Line cook!Simon who's been sweet on you lately, always making sure to get your tables tickets out as fast as possible, and managing to sneak you a snack during your shifts.
He always brushes it off, shrugging about it when you ask, 'was tryin' somethin' new ou', luv, tell me f'its good, yeah?', knowing he would never let you eat anything less than delicious. Regardless, hes always eagerly watching for your approval, wanting to see that stupid smile on your face as you gush about his work.
Waitress!Reader whos saved plenty of money on meals, because even with your employee discount, appetisers and sides cost a fair bit of money when it adds up over the week. Not that it mattered anymore, Simon was always using his cooks discount to get you main meals, 'no' gonna le' 'is luvie, go hungry, will 'e?'
Head chef!Price who cocks a brow every time SImon does it, but never pries. Game is game, after all.
Simon who always makes sure to give you a lift home, even when you finish earlier than him, using his break to do so. He also manages to learn that your crappy studio flat is in the bad part of town...
Line cook!Simon who is quick to suggest you moving in with him. He lives close to your uni, you'd save money on rent, and be able to travel to work together most days.
You're quick to agree, it sounding like a dream to not worry about rent or transport and to live with your friend who's been so sweet to you!
Now he just has to figure out how to ask you out and address your lack of self preservation, because really luv, youd only known him a few months...
A/n: wait guys I might lowkey be onto something, let me cook up my idea 🫰
ALSO, if there are any specific posts of mine that you want a part 2 for, let me know cause im struggling to decide ("-ࡇ-)
Romantic tiger shark yuuji courting with tiny little treasures from the deepest depths of the sea just to present to you on his big clawed hands, smiling so cute with the prettiest blush on his cheeks and his eyes sparkling with adoration and a nervous look of pure love AGHHHHGGGGHGGHHH😭
✩꒱ pearlescent ft. yuuji itadori .ᐟ
🏁 ꒰ ✩ fluff ⋆ mdni ⋆ tiger shark merman!yuuji itadori and marine biologist & fem!reader. strangers to lovers, friends to lovers, crushes, yuuji is 17ft, monster…loving, monster x human, implied language barrier ꒰ you swap gifts with your merman friend who lives in the sea, but his carries a more romantic meaning. ꒱
tiger shark yuuji waits for you to come and visit him by the pier every single day at sunset it’s how you get to talk to him without putting him in any danger and at risk.
when he surfaces there’s a brilliant splash of water that carefully rains down on your skin as if the ocean has taken to greeting you with small kisses. yuuji leans over the edge of the wooden pier with bright, boba eyes intrigued by your small human hands that tremble with excitement whenever you see him. you often do a ‘cultural exchange’ … you bring him something from the human world and he brings you something from the sea. each time more intricate and more thoughtful because he really has grown fond of his little land creature with two pretty legs.
“yuuji,” you say, smile bleeding into your cheeks like the water sunset does into the sky. your fingers hold up something that wobbles in the wind but looks like a moment of time stilled. “this is a picture! i took it with this,” you gesture to the camera hanging from your neck. “it captures memories, so we can keep them forever.”
his head tilts, pink hair dripping with water that lands cool on your thighs as the merman leans over you. “pic-chure?” he blinks up at you to check if he’s said it right.
“yes, picture!” a giggle bubbles through you, warm like the sand between your toes — drifting into the salty sea breeze. “they’re um… printed onto paper… but i laminated it so it doesn’t get wet. i’ll explain lamination to you later… it’s kind of bad for the environment but sooo useful—!”
“—who are they?” yuuji asks abruptly. not to be rude, but to be curious. his clawed pointer finger signals to the pic-chure once again.
the ink has carefully crafted faces of people you love most — who’s everlasting support for your dreams landed you a position here, who’s hearts you miss every single day and think of when night crawls over land.
“my friends from back home,” you say wistful, longing. it’s painted on the face blurred by the blush of the pinky-orange sky. he knows that feeling very well, it beats through his chest when he looks at you. “i won’t get to see them for a while.”
“just … human friends or human lovers?”
you squeak, nearly tipping forward into the waves. yuuji’s large hands are gentle on your hips — steadying you in your seat on the edge of the pier. “just friends! i’ve never… i’m not so lucky with love.”
the merman lets his voice fall into the quiet depths of silence as he ponders. only for a second, enough to let his heart decided what comes next with the turn of the tides. “i’ll be back.” he says in a tone not stern but one that keeps you rooted to your spot — and with a swish of his striped tiger shark tail, he disappears into aquamarine and frothy peaks.
just for a second. leaving you with the gulls and the rush of waves for company. you wonder why your pulse races and why your skin feels warm to the touch for reasons other than the sun.
“back.” when yuuji returns, another magnificent splash — you nearly jump into the water once again. his damp hands settle you but your heart does not still, mimicking that of stormy weather that disturbs peaceful waters. his brown eyes melt in the evening sunlight, they unravel you just a bit because they are all too kind. soft in comparison to the hard line of his torso that must taste like salt and sea. your gaze follows droplets that run down his chest and merge where his v-line disappears to the sea.
“for you.” your eyes snap back up to where yuuji holds out a hand to you — the queen conch shell dwarfed in the palm of his hand. reminding you of how magnificent of a creature he is. your fingertips brush his claws as he passes it to you, two hearts stutter. “inside.”
acting on his guidance, you shake the shell and into your hand rolls a pink pearl. in the hands of the sun’s rays, an undulating pattern is revealed — resembling that of flames. the silky pattern of the milky pink pearl glistens for you under evening light.
you look up again, mystified to find yuuji watching you eagerly. you know what it is, how rare it is. a one in fifteen thousand chance of finding such a beautiful and natural pearl — and the merman has gifted it to you as though its rarity weighs nothing on his mind.
yuuji has bought you gifts before. shark teeth and whale bones, sea shells and and even sea jellies but nothing as grand a this.
“for me?” you whisper, surprise and gratitude cracking open in the fragile cage of your chest.
yuuji nods once, timid almost. “in our culture we gift pearls to people we care about,” he explains, his timbre voice a harmony with the sea’s ambience. “not to friends, to lovers.”
his words sink into your bones like stone in water, his current would drag you under if given the chance. lovers, not friends. there’s a million things you want to say to the merman, a million feelings you want to convey before your time together is up for today. for now, you clutch the pearl to your chest — the glitter of appreciation to your eyes almost pearlescent itself as you smile.
he mirrors you, tail swishing in relief.
“let’s take a picture together,” you breathe. “as lovers, not friends.”
end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!
coming home to leon when he’s been away and no-contact for a month after Spain and turning to jelly in his lap
You know he’s home ‘cos he leaves his car parked in your spot closest to the house. You have to block him in, and you’re ravenous peering into his car window for any signs of life, but he must be inside. You almost forget your groceries, doubling back in a rush to grab them, and dumping them right at the front door, door still open, Leon waiting perched on the couch with a bouquet of wet-looking flowers on the pillow beside him.
You don’t give him time to pick them up, or take off his dark jacket. Leon is assuredly, whole-heartedly, lovingly yours, his eyes lit with affection that took months to reveal itself in a second now as you climb onto the couch and wrap your arms around his neck. He’s gotta know how close you are to tears, but he just hefts you like you weigh nothing over his lap and digs his nose into your neck, breathing, squeezing you as tight as he knows you need, even if he’s reluctant to hurt you in a way that could linger.
“Damn, I missed you,” he says on the tail end of a laugh, squeezing that little bit tighter, encouraging your face right up against his neck until there’s no room to breathe and less to miss him back.
“I was starting to worry you’d died on me,” you mumble.
“Not yet,” he promises. There’s a thread of hesitation to his hand where it tumbles down your back—he loves you, but affection is hard for him sometimes, like it might be to a collared dog. You had to earn his trust, and time apart always leaves him tentative.
You melt like butter in the sun against his chest. Mumble missed yous and you okays already knowing he won’t tell you the truth. His hair is soft in your hand when you go searching, and his lips are smiling when he fits a kiss under the hollow of your eye.
caleb is an undefeated champ at the “seeing if my boyfriend knows me” challenge. he sees two chips and knows exactly which one you’d pick. he knows which spoon you would choose to eat your ice cream with, which french fry you’d eat— he’s even got it down to which pieces of lettuce you would eat in your salad, all with accurate reasons for his choices.
“this chip because it has a fold and you like the crunch”
“this spoon to eat your ice cream because it’ll pick up just the right amount, but if you were having a sherbet you’d pick the other one because it’s better for scraping”
“this french fry because it’s longer, crunchier and has more salt”
he’d even go so far as having you close your eyes and choosing for you, then having you look and choose one for yourself (and shocker, caleb gets it right every time)
when an unknown intruder breaks into your apartment, you call hotch. he races to make it to you in time. requested here. fem!reader, 3.7k
cw home invasion, assault, attempted sexual assault, reader is badly hurt/held at gunpoint, please read with care for the content warnings above
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
"Hotch?" you whisper into the phone, your voice barely audible.
"Who is this?"
Hotch doesn't always look at who's calling at night, he just answers. Bad habit. You curl in on yourself where you're on your knees in the closet, trying not to wheeze breathlessly down the receiver. "Hotch, it's me. I need you to come and help me."
"What's wrong?" He doesn't ask why you're whispering. "Are you at home?"
"There's someone in my apartment."
"You're sure?"
You shift backwards into the embrace of your hanging coats and dresses. It feels as though tens of hands are petting your shoulders, a shiver racing along your spine as a floorboard creaks somewhere in your kitchen.
"I heard them open my door. I don't have my taser, I…" You stop talking when you hear more movement, terrified you'll be discovered. Regret clings to you. How many times has Morgan offered to teach you self defence personally? "I don't know how they got inside."
It doesn't take more than that for Hotch to click into work mode. "Stay on the phone with me. Don't talk. I'm going to put you on hold to call Morgan. I will be ten seconds at most. Don't panic. Don't hang up. If you think you can leave without being seen or heard, leave, but if you can't, don't show him where you are."
The invader's footsteps track to the bedroom. You know at once that your tired mind isn't hallucinating a bad scenario to keep you up —this is real.
You had the hindsight to close your laptop and push it under the bed along with your go-bag, a rucksack full of clothes that you take on cases in different states as part of the BAU. You'd made a quick assessment —your job more than prepared you for this— based on the little information you had. Either the invader knows nothing about you and has assumed you'd be home, or they watch you enough to think you'd be elsewhere. If they think you're here, you're in danger of being assaulted, kidnapped, or murdered. If they think you're away, you're in danger of being robbed. One scenario is a thousand times more preferable than the other.
You can't help but think of the horrible things you've seen. You know intimately what kind of damage one person can do to someone at their mercy.
The hold sound is a quiet droning that freaks you out. If you can hear it, the intruder might be able to, too. Like the low hum of the fridge at night or the bumping of the dyer.
You hang up the phone.
"I know you're here."
Your pulse flies through the roof. It pounds so hard you can feel it everywhere, the tip of your nose, your eyelashes. You look through the dark of your closet and panic in the fullest definition of the word. Your heart can't sustain this for long.
You failed to think of a third possibility. The intruder watches you enough to know you're home. The BAU has a lot of enemies. Anyone could be waiting for you on the other side of the door.
"Come out and I'll be kind," the intruder sing-songs.
You type out a text with shaking hands, your message nearly illegible.
They knowa 8m hjome. Cant talkk dontcall me
Thirty seconds elapse. A reply comes through. You smother the chirp with your chest. It sounds loud as a shot in the relative quiet.
Police dispatch 5mins. I'm 10mins. Morgan 12. I will be there as soon as I can. Protect yourself
That's easy for him to say. You drop your phone in defeat but scramble to pick it up again when you realise it's your best weapon. Or… You crawl to the opposite end of the closet to your shoe rack and slide the shoes apart with honey slow movements, your breath coming in quick, too-loud pants. You never expected to feel this way, you thought you'd know exactly what to do, how to react, but this feels outside of reality.
You brace the long heel of a shoe between your fingers. Your hand is a vice.
In your bedroom, the intruder goads you. "I know you're home, Y/N. There's only so many places for me to look, you know? But if you make me check each one, I'll be unhappy when I find you."
What the fuck? you think. Breaking apart the fear like a knife is anger, a new shot of adrenaline. Who is this guy? You want to spring from the closet and show him how unhappy you are, but your chances of survival improve the longer you can hide. If he has a gun, that's it. You could be dead in the next two minutes. No amount of anger would save you.
You could be dead in the next two minutes.
thank you dpr everything, for being my friend aaron, you text. You know how embarrassing it will be to have said goodbye if nothing bad happens to you, but you also know how haunted Hotch will be if he can't get to you in time. You aren't foolish enough to unravel your feelings for him over text, but you're sentimental enough to think they'd matter to him. He'd want to know.
If things go bad please knoeew that I loved my life and my work and you and the tram more than anything
After a moment, you add, If things don't go bad please nevrr mentiom this
Footsteps at the closet door. A pause that feels gargantuan, the silence so heavy it threatens to snap the floorboards beneath your knees.
"Found you."
You leap up and throw yourself at the closet door as hard as you can, gasping when it swings on the hinges and clips your opposition in the leg. You don't think, you don't look at his face, you simply drive the point of your shoe into his collar.
He gasps. Something hard and rigid whips upward, your neck snapping to one side as the skin of your cheek splits, gunmetal glancing off of bone. You drop down onto your ass, half out of necessity and half to get away from the pain. You can't outrun it, nor can you escape the forthcoming assault, grunting in shock as the bottom of the gun comes down atop your head. It was likely meant to incapacitate you, but all it does is hurt.
You flip onto your front, stagger onto your hands and knees, and launch yourself up through the bedroom doorway. You only have to get away.
He sweeps your legs from under you barely ten feet down the hall.
You fall. Your knees hit the hallway slats and your face follows, the nerve endings in your teeth ringing one by one and your eyes tearing up as your nose makes a huge thwacking sound. Gasping, you rush to cover your face though the damage is done. Your gasp turns to a sob, hands quickly wetted by blood.
"Stupid bitch," he hisses.
You crawl into the kitchen. He steps on the back of your thigh.
"I have a G43 pointed straight at the back of your fucking head."
"Good for you?" you say, eyes squeezed closed.
You whimper as he grinds his foot into your leg.
"Don't think I won't use it when I'm done with you."
You shake your head from side to side. That can't be what he's here for.
You should ask him what he wants, or threaten him with the approaching police sirens. You should've tried to climb out of your fire escape. You should've set the door alarm as soon as you came home, but you're just so fucking tired lately you must've forgot. Everything feels like a chore. Right now, you're exhausted.
"What are you going to do?" he asks you.
You won't negotiate. You don't answer.
Forceful, no time to protect yourself, he kicks you in the side of the face. It hurts worse than the fall, that shattering pain like a firework under your skin. You struggle to keep your mouth shut, hoping that your whining cry is less audible to him than it is to you, scrambling backward toward the cabinets. You're defeated. Maybe you deserve it, for it to happen so easily. Three minutes and you're down.
"I asked you what are you going to do, Agent?"
"What am I supposed to say?" you ask. Even to your own ears, you sound pathetic.
"Whatever I want you to. Now get up, honey." You cringe. "Unless you want to stay on the floor like a dog?"
"Don't call me that," you say, wincing at the grinding sensation of your jaw.
"What, a dog? Or… honey?" His tone is smug. "I thought you'd like that. It's what your boss calls you, isn't it? Late at night when he drops you off. Not strictly professional."
You groan and turn onto your side. The police sirens are getting close. You live in a busy place near a main road, the sirens could be for anybody, but you need them to be for you.
"Get up, honey. You can pretend I'm him, if you like. I'll make it easy on you. I can be nice."
You deliberate. Do as he says, or risk further agitation. Do what he says. Live to see the end of the night.
Or drag it out. Give Hotch enough time to get here.
"You'll pretend to be him?" you ask, sniffing. You can't tell if you're crying or there's blood on your face.
"Aw. To begin with, sure."
You sit up. For the first time, you look your attacker in the face. It's difficult to tear your eyes from the barrel, but you do. He has a cruel face, as tall and formidable as Hotch is but with none of his lightness. You put on your softest expression, gazing at him through tears. When you speak, the fear is real, even if you're attempting a facade. "You'll be gentle?"
"No. You think he'd be gentle? Agent Hotchner?" His lip curls in disgust.
"I don't know," you mumble, looking down at the floor. "You said you'd be nice."
"We both know you don't like nice."
"I do," you say, finding your footing in the charade, the sorry victim, whatever he needs you to be for now. You hate giving him anything, but you know in the moment that you'll do what you need to do to save yourself from injury. "I haven't… I haven't done stuff in a long time, I can't just rush into things."
The gun makes a quiet clicking sound as he points it with more fervour. "Like I believe that. You're probably fucking Hotchner on the side."
There, that jealousy. He's been watching you, he knows where you live, what you want, and he's still convinced that you're fucking Hotch. It's not logical.
You cling to the threads, trying to pull apart his composure. You'd assumed him an anger-excitation rapist, unafraid to hurt you as he already has, but now you're thinking something else.
"You think I'm sleeping with my boss? Why?"
"Besides your constant need to be touching him? It's disgusting, you throw yourself at someone who doesn't want you. You're pathetic. I can make you better."
You see movement in the corner of your vision. Dark hair, a stony expression. Hotch stands at the precipice of the kitchen in a bulletproof vest, a finger to his lips. Sh.
Your relief knocks a breath out of you. The invader takes it for pain at being read.
"Look," he says, softer. Not genuine softness, but practised. As soon as you give in, he'll drop it. You're both acting for one another, but only one of you is a profiler. "You'll forget all about Agent Hotchner once we're done. So just get up."
You hold out your hand. His eyes light up with malice as he leans down to take it, his gun finally aimed away from your face.
Hotch moves in.
"Drop the weapon."
Your attacker whirls. Hotch doesn't hesitate. Front sight, controlled trigger press, follow through. A bang like a clap of thunder fills the room.
You flinch down into yourself. Everything goes a little white for a while, people running into the room, a gun skittling across your kitchen tile. Your ears ring from the bang of two bullets and you're sure you've been hit, you're hurting so much, but hands squeeze under your arms to tell you otherwise.
"You're okay," Hotch says, knee against your thigh, face ducked down to meet your eyes. "Hey, can you hear me?"
You shake your head. You can hear him, but you're far from okay. Hotch bites commands over his shoulder, holding your waist in his hands like he's worried you'll slip out of them. Tight. Too tight. You suck in as big a breath as you can manage and choke on it, coughing, the wild sting of your wounds a ringer.
"You did so well," he says as he catalogues your injuries, his frown deepening. He tilts your head up to the light.
"I knew you were on your way," you deflect.
"You were talking him down."
"No, I was surrendering."
"You didn't give in until you saw me. You weren't surrendering."
"But I would have," you whisper, closing your eyes.
"Doing what you need to to survive isn't easy. But you do it."
You hang your head.
—
Hotch winces at the sound of your skin being sewn closed. Morgan sits beside you in the back of the ambulance holding your hand, your fingers twitching between his with every tug. They dosed you and applied a general anaesthesia, but the pain is pervasive. His eyes keep moving back to your hand in Morgan's. He isn't jealous —he's annoyed with himself. Hotch should be the one holding your hand.
He should've hugged you. The absence of it feels awkward between you, though he's positive that that's the last thing you're thinking of right now.
"Will you have to set her nose?" Morgan asks.
The paramedic shakes his head. "Not broken. Just very badly bruised. Even the bone."
"That doesn't need a cast?"
Hotch should hold your hand, should hug you, should be organising the scene. Should, should, should. The only thing he's managed to do since he incapacitated your stranger is watch you for signs of life.
You're despondent. In shock, no doubt. You let your friends pass you from place to place with little more than pained sighs for input.
JJ does an excellent job of surveying the goings on, while Rossi and Reid take care of some of the bigger questions: who is this guy, what did he want, and how did it come to happen?
What did he want? Hotch can guess. Rage collects like the heart of a furnace, a molten cup of steel in his throat as what he heard you say plays over and over in his head.
You'll be gentle?
No. You think he'd be gentle? Agent Hotchner?
He'll never forget the way you sounded asking that question. Terrified, begging for a scrap of mercy.
Emily approaches from behind. "We have a name." Hotch tips his head to show he's listening. "Paulo Danvers. He was part of a crew that installed her security parameters a few months ago. He was vetted. This shouldn't have happened."
"No, it shouldn't have." Hotch lowers his tone, "She said she wasn't sure she set the lock."
"It wouldn't have mattered. He disengaged it from the outside." Emily takes a few steps closer to the ambulance. "Hey. Morgan taking care of you?"
"Don't I always?" Morgan asks, clapping your arm gently.
You don't answer.
"What, you're not talking to me?" Emily asks. She's not mad, the opposite. Concern lines her eyes, thin brows pinching together at the starts, though she does her best to smile through it.
"I don't feel well," you say quietly.
"Yeah? You're not squeamish, are you?"
"Don't think so."
"It's shock," says the paramedic.
"What's your pain like?" Hotch asks. He's the only person you'll give a straight answer to. "Bad?"
"Yeah." Your hand is lax in Morgan's.
"I can give you slow release tramadol to last the night or codeine pretty much immediately. It's up to you. And I'm really not comfortable with releasing you without next of kin. Do you have family in the area?"
You shake your head. "It's just Hotch. Agent Hotchner," you correct yourself, nodding at him.
"You're her partner?" the paramedic asks. He can sense the disapproval.
"Her boss."
"Not her partner?"
"He's my closest friend," you say.
He's never heard you say that before, but it's true.
"I wish you were my boss," the paramedic jokes, turning back to her supplies as she peels off her gloves. "Maybe I'd get better sick pay."
You're given slow release tramadol and officially pronounced to be on the mend. If he didn't have an FBI badge, you'd be spending the night on a ward. He'd prefer if you did, but you clearly don't want to be somewhere alone right now, and he just wants to give you what you want after having your choices held over your head.
He's not offended when Emily asks if you'd prefer to stay with her. It's harrowing what might have happened to you had you not heard the initial break in, and the perpetrator would've been a man like Hotch. Tall, white, dark-haired. He wouldn't blame you for needing space from him to feel safe tonight, but he's relieved when you turn her down.
"You don't have to act like something happened to me," you say.
Hotch clicks down the locks of his car and turns on the overhead light. You squirm in the passenger seat, looking wrecked. Your chin is split, your nose a dark purple mess cut by white splint. You have a cut on your cheek and another just above your eye.
"You don't think something happened?" he asks, hands on his legs. He can tell you wish he would start the car and take you home without pressing.
"No, I know, I look awful, but he didn't do anything to me." Why is it so hard to say what it could have been? "You don't have to act like I'm gonna wig if you touch me."
"You won't mind if I hug you?" he asks.
"No. No, I want you to."
It's thankfully a short gap to cover as Hotch leans over the console. He's careful of your face and still you mumble a tired, "Ouch," in his ear.
He rubs your back, slow and soft. "You okay?" he asks.
You don't answer for a while. It doesn't matter, Hotch'll sit here in his parked car for hours if you want him to, hands on your hunched back. Your face hides away. He can feel and hear your distress building, and he wants you to cry if you need to, but it'll hurt.
"Sh," he hushes you gently, "it's okay."
"I'm fine." You sound welled up.
"Someone broke into your home and held you at gunpoint. You don't have to be fine."
"Yeah, I do. It's my job."
"No, that's not your job," he says, closing his eyes. "This has nothing to do with your job. This is about something bad happening to you. Don't put walls up now. It won't work, it never does."
He tries to back away in case you're overwhelmed.
"Wait," you say, your panic like a cough.
"I'm not going anywhere," he says.
You sniffle, nodding into his chest. Hotch has comforted a hundred victims of violent assault. He's held the faces of women he didn't know hoping to give them something solid to lean on. But it's different with you, because you and Hotch aren't simply friends. There's a deeper vein of affection, and tonight's event is a jagged slash against it, bringing every unbidden feeling he has for you to the surface. He can't get how scared you sounded out of his head. He knows that feeling is still there.
"How did you get here so fast?" you asked.
"I took the side road. And went unavoidably fast."
You make a small, small sound. He's known you for long enough to understand what it demarcates, unsurprised when the trembling of your shoulders turns to pained shaking. Hotch holds you delicately. He's done so much in his life, made a thousand and one mistakes, used a heavy hand when he could've been sweeter. He's determined to get this part right.
"I'm with you now," he says. "I'm sorry I couldn't–" This is harder than he imagined. He presses on. "Couldn't protect you from the start."
"You know why I called you?" you ask, your tone similarly soft.
Hotch doesn't bother answering. The answer is unsaid, loudly heard.
"I knew you'd come," you finish.
He puts a hand on your neck to encourage you into place, kissing the side of your head. Hotch will always come when you call.
That night, you ask to sleep in his room. I'll sleep on the floor, just don't want to be alone. You're in ragtag clothes he'd scraped together for you, and after helping you wash the blood from your hair and face, you're even more impossible to say no to than usual, looking small in a way you haven't before. Hotch sets you up in bed next to him and wonders if he'll ever sleep next to someone he hasn't let down.
You put that notion straight in your sleep. Hotch lays awake sick with the idea that he's failed you, and you, frowning, snoring, covered in cuts, curl into his side. You cling to his arm so hard he's certain you're awake at first, a bouquet of bruises painted across your cheek.
Hotch pulls the blanket up over your shoulder, planting a chaste kiss to your forehead.
He whispers your name, not sure what he'd say if you answered.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed♡ I haven't written long form (ish) for Hotch in a while so I'm nervous but I hope it's good!! let me know also if you'd like a second part cos usually I don't feel like there's much left to tell but for this one the could actually confess :o
laying next to aaron hotchner running my finger up and down his nose bridge over and over and over he asks me wth im doing and i forget to answer cause im too busy admiring his side profile
Aaron lays perfectly still as you run your finger up and down his nose, occasionally straying between his brows, but returning to that rugged line. The bridge remained straight and narrow for the first thirty years of his life before he started hunting criminals for a living, but it isn’t less lovely for the two bumps where it was broken and healed. His eyes are closed, his lips mildly pursed, and you’d think he was sleeping if it weren’t for the lack of snoring. Aaron chuffs in his sleep, not loud (mostly), but a constant sound. It’s like your own white noise machine at night.
“What are you doing?” he murmurs finally, eyes stuck shut.
You’re admiring him, and if the caress of your touch manages to make him sleep it’ll be a victory won honestly. You mean to tell him—it’s not complicated, the love you have for him. He’s your old man. You’re his old lady. All the Joni Mitchell songs and card inserts got it right about love, how it suffers long, how it’s simply kind. He’s your beating heart, and he deserves to be adored. He falls asleep long before you remember to answer his question, and your fingertip is numb from the ceaseless back-and-forth.
asking clark to get married when you’re already married do you see the vision
When your legs are hurting and you’ve spent an entire day walking around with someone’s fingers woven between yours—someone who treasures every second of your company like he’s just lucky to be in it—you find you aren’t as eager to get home as you’d imagined. You’d limp the entire night through the dark with Clark if it meant you’d get to keep talking to him.
But then you remember who you married. Clark would stay up all night with you if you enticed him in conversation.
“Baby,” you say, giving Clark’s hand a swing to make him smile. “Would you marry me?”
“Again?” He wrinkles his nose, blue eyes a little dark from the squint and the thickness of his brows pinching together, but he’s still smiling, and he’s leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose. “Of course I would. Every day of my life, I’d marry you. That was a great day, huh?”
“Yeah.” You lay your face in his arm. “Can I put my wedding dress on when we get home?”
“If you promise not to take it off.”
“I think you’re supposed to take it off.”
Clark laughs and sweeps you up for hugging in the middle of the sidewalk, barely twenty steps from the apartment building, but he just can’t wait. He hugs you and laughs like he’s giddy by your ear. “No, please, it’s too pretty. You can put it on and we can defrost the cake, pretend it’s fresh. I have my suit pressed at the back of the wardrobe.” He frowns at your shock. “What? It’s what I was wearing when you married me. You’re lucky I didn’t put it behind plexiglass.”
(You’re not kidding around. You put on your wedding dress, and Clark kisses you in the kitchen like you’re standing at the alter.)
If Yuji was asked to describe his girlfriend? There was only one way ⸻ pink, glittery, vanilla scented, pretty.
But don't be fooled. Most men would want a way out. Yuji does not. In fact, if he could be anywhere in the world, he'd choose to be with you.
He is exactly where he wants to be.
"Yuji?" You're sprawled on his bed, watching as he games. It's some dumb fighting game he'd insisted on buying.
"Hm?" He doesn't glance up from the console.
"Do you know where my lipgloss is?"
He immediately abandons his game, clocking into his boyfriend duties. "Which one?"
"The clear gliterry one." You reply, watching as he searches the wrinkles in his duvet, under his pillows, the floor, his desk.
"Have you checked your bag?" He asks as he peers under the bed.
You glance towards your little pink handbag. "No." You frown. Reaching for the bag, you rummage around a bit. "Found it! Thank you, Yuji. You're the best."
He beams at the praise. "Of course, baby." He tosses himself down beside you, watching as you apply the lipgloss.
As the designated taste-tester, once you've coated your soft, juicy lips in shimmering gloss, he leans in, pressing his lips to yours.
You make a small whiney sound in the back of your throat. When he pulls back, your lips are pushed out into a pout.
He licks his lips. Vanilla flavoured. "10/10, baby." He says trying to go in for another taste.
"Stoppp," You giggle, pushing him back. The sound makes him smile.
He is absolutely, undeniably obsessed with you.
"Fine." He relents with a dramatic, mock sigh, rolling over theatrically.
"C'mere." You whine.
The second he rolls to face you, you're on top of him, your thighs on either side of his torso. His hands instinctively find your hips to hold you there. You take his face gently, holding his chin with one hand, as you lean closer, applying the shimmering gloss to his lips. Your breath mingles with his. Yuji stays perfectly still until you're done, then his tongue darts out to lick his glittery lips.
"Yuji!" You huff as he laps up the gloss off his lips. He grins up at you unapologetically.
at first, you thought he was just being mean, hogging the highest-tech thing you’d ever seen all to himself. then, once you got old enough, you wondered if all the secrecy was for…nefarious reasons. but every time he smiled and ruffled your hair, you just couldn’t bring yourself to think he’d ever watch that kind of stuff.
plus, the thought made your stomach hurt.
eventually, you grew old enough to value your privacy just as much. gone were the days of you sneaking glances over his shoulder and trying to guess his password while he wasn’t looking.
*his password wasn’t your birthday. why wasn’t it your birthday? was it someone else’s birthday?
**it always was your birthday. just typed backwards.
in all that time, you never would’ve guessed the thing he’d tried so hard to keep from you was his own sims fantasy land.
he’d spent hours designing both of your appearances and outfits, chasing accuracy down to the pixel. once he was satisfied, he moved your household into an empty world, so that you were free to live as you were instead of who you should’ve been.
he’s an astronaut, you’re a secret agent. you have a garden, but he always hires someone to tend to it so the plants don't command too much of your attention. his cooking skills are maxed out, as is your relationship level. and there’s a shiny silver band around your left ring finger.
you have a mansion with a motherlode of things to entertain you: hot tub, cupcake machine, karaoke station, rocket ship. and rest assured, there’s a trusty cowplant in the back to deal with anyone who disrupts your peace. over the years, it has lured and devoured multiple incarnations of a certain black-haired, green-eyed, sweet-toothed genius who you could never seem to stop gushing over.
and when the grey hairs come in for both of you, and your time starts winding down…well. he already has twin burial plots mapped out in the backyard, right in the middle of the apple orchard.
not that he’s dreamed about a life with you, or anything.
Leon is deceptively knowledgeable about pretty much everything, and he is also pretty good at saving you.
You’ve borne witness to his combat skills, his trained strength, his intelligence and his ability to think of solutions on the fly, and you aren’t silly enough to ignore how these are all things he has had to suffer for. He carries you up five flights of stairs and across a single plank of scaffold while you squeeze your eyes shut like a kid, and he says, “Hey, we did it,” when you get to the other side, as though you had any part in his rescue.
“I never thought you’d have to save me again,” you mumble, pouting, but pleased when he sits down in a dusty old loveseat and keeps you firmly in his lap.
“Mm,” he says, catching hold of your face in a gloved hand. “What are you doing here? I’d love to know.”
“How should I know?” You wriggle a little in his lap, but stop when he gives you a warning glance. “I woke up here. How long did it take you to find me?”
“Don’t insult me. You’ve been missing less than a day.” He rubs his thumb along the bruise staining your jaw, visibly stressed. “Jeez, they really hate leaving beautiful things as they are.”
“I’m the thing?”
“You’re beautiful,” he says, rolling his eyes. “And rescued, for the most part.”
You flinch a little when his thumb catches on the cut hiding within your bruises, watching with wide-eyes as his expression turns hardened, and dark. It’s like a sheet of titanium slamming over any warmth he’d been feeling, but his hands are gentler than ever as he scoops you out of his lap, kissing your dusty forehead with a mutter. “Stay put. Let me see if I can find us both some answers.”
Leon is deceptively knowledgeable about pretty much everything, and he is also pretty good at saving you.
You’ve borne witness to his combat skills, his trained strength, his intelligence and his ability to think of solutions on the fly, and you aren’t silly enough to ignore how these are all things he has had to suffer for. He carries you up five flights of stairs and across a single plank of scaffold while you squeeze your eyes shut like a kid, and he says, “Hey, we did it,” when you get to the other side, as though you had any part in his rescue.
“I never thought you’d have to save me again,” you mumble, pouting, but pleased when he sits down in a dusty old loveseat and keeps you firmly in his lap.
“Mm,” he says, catching hold of your face in a gloved hand. “What are you doing here? I’d love to know.”
“How should I know?” You wriggle a little in his lap, but stop when he gives you a warning glance. “I woke up here. How long did it take you to find me?”
“Don’t insult me. You’ve been missing less than a day.” He rubs his thumb along the bruise staining your jaw, visibly stressed. “Jeez, they really hate leaving beautiful things as they are.”
“I’m the thing?”
“You’re beautiful,” he says, rolling his eyes. “And rescued, for the most part.”
You flinch a little when his thumb catches on the cut hiding within your bruises, watching with wide-eyes as his expression turns hardened, and dark. It’s like a sheet of titanium slamming over any warmth he’d been feeling, but his hands are gentler than ever as he scoops you out of his lap, kissing your dusty forehead with a mutter. “Stay put. Let me see if I can find us both some answers.”
“we’re in a line the length of a giraffe’s unfurled entrails, in the blistering sun and sweltering heat, for…ice. correct me if i’m wrong—that is what’s happening here, right, sweetie? i’m not hallucinating from heat exhaustion?” eyebrow raised to the sky, sylus gestures in front of you toward the admittedly endless queue for the snow cone shack.
“well, if you are, the ice will help,” you retort, shuffling half an inch farther in line. “see! we’re moving forward. we’ll be at the front in no time!”
just as he starts to respond, a child in front of you abandons his place in line. you’re incredibly eager to steal it—until he faces you with pouted lips and sweat running down his round cheeks. he barely hesitates before turning his big blue eyes on sylus. “you have a rolex,” he says matter-of-factly.
sylus looks as if a fly has landed on the rim of his wine glass. a mild inconvenience, but not the end of the world. “i do.”
“my brother says people with rolexes have money.”
“that’s a reasonable conclusion, in most cases.” sylus crosses his arms. “unless they're thieves.”
carefully, the boy sizes him up, analyzing his tank, shorts, and sandals. “are you a thief?”
red eyes narrow—an implicit challenge. “not presently.”
the child thinks to himself, then risks it anyway. “can i have some money? i want a large, but my brother only has enough for a small.” he points to a taller child a few places ahead in line who's too engrossed in his phone to notice his missing mini-me.
sylus flits his eyes to the older boy, then back down to his brother. “sugar is bad for you,” he chides.
“water is good for you,” the child rebuttals immediately.
if he so chooses, he’ll have a bright future on any school’s debate team.
the fly is inching down the curve of the wine glass now, leering precariously close to the surface of a thousand-dollar vintage. grimacing, sylus shoos it away with a flick of his finger. “fine. this amount should cover larges for the both of you,” he concedes, pulling a bill out from his pocket. “but when the sugar crash comes, you know who to blame.”
“thank you!” the boy grabs the money and beams, scampering back to his brother. a second later, you turn to sylus, whose flat stare is already set on you.
“when the ambulance comes to treat my heat stroke, tell them i’m also suffering from the effects of extortion.”
──────
after what seems like hours, you watch the child skip away with a snowcone half the size of him. now that the path is finally clear, you make your way to the front of the food truck.
shaking a bottle of neon red syrup, a raven-haired girl with a cute, crooked grin greets you. “what can i get for you, sweetheart?”
“uh…” is it possible to get a brain freeze without having eaten anything? “cotton candy?”
“perfect.” she winks. “a sweet treat for a sweet gi—”
“make hers an extra large please,” sylus interrupts, tugging you into him from behind. “and i’ll have this…dragon’s blood flavor,” he adds with a wry smile. “a large.”
──────
“so…” with a frigid burst of sweetness on your tongue, you stare at the red-orange heap of ice in sylus’s cup.
“so?”
“does this count as cannibalism?”
thinking for a moment, he shrugs. “depends on if i like it or not.”
before you can ask for elaboration, he raises his spoon to mouth. it's a fun visual—big rich guy, comparatively small metal bench, flimsy plastic utensil. like watching a giant drive a clown car.
he swallows and closes his eyes, and you swear you hear him rumble in satisfaction. “it’s nice,” he decides after a moment. “tangy.”
your lips spread into a triumphant grin as he continues eating, and you lean in and waggle your eyebrows. “oh? so it was worth the wait, huh? admit it.”
“oh, absolutely not.”
your mouth is agape. chuckling, he reaches over to shut it.
“it’s good, but not good enough for me to bake in the sun every time i get a craving.” he rises, stretches, and tosses his empty cup into the garbage bin. bright syrupy droplets splatter on the rim. “i’m going back to see if the owner of this shack is looking to relocate—ideally on the grounds of onychinus’s base.” he smirks. “and if we really want to pull it off,” he says, licking remnants of red off his full lips, “you should come with me. she seemed quite taken with you.”
carl who tried to seem strong, as if it didn't matter, even though everyone knew it did. after sneaking into negans place, no one could clean his bandages for him. not even michonne.
he'd avoid eye contact and always seemed self conscious- sure it could just be you looking too much into him but something was off. the first week after he was shot sure he was still adjusting but now, it seemed like he'd started over.
one day, you heard rustling in his room when you were visiting and immediately rushed inside, only to see a mess of medical supplies on the floor and a frustrated carl sitting on the edge of his bed.
that day carl tried to push you away as much as he could, but he couldn't fight your stubbornness. his body tensed as your fingers softly applied the ointment, delicately touching his scar. you gently put the bandage around his head, before smiling. "all done," your voice chimed, before carl looking away.
"thank you.." he mumbled before hesitatingly hugging you. it was unexpected, yet you let him hold you tightly, his body melting into your touch. melting as if he finally found comfort for something he believed didn't deserve any.
ー
if I had a penny for every character I've had a crush on with a scarred face and was insecure bout it I'd have 3! (carl, sal, zuko)
bvro speaking of zuko I got a zuko Funko pop from PH im so happy
also sorry for the lack of stuff i have my AP tests this and next week </3
Thinking of touch starved!Vi who has been in prison for eight years. Almost all physical contact she received being violent- “talks” with the guards, the fights she got in, etc. But then she’s out thanks to Caitlyn and back in the undercity. She’s still fighting- for her sister, for Caitlyn, and then for money in the pits.
But somewhere in all of that she meets you, the medic who always takes care of her. Every time she’s knocked out or bleeding you’re there by her side patching her up. And it’s the first time that someone has been truly gentle with her since she was thrown in Stillwater.
Sometimes she catches herself flinching away from you when you’re cleaning her up, always offering a small “Sorry”. But you never mind it, telling her not to apologize.
This goes on for a while until one night she’s more out of it than ever. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe she was hit too hard in the head too many times. There’s no telling. But either way she’s grabbing your wrist and begging you to just stay for a while. The infirmary isn’t too busy tonight so you sit with her, letting her rest her head in her lap.
Black stains your clothes but you don’t mind it. After a while of rubbing her back, you think she’s asleep. She hasn’t moved or said anything for a while. Her breathing is more even than it has been in a while.
It startles you when she starts talking, she’s mumbling. It’s hard to hear but you catch a few words: powder, Caitlyn, Jinx, your own name dropped a couple times.
You don’t really know what she’s saying she probably doesn’t either, but you make a decision right there.
You will stay with her, and you’ll help her. She’ll have a place to stay, a hot meal, and an outlet for her frustration besides a bar and a pit fight. She’ll have you, through it all.
===
This is way longer than I thought it would be and it’s not even that long 😭. Also I wrote this on my phone so please be nice, my autocorrect is fucked and I did not proofread this.
