurt to remember, or about his language, or things he still wanted to see. She’d sit there and hang on to every word, sneaking him food when he was really focused on talking about something because she knew it was the only way he’d eat.

He also had a habit of listening or feeling her heart whenever a panic attack would set in. His fingers would start by brushing against her inner wrist and pressing lightly. Then he’d often close his eyes and rest his head on her chest. Just listening to the rythme of her one heart and it lulled him back to safety and himself.

This didn’t just go one way though. Sometimes Rose would be hit with a wave of depression or guilt. Sometimes she’d know why but others it was like her mind couldn’t translate everything.

During those times it was the doctor who would give her a warm mug of tea and sit with her. Many times they wouldn’t say much, yet it was never an uncomfortable silence. And Rose would never tell him this cause it would stoke his ego too much but he made the best tea she’d ever had.

And for times they couldn’t sneak away to the safety and haven of their tardis, they had a secret language. To outsiders it would just seem like someone was nervous and tapping to try and calm themselves. Which in a way it was, but it was also so much more. They had an entire alphabet in taps, a mix between Morse code and something they used to use on his home world so so long ago. He could never explain it right but it felt nice to have Rose have a connection to his roots, even if it was small.

There were times they both had issues. The two of them had a silent rule that if you needed someone in the night, it didn’t matter why or what you needed - it was always granted. This is how many many nights one of them would wake up to find the other in their bed curled up against them. Even if they hadn’t been there the night before.

Some nights after an especially hard day they’d even begin the night in the same bed. Waking up to hold one another if the nightmares got too bad.

For a long time many of their family and friends didn’t understand. They thought they must just be hooking up or something. But slowly from times when they would visit Jackie for a few days, they’d see glimpses of the depths to their relationship.

Jackie would watch from the living room as the two floated about each other in the kitchen, making sure the others meal or drink was perfect without ever saying a word or most of the time even looking at each other.

Mickey would see Rose begin to lose herself sometimes while they shared a conversation, the guilt over taking her features for just a moment. When he’d look closer he’d see the doctor tapping absentmindedly on her shoulder or hand, the hidden message instantly calming her.

One night though while everyone was sleeping over, something that rarely happened since the doctor often insisted on sleeping in the tardis, they all awoke to screaming. As both Mickey and Jackie were frantically trying to find out what was happening, they watched as rose slipped out of her own room and into the one the Doctor was staying in. She had never even opened her eyes. Within moments of her entering the room the screaming became whimpers and then stopped. They weren’t proud of it when they both looked through the crack the open door at left. When they saw the two sharing a bed, his head resting on her shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around her waist, all while her arms were wrapped around him as well - her face buried in his bed head. Something for them clicked. This wasn’t just some run of the mill hook up session or even a dating one. This ran so much deeper between the two of them. As quietly as possible they closed the door and went back to bed. Neither ever said anything to the others. But they knew.

When River became a player in his life, and later his wife, many will say he had moved on or forgotten Rose. But that was never the case. River knew everything about Rose. She knew of what they were, and what they still were even with dimensions between them. But just like Rose, River saw the Doctor as who he truly was. Not just who he showed the worlds he traveled to and from. She accepted him, and in turn she also accepted Rose. She was never jealous of her, nor upset with what they shared. She knew where she stood but she also knew where he stood. She also knew that it would all be okay, because as sad and terrifying as it would be - if the doctor were to die she knew that no dimensional barrier would be able to keep those two separated, plus when she passed, when her time was right, she also knew she would finally get to meet the woman who saved the doctor.

This is not to say they weren’t lovers, or dating, or more. But they were also something so much more important to one another. They were a missing piece of the others soul. Something you can live without, but you are never truly living unless you have it. River Song was his heart, oh but Rose Tyler? She was his soul. She kept him alive, kept him fighting, she made him kind and passionate while also protective beyond measures. She saved him, even after she was gone. It’s why she was “The Moment” and why if he asked to see someone he liked the tardis would show him her, would show him of their adventures together. He would trade anything to be with her again, her heartbeat pressing rapidly into his fingers on her wrist, but if all he would get was an afterlife with her - with everyone he missed. He would take it, he just hoped she’d be able to take care of them all until he could meet her there.

[atlix2]

okay so . i already had a riptide oc. does he still count.

(image ID under the cut)

i come bearing. This Freak. ive had him for a while but he never got any mileage. If You Will Have Him …

Name: Nowhere

Race: tiefling

Class: warlock

Pronouns: he/him

Nowhere’s really hard to get a read on. He never mentions where he intends to travel to or how long he’ll be staying for. He doesn’t even mention being a warlock— most assume he’s a sorcerer. He brushes past any personal questions and usually keeps to his own devices, but he still helps out around the ship a great deal; he works wordlessly and so fast it seems as though messes and disrepair simply disappear within the hour.

Whenever anyone asks about him, he just says he’s a wanderer. He stays as detached as possible bar for cracking the occasional joke or offering usually mediocre advice when asked. Despite his off-putting nature, he can be pretty persuasive when he’s looking for ships to travel on. He’s got weird obscure skillsets and knows way too many languages, so he’s good in unexpected situations, especially as a translator; he holds his own in combat perfectly fine as well. He has no qualms with thankless tasks like late night ship repair and extensive cleaning, and he cooks incredibly well for someone who’s spent most of his life as a criminal vagrant on the sea.

so basically. trade offer. you receive: free cooking and cleaning and a weird little guy on your ship for an indeterminate length of time who is surprisingly useful. he receives: transport to an unclear location with unknown but probably not malicious intent. Would you let him on your boat

[image id: a front and back A pose reference of a tall, pale tiefling with a single long horn and short blonde hair. his skin fades to a brownish purple around his fingers, horns, ear tips, etc. his right eye is dark blue with a black line/scar beneath it and his left is bright yellow; both have bags under them. he wears an oversized olive green coat with a very large white fur collar and yellow stars hanging off of it over a cream tshirt. his pants have a high waistline and belt and are cuffed at the end; they are a lighter shade of green than his coat. he has a long, thin tail with brown, feather-like fur. His pointy ears have a few piercings in them, including another star. he has a necklace with a few orange beads and a yellow leaf shape and wears a brown satchel over his shoulder. Next to him is a blue deck of cards with cyan edges and a holographic teal to dark blue criss-cross pattern on them; a yellow fog emanates from between them, and they are labelled as his arcane focus.

the text reads: “nowhere ; tiefling warlock ; he/him (followed by the genderqueer, genderfluid, and trans flag) ; autistic”. his horn is labelled with “YES the horn is sharp. many have found this out the hard way.” his claws are labeled “claws are sharp too”. His description reads “-lone wanderer -never stays in one place for long -he’s kind of unsettling to be around -never discloses personal information; he’s very private about his past -it’s hard to tell why anyone lets him on their ship in the first place; surprisingly, most crews let him voyage in exchange for his housekeeping skills. He cooks and cleans well. -tries not to make friends.” Additional text reads “bitches hate him for his transmasc swag (and because he’s annoying)” and “-he currently has no crew to travel with but is asking around in ports nearby.” end id.]

[mariacallous]

21-year-old Moscow native Savely Frolov started speaking out against Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine right after it was launched, and he continued condemning the war even after it brought him a misdemeanor charge and a 10-day prison sentence. Then, after Putin’s mobilization announcement in September, Frolov, like thousands of other Russians, tried to flee to Georgia through the Verkhny Lars border checkpoint. And that is where he disappeared. One month later, he became the first person in Russia to face conspiracy to commit treason charges for planning to “join the enemy.” Frolov is now facing up to 10 years in prison for his interest in the Freedom of Russia Legion, a unit of Russian soldiers fighting for Ukraine. Valeria Kirsanova, the editor-in-chief of the outlet Paper Kartuli, spoke to Frolov’s mother, his lawyer, and his best friend about his story. With permission, Meduza is publishing an abridged version of her article in English.

‘Scrambling to get out of Russia’

A photo on Instagram shows a curly-haired young man in a purple baseball cap and headphones sitting on a concrete barrier, the Caucasus mountains and a long line of traffic in the background. “Scrambling to get out of Russia, 5 km [about three miles] from the border,” read the caption. The picture, posted on September 29, is the most recent image shared on Savely Frolov’s account. It was taken a week after President Putin mobilized hundreds of thousands of people into the military, during Frolov’s first attempt to get out of Russia.

Frolov’s friend Malika Bakhtiarova was waiting for him in Tbilisi, and the two were in near-constant contact that day. “The Georgian border officers were filtering the crowd somewhat randomly,” she said. “[Savely] told them, honestly, that he had 20,000 rubles [about $290] with him, and they refused him. They said it wasn’t enough money,” said Bakhtiarova.

A month later, Frolov decided to try again: on October 30, he boarded a bus from Vladikavkaz to Tbilisi. At about 11:00 a.m., however, he wrote to Bakhtiarova that he was going to be searched by federal agents. Then he disappeared.

At 5:00 p.m., Bakhtiarova received a text from Frolov’s phone. The message said to send her location, supposedly so that Frolov could order a taxi to reach her. According to Bakhtiarova, however, the two had agreed in advance that she would meet him in her car, so the request didn’t make sense. She tried to call him, but he didn’t answer and stopped responding to messages.

The next day, Frolov called his parents to tell them he had been arrested for 15 days for disorderly conduct. He said he was alone in a Vladikavkaz prison cell, and that he wouldn’t be given his phone again until he was released.

Soon after, six Federal Security Service officers from North Ossetia showed up at Frolov’s registered place of residence in the Moscow region.

“Only our 14-year-old daughter was home,” Saveley Frolov’s mother, Ekaterina Frolova, told Paper Kartuli. “She called me, sobbing, ‘I’m scared!’ They wouldn’t even let her close the apartment. They just said, ‘Call your parents.’ Our neighbor is an 85-year-old man whom we take care of, and he came to the door and refused to let them in.”

According to Ekaterina, the officers were especially interested in her son’s outdoor gear, such as his snowboarding boots, his tent, and his sleeping bag.

‘There could be dozens of stories like this’

On November 14, when Savely Frolov was scheduled to be released, Ekaterina boarded a one-way flight to Vladikavkaz; she planned to buy two tickets back home after reuniting with her son. But minutes after Frolov left the prison, before he’d even seen his mother, he was arrested once again — this time for allegedly disobeying border agents. He was sentenced to another 15 days in prison. That sentence was followed by a third, this one for more “disorderly conduct.”

On December 2, state investigators opened a felony case against Frolov on treason charges. Prosecutors say he was “preparing to defect to the enemy.” It’s the first known case of its kind in Russia.

Vladimir Putin officially made “defecting to the enemy” tantamount to treason in July. The crime is punishable by anywhere from 12 to 20 years in prison. Investigators claim Savley Frolov planned to travel through Georgia to Turkey, then to Poland, and finally to Ukraine, where they say he intended to join the Freedom of Russia Legion. According to his lawyer Yevgeny Smirnov, however, Frolov had neither a ticket to Istanbul nor a Shengen visa, which he would have needed to go through Poland.

“This is an emerging trend,” said Yevgeny Smirnov. “The FSB’s border service ‘uncovered’ this crime by reading [Frolov’s] messages. And judging by how many phones they’ve looked through, especially during the first wave of mobilization, and how little it takes to open a criminal case, I think the number of stories like this could reach into the dozens. We don’t currently know the total number because many treason cases are not made public.”

‘A principled bonehead'

Savely Frolov, a longtime critic of the Putin regime, graduated from high school in Naro-Fominsk, a suburb of Moscow. After studying physical education in college, he started working as an escape-room actor and as a children’s fencing instructor. In the summer, he would travel to the Altai region to work as a yacht and kayak instructor at a charity camp for children with cerebral palsy.

“He’s the kind of older brother who won’t wipe your snot but who will teach you to make a fire and catch a fish,” said Bakhtiarova, who met him at the Altai camp. “The children just loved him. He knows how to support them without making them feel pitied.”

In Moscow, Bakhtiarova worked as a mural painter, and Frolov began helping her. On February 24, they started standing at a metro stop and distributing flyers urging people to write to their State Duma deputies and attend anti-war protests. Soon, they were both fined and given misdemeanor charges; later, Frolov was arrested for 10 days.

As fall drew near, the two friends concluded that their efforts were futile, Bakhtiarova said. She moved to Georgia, while Frolov stayed in Moscow to earn some more money.

In Tbilisi, Bakhtiarova organized a small fencing club for children; she and Frolov planned to turn it into a business in the future. For that reason, when he set out for Georgia himself, Frolov brought a fencing sword, a projector, a wooden shield, camouflage pants, and tactical boots in the trunk of his car. Investigators later cited the gear as evidence that he was planning to take up arms against Russian troops in Ukraine.

Bakhtiarova assumed Frolov would erase the words “Slava Ukraini” from his backpack before trying to cross the border. But when she learned that he hadn’t, she wasn’t surprised: “[He’s a] principled bonehead," she said.

‘They said he’d applied to join the legion’

In Vladikavkaz, Ekaterina Frolova has been granted two visits with her son. Savely told her that the officers “beat him, promised to rape him with a broom, and threatened his family” after he was arrested at the border, and that that’s why he agreed to give them access to his phone.

With no power and nobody to talk to in his cell, Savely told his mom, he’d lost count of the days and had even started burning his arms with cigarettes “just to feel something.” After talking to Ekaterina, though, Savely’s spirits rose again: “It was confirmation that he hadn’t been abandoned.”

From the time Savely was a baby, Ekaterina says, she taught him to fight for his beliefs, though she “didn’t think his beliefs would be so political.” At home, the two of them would frequently get into intense arguments over their conflicting views; Savely would tell his parents they were “old already and don’t understand anything, whereas he, his sister, and his brother would have to live in this Russia [for a long time].” Eventually, the family banned the topic of conversation altogether.

Savely usually visited his parents several times a month.

“When he spoke, he did so openly; he never hid anything. Sometime around the start of fall, he came over and casually mentioned that in June, he’d applied to join the legion. There’s some legion where they fight against the Russian authorities, but from the Ukrainian side,” said Ekaterina. “But nobody would take him. He wrote to them, ‘Two months have passed. Why haven’t I gotten an answer?’ They said, ‘Oh, we’ve had some technical issues.’ And that was the end of the correspondence.”

Ekaterina never saw the messages herself, but she doesn’t think Savely deleted them. Malika Bakhtiarova, meanwhile, says that she and Frolov only spoke offhandedly about whether or not the legion exists, and that he never mentioned wanting to join it.

Another friend of Frolov’s told the independent outlet The Insider that in late November, FSB officers came to his workplace and forced him to confess to “training activists” to go to Ukraine and fight with the Ukrainian Armed Forces, and that they read his messages with Frolov aloud.

“There were messages where we discussed the special military operation, and what [the officers] mostly latched onto was a half-joking message about planning to [join the war], to which I responded approvingly, going along with the joke,” said the friend. He said he’s confident that Savely Frolov was never really planning to join the Freedom of Russia Legion.

‘It’s just a circus’

Frolov is currently set to remain in remand prison in Vladikavkaz until February 11, 2023. He’s not allowed to communicate with his relatives. His lawyer, Yevgeny Smirnov, said that this is an illegal but common practice aimed at completely suppressing the will of a suspect. He also said that FSB officers have interrogated him repeatedly without a lawyer present.

According to Smirnov, the amount of time between a person’s arrest and their sentencing is usually about two years, so he’s advised Frolov’s family to “prepare themselves.”

Frolov himself asked his lawyer to tell Malika Bakhtiarova that he’s learned to stand on his hands, that he read The Witcher, and that the books by theoretical physicist Richard Feynman she sent him are “too complicated.”

“One time, he had run out of paper, so he wrote me a note on toilet paper that said, ‘Take this sheet, use it to wipe yourself, and remember me.’ The lawyer sent me a picture of it. Savely loves jokes like that,” said Bakhtiarova.

Ekaterina Frolova doesn’t understand why her son is being charged with treason if he willingly gave up his phone and didn’t try to hide anything. “The evidence of treason just isn’t there. Maybe he just wanted to check the [Freedom of Russia Legion] site,” she said.

Smirnov noted that Savely is being charged not with treason but with conspiracy to commit treason, a crime punishable by up to 10 years in prison. The lawyer noted that his defendant discussed the “legion” with his friend before the State Duma changed the law to equate “defecting to the enemy” with treason.

“Like a prayer, he constantly repeats, ‘Everything’s fine with me, don’t worry. Mom, why are you crying? This is just a big circus. Look, I’m laughing at it,’” said Ekaterina Frolova. “But me, I’m not laughing,” she adds. “I tell him, ‘Even if this is a circus, who does that make you? A spectator, a clown, the ringmaster, an acrobat, or an animal in a cage? And he has no answer, of course.”

[j0kers-light]

What about a Indian reader and She and Joker are eating Indian food and it’s jokers first time eating it????🩷

Hey hi anon!! This was buried in my emails (tumblr literally did not show it in my inbox! This dates back to Aug 30th!!!) 🖤✨

I probably have more requests than I think I do if I'm going by my email and not the blog ask box 😭 moving right along..... I'll panic on my own downtime.

Disclaimer: I’m not going to try and attempt to write about a culture I have no knowledge of. I’m so sorry anon in advance! I’m black, not Indian and I do not wish to disrespect your culture if I say something out of turn. I’ll try my best to fill your request but it’ll be surface level. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

I did extensive research to fill this one!

Joker does not care what part of the world you hail from. You can be from Antarctica and he’d still love you. It’s your character that he’s head over heels for.

The way you carry yourself and the way you don’t put up with any of his nonsense. You aren’t afraid of him and you have patience that very few people possess. 

He understands there is a huuuuuge culture difference between the two of you and he will never get in the way of your traditional practices, teachings, etc.

If you do something out of the ordinary, he observes and files that information for a later date. He’s in awe most of the time whenever you introduce him to something and he never judges you. 

When you speak in your native tongue, (I used Hindi here- terribly sorry if the translation is horrendous) Joker is automatically hypnotized with heart eyes and a dopey smile. 👁👄👁 okay?

It sounds so enchanting to his ears and oftentimes he forgets you’re not talking directly to him. 

“Whatever ya say, Bunny.” cue you staring at Joker in confusion since he interrupted your phone call.

“Shh, J! मैं फोन पर बात कर रहा हूं” You could’ve called him an illiterate purple platypus for all he knows, but the idiot just nods along as if he understands. 

Has Joker fallen asleep to the sound of you talking in your native tongue? Yes, and he’ll do it again!

He hides and listens to you and your mother talk on the phone on some mornings when he can't sleep.

Your voice lulls him to sleep right there on the floor. You trip up on his slumbering body but pay him no mind as you start your house chores.

Moving on! He adores your traditional clothes!!

The rich colors, the detailed fabric and textures all come together to transform you into a living, breathing goddess.

You can make a trash bag look like high couture but the first time J saw you in a formal saree with beads and gold jewelry adorning your bronzed skin, his jaw fell to the floor.

He couldn’t think straight as you fixed your hair in the mirror as you prepared to leave. You were going to a wedding, Joker thought you were a deity walking on Earth.

Best believe Joker followed you without your knowledge so he could see the ceremony for himself and he was floored.

Everything was so beautiful and elaborate!! Even if he didn’t understand a single thing, he was inspired to learn. Knowledge is uhhh power.

The man is whipped for you. 👏🏾👏🏾 He studies your culture from top to bottom so he doesn’t accidentally disrespect you and he even tried to learn the language from your region. (Mac and Neo laughed for hours at that failed attempt)

You thought it was sweet but yeah… J does not need to speak your language to love you. (He sounds awful btw)

Joker shows that he cares in other ways. He’s mindful of the little things you do or don’t do and he’s always down to try new things.

Which is why you wanted him to start eating more traditional dishes for dinner. You wanted to start J off with something simple before throwing him into the world of spices and complex flavors. 

Joker ate sugar, junk food, and pre-packaged foods before you waltzed into his life. His knowledge of spices was salt, pepper, and a dash of paprika. Like? What? 🤦🏾‍♀️

It amazed you that men went to war for spices yet limit themselves to such bland food. Bless this Caucasian man. You love Joker, but his taste buds deserved better. 

You started off slow and made a huge serving of samosas for an apartment complex meeting and packed a few in Joker’s to-go bag as an 'accident'.

Joker called you in the middle of the night (still munching on them) asking you what they were. You could hear the crunchy crust over the phone as you padded to the kitchen for a midnight snack.

You found some homemade Kulfi and sucked on it as Joker explained the snack to you. 

It was like a kid discovering their favorite dish. He thanked you over and over for being such a sweet thing and cooking for him.

Up until then, you made sure something American was on the table for him to eat while you ate dishes from your culture. Little did he know that was all gonna change.

Joker notices how you didn’t eat with utensils much and he'd glare at the odd concoctions you passed as food in intrigue. His mild curiosity would end very soon. You set a time and a date to get him to officially try Indian food.

Joker made sure he was home before ten pm and burst through the door, hoping he wasn’t too late for dinner.

“I’m back, pretty girl. Did ya…” He stopped in his tracks when an explosion of aromas smacked him right in the face.

It was coming from the kitchen but it hit him the second he walked into your penthouse. He couldn’t describe what it smelled like, it was simply phenomenal. His stomach growled just off of the scent alone. 

You sent him a text reminding him not to eat anything and to come home with an open mind for dinner. You piqued his interest.

Usually Joker wouldn’t eat dinner with you on the nights he prowled Gotham City. He’d come back to your place around five or six in the morning and warm up whatever you fixed him (your dinner/his breakfast) before crashing. It's how things worked with the clashing work schedules. 

However you begged and pleaded with Joker to call the night early, before it truly began, and come home to eat with you. 

He wasn’t expecting all this. 

You decorated the table with a rounded tray filled with vibrant sauces chutneys, pilled high with some kind of bread, rice, and other mixtures, and aromatic fixings. Joker eyed the candles you lit and was wondering where you were when you emerged from the kitchen with a pitcher of water. 

His eyes softened seeing you in a stunning saree. It was the same one he commented on when you unpacked it from its original boxing. 

Sure it was a little too fancy to be wearing around the house and your mother would scold you if you got it dirty, but you wanted to dress up for Joker. Tonight was special in a way.

“सुस्वागत” you mumbled but then remembered Joker couldn’t translate. “Welcome home.” You gestured to the spray of food on the table. “I offer you a thali. It's a variety of dishes that represent a balanced diet."

Joker walked over to the table and you trailed behind him, pointing things out as you explained. 

“That’s a mango chutney. We call that dal. Oh that’s murgh mahani." He furrowed his eyes at a bowl. "That’s just rice Joker. I didn’t make it fancy." He laughed and made a comment about the bread looking more fluffier than normal.

"Oh c'mon J, you had my naan before. This one is just garlicky to go with the yogurt.” you finished explaining everything and an awkward silence fell over you both.

Joker nodded to himself but he didn’t say much else. It was a lot to take in and you picked up his reserved demeanor.��

“If it's too much, I can defrost some samosas that you like or we can order take-out or or..”

You were rambling. A habit of yours that he loved to pieces. Joker didn’t know why you were so nervous but he smirked before leaning down and kissing you speechless. You rested your hand on his chest and blinked in confusion when he backed away and sat down at the low table you set up instead of the normal western dining table. 

You really went all out for this so he'd try to have an open mind here.

“Is there a uhh order, I gotta eat this in?” He asked. There were so many individual bowls before him and he finally noticed the entire spread was atop a banana leaf of some sorts.

This was too cool, he felt like a seasoned traveler being honored at the elder's table. If only the native would participate.... you thought.

He took his eyes off the food to find your hesitant e/c gaze. You were still standing in that gorgeous gown of yours. He’d appreciate that later tonight… but for now.. he was rather hungry for actual food.

“Well Bunny? Can I just dive in orrr whaT?” Joker clicked his tongue and you blinked out of your fog.

You managed to hear what he said and laughed to yourself before joining him on the floor.

Why were you so bent out of shape over finally embracing your culture with Joker? This man would accept anything you offered and he would never turn down food if you made it. Being accepted was a new concept to you so yeah you got emotional.

You dabbed at your lash line for any stray tears and clapped your hands together.

“Yes! There’s an order, J. Thali is all balanced. Here, I’ll help you. You are only to eat with the fingers of your right hand. Okay?” You demonstrated by scooping up some rice with a bite of vegetables.

You brought it to his mouth and he kept eye contact with you as he opened his mouth for the morsel.

Joker groaned, causing you to blush. Your fingers brushed his lips as you leaned back. "D-Do you like it?"

Like it? This was just the beginning of a long course and it already tasted better than anything he'd eaten in Gotham! (Excluding your cooking of course) And you made this as a side dish!? Nah, he loved it.

Green eyes bore into your soul, "I want more."

[barrygeuse]

before i took a nap yesterday i was thinkin' about the maitland-deetz family going to a public pool together so you know i have to indulge

charles:

he's the typical beach dad (especially with adam dannheisser in mind)

this doesn't entirely translate to the pool (and the beach trip is a post for another day) but he still fits right in

black swim trunks and an unbuttoned, floral hawaiian shirt. i'm picturing something middle-toned blue

CHUNKY DAD SUNGLASSES

shirt comes off when he gets into the pool

would be the one to cannonball hard enough that there's a genuine splash zone. everyone knows to not sit by the deep end if you don't want to be splashed when someone prompts a cannonball contest

is the one that brings his wallet so that the family can get snacks from the snack bar

beetlejuice is limited to a single choco taco per pool trip. he cannot have more than one. this is a charles-instilled rule

delia:

you WILL hear her shrieking about not getting her hair wet

wildly patterned one-piece suit (this style for example, but not this pattern). something black and white or purple or both

she'll get in the pool if lydia bugs her enough about it, but she's usually laying around tanning on the chairs for most of the day

brings wine coolers in a tiny cooler that she fits in one of their beach bags and sips them when they lifeguards aren't looking

sometimes she and barbara will get up early and make margaritas before they all head over so they can sit together and talk and drink a little

always forgets to put sunscreen on before they get there and then the kids (bj and lydia.) pretend to retch while charles helps her put it on. barbara has to stifle her laughter at it

adam:

stupid flower patterned swim trunks and a nylon swim shirt

takes no convincing at all to get him in the water. loves being in the pool and messing around with lydia (it's the dad instinct!)

if barbara's taking some time in the pool, charles will get lydia onto his shoulders and they'll play chicken. delia refuses to ever take part in this game

gets the silly water toys from the storeroom and is an absolute menace with them

no one is safe from adam maitland and his water gun. except delia, because he's a little scared she'd snap and maybe attack him

his typical targets are barbara and lydia. lydia engages in War and he loves that. barbara will pretend to be offended and then jump in and splash him a ton before they dissolve into laughter and sweet little kisses

barbara:

absolutely wears something like this. again, not this pattern, though; something green or light blue

big, floppy sun hat. she doesn't even need to wear it she can't get sunburnt but she loves it so much

she also likes the smell of sunscreen, so sometimes she'll put a little on her shoulders just because it's nice for her

spends the majority of her time relaxing next to delia, but will go into the pool if prompted. usually to cool off if she's been in the sun for a while

pulls her hair back but doesn't care too much about getting it wet

is EVIL when it comes to water wars of any sort. probably more devious than lydia. always gets you when you're least expecting it

packs picnic lunches for everybody. cuts fruit and sandwiches into little flower shapes, makes sure everyone keeps hydrated, etc. mom behavior

lydia:

spends the majority of her time in the pool. doesn't much care for being in the sun, but she considers being in the sun in the water an exception

sweet black one piece with ruffles

pool menace. the first amendment protects you from the government not the lydia

especially if you're charles. i like to think that he and emily took her to the pool a lot as a kid

so she feels really close to her mom and to charles whenever they go there. will almost never turn down a family trip to the pool

swims laps sometimes, just for something to do. she took lessons as a kid but never went into any team stuff

splashes beetlejuice. no one else dares do this but he lets her (very, very reluctantly. there's a lot of cursing)

loves the sandwiches that barbara makes. sitting on her warm towel on the concrete eating a sandwich nd then a nutty buddy cone that charles gets for her

beetlejuice:

refuses to so much as touch the water. it would make him Cleaner, god forbid.

this is a good thing, because it would probably contaminate the pool if he went in. everyone would have to get out.

he goes with them just to get an ice cream and cause chaos amongst the other families (limited chaos. charles keeps an eye on him)

is constantly getting yelled at for the lifeguards for running and being loud and going places he shouldn't and climbing on shit

one time he gets forced to go to Baby Child Pool Time Out and lydia will not stop laughing at him

she goes over and taunts him about it and he just seethes. charles is watching to make sure he actually stays there

likes to take pool noodles and whap lydia whenever she gets near to the side of the pool. gets yelled at for this by the lifeguards, too. lydia thinks it's funny and sometimes they fight with them

walks on the hot metal without thinking and goes, "OW!" and then does it again five minutes later

[scuttling]

Lavender

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 9,244 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Dad's Best Friend Friend From Work Hotch, Me turning a naughty, smutty story into something way more aka my specialty, Fingering, Unprotected sex, Oral sex, Semi-public sex, Office sex Summary: You absolutely dread going home for vacation, to your sickeningly cheery childhood bedroom and opinionated parents, but meeting your dad's friend from work at a stuffy cocktail party has the potential to make this a vacation you'll never forget.*Requested by anon, severely altered by me 😅 Link to A03 or read below! Most people would jump at the chance for an unexpected two week vacation, but you are not most people. When your boss emailed you to inform you that there had been some kind of glitch in HR’s system and you actually had two weeks of paid vacation that were set to expire, your anxiety had kicked into high gear. There isn’t enough time to coordinate travel with any of your friends, too short notice, and you’re kind of afraid to travel alone, though you’d never admit it, so that’s out.

There’s always the prospect of hanging out at home, catching up on all the shows you started but never had time to finish, doing things you’re always too busy for, like cooking and cleaning out your closet and going to the animal shelter to pet the dogs and cats.

Unfortunately, those dreams are crushed when you accidentally let slip during a call to your parents that you have the time off, and they literally insist you come home, will not let you get off the phone without confirming your plans.

You only live about an hour away from them, but for one reason or another, you rarely visit.

The minute you step into your childhood home, you’re reminded of why you rarely visit.

“There’s my little do-gooder!” Your dad is all but waiting at the door when you arrive, pulls you into a hug despite the fact that your hands are full of luggage. “Let me look at you.” He pulls back, hands on your shoulders, acting like it's possible something has changed about you since you had lunch together a month ago in DC. “Oh, you’ve got that serious lawyer hairstyle now,” he remarks with a chuckle, even though your hair is styled the same way it was at that lunch. He might not mean it to come out this way, but it sounds condescending.

“That would be appropriate, considering I am a lawyer,” you remark, trying to keep the snark out of your tone. You know he always means well. “You look good.” He takes his hands off of you and puts them on his stomach.

“Your mom has me on some kind of greens and beans diet, says it will help me live longer.” You smile, a little awkward, not sure what to say about that—your dad is typically the meat and potatoes type, so you figure some variety can’t hurt, but if you say that you’ll never hear the end of it, and you’ve already got a headache.

“Where is mom, anyway?” You shift your bag on your shoulder, and your dad clues in, takes it from you and starts walking up the staircase.

“Oh, she’s at the gym, then taking care of some last minute things for the party.” You pause at the base of the stairs, sigh softly.

“Party?” You weren’t told about any party. Your dad keeps walking, and you’re forced to follow.

“Yeah, nothing major, just some people from the office and their spouses coming over for drinks tonight. Maybe some of their kids,” he adds innocently, and you can’t help rolling your eyes.

By kids, he means sons: eligible sons to try to set you up with. You wouldn’t mind being in a room full of hot, single men vying for your attention any other time—in fact, it’s been a little while, and your most recent hookup was lackluster, so you’re a bit more tightly wound than usual—but the kinds of men your parents bring around aren’t your type at all. You’re career driven yourself, but all they want to talk about is how they plan to be the youngest partner at their firm, or the clubs they can get into, or worst of all, money. Your potentially somewhat relaxing vacation just went to shit in no time at all.

“I didn’t bring anything to wear to a cocktail party.”

“I think mom got you a dress, honey. Check your closet after you get unpacked.” He pushes the door to your former bedroom open, and you’re assaulted by the color lavender; somehow you’d actually forgotten how purple it is. “You’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear.” He sets your bag on the bed—oh god, the frilly purple comforter, you may have actually repressed that memory—and you drop your other luggage there too. “I’ll give you some time to get settled in, maybe order some lunch for us? Vesuvios?”

As irritated as you are about the party, it’s sweet that he remembers your favorite restaurant. You went there for dinner after you graduated from high school, college, and law school, so there are lots of great memories associated with the place.

“Do they adhere to the greens and beans diet?” you ask with a grin, and he puts his finger up to his lips to silence you.

“What mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right?” You shake your head fondly, and he slips out of your room and leaves you to it.

You start unloading your clothes into the empty dresser, hanging them in the closet that holds things like your prom dresses, graduation gowns, old cheerleading and volleyball uniforms. Every touch of silky fabric is a memory, and at this point in your life most of them are good, even if they weren’t at the time. It’s kind of nice to remember where you came from, when where you are now can be so hectic, so fast-paced you don’t see the forest for the trees.

Feeling nostalgic, you walk over to your desk, where you spent so much time with your face crammed into textbooks it’s not even funny, and flip through your old stationary set—what teenager had her own stationery? You were a total nerd—and photos you’d taken off the mirror but left sitting in a pile to be packed away eventually.

You snap out of the past after that, finish putting your toiletries away, setting up your laptop and chargers where you want them, then shove your empty suitcases in the closet and grab your phone to head downstairs.

You meet up with your dad in the kitchen, where he is opening steaming takeout containers full of Italian food. You grab some plates from the overhead cabinet and lean against the counter, look over the offerings to decide what you’ll have.

“So how are things at the ACLU?” he asks with a bit of a teasing tone. You’re well aware of the fact that he thinks you could be doing more—translation: making more—in private practice, or working for the government like he does, but neither of those things interest you and he is well aware of that.

“They’re really good, actually. We’re working on a disability rights case now that will probably make national news if we win.” It’s been forever since you had penne arrabbiata, since it’s not very easy to eat at your desk without running the risk of staining your blouse with spicy red sauce, so you load up your plate with it, add wilted spinach for color, a piece of garlic bread because it’s garlic bread. You lick your thumb, and your dad points a finger in your direction in that way that means he’s about to give you life advice.

“When you win; if you’re not confident about your capabilities, no one else will be.” You roll your eyes good-naturedly, nod, because that’s a pro tip you’ve heard time and time again. “If you came to work at the bureau, you’d win more of your cases; Constitutional law isn’t easy.” He says that like you don’t already know, like you haven’t been working in your current department for more than a year. You sigh.

“I’m not really the bureau type, dad.” You take your plate over to the breakfast table, sit down and start to pick at your food. Arguing about your chosen career path is enough to make you lose your appetite, even for your favorite dish. Your dad follows, sits across from you.

“You’re so smart, honey, you could be if you wanted to.” He takes a bite of fettuccine alfredo, points his fork at you. “Hey, maybe you could talk to Jim from the Office of General Counsel tonight—or maybe Aaron. You’d be really interested in the work his team does.”

“Who’s Aaron again?” You don’t recognize the name, so he’s probably not one of the attorneys on your dad’s team, but he works closely with so many departments you might have heard it before and missed it.

“Friend from work. He’s the unit chief at the Behavioral Analysis Unit. They’re criminal psychologists or something. Profilers,” he says, snapping his fingers. “That’s what they call them. They get into criminals’ heads, analyze them and interrogate them. I know you minored in psychology, I bet he could get you an internship.” You laugh at that, because he always gives you advice about furthering your career, but that’s a step backward for you and he can't be so dense not to realize it.

“An internship? I’m a little old for that, don't you think? Not to mention I have a job that I love.” You stab at your food, more than a little agitated by the current conversation.

“Never too late to get your foot in the door, sweetie. It’d be great to see you more, that’s all I’m saying,” he adds, ending on a gentler note, and you sigh. Your mom does it too, but your dad is an expert into guilting you into doing what he thinks is best. Unfortunately, you’ve never handled guilt very well.

“Okay. I’ll talk to him, if it means that much to you,” you promise, and you both smile and make easy small talk for the rest of the meal. The dress your mom bought for you for the party is a black, sleeveless, designer cocktail dress, something more form fitting than you would normally wear—she is evidently trying very hard to find you an eligible bachelor tonight. You pair it with your favorite jewelry, simple heels, and when you head downstairs your mom acts like it’s prom night all over again.

“Oh sweetie, you look so beautiful!” She puts her hands on your arms, spins you around. “You’re looking too thin—must be eating a lot of salads on that paralegal salary,” she throws over her shoulder to your dad, and they both laugh. You wish life were a documentary so there was a camera you could look into with an unimpressed expression.

“I’m a staff attorney actually. Fully accredited,” you add, but it’s no use. If you don’t follow in your dad’s footsteps, you will always be seen as living beneath your potential, and therefore always the butt of these types of jokes.

You love them, really, and you know they love you, but they are not the most supportive pair by a long shot. They made sure you got into a great college, let you follow your law school dreams—and you’re grateful, won’t deny their money is a privilege so many other people in your position do not possess—but that was only because those were their dreams as well. As soon as you told them about taking the position at the ACLU, it was like the tables were turned, and instead of your accomplishments, all they saw was wasted potential.

It’s enough to keep you away most of the time, which sucks, but it is what it is. It’s easier to love them from afar, so that’s what you do.

At the party, you shake hands, talk about the weather, introduce yourself to so many middle aged white guys and their sons that their faces all start to blur together. After half an hour you excuse yourself, head to the bar for a drink, and come to stand next to a middle aged white guy you have not introduced yourself to—this one, you’d have remembered, because he is tall, broad, serious looking, and very handsome.

If you were a dog, he’d have your ears perking up, no doubt about that. Instead, your heart just races a little.

“I have to say, these FBI parties are even less fun than I thought they’d be,” you comment as you wait for your drink. The man lifts the corner of his mouth in a slight smile.

“Get a bunch of men who are past their prime in one room, and all you hear about are the glory days. Can’t get a word in edgewise.” The bartender hands you your glass, and you turn to fully face the stranger.

“Why aren’t you talking about your glory days?” You immediately kind of want to slap yourself. Your social skills have been exhausted tonight, apparently. “I’m sorry, that was rude; I didn’t mean to insinuate that you’re… past your prime.” You give him a brief once over, because he deserves it, is even more gorgeous up close than you’d initially assessed; he chuckles softly, sips on his own drink.

“It wasn’t rude, it was… shrewd.” His own gaze lingers on your face, maybe the neckline of your dress, just a little. “Your father’s really happy you’re here, wouldn’t stop talking about it.”

“Yeah, he's one of the most ambitious people I know; he gets an idea in his head and won’t rest until he’s seen it through.” It’s a quality that sounds good on paper, but when it’s constantly being applied to your life, it’s more tiring than anything. “Right now he’s trying to get me to bully one of these poor guys into giving me an internship, as if I’m not twenty-nine years old with a career of my own.” He wets his lips, laughs again.

“I think I’m the poor guy—Aaron Hotchner. I’m the unit chief overseeing the BAU.” Wow, 0 for 2. This guy’s got to think you’re a complete idiot. He extends a hand and you shake it firmly, melt a little because his palm is so broad, his fingers so thick.

“Right, I’m so sorry. Feel free to tell me right now that I’m not the right fit, and I’ll slink off and hide in a corner somewhere for the rest of the night.”

“No need for that. You strike me as someone who would be a great fit for my team, if that was something you actually wanted.”

You aren’t looking for a career change in the slightest, but you can’t deny it would be tempting to report to this man every day.

“It’s not that I’m not curious about what you do; my dad told me a little, and it sounds really intriguing. I just have a lot on my plate right now. If the offer had come up before I started my current job, I would be all over it.” You smile, shrug. “Unless you could have me intern for the next two weeks I’ll be on vacation, I’ll have to politely decline the offer you haven't actually made me.” You smile, and so does he.

“Now who’s ambitious?” he asks with a raised eyebrow; the way he says it, like he finds it charming, makes your face heat a little. You’ve never connected like this at one of your dad’s FBI events, and even though there’s no way it ends well—if anything even starts—you feel the need to see how far you can go. Even if it’s just a little flirting. Even if it’s just tonight.

“Have you ever been here before tonight?” you ask after a beat. You take a sip of your drink, and he mirrors you. You lean in a little closer.

“Once, briefly. I didn’t get a grand tour, or anything.” You smile—bingo—and reach out to place a hand on his arm.

“Oh, I’d be happy to give you one, if you like. Usually my dad is all about it, but he looks occupied.” You both glance across the room at where he is in the middle of a group of men—still discussing their glory days, no doubt—and Aaron looks at you again, nods.

“Sure, I’d love one.” You show him around downstairs, the backyard, the garage—he doesn’t seem to care about the cars at all—and then go upstairs, show him guest rooms, the master bath your mother recently remodeled; he gets a little closer as you go, and you smile more, flirt a bit. You stop outside the door to your room, block it with your body while you talk about the art hanging in the hall; he’s very good at reading your body language, apparently, because he leans closer to you, puts his hand on the doorknob next to your hip.

“What’s this room?” he asks, feigning innocence, and you put your arm over his.

“Oh, no, we’re not going in there. That’s my old bedroom.” He smiles, and you grimace.

“You mean the room I most want to see now? Come on.” He turns the knob, hears it click, and you cover your face with your hand, sigh.

“This is going to be really embarrassing. It’s exactly the way it looked when I went to college, and that was over ten years ago.” You push the door open with your hand, walk in and flick on the light. Aaron follows, chuckles.

“It’s... purple. Cute.” He makes toward the bed, touches one of the frills on the comforter with his big, broad hand. The juxtaposition of your innocent lavender bedding being stroked by the fingers you can’t stop staring at is a very interesting one.

“No, it’s not cute, it’s horrifying,” you say, and when he walks toward the open closet, you begin to regret this little tour. He pulls out your prom dress, your cheerleading uniform.

“Cheerleader, huh? You don’t seem the type.” He looks over at you, and you push it back into the closet, lead him away from it with your hands on his arms.

“I’m not. It was important to my mom.” The two of you are by your dresser now, and he leans in to look in the mirror, at you standing behind him and not his own reflection.

“I see. Do you always put other people's needs before your own?” You sidle up next to him, and he turns to face you.

“This is what you do, right? You… deduce for a living? Like Sherlock?” That makes him laugh, which in turn makes you smile.

“It’s called profiling, but that’s accurate enough.” You feel a challenge brewing inside you, take a step closer to him.

“Okay… What can you tell me about myself by looking around the room? Remember, this stuff is from ten years ago; a lot could have changed.” He crosses his arms, nods.

“You’re right, but your core values wouldn’t have.”

Slowly, he walks around the room, taking things in, touching things, looking back at you briefly and then rifling through parts of your past. It’s a few minutes before he speaks again.

“I think your father wants you to work at the bureau, and you don’t want to because you’ve always felt like you’d live in his shadow if you followed the same career path. You want to blaze your own trail, do what fulfills you, not let his last name be what moves you up the ladder.”

That’s all scarily true, so you nod, cross your arms, lean your butt against your desk.

“I think you’re afraid of commitment because you don’t think any relationship you’re in will ever measure up to what your parents have.” That stings a little, but he’s not wrong. He points to a flyer stuck to a cork board, something about a charity project you’d worked on that revolved around recycling. “Environmentally conscious: I bet you drive a hybrid, and if your dad bought it for you, it’s a... BMW.”

He glances back, and you encourage him to go on. He points to a copy of your Georgetown diploma hanging on the wall, then picks up a cheerleading trophy on your dresser.

“You were a cheerleader to please your mom, went to Georgetown to please your dad, excelled at both; you’re an only child, so you felt you couldn’t let them down. My question is,” he says, looking up at you curiously, “what pleases you?” The words make your heart beat fast; you lick your lips, tilt your head.

“Not much.” He comes closer, arms crossed again.

“Why?” God, that’s a loaded question for a Friday night, for the first day of your vacation. You absently wonder if he’s going to bill you for this impromptu therapy session.

“I find it difficult to ask for what I want,” you ultimately say, and he moves even closer. His stare is probing, and you speculate that he may have been a lawyer before the FBI. The look on his face is the same one you’ve seen in many courtrooms over your short career.

“Of course you do. You’ve never done it before. You've spent your whole life asking other people what they want from you.”

You feel very seen, and you kind of hate it, but you also kind of like it—that he’s able to dissect you like this is a huge turn on. What that says about you, you’re not entirely sure; maybe that you enjoy being seen for who you are—for all that you are—instead of who you know, or who you could have been, for a change.

“I think you didn’t lose your virginity until college—your second year.” It feels like bringing that up is a bold move for him; he doesn’t meet your eyes when he says it. “I would guess you got drunk for the first time around then, too. Your first year you were trying to navigate the feeling of not being under anyone’s thumb anymore; your second year, you finally felt like your own woman, you wanted to try new things, but it made you feel out of control and you don’t like that. Even now you only drink socially, never to get drunk.” He is directly in front of you now, and he reaches out a hand, brushes it over your cheek. “I also think you gravitate toward men you find inappropriate and unattainable so you don’t have to worry about being the reason your relationships fail.”

He looks into your eyes with a questioning gaze. It’s a painfully accurate take, but he softens the blow with the gentle touch.

“Wow, you’re kind of an asshole,” you breathe, but you smile, and he laughs low.

“Maybe. But am I wrong?” You nod your head, and his face falls a little, so you narrow your eyes to mess with him a bit.

“Only about one thing: I actually drive a Kia hybrid. And I bought it myself, for your information.” He smiles, and you press your hands against his chest; it’s crazy how quickly he drops back into the serious expression you first saw him wearing by the bar. “Are you unattainable and inappropriate?”

“I work with your father; we’re the same age. We play golf together sometimes.” He doesn’t seem uncomfortable, doesn’t back away or remove your hands. You slide them down his body, over his stomach, stop at his belt, and he looks the way you feel: tightly wound, aroused, a little breathless.

“That doesn’t really answer my question, Aaron. May I do some profiling of my own?” You look up at him, curious, and he nods.

“Be my guest,” he murmurs, and you lean back. You rake your eyes over his body slowly—there’s no mistaking your appraisal for what it is. “No ring on your finger, but there’s no way you haven’t been married before. My guess is you’re divorced, and it wasn’t your idea.” You look up at his face, smile softly. “Sorry. You weren’t exactly pulling punches either.” He huffs a laugh.

“You’re right: I wasn’t pulling punches. You’re right about the divorce, too. Go on.” You nod, hum.

“Okay. You have a strong moral compass; you always do what’s right, even when it’s difficult. It’s what makes you such a great leader for your team. You like to go by the book, you’re a Fed through and through—but when it comes down to the bureau or the people you care about, you’ll fight the establishment with all you have. You aren’t a blind believer in the government; you have your criticisms, and you aren’t shy about voicing them.”

“Unlike your father,” he says, and you sigh. “You don’t have an appreciation for his work.”

“No, I really don’t.” Your dad specializes in Freedom of Information Act litigation—he does his best to keep the FBI from actually living up to its commitment to be transparent with the American people, and it doesn’t sit right with you, never has. You may both be attorneys, but you could not be more different if you tried. “But I’m profiling you, remember?”

“Right. Please continue.”

“This might be going out on a limb, but I think you went to law school. The way you speak, and the way you looked at me earlier? It was a little like cross-examination. Am I right about that?” His answering smile actually looks pleased.

“You are. I was a prosecutor for a number of years before joining the FBI. I think it’s something you don’t ever really lose.”

“For better or worse,” you say with a smile of your own. Happy with your assessment, you move a little closer again. “One more thing. I don’t think you’re the kind of man who would normally let a woman take you into her bedroom after less than an hour of knowing her. Childhood or otherwise.” You smooth your hands down either side of his tie, over his firm chest and solid midsection. “Maybe you saw something in me you liked?”

“I was... dreading coming here tonight.” He brings his hands up to cover yours, but doesn’t pull them away, just holds them. “If you’ve been to one of these parties, you’ve been to them all—no offense to your father—and I was contemplating a good excuse to leave early, if I’m being honest. Then you showed up at my side—my friend’s mysterious daughter that I’ve heard so much about—and you’re funny, and charming. Insightful. Vulnerable.” He squeezes your hands, presses them closer to his chest. “Beautiful. It’s been a long time since I’ve looked at someone and felt an instant connection. Do you feel it?” His voice is just above a whisper, and you nod lightly.

You aren’t the type of woman to take a man into her bedroom after less than an hour of knowing him, childhood or otherwise, but he makes you want so badly you’re almost ravenous—you’ve felt this way before, maybe twice in your life, but neither of those experiences ended with you getting what you wanted. You really hope this time might be different.

“Kiss me?” He takes a breath and then presses his lips together.

“I shouldn’t.”

“I know. But will you?” After a beat, he does, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours, moving his hands to your face as he deepens it.

It’s not a hard kiss, but rough around the edges, your noses pressed together, mouths seeking contact even as you pull apart for breath. He kisses like he needs it, tastes like bourbon, feels like heaven; it’s steamy, wet, makes your chest heave and your pussy throb. When he walks you backward, gently presses your body against your desk, you hop up onto it easily and pull him closer, between your spread knees.

“Aaron,” you sigh over his lips, and his hands move to your thighs, pushing up your dress so he can get closer to you. You glide your fingers through his hair, plant a hand on the desk, then feel something tip over, hear the soft sound of paper sliding over the edge.

Aaron looks down, picks up a lavender envelope; he holds it up with a question in his eye and an enamored look on his face.

“‘From the desk of…’ You had personalized stationery at eighteen?” His mouth is a little red from the kiss still, and he’s teasing you, perfect; you smile, can’t believe this is happening.

“I liked to write to my congressman… and Ruth Bader Ginsburg,” you pant. He chuckles, kisses you a little softer than before, then moves down your throat, sweeps his tongue over your pulse. “Mmm. Right there.”

He pauses to look up at you, hair mussed from your fingers, and you push his jacket off his shoulders; he shifts to full height, helps you take it off, and you drape it over your desk chair, work the knot of his tie loose.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks as your fingers slip down the front of his shirt, freeing his buttons. You unclasp his belt, open his pants, and stretch up for a kiss, touching his face; you nod when you pull back.

“Absolutely. Are you?” He nods too, all serious eyebrows you want to kiss, mouth you want back on yours, on your throat, anywhere.

“Absolutely.” You step down off the desk, run your hands over his arms, then kick off your shoes and walk over to the door, close and lock it; when you pass him again, you guide him to the bed and sit in his lap, clutch at his shoulders and kiss him with as much desperation as he showed you before. There’s a lot of heavy breathing, sighing, moans from you both, and if just kissing is this good, you can’t imagine what he’ll be like inside of you.

When you can find it in yourself to stop kissing him, you pull back and climb out of his lap, present the back of your dress so he can ease down the zipper. He pushes it off, large, warm hands gliding over your body until it hits the floor in a heap unbecoming of the designer label. Your mother would lose her mind.

“You are incredibly beautiful,” Aaron says as he moves his hands to your hips, sliding your panties down and leaning in to press his lips to your stomach. You sigh, press a hand to the back of his head while his mouth explores you where you’re soft and sensitive. You’d like it lower, but there may not be time for that tonight. “What do you want with an old man like me?”

“None of that.” You sweep your hands over his shoulders, sink down onto his lap again, and his hands fall to your bare hips, squeezing you softly; you close your eyes for a moment, so overwhelmed by just the simplest touch. “Like you said: I feel a connection.” Your fingers move to push his shirt open, to lift his undershirt so you can get your hands on bare skin and soft body and hair. He groans, and you kiss him, deep and slow, hands moving to take off both shirts and add them to his jacket on your chair. You take a deep breath, reach out to touch his cheek. “Connect with me.”

He takes your hand, brings your palm to his mouth and kisses it, then drags it down so your fingers slide over his lips; you swallow hard, can feel wetness pooling between your legs, so you slide off of him and onto the bed—however sexy it may be to leave your mark on him, you do both have to return to the party at some point.

Sitting up beside him, you touch his body, ease his pants and boxers down; he takes them off along with his shoes, and you pull the comforter out from under you, push it to the side, let yourself lay back and bask in the look and feel of him as he settles between your knees, leans in for a kiss.

It’s even more intense than before, somehow, his thighs against yours, strong arms supporting him, and you drag your nails lightly up his body, tip your head back and sigh when his lips trail from the base of your throat to your jaw.

He moves a hand low, rubs his fingers between your lips and presses one finger inside you, slowly glides it in and out so you’re moaning, sighing his name.

“That feels so good,” you breathe, and he moves his mouth to yours again, soft and wet, the slide of his tongue sinfully delicious. He adds a second finger, earns more gasping moans, then a third; with the help of a capable thumb stroking over your clit, you come, and he kisses the praise right out of your mouth and then pushes inside you.

His mouth doesn’t leave yours, keeps you close as he thrusts inside, gradually lowering his weight onto you until you feel him everywhere: chest soft against yours, stomachs pressing together as you both work your hips, as your hands grasp his back to keep him close, heavy. Connected.

“You’re perfect. You feel incredible, baby,” he speaks against your lips in a rare moment apart, and you hitch your knees up higher, press the heels of your feet against his ass.

You thought he looked turned on before, but now he looks like he’s being consumed by it, like he wants to thrust deeper into you, make a home in your body and never leave; you would be more than okay with that, to spend the next two weeks beneath him, holding him close, sharing breath and sweat and pleasure so complete it changes you profoundly.

He moves a hand behind your head, cradles it, and sucks wet kisses against your throat—nothing so deep as to leave a mark, but that doesn’t mean you’re not panting, whimpering, begging for more.

“Aaron. Hmm, oh. You’re so gorgeous, I—everything about you.” He pulls away from your neck, peers down at you, and you’re sure you’re a sight to behold in your desperation; your palms smooth down his back, to his sides, and you hug him close, squeeze him hard when he comes, panting your name against your throat and pumping roughly inside.

You meet his every thrust, dig your nails into his hips, and he leans forward, covers your mouth with his and grinds against you until your second blissful orgasm shudders through your limbs. You clench tight around him, moan, then slowly sag back against the mattress, more thoroughly satisfied than you’ve ever been in your life.

He shifts, half on top of you and half off, his kisses gradually slowing, his hands sweeping over your shoulders, your face, your arms. When you’re calm, content, you sigh, kiss his hands and cheeks and lips; you’re warm, and you curl around him, overheated skin on skin, and never want to leave.

“Mmm,” he rumbles against your shoulder, mouthing at it, and you sigh, scrape your nails through his hair.

“Mm hmm. Think I can die happy now,” you murmur, and he shifts up to look at you, a smile curving softly from the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t die on me, now.” You smile too, scoot closer for slow kisses. You’re both happy to lay there, quietly kissing, but eventually it’s clear you need to return to the party in order to avoid suspicion—not that you think anyone would ever guess what just occurred.

You dress side by side, turning to have him fix your zipper, reaching up to help him with his tie. When you’re both technically decent enough to head downstairs, you plan to give him a head start, but the two of you get caught up in one more deeply sensual kiss that almost makes you want to just say screw it and take his clothes off again. He can tell, has the barest hint of a smirk on his face when the kiss breaks, and he punctuates it with a soft press of lips before walking out the door.

With your spare few minutes, you look around the room—and at your rumpled, frilly, lavender bed, on which you just had super hot sex with one of your dad’s friends, it’s still kind of sinking in—and wonder what the rest of your vacation could possibly bring that could top this night. At breakfast the next morning, you find out.

You and your parents are discussing the party, who got too drunk to function, who left with the wrong wife, which of your dad’s friend’s sons you got along with most, and then he drops the bomb on you.

“And see, honey, I told you talking to Aaron would be beneficial.” You choke on a bite of scrambled eggs, try to wash it down with a sip of juice; your mom pats you on the back until the moment passes.

“What?” you ask, voice barely a squeak. You clear your throat and try again. “What about Aaron, dad?” He flips the newspaper he’s holding to the next page and peers over it at you.

“I told you talking to Aaron would be beneficial. Before he left last night, he told me all about the internship—it’s nice of him to set it up for the two weeks you’re here, so you can get some experience under your belt.” You briefly think about your experience under Aaron’s belt, but it’s really not the time.

He really set you up with an internship—one he knows you aren’t interested in—based on the offhand comment you’d made about squeezing it into your two week vacation. You’d be kind of irritated at him for making the plans on your behalf, but if it means the next two weeks are anything like last night, he’s going to make it well worth your while.

The internship excites both of your parents, and your mom declares it a girls day, takes you out for some new clothes, since you didn’t bring any workwear, for a manicure and pedicure and then drinks. She talks about what a great opportunity this will be for you, and you don’t have the heart—or maybe you just don’t care anymore—to argue about what great opportunities you’ve already made possible for yourself.

Sunday is for relaxing, and not internally panicking about seeing Aaron again. Friday night was incredible, but you didn’t think it would turn into anything, considering he is your dad’s friend, and you’re only here for a couple weeks.

You have to hand it to him, though: if he enjoyed himself as much as you did, and this internship is his way of getting to spend more time with you, he has managed to do what you haven’t been able for twenty-nine years—find a way to please your parents while finally pleasing yourself. Monday morning, you show up at the BAU office to receive a photo ID badge and fill out some paperwork. You don’t actually get to meet anyone from the BAU until after lunch, and when you do, Aaron is nowhere to be seen.

“Hi, I’m looking for Unit Chief Hotchner?” you say to a fair-skinned woman with long blonde hair and a kind smile. “I’m interning for the next couple weeks.” There is a man with her, Black, tall, bald, with very expressive eyebrows; the eyebrows don’t look like they think very highly of you.

“You’re an intern? A little old, aren’t you?” After a beat, his face breaks into a smile, and you roll your eyes, huff a laugh.

“Charmer. Yes, I’m definitely too old to be an intern; do you have overbearing parents by chance?” He raises his hands, palms up, and takes a step back.

“No, but enough said.” The blonde woman laughs, and he nods in your direction. “I’m Derek Morgan, this is JJ Jareau. Come with me, I’ll take you to Hotch.”

You thank him, follow as he leads you across the room and up some stairs.

“So what’s he like, Agent Hotchner?” you ask, wanting someone else’s opinion of Aaron as a boss, a coworker—anything other than the one night stand that wasn’t. You really know so little about him.

“He’s a good guy; smart, fair, great at what he does. A little tightly wound; could stand to live a little.” He looks back at you with a grin. “He’ll probably remind you a little of your dad.”

God. It almost makes you throw up in your mouth a little.

“You know, I doubt it, but thanks for the warning.” He knocks on a closed door at the end of the hall, and a moment later, Aaron answers it. His expression doesn’t change as Derek introduces you, and when he walks away with a friendly pat on your shoulder, Aaron gestures you in. He closes the door behind you and looks carefully over your face.

“Hi,” he says, and you see that hint of a smirk on his face again. You take a moment to appraise the room—there’s a window with blinds that are closed, a desk and chairs, bookcases, a printer, more windows on the far side, a loveseat. You look back at Aaron with a raised brow.

“Hi. What am I doing here?” His expression gets serious, like he can’t tell if you’re pleased or upset with him for the surprise. You sit down on the loveseat, set your bag down, and he sits down next to you.

“I know you wanted to get your father off your back, and you did say if I could squeeze an internship into two weeks that you’d be interested.” You smile a little, because you did say that. “I thought it might be nice to see you a little more, too. You’re under no obligation to stay,” he assures you, briefly looking down, and then he takes your hand. “But surely there are worse ways to spend your vacation?”

You give him an uncertain look, like you’re really trying to decide what you’d like to do, and then you push up your skirt and swiftly straddle his thighs, press your hands against his shoulders. His mouth falls open a little, and you lean in to catch it with yours.

“I have been thinking about you all weekend,” he mutters into the kiss, wraps his arms around your back. “Have you thought about me?”

“Only every night.” He groans at your words, lets his head fall back a little, and you press your lips to the column of his throat, nip softly with your teeth. “Every morning. Every minute.” You bite at the shell of his ear, kiss it, card your fingers through his hair. “Do I have an actual job to do here?” You pull back, and he raises his eyebrows; you can’t help the grin that takes over your expression. “Because if not, I’m going to focus on making this the best two weeks of your life.”

He pulls you in for another kiss, a little rougher than before, deeper, and you tug on his hair, pant against his cheek when you separate.

“In that case, no. You don’t have a job to do here.” You tilt your head, and he smiles a little. “I'm the boss, I make the rules.” That kind of thing has never done it for you before, but you have to admit it’s making you feel some type of way right now. You sweep your hands inside his jacket, squeeze his sides.

“Mmm, yes you do. Hey, do you think there’s enough room for me to fit under your desk?” He wets his lips, and you climb off of him, walk around to check it out for yourself, bending over his desk in your tight black skirt to peek beneath it. You look up to see Aaron is not shy about taking in the view, and you grin. “Spacious.”

He walks toward you, and when he’s closer, his eyes look dark with need; his hands look like they ache to reach out and touch. You step forward, let yourself be caged in against the desk by his arms, and you arch your back a little, open his belt slowly.

“I didn’t set this up so you would feel obligated to do this.” You sigh, lean up to catch his lips in a soft kiss.

“I know you didn’t. But if I want to?” You tug down his zipper, slip your hand inside his underwear, feel him hot and stiff in your palm. “And you want to?” He nods tightly and you kiss him again, squeeze him softly, sweep your tongue between his lips. “Then let’s.”

You take a step back, push his chair far enough out of the way that you can crawl under the desk, come up on your knees; he exhales deeply, then sinks down into his chair, stretches his long legs so they rest on either side of your body, holds his pants open for you. You look up at him, hope he sees how ridiculously eager you are to do this, and you take his dick out, stroke it a couple times, and cover it with your mouth.

“My god,” he sighs, head resting back against his seat. You hold him with both hands, suck deep and wet, moan a little when he spreads his legs further apart. “Your mouth feels so good, baby. Does this make you wet?” You pull off, move one hand to slide up his stomach, clutch his shirt there.

“Very, but I’m patient. Want to make you come.” He wets his lips, sighs, and you dip your head, lick up the length of him before sucking him back down.

He is all perfect, desperate noises, soft grunts and moans, gently palming your head as he gets closer, and you’re pretty sure he’s about to get off when there’s a knock at the door. He mutters a curse, and you squeeze his stomach, determined to make him come in the next five seconds. He looks like he’s going to lose his mind.

“Just a minute,” he manages, his voice strained, and he puts his hands on your arms, but you stroke and suck him quickly, actually sigh in relief when he spills in your mouth; your only regret is that he couldn’t be louder.

As soon as he’s through coming, you duck under the desk to wipe your mouth, and he hurries to fix his fly, to close his belt. There’s another knock, and he exhales, calls for whoever is on the other side to come in.

He accidentally bangs his knee off the desk, winces, and you lean back against it, panting, your heart racing.

“Aaron!”

Your eyes snap closed. What are the actual chances of this? You don’t know enough about karma to have an opinion on it, but you come to the sudden realization that you must have done something wrong in a past life.

“Hey, what are you doing in our neck of the woods?” Aaron asks, managing to sound like he is in fact not talking to the father of the woman who just swallowed his come.

“Looking for my little girl, of course. Had to see what she was getting up to on her first day at the FBI.”

“She’s actually… downstairs. In the mailroom. Interns start at the bottom and work their way up.” You stifle a laugh, because despite your compromising position, that’s kind of funny.

“Oh, okay. Agent Morgan thought she was up here, but I guess she must have snuck by him. Would you tell her I stopped by?”

“Absolutely. She’ll be happy to hear it,” he says, and you think you might be out of the woods, but you hear your dad’s voice again.

“Hey I almost forgot to mention: Monday Night Football tonight, got a bunch of guys coming over to watch the game. You interested?”

“You know, that would be great. You can text me the details. Thanks for the invitation.”

“Sure, of course. I really appreciate you taking care of my girl.” You have to bite your lip this time, and Aaron taps his foot against your hip.

“It’s my pleasure. She’s really wonderful. You should be proud.”

“I am. I’ll text you the details,” he says, and then the door closes and Aaron pulls back, looks down at you beneath the desk. You kind of just stare at each other for a minute.

“Close call?” you say with a shrug, and he helps you to your feet, then lifts you up and sets your ass on the edge of his desk. He grabs your face for a messy kiss, and you cling to him, breathless when he pulls back.

“What does it say about me that I’m turned on again?” he asks, and you shake your head, pull him close for another kiss.

“I don’t know, but I’m really turned on, too. Can you—” That’s as far as you get before he strides over to the door, flips the lock, and comes back to push your skirt up, tug your panties down to your knees so quickly it makes you gasp. He gets on his knees slowly, looks up at your face, and puts his hands on your hips, takes a few deep, thorough licks of your pussy. “Oh, my god.” You put your hand on the back of his head, drop your ass harder against the desk and press your other palm against it for support.

He is as enthusiastic as you were for him, slipping his tongue between your lips, gliding rhythmically over your opening but not pressing in, the tease. It feels insanely good, so much but not quite enough.

“Aaron. Oh, mmm—please. Please.” You sigh, dig your fingers into his hair, and he puts his hands under your ass and tilts you back on the desk, dives lower to start thrusting inside you with his tongue. “Yes, yeah, right there,” you murmur, and you rock your hips a little; your hand slips, sending you further back on the desk so that you’re almost laying back on it, and it makes you feel so deliciously dirty that you groan, grab at the collar of his jacket at the back of his neck.

“You okay?” he asks, pulling back to look up at you, and you nod, frantic; he licks his lips, lifts your legs and puts them over his shoulders, then dips down to stroke his tongue inside you, to press a finger inside alongside it.

“Holy—oh, yes.” You toss your head back, whine, and come around his finger while his tongue flicks in and out until you’re left breathless, spent.

You press yourself up to sitting, and Aaron stands, kisses you deeply, hands on your face while you’re still slick on his tongue. After a couple of minutes, he helps you get cleaned and straightened up, his kisses soft presses of lips this time.

“I should try to get some work done,” he says, but he doesn’t sound like he wants to; after that, you can’t really blame him.

“That’s okay; I brought my laptop, so I can work on some stuff too, if you don’t mind.” He doesn’t of course, and you get set up at the other end of his desk. You’re both plugging away at your work when you’re reminded of something from earlier; you close the lid of your computer and look over at Aaron, head tilted. “I didn’t take you for someone who likes football.” He smiles, taps his pen against his chin.

“I don’t. But I figured you’ll be there.” You smile back.

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Maybe I’ll see if my old cheerleading uniform still fits—you know, just to go with the theme.” You open your computer back up, but the look on Aaron’s face out of the corner of your eye is very, very promising. “Mmh, that feels good,” you murmur, one hand on Aaron’s shoulder and the other on his thigh; he is propped up against your pillows, massaging your bare breast and your clit while you roll your hips in his lap. Your cheerleading skirt fits, mostly, but you couldn’t zip it all the way; still, it’s the only thing you’re wearing, and you can’t deny the whole situation is so hot it hurts.

“You feel so incredible. Taking me so well.” He can’t kiss you in this position, and you can tell he wants to—you really want him to—so you feel a little like a tease as you work your ass and thighs atop him. “You know you’re beautiful, but I can’t stop saying it. You’re perfect, baby—in this little skirt?” He moves the hand from your breast to your hip under the skirt, squeezes you there. “So sexy. Do you remember any cheers for me?”

You groan, roll your eyes.

“Not worth the orgasm to embarrass myself,” you say, and he lifts his hips, slams up into you hard. “Mmh. Okay, almost worth the orgasm, but not going to do it.” He lifts an eyebrow, pumps his hips up again.

“Really? Not even if I…” He lunges forward, lifting you out of his lap and making you laugh, then maneuvers you onto your stomach, gets on his knees behind you, flips up the skirt.

“God, Aaron,” you sigh, and he presses his thighs right up against your ass, slides inside, pumps slow and steady while squeezing your cheeks, pulling you back toward him. Your fingers dig into the stupid, frilly bedspread, which will probably turn you on for the rest of your life, now, and you move back against his thrusts, moan.

“Worth it now?” he asks, filling you so completely, and you pant, hum.

“Wouldn’t you rather I just moan your name?” He leans forward at that, hands planted up under your arms, and leans in to speak into your ear; the way he’s pressed against you, the angle is perfect, and you’re right on the edge when his lips brush your throat.

“Yeah, why don’t you do that instead.” It takes about two seconds for you to come, and you aren’t shy about it, let his name fall from your lips in an endless string of praise. He hammers against your ass, the roughest he’s been—and god, does it feel good—then comes inside you murmuring your name.

He pulls out, rolls you over, and you finally kiss, make it count; it’s like the first night, how you can’t get enough of each other, messy, desperate, curling tongues and soft, eager lips, but you know you can’t keep it up forever, because his presence downstairs will be missed much sooner than Friday’s party.

You help him get dressed—in jeans and a blue polo, maybe the only time in your life a polo has made you wet—and then throw on a t-shirt and jeans of your own, head downstairs. You detour for the kitchen to grab a couple beers while he heads into the living room, and then you plop down next to him on the couch and hand him one like you weren’t just defiling your childhood bedroom yet again.

“There you are,” your dad says when he registers your presence—it’s impossible to get him to look away from the tv when a good game is on. “So how was your first day at the office? Think you’re going to like it there?”

“Yeah, I don’t know why I was resistant for so long.” You shift, put your leg under your butt, and take a sip of your beer. “It’s not going to be a career for me, but I have a really good feeling about the next two weeks.”

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[paperwayne]

worldy things.

50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You” ➡ 21. Sharing your umbrella with them in the rain.

Pairing: Titans!Rachel Roth x Reader

Word Count: 1,232 words

Warning: Religious themes

Rachel tries to make herself invisible at church.

Churches are houses of God, after all – and whatever she is housing, it is the opposite of holy, restless in her legs, itching anxiously in her chest as she sits in the pew and lets the sermon scrape the inside of her damned skull; but she stays, if only for Mom, who plunges herself into religious routine like it’s the only thing that can save them.

(So far, no luck.)

“Want some gum?”

“Sure.”

But even if church turns out to be a bunch of baloney (she banishes this thought immediately just in case it’s not), Rachel is still glad that you’re here.

Most of the members avoid talking to her. Just like the last church, they had said hello for the first attendance, eyes raking over her black clothes and black nail polish and purple hair, and figured that she was another poor, devil-worshipping teenager –

(We’re so glad you’re joining us today

We’re so glad to be here)

– and even now, Raven forces a smile as uncertainty and pity crawls from their hands to hers when she shakes them at the church door. And hey, it’s better than what she gets at school, but pity doesn’t make her feel like any less of a freak.

“… I have some Snickers, too,” you whisper as the speaker continues, pulling a handful of candy out of your pocket. “Want some?”

Rachel holds out a hand. You press one Snickers Minis into her palm out of sight of Mom, looking straight ahead during the deal. Mischief and boredom and friendliness spark underneath her skin at the contact. She squeezes her fingers around the chocolate (it’s an ‘R’), pleased, and stuffs it into her bag for later.

The sermon goes on. She keeps quiet again, listening as best she can; the preacher has a kind aura but talks for way too long, and she only grasps some of his points before getting swept up in boredom again. The verses for today are easy to understand, anyway. (If only the message translated better in real life.)

“Love is patient, love is kind …”

Rachel glances to the side, through the window. The world outside is gray and dim – it’s going to rain.

Mom didn’t bring an umbrella.

By the time the postlude starts playing, the gum is tough and flavorless between her teeth. You lead Rachel out of the sanctuary when your mom starts talking to someone and her mom goes to talk to the pastor.

“Let’s go outside.”

“Are you sure? It’s pretty bad out there.”

Finger guns. “Brought an umbrella.”

You disappear into the coatroom, then pop back out with said umbrella, and the two of you push the doors open to the thick, sharp sound of rain bursting against concrete.

Rachel does not mind the rain too much. In fact, she usually likes it so long as it’s not thundering badly. A harsh storm, raindrops sharp, air heavy and fresh – it’s probably the closest thing she’s ever felt to true peace. Purity.

Up goes the umbrella. Out into the rain go you and Rachel.

“Whoo,” you say. “It feels like hail.”

“Hell?”

“Hail,” you enunciate with a snort. “Rain is, like, the opposite of hell.”

Your tennis shoes are already soaked, and so are the edges of your pants. Rachel had always wondered why you only dressed halfway for church, pairing a nice, ironed shirt and khakis with those old, scuffed-up shoes, but she’s figured that it’s not important enough to ask. The soles of her own shoes are pretty worn too.

When you make your way to your family’s car, you ask if she’s coming over for lunch.

“I don’t know,” Rachel replies, though she’s been craving your mom’s layered three-bean dip for the past week. “I haven’t done the geometry homework yet.”

“It’s just lunch. You can go home to work on it after.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You won’t make me stay until your mom has to kick me out?”

“What? Me? Never.”

You laugh, the umbrella slipping in your hand. Rachel grabs the handle before it falls, and her grip is right above yours, so that the coldness of your skin comes with the flash of amusement and fondness that prickles her nerves like a bad shock. She withdraws.

“So, yay or nay, Rachel?”

“I’ll ask my mom.”

Rachel catches the tail end of your slow, thoughtful nod, and she folds her arms around herself as a rain-laden breeze passes underneath the umbrella.

“She doesn’t like me, does she?”

You say it so matter-of-factly, Rachel can’t help but wince. “She just doesn’t know you like I do,” she counters honestly.

“Aww.” You grin, but it’s a little smaller than usual. “Is it because I tried to talk to you during prayer?”

Rachel shrugs, looking at the puddle at her feet. That had been an issue, but only a minor one. Mom doesn’t like you because you have a weird knack for nailing issues on the head, while Mom would rather say that everything was okay until they are. But talking about that will bring up a whole load of things that you probably shouldn’t know about.

“I’ll come over for lunch,” Rachel says. “Don’t worry.”

Looking over your shoulder, you nudge her and dig your free hand into your pocket. “Hey, who said I was worrying about anything?”

You worry about a lot of things.

“Rachel.” The sound of Mom’s voice through the rain makes Rachel’s head snap up. “There you are. Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah. I mean, actually”—Rachel gestures to you hopefully—“um, can I ride with my friend to have lunch at their house?”

“You can come too, Ms. R,” you pitch in. “My mom always makes too much food.”

Mom looks very reluctant. She has her purse over her head for cover from the rain. It does a poor job. She glances over you and then at Rachel, who puts on her best, pleading look.

After a few moments of standing in the rain, she finally acquiesces. “Well, alright. Thank you for inviting Rachel for lunch. I can pick her up at three.”

“Sweet! Thanks, Ms. R.”

(Maybe ‘Ms. R’ is a bit too casual.)

“Thanks, Mom,” Rachel says, stepping out from the umbrella for just a brief second to hug her. “Uh … you should get to the car. Your clothes are getting really wet.”

“I’ve noticed,” Mom tells her resignedly. “You have fun, sweetheart. Stay safe. Be good. Call me if you need anything.”

Rachel nods quickly. “Mhmm.”

As Mom hurries off, heels clicking, you suck in a breath. “Yeah, she definitely doesn’t like me.”

“She’s glad I have a friend, at least.”

“So we are friends! I knew I could get you with junk food. You had that kinda vibe.”

Cheeks warming at your teasing coo, Rachel rolls her eyes. “Thanks.”

As your mom comes out of the church, umbrella-less just like Rachel’s and slightly irritated because of it, you turn to Rachel.

“Mario Kart after lunch?”

“Only if you want to lose.”

The car’s headlights flash, and you open the passenger door. “Ooh, okay, I see how it is. Now I’m definitely gonna beat you.”

Rachel shakes her head, slipping into the backseat. You follow soon after, folding up the umbrella and shaking it out.

“I’d like to see you try.”

[myherowritings]

PART 5. THE INHERENT EROTICISM OF BUTTONING SOMEONE’S CLOTHES

SUMMARY. Todoroki Shouto was a wealthy, young CEO who inherited his father’s enterprise. You were a barista at a local cafe who wouldn’t mind some extra cash. One day, Shouto came in during an early morning shift and tipped you such a large sum of money, you were certain it had to have been an accident. To your surprise and complete pleasure: It was not.

PAIRING. ceo!todoroki shouto x barista!reader

WORD COUNT. 3.0k

GENRE. ceo/barista au, fluff, eventual smut

WARNINGS. sexual tension !! and umm sexual frustration ;p, not explicit but prob rated 16+, just read the title of this chapter BAHAHA

A/N. sorry this is coming a little later than planned ! :( but i hope the dressing room scene can make up for it u.u tysm for reading and for all the feedback! enjoy :3 xx sof

SERIES MASTERLIST

© myherowritings — all rights reserved. reposting, modifying, copying, or translating of any kind is not allowed. do not read my writing as asmr. do not plagiarize.

What were you supposed to wear to a shopping date? you asked yourself. Not that today was a date or anything. Though maybe you sort of wished it were… 

The Naruhata Charity Gala was in a little over a week and Shouto would be coming over to pick you up in less than one hour and you still sat in your room with nothing but a towel on feeling more and more hopeless. 

It was a strange dilemma. He met you in your work apron wearing an unflattering work shirt and work pants. And when you met up over the weekend previously, you never paid too much mind on what you would wear. In fact, you were positive he wouldn’t even care how you looked. So why was it such a big deal to you now? 

Probably because of your recent admission of your growing feelings towards him, you thought crossly. 

In your defense, it wasn’t like it was your fault! Right? Seeing someone everyday… Wanting to see someone everyday… Texting regularly about the most random things, having the most banal objects you saw throughout the day remind you of something Shouto did or said… With all those occurrences it would’ve been practically impossible to not start crushing on him! 

Time passed as you stared at your ceiling blankly. If you kept this up, he was bound to show up in your house and find you half-naked. (Now that you mentioned it, that didn’t sound like the worst idea. But it wasn’t something you’d randomly spring upon someone.)

“Get up, Y/N!” you scolded yourself, rolling off your bed and heading towards your closet. 

In the end, you ended up settling for another variation of your usual go-to outfit and called it a day. It happened to be perfect timing since, by the time you finished getting ready, you got a new message on your phone. 

Shouto: Parked in front of your place

Shouto: Sorry I’m a little early. You can take your time getting ready :)

Y/N: it’s okay i’m ready now!! 

After hitting send, you put your shoes on, gathering your belongings you wanted to bring with you, and headed out the door. Excited to hang out with Shouto again, you walked with a skip in your step down the path until you reached his car. 

“Hi!” You waved through his half-opened, tinted window. To no one’s surprise, his car was a sleek black color with dark, tinted windows, and gold details along the sides. If it didn’t look so oddly sexy you would’ve laughed at how cutely dorky he was for matching his car with his credit card. “This is one hot car.”

He turned his head to the side when you entered the passenger’s seat. “Should I turn the AC higher?” 

“Huh— Oh!” You stifled a giggle when you processed the pun he made. “You’re funny, Shouto.” 

He only looked a little confused. “Thank you.” 

The interior of his car was no less—for lack of better term—sexy than the outside. Leather seats, a large screen for the radio and carplay, and the dashboard and side doors lit up a nice blue color. 

“Pretty!” you complimented, poking at the colorful light.

“Want to pick a color?” 

Your eyes widened. “It can change colors?!” 

Shouto nodded.

“Can it be pink?” you asked intently. 

“Light pink or hot pink?”

“Light.”

He swiftly obliged and with a hit of a touchscreen button, the interior lighting changed from blue to pastel pink. 

“Green!”

It turned green.

“Orange!”

Cue the orange. 

“Purple?” 

Purple. 

Once you were thoroughly satisfied with Shouto showing you the whole color selection (you were almost embarrassed to admit it kept you entertained for a good ten minutes), you settled on a bright turquoise that reminded you of the color of his left eye. 

“Ooh, this color! My favorite,” you said simply, giving him a wide smile. 

A faint blush dusted his cheeks as he developed a sudden interest in adjusting his rearview mirror. “Hm.”

Shouto drove the rest of the way in a comfortable silence, occasionally asking how your week was outside of work and what type of outfit you wanted to wear so he could have a better idea on where to take you. 

“Did you eat?” he suddenly asked when he hit the next stoplight, one hand holding the wheel and the other resting comfortably on the gear shift. 

His hands looked nice and slender and soft to the touch. Pretty hands, you thought but shook yourself out of it because you could go down a rabbit hole of examining his hands and going into detail about them. 

You remembered the single, measly granola bar you had due to your rush getting ready. “I didn’t really eat yet, no. Did you?”

He shook his head and pulled into a food plaza with lots of stores to choose from. The two of you agreed on a noodle restaurant that apparently had some of the best cold soba (once you learned it was his favorite food, you wanted to be able to have some with him and today was the perfect opportunity to do just that) and promptly headed to the location. 

In the shop, a waiter sat the two of you down at a dimly lit booth with the perfect amount of ambience that if someone were to casually look over, they might even mistake this outing as a date. 

You grinned at the thought. 

“Excited for the soba?” asked Shouto, examining the smile on your face thoughtfully. 

That’s not why you were smiling, but it was close enough. “Mhm. And the udon. You can never go wrong with noodles!” 

Yes, you got both udon and soba. But in your defense, where else would the fun in life be if not in sugary sweets and carbs? 

As the two of you waited for your main dishes, you ate some fish cakes and edamame while talking about the ways in which capitalism could be dismantled. Rather sexy of him, if you did say so yourself. 

Before you knew it, you were done with your meal and headed back into his car to go fancy-people shopping. On the remainder of the ride, you asked yourself what color you should pick that would match well with both you and Shouto. After all, nothing said a cute couple who totally liked each other going on a totally real date to a gala like color-coordinated outfits, right?

He parked in front of a street of buildings with a dark glass reaching from ceiling to floor with security guards at the door. Just standing near it made you feel fancy. 

“This is a place my sister told me she liked,” he said, leading you to the store front with his hand on the small of your back to guide you. “I hope you’ll find something to your liking.”

You tried your best not to pay too much attention to the warmth you felt both on your back and your stomach from the fuzzy feelings that spread. 

“Hello, welcome!” the both of you were greeted as you walked through the doors. The interior of the store was lined with designer dresses, some long, some short, and all incredibly stunning. There were only a few other patrons in the store, but all of them looked so elegant as they tried on their dresses. “It’s so lovely to see you again Mr. Todoroki.”

Shouto nodded subtly. “Hello. This is Y/N, my date to the gala who’ll need your assistance today.”

“Hi!” you chimed in at his cue. “Nice to meet you.” 

The worker smiled and made her way over to you. “And you as well. I’m Masuda and I’ll do my best to make sure you leave the store satisfied with your purchase! Did you have a particular style or perhaps color in mind?”

“Umm,” you said sheepishly, looking around the wide variety of clothings and unsure where to start. “I’m not too sure. It’s my first time going to one of these things so maybe something comfortable, but also still...fancy?” You scratched the back of your neck. “Does that even exist?”

“Of course— Just have to find something that feels comfortable to you.” She told you to hold on one moment as she disappear into the rows of fabric. 

As Masuda collected some starter dresses for you to try on, a customer walked by with bags of clothes in her hands, her gaze lingering on Shouto, though neither of you paid her much mind. 

“In this setting, you look almost fit to be a sugar daddy,” you said jokingly, looking around in awe at the sophisticated yet lavish dresses. “You take all your sugar babies here?”

“Only the ones I really like,” he teased back. His voice was deadpan but there was the telltale hints of a smirk on his face to let you know he was only messing with you.

The door chimed to signal that a customer left and by then Masuda had returned with bundles of fabric draped on her arm. She led you away in a hurry and you hesitantly looked back at Shouto who followed in a safe distance. Seeing your moment of panic, he gave you an encouraging smile that somehow was enough to ease a significant fraction of your nerves. This may be new and confusing territory, but at least he was here to help you through it. 

Masuda set a dressing room up for you—it was one of those rooms in the middle of the store with curtains that reached the ceiling and mirrors all around—and placed a bunch of outfits she thought would suit your taste. It reminded you of when a bride would go wedding dress shopping with their family. When you had enough outfits for the first round, she told Shouto to sit down on a leather seat in front of your dressing room while he waited for you to try the different dresses on. 

In a way, it felt oddly intimate: Shouto sitting just a few feet in front of you as you undressed, only separated by the veil of a curtain. Would he offer to help button the back of your dress up, fingers brushing against your bare skin? The thought made you feel almost hot inside as you changed out of your street clothes and into the first dress. 

Unfortunately for you, this dress had no such difficult buttons to reach. 

“How’s it look?” you asked shyly as you emerged from the dressing room. 

The dress was pretty and didn’t feel uncomfortable to walk in, but there wasn’t any sort of attachment you felt towards it. In other words, it was simply...meh. 

Shouto looked up from his phone to take in the sight of you. He smiled. “You look amazing as always.” 

“You think so?” You spun around and curtseyed jokingly and he chuckled. “I don’t think it’s bad, but I’m not sure if it’s the right one.” 

“We’ll be here until you find the right one you want, then. Take your time, Y/N.” 

His voice was normally on the deeper side, but it sounded even more sensual and gravelly at this very moment. You felt goosebumps on your arms and it wasn’t just because of the sleeveless dress you currently had on. 

“T-Thanks, Shouto,” you murmured, turning around and walking back into the changing room to hide the look on your face. You didn’t even know what kind of look you had on your face, but you knew it was one that might give too much away. 

It wasn’t fair that he had to be so sweet and caring and thoughtful and handsome and rich… Most guys you met barely fit into one of those criteria, let alone all five. (Sure, the last two weren’t necessary in your opinion, but you couldn’t deny they were a nice bonus.) It was too bad you had no clue how he felt about you. 

There were moments where he felt flirty and teasing, like maybe he viewed you in a more-than-friends way. But other times he was so polite and proper and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was just being nice because that’s simply the sort of person he was to everyone. 

While you were trying to sort through all your thoughts, you completely forgot to change into a new dress the whole time you were in here. 

You saw a shadow at the floor of the curtain before a voice said, “Y/N? Are you okay in there?” 

Jumping at the sound, you scurried to put the next dress on, a blue one with almost translucent fabric and a delicate neckline. Judging from the proximity of Shouto’s voice and the shadow of his shoes, he was right next to you as you changed. 

“I’m okay!” you managed, hoping you didn’t sound as wobbly as you felt. You held the dress closed at the back, fumbling with the fastens. “I just, ah, needed help buttoning this one up.” 

A light ruffle on the curtain then a pause. “Should I...come in and help?” 

Your eyes widened, not expecting him to actually offer to button it up like you fantasized earlier. You fully thought he might called the worker to aide you just so he wouldn’t risk making you uncomfortable. (Not that he would’ve. At all.) 

“I apologize,” he said somewhat tensely after you didn’t respond. “That was indecent of me—”

“No, no!” you said profusely, poking your head out of the curtain while holding the fabric at the front of your dress to your chest. You tilted your chin to meet his gaze with a determined one of your own. “I’d love your help, Shouto.” 

With a dusting of pink coloring his cheeks, he nodded and entered your dressing room. “This dress is a nice color on you.” His voice was loud against the silence. 

Shouto ran his hand down the length of your spine and then up to unfold the column of buttons on your dress that curved inwards at your movement, his knuckles grazing against your skin like lightning striking water. You jolted at the sudden feeling but he didn’t remove his touch when he felt it.

“Sorry.” His voice was low, almost like a whisper. “Was just getting the buttons out.”

“N-No worries!”

His fingers began working on the bottom-most button at your lower back as he applied a steady pressure on the base of your spine to control the motion. Shouto slowly began his way up, fingertips cold to the touch. But you knew that wasn’t the only reason you felt yourself shiver. As he fastened the dainty buttons with immense concentration (much more concentration than was actually needed to fasten buttons, you were sure), you felt the heat of his breath tickling the back of your neck. You almost couldn’t keep yourself from arching your back in a mixture of anticipation and delight at his constant touch. 

When he finished the last button, Shouto let one hand rest on your hip, grasping the fabric between his fingertips to examine its silken texture. Your breath caught in your throat as you stepped back and bumped into his chest, but he was already there to steady you. 

With his arm on your waist and your back leaning against his chest, you made eye contact through the mirror in front of you. You weren’t sure if the pounding you felt was from your heart or his or a combination of both. 

There was something almost erotic about holding each others’ gaze in the mirror after Shouto just helped you dress, the two of you still not letting the other go despite the task being complete. 

“The dress… You look gorgeous,” he said, not taking his eyes off you for one moment. 

You nodded slowly. It did look amazing on you. And it was breathable and soft. (Plus, Shouto liked it, which made you happier than you’d care to admit.) “The only downside would be I need help getting into it.”

“We could get ready together so it’s no issue.” 

“I’d...also need help getting out of it.” 

You held your breath as his eyes darkened, his grip on your waist tightening ever so slightly in a way that made you curve your back before you remembered you were flush against Shouto and he could feel even the most subtle of movements coming from your body. But by the time you stopped yourself, it was too late. He already felt it and you wanted more.

His voice was hoarse. “I could help you with that too.”

Instead of beginning to unbutton the dress like part of you thought he would, he surprised you by spinning you around to face him, your shoulder blades pressed against the cool glass of the mirror and your palms lingering on the muscles of his warm chest. The contrast of the cold glass and Shouto’s body heat left a shiver down your spine.

“And how do you plan to help take off my dress when you can’t even see the buttons?” you said challengingly, a smirk on your face despite knowing full well your body was showcasing just how affected you were by this situation. By Shouto.

He tilted his head to the side in response to your daring tone, hands swiftly finding their way to your back and unbuttoning the top five buttons. It wasn’t enough to completely expose your breasts, but it was enough to loosen the fabric at the neckline in a way that made you gasp. 

“Seems doable to me,” he commented. 

You tugged him down slightly by the collar of his shirt. “I don’t quite believe you. Maybe you should prove it.” 

A guttural noise sounded from the back of his throat as he cupped your jaw and leaned in closer. You inched forward, eager to meet his lips. But before they could touch, a knock came from the wall next to the curtain, causing the two of you to freeze in your spots, bodies pressed against each other in an intimate flush.

“Hello, Y/N?” said Masuda cheerfully, blissfully ignorant about what was about to happen in a public dressing room in the middle of the store. “How are the dresses coming along? Did you like any?”

“Ah, actually…” you trailed off, exchanging frustrated but amused glances with Shouto. “I think we’ll take this one.”

a/n: so...mirror sex/sex in a dressing room as a bonus chapter? u.u why yes of course. i’m one step ahead; did u even have to ask? LMAO and hm i wonder if y/n’s fEeLiNGs~ are reciprocated skfkfkdg ALSO THEY WERE SO CLOSE TO KISSING BUT DIDN’T I CRY hopefully the wait will be worth it ;3

what to expect in the next part:

GALA TIMEEEE

yes y/n finally gets the fancy candy they so desired

we get to see shouto’s sexy penthouse

shouto says eat the rich >:c

[runawaymun]

Might I request Elrond x Platonic reader h/c and fluff fic, where reader comes home after a hunting trip etc. with a minor injury like a bump in the head or something and Elrond gets very fussy about it. Extra points for parent/child relationship cause I have problems.

Dad!Elrond x Platonic!Reader ~ Iris

Genre: hurt/comfort/fluff  Warnings: mild blood and injury cw (reader has a broken nose).  For: @tuuliii​ Reader pronouns: she/they

Sindarin Translations:  Ada - informal: dad/papa  Tithen pen - little one 

You’d spent most of the day out hiking in the surrounding woods gathering wild herbs and other plants for your own experiments. Usually you’re pretty sure-footed, but there had been a hard rain the night before and you completely misjudged how slippery a certain slope would be. The rain had loosened the soil and clay and you’d slipped, rolled down it, and managed to crack your nose-- which, in your opinion, was marginally better than spraining something. At least you’re capable of getting yourself back home.

Lindir walks past just as you cross the bridge back into Imladris and, as he turns to look at you, his eyes widen to saucer-proportions. You’re painfully aware that you look awful-- covered in mud from head to toe, hair askew, scrapes along your arms and and knees from where you’d broken your fall. And, of course, your nose was starting to swell. You’d managed to stop the bleeding on the way here but it had to be bruising by now.

“It isn’t as bad as it looks,” you insist. “I’m going straight to the healers. Don’t you dare tell Ada.”

Lindir swallows and you brush by him up the road and into the house. It takes some maneuvering (the last thing you want is to run into Elrond on the way in), and you garner more than a few concerned looks. When you reach the healing halls, you head for one of the unoccupied surgeries and find Mírion inside, mixing up some tinctures and poultices. You set your travel bag unceremoniously on one of the chairs and hop up onto the bed.

He turns to look at you, first taking in your disheveled state and then trailing to the floor, where you’ve tracked mud all the way in. 

“What happened to you?”

“Don’t ask. It’s too humiliating. Can you just patch me up before Ada sees? He’ll throw a fit.” 

“Lia will throw a fit about the floor,” he scolds. 

“Tell her I’ll mop it.”

He lets out a long-suffering sigh and gathers up a few items: bandages and plasters, a bowl of hot, clean water, and some honey and strong spirits and brings them over to the table by the bed. 

Just as he starts examining your nose, Elrond bursts in. 

“What happened?” he exclaims, rushing to your side. Mírion backs up to give him space as he takes your face in his hands, turning it this way and that, gray eyes filling with worry. 

Lindir is right behind him, hovering nervously in the doorway. You shoot him a betrayed look which he returns with a helpless (and rather apologetic) shrug of his own. 

Elrond prods the bridge of your nose with his thumb and you hiss in a breath at the sharp burst of pain. “Ai! Ada!” you try and brush him off but he won’t be moved. “I just had a nosebleed, that’s all.”

“It’s broken,” he scolds. “What were you doing?”

“I lost a fight with a riverbank,” you say dryly. “Slipped and fell. I’m fine.” Your nose, the treacherous thing, picks that exact moment to start bleeding again. You roll your eyes as his mouth sets into a thin line. He produces a handkerchief and presses it to the bridge of your nose. 

“Lean forward,” he commands, utterly unamused. You obey and replace his hand with your own, pinching to stem the bleeding and wincing at how that just makes everything hurt more.

Mírion slips out with Lindir and Elrond washes his hands and returns back to the bed to examine all the little bumps and scrapes, making little disapproving noises in the back of his throat. Once the bleeding has stopped he takes the handkerchief, sets it aside, and takes your face to glower at your eyes, then holds up a finger for you to follow. You do, glaring at it as he drags it left, and then right. Satisfied, he asks:

“Your ears are not ringing?”

“No, Ada.”

“And you aren’t dizzy?”

“No, Ada.”

“You did not lose consciousness when you hit your head?”

“No.” 

He sits on the edge of the bed to take cool, wet cloth and make you press it to your nose to help with the swelling, and then sets to work cleaning the mud out of all the little scrapes. “If your sight blurs or you begin to feel nauseous or have trouble sleeping, tell me.” 

“It’s a nosebleed,” you complain. Your voice sounds nasally even to your own ears.

“It could have been a concussion,” he clucks, “Or a septal hematoma and neither of those ought to be taken lightly. You are fortunate it’s not necessary for me to reset anything. You are not to go out on your own for the next week.” 

“This is why I didn’t tell you,” you mumble. 

“Which is why I am glad Lindir did,” he replies back, because with that superior hearing and experience raising two very mischievous twins, you have never ever been able to get anything past him. “And Mírion would have anyway. Sleep with an extra pillow to keep your head above your heart until the swelling reduces.”

You pout while he plasters up the scrapes, applying the alcohol as disinfectant and the honey and plasters where needed. If you’re honest, though, the attention is kind of nice, though you would never admit it out loud. 

“What were you doing climbing down a muddy riverbank in the first place?” he asks at last. “You know better.”

You have the decency to blush and you reach for your travel pack and pull out a now rather smashed up bouquet of purple crested irises. You’d seen them growing at the base of the bank and, to your credit, had actually gotten ahold of them before picking your way back out.

“I know how much you like them,” you say, but you’re far too embarrassed to look at him. 

He’s quiet for a bit too long, and when you glance up at him at last he looks completely torn between laughing, scolding you profusely, and crying. He takes them from you and kisses your forehead.

“You are so dear to me,” he murmurs. “Thank you, tithen pen. I love them.” He can’t keep from adding: “But you must be more careful.” 

“I promise not to go climbing down any riverbanks after it’s rained,” you say. 

“Good, but don’t think that will get you out of house arrest. You still are stuck here until I am certain you have not given yourself a concussion.” 

You sigh. He presses his hand to your head and hums a tune in the back of his throat, and you feel the pain in the bridge of your nose ease. He brushes your hair back from your face with another affectionate kiss to your still-muddy forehead and says: “I will bring you some new shoes before you get up so you avoid tracking more mud everywhere. Be sure to apologize to Lia and Lindir for the mess.”

“Yes, Ada.” 

He stands from the edge of the bed and takes the wilted irises over to the the poultice-mixing station to find a glass to stand them in, and the next time you go into his office, you find that he has dried them and put them in a vase as a permanent fixture on his writing desk. 

[cheri-translates]

Headcanon - When he thinks you’re going to kiss him

Original title: 当他以为你要亲他

Original author: 君兮耶君兮 (jun xi ye jun xi)

[ VICTOR ]

Your gaze flits from Victor to the bookshelf, as though pondering on something quietly. While reading his documents, Victor’s sharp senses cause him to notice this. His eyebrows arch slightly as he waits for your next move.

Finally, you come to a decision. You step forward slowly, then lean down in front of him. “Victor...”

“Dummy,” he mumbles with a chuckle. He cooperates, closing his eyes and tilting his chin slightly.

“Hm? What did I do?” You express confusion, reaching out for a novel from the shelf behind him. Since he’s blocking your way, you have no choice but to grab the book through this intimate posture.

Victor stiffens, and he opens his eyes instantly. Your face is filled with question marks as you hold the book before him.

“Why did you close your eyes?”

“...my eyes were tired, so I was resting them.”

“Oh?” You glance at him slyly. “Even though you looked pretty weird smiling with your eyes closed, I believe you.”

In contrast to what you just said, the words “I don’t believe you” are more or less etched on your face in bold.

“...a certain company’s financial status is in line with expectations. That’s why I was smiling.” Unable to ignore the teasing look in your eyes, he sets down his notebook laptop, then stands up and pinches your face. “Why are you laughing?”

“I’m not, I’m not!” You quickly plead for forgiveness. “You’re the boss, so whatever you say is correct!” With this, you rescue your face from his clutches, preparing to flee.

One step ahead, Victor sees through your plan. How could he possibly let you off? He tugs on your arm, pressing you to his chest. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I just wanted to read a book to relieve boredom,” you give him an embarrassed smile. “Since your eyes were closed, I actually planned to give you a kiss reluctantly. It’s your fault for calling me a dummy.”

“Reluctantly?” Victor chuckles in spite of himself. An arm snakes around your waist, causing you to tremble. His finger pad rubs your lips, and his scent occupies all of your senses. 

“Since you’re here, don’t think of leaving.”

[ GAVIN ]

Standing in front of Gavin, you mete out your commands.

“Close your eyes and lift your head.”

Gavin is currently sitting on the bed and fixing a jigsaw puzzle. Thinking that you’re playing a game, he follows your instructions obediently. As he feels your soft fingers tilting his chin upwards slightly, he thinks about how his girl is no longer as shy as before, and knows how to initiate intimacy with him now.

But… nothing happens.

Just as he’s about to open his eyes, the hand pinching his chin shifts over to his cheek, giving it a light tug. “Keep your eyes closed.”

“Okay.”

He doesn’t put much thought into it, guessing that you’re just feeling shy.

You lean over, your warm breaths brushing his face. Gavin feels his muscles stiffening.

All of a sudden, something sticks to his lips. He subconsciously opens his mouth, but very quickly realises that something’s off. The thing that made contact isn’t you, but a cold and rounded object.

“Hey, don’t bite my lipstick!” Your heart aches as you stare at the bite marks on your newly bought lipstick.

“Lipstick?” Gavin’s eyes snap open, spotting himself in the mirror behind you. Sure enough, his lips are now dyed a bright red because of you. He freezes.

You point to your own lips. “Mm. I wanted to test if the shade’s nice, but I’ve already applied another shade. I needed you to be the model.” Tilting your head to admire the view, you chuckle. “Not bad.”

The grip around your wrist tightens. Before you can react, the man in front of you nibbles your lips gently. Two shades of lipsticks meld together, forming a new colour.

After a long while, Gavin finally lets you off so that you can catch your breath. As you lay in his arms with your cheeks flushed, he lowers his head to give you a peck on the lips.

“Your new lipstick looks pretty good.”

[ LUCIEN ]

“Professor Lucien!” You interlace your fingers together with his while lying in his arms.

Lucien looks down, meeting your bright and clear eyes. He responds with a knowing smile, lowering his head in compliance. “How did you know that I wanted a...”

Propping yourself up on his shoulder, you reach for a book on the shelf behind him.

Lucien: ...

“Know about what?” You snuggle yourself back into his arms. Based on his expression, you can tell what he thought was about to happen. However, you can’t resist the urge to tease him. You blink innocently. “I just wanted to grab a book.”

How could Lucien not know what’s on your mind? He bows his head to watch you, the deep pools of his eyes almost sucking you in.

“I thought my Little Miss was going to give me a kiss to recharge my batteries.” Lucien sounds wronged. Along with his usual piteous expression, you aren’t able to withstand it.

You gulp. No matter how handsome the fictional men in novels are, they can’t compare to your Professor Lucien - a feast for the eyes.

Seeing your emotions stir, Lucien follows up with his victory. “Turns out I thought too much. It’s okay, you can carry on with what you were busy with. I’ll just stay here on my own.”

He releases his hold on your waist. If you ignored Lucien’s watery gaze, you might have believed he was genuinely leaving you to your own devices.

“Pfft.” You can’t help but burst into a chuckle. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you close the distance between the both of you. Giving him a peck on the lips, you grin while asking, “Do you still want to stay here on your own?”

Lucien’s return gift is another kiss.

“I think two people might be happier than one.”

[ KIRO ]

You spot something sticking on Kiro’s hair, and think of getting it out for him.

“Kiro, lower your head.”

Misunderstanding your intentions, Kiro complies and closes his eyes. He rushes you cheerfully. “Go on, Miss Chips! I just ate a strawberry flavoured candy, so my kiss will definitely be really sweet!”

You roll your eyes, grabbing a cushion at the side and using it to smack him on the face. “You ate snacks on the sly again! And you hid them from me! I’m telling Savin!”

“Miss Chips, I lied. I didn’t eat any strawberry flavoured candy!” The undisciplined and lawless Little Kiro is most afraid of the Great Agent Savin.

“You changed your story so quickly. Who would believe you?” Although you usually fear Savin’s wrath as well, you aren’t an accomplice this time. If you were to spill the beans to Savin, he might give you permission to eat fried chicken and drink cola right in front of Kiro... Just the thought of this scene makes you happy!

Sensing your doubt, Kiro opens his mouth with an “ah”, showing that there really isn’t anything in his mouth. Then, he reveals a bag of unopened strawberry candies from behind him. “Look, I haven’t opened it yet. I wanted to eat them with you when you got back, but you wronged me.”

Taking the bag, you confirm that it hasn’t been opened. Looks like you truly maligned him. You scratch your head in embarrassment. “Sorry, Kiro. I misunderstood you.”

“Your apology is so insincere. I want a kiss!” Kiro shuts his eyes, straightforward and frank.

With a resigned chuckle, you readily give him a peck.

Your eyes snap open abruptly.

Where did that pitiful Kiro from earlier go to?

All that’s left is a bear cub with a mischievous smile. “You’ve found out, haven’t you? It was actually a tangerine flavoured candy. Miss Chips and I are accomplices now, so you can’t tell Savin!”

[ SHAW ]

You’re standing in front of him, unflinching and unblinking.

“Shaw.”

Meeting your clear eyes, the amusement in Shaw’s eyes darkens. He lowers his head obediently, letting you do as you please.

However, his tone is one of reluctance. “Tsk. I can’t say no to you. Go on.”

You toss a glance at this loose tongued rascal, reaching out towards his hair. Under his gaze of unconcealed joy and an expression which reads, “look at how much I indulge you”… you pluck bits of fur from the top of his hair, tugging on his bluish purple hair in the process.

Shaw, who is just about to wrap his arm around your shoulders for a “deep” interaction: ???

“What? Did you think I was going to kiss you?” You tease, watching his claws hang awkwardly mid-air.

Shaw reacts instantly, retracting his hand and pretending that nothing happened earlier. He glares at you, his attempts to cover up only making matters more obvious. “How’s that possible? I was referring to... yes, the thing you removed from my hair!”

“Little kids who tell lies won’t have girlfriends!” It’s rare to see him like this, and you can’t help but tease him.

“Tsk. You’re so troublesome.” He frowns. Before you can react, he grabs you by the shoulders and seals your lips. You feel a gentle nibble reminiscent of a little animal deathly afraid of breaking something.

Once your breaths return to normal, you lean against Shaw, legs wobbly. If it weren’t for his strength, you’d definitely have fallen to the ground.

Shaw has his arms around you as he presses you to him, the insuppressible smile on his lips announcing his pleasant mood. 

“Who wants to be a little kid? Only intelligent adults have wives.”

More translated and original works: here

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[ Permission to translate ]

君兮耶君兮: Can, just state the author and the source