#⟪ ic. ⟫ rude conversations.

[ouraniatm]

if you asked cora frankly, these missions and highly specific biddings for someone else were bunch of crazy talk. elio this, elio that... the green haired criminal grew tired of those lines being thrown around, over and over again, like a mantra. she didn't think much of it in the beginning - back when the world seemed to truly turn it's back on her - and even played along in order to survive, but now only annoyed her. perhaps it's the arrogance of their leader to believe destiny could be predicted and planned through, like he's playing a strategic role-play game, or just the fact cora does not like being told what to do ... it didn't matter. her opinion wouldn't make a change, nor would her situation get any better should she do the foolish act and oppose elio, himself. better survive on your own than to get in more danger than she's ever been in her life.

then again...who would give a damn should their underdog hunter get caught by IPC? nobody knew anything about her, not even the highest authorities had much information on her...she was just a black sheep.

well, not that she'd just up and say these thoughts out loud...especially not to spider lady, over here. hollow, icy eyes roll at kafka's comments while back is turned to her, mostly preoccupied with fixing her ice launchers before scoffing. ❛ heh...you were definitely the spoiled rich kid in previous life. ❜ she pauses to reload said launchers with ice-cased rockets, clicking her tongue and moving the goggles on top of her head. ❛ sure, bashing skulls is fun and all...only after i've taken everything i needed and made them watch it all, so they know they got duped on. ❜ cora grins devilishly as jaded eyes look back to kafka. ❛ but, eh... it's not like i give too much thought into my methods...i just find an opening. least i'm not a petty loser like our resident hacker. ❜

cora moves one hand to hip while other swings her weapon across the shoulder, finally having the decency to fully turn to kafka. ❛ so, you here to brag 'bout your criminal record or to fix your shit, again? you know i don't do chit-chat. ❜

@crownshattered ... continued from here!

[spiderwarden]

The tone is not missed on the Drow, "Oh, is that so." Tone is even with the flat addressing of the wizard in question. "Perhaps in Waterdeep an acknowledgment of your presence is unworthy of respect but even in the deepest depths of Menzobarranzan, there are infants with a better sense of the word." Then there is the slow dip of her chin as she looks the man over entirely, before making a short amusing huff. "I had started to believe at one point that you. combustible as you are, was capable of such a infantile ability. But it seems even I was mistaken, loathe as I am to admit it. Therefore I will snuff out what little of my social graces I had spared for you, Gale of Waterdeep - for a much more worthy individual."

@weavesick / Minthara is responding to this.

[ceilidho]

prompt: construction worker ghost and his elementary school teacher neighbour who made the poor decision to start feeding him (nsfw, 2k) [based on this old ask] [on ao3 here]

-

They say not to feed wild animals. 

It makes them grow soft, lazy. Alters their behaviour. Takes an animal previously capable of finding its own food dependent on humans for sustenance. Makes them lose their natural fear of humans and nearly always results in an increase in human-wildlife conflicts as they start to seek out people. It’s a known fact. You can’t go to a park without seeing it plastered on posters in the bathroom and on the sides of the vending machines under the gazebos where you purchase your post-hike iced tea and veggie roll to eat on a nearby bench. 

You know this. So you really don’t know what possessed you to leave a cooler full of sandwiches on your neighbour’s doormat before turning in for the night. 

He wakes up preternaturally early and leaves every morning around four-thirty or five o’clock on the dot. Sometimes in the fog of sleep, you wake to hear the door to the apartment beside yours crack open and slam shut, and then the sound of lumbering footsteps down the hall towards the staircase before that door opens and slams shut too. 

He never comes home before four o’clock at the earliest. That’s around when you come home from work as well, meaning that you sometimes catch him at the door, him covered in grime and reeking of old sweat while you come flouncing down the hall in whatever colourful dress you’d donned that morning, inevitably paint-splattered by the end of the day. Always something appropriate to wear at an elementary school but colourful enough to keep the kids’ eyes and attention on you. 

You’ve caught his name in half-whispered conversations with the property manager, but aside from that, all you know about Simon Riley is that he works in construction. He certainly looks the part: big, calloused hands with blunt, dirt-caked nails and cut up fingers, knuckles always swollen and thick. Body all strength and brawn. Hard hat tucked under his armpit and decorated with countless stickers from old job sites, the same way his forearm is covered in tattoos. 

You’ve even passed by his current job site once or twice—some new condo complex going up by the canal that’s forced you and hundreds of other commuters to leave an extra thirty minutes early to account for the road closures. You pointedly don’t bring that up in conversation though. That would just be rude. 

At least it would be something to talk about though.

It’s not like the two of you talk. You’re not close by any means. Though you moved in a few months ago, you haven’t had much luck mustering up the confidence to squeak out more than a hi to him in passing. When he grunts back something approximating a hello, it’s all you can do not to break your key in the lock when you hurry into your apartment and slam the door shut behind you, heart beating frantically in your chest. 

It’s humiliating. You’re a grown woman and you’ve talked to plenty of men before. You’ve dated plenty of men before. Just because this one speaks in monosyllables and stares at you with an intensity that makes your stomach churn and your palms grow sweaty doesn’t change anything. Just because this one is built like a redwood with wrists thick enough that you’d need both hands to wrap around doesn’t make him any different than any other person.

And yet, when Simon asks you for your name on a rainy June afternoon after you’ve come in after him for a change only to find him sifting through letters at the mailbox, you garble out something that sounds nothing like your name before scurrying up the stairs to your flat.

It’s humiliating. It’s humid outside and your dress is sticking to all the wrong places (namely, your nipples and the inside of your thighs when the skirt swishes between your legs with each stride) and now you’ve made an ass of yourself in front of the only hot guy in your building. There are serial arsonists with more charm than you. 

So maybe the sandwiches are an apology letter or an olive branch. Or maybe it just makes your heart race to think of Simon opening up the cooler and finding four wax paper-wrapped sandwiches tucked neatly over ice packs. 

All you know is that when you step out of your apartment the next morning, the cooler is empty on your doormat, the lid propped open. He must have taken them with him. 

You smile. A job well done. Apology served fresh, with cucumber slices in the middle. 

The problem starts when you don’t leave him another cooler full of sandwiches on his doormat the next day. 

You didn’t consider that he might think you’d make it a habit. Perhaps that’s partially on you for not leaving a note on the cooler the first time to explain that it was just a one-off; just a way to apologize for being less than chipper around him. But instead of shrugging it off, you come home after a long day to find him standing right outside your apartment, arms crossed over his chest, thick biceps straining against his sweat-stained shirt. 

“Open the door,” Simon commands, nostrils flaring as he glares down at you. He jerks his head towards your door when you just frown, not following. “Been starving here waiting for you to show up.”

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. You’re at a loss for words, never mind that your whole job involves talking. He leaves you speechless though. 

Simon doesn’t move when you step close enough to unlock the door. You try to keep your body angled away so as not to brush up against him, but it’s inevitable. He doesn’t move when the door opens either, forcing you to squeeze by him. 

He goes straight to the kitchen and drags a chair out, letting it scrape across the floor like men always do before taking a seat. You follow after him nervously, apprehensive at having a man in your space. Not just a man, but Simon Riley. It feels sacrilege—not like he has no right being in your space, but you can’t imagine him here, sitting at your tiny dining room table like he comes over for dinner every Sunday. 

When he catches you standing under the archway to the kitchen just staring at him, he barks, “Well?”

That has you scurrying over to the fridge to pull out the cold cuts and pickled red onions. There’s a loaf of bread already on the counter, the bag twisted and tucked underneath because you had to leave in a rush this morning. You don’t know half of what you pile on the sandwiches, but whatever you serve him must satisfy him because Simon digs in with gusto, finishing the plate off in only a few bites while you wash the cutlery in the sink. You watch him out of the corner of your eye the whole while.

He leaves not too long after that, only a light warning for you to not miss tomorrow’s lunch before heading back over to his own apartment. You don’t even get a word in edgewise. 

It becomes something of a routine after that and not one you have any control over. Every night before bed, you leave him a cooler full of sandwiches and other things like cut up fruit or slices of cheese on his doormat, and every afternoon you rock up to him waiting on your doorstep, demanding to be let in. 

He takes to giving you a wet kiss before he leaves, all tongue and his fingers curled around the nape of your neck, holding you in place. When you try to cover his mouth with your hand, he nips at your fingers until you move them and let him slip you some tongue. 

The day you make him a casserole for supper, he bends you over the back of your couch and eats you out. Simon eats like a man starving, glutting himself on the wetness between your legs, licking even over the furl of your asshole and chuckling under his breath when you squeal and flail, your toes just brushing against the floor. 

In the aftermath, you sit panting in his lap while he eats. He gets up only briefly to get the bowl of strawberries and cream you left chilling in the fridge before lifting you up and putting you right back in his lap. You stare bleary-eyed when he holds a finger covered in cream up to your lips.

“Clean me up, pet,” he says, then watches you with half-lidded eyes while you lick his finger clean. 

He makes you suck his fingers too, to keep things even. He does it when you’re angled half off the bed, thick digits stuffed down your throat until your eyes leak big, fat tears that he licks away, hungry for those too. The man is always hungry, always keen to fill his belly. 

The arrangement continues on long enough to become normal, even routine. Simon shows up at your door every day after work waiting to be fed, and then makes you come a couple times before he leaves, a little thank you to repay you for the food. He never really says all that much when he comes around, not a conversationalist of a man. His preference is to eat, fuck, and leave, which you’re happy to accommodate, still too tongue-tied yourself to broach a real conversation. 

That’s all before he starts helping himself to your bed for a quick nap after a big supper. Then for naps that turn into a full night’s sleep, snoring like a chainsaw under the covers with you tucked under his arm, naked breasts pressed against his side, keeping you awake most of the night until you pass out somewhere around one A.M. 

Just as you suspected, Simon gets up at around four or five to be at the jobsite on time, but at your place, he gets up a bit earlier to help himself to breakfast. He doesn't even bother waking you up, just turns you over onto your tummy and spreads your legs before sinking his dick into where you're still stretched out from the night before. If you wake up or squirm, he just leans down and murmurs, “S'alright, pet…just need a pick me up before work. Go back to sleep, you’re okay,” and ruts between your thighs until he comes inside you and leaves you all wet in bed with one last messy kiss to your temple. 

The door slams shut on his way out. 

Because you feed him, he keeps coming back. The workday passes in a blur: attendance, a spelling test, recess, maths in the afternoon, and then you’re driving home in the same daze that has you slamming on the brakes before rear ending an old woman who stopped two cars behind the truck at the redlight ahead. 

You’re home earlier than him for a change, so you unlock the door quickly while there’s still a chance to avoid him. No such luck. When Simon turns up, he pounds on the door until you let him in. And you do. 

It’s a wonder you haven’t come apart at the seams, horny and pent up after this morning. You were too sleepy to come after all, rode hard and put away wet. Still, you flit nervously around the apartment, looking everywhere but at him. 

He always smells rich after working all day in the sun, like sweat and dirt. It's not a particularly nice smell, but it still kind of gets you going. He goes for a shower and then collapses on the couch after, beckoning you over to you crawl into his lap and grind yourself on his thigh because he knows of course. Simon can probably smell it on you, the ache. He shushes you when you whine about it, big hands fitting around your hips and pressing you down until your clit rubs deliciously against the muscle of his thigh and your head goes cloudy, cheek mushed against the pillow of his chest. 

When you come, Simon tips your chin up with his knuckle and murmurs, “Knickers off, love. Haven’t got my fill.”

He feeds you your own slick from his fingers when he kneels on the floor in front of the couch, your legs draped over his shoulders. Your fingers scratch helplessly over shorn blond hair, buzzed almost to the scalp. It’s prickly under your fingertips. 

Simon’s a messy eater. Your slick dribbles down his lips and glistens on his chin. It makes the blood roar under your skin, feverishly hot. 

“Please, Simon,” you whine, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “It hurts.”

You feel his lips quirk up against the folds of your pussy, the flat of his tongue running up the seam and flicking over your clit. He chuckles when your hips jerk. “Greedy aren’t you, pet? Didn’t even say thank you for getting on my knees.”

“You didn’t make me come!”

His voice borders on mocking when he coos, “Poor little thing. It’s gonna be a lot longer ‘til she gets to come if you don’t say thank you.”

Your brain goes staticy, fingers twitching on his scalp. His words echo back in your head. It’s rubbish, is what it is. All this time and he’s never said thank you once for the countless meals you’ve fed him. Indignation bubbles up in you, rising to the surface like fat on the cream, and you raise a hand to rub the tears from your eyes, a harsh rebuke on the tip of your tongue.

The protest dies on your lips when he meets your gaze. It’s hungrier than anything you’ve ever seen. Whatever animal lives under his skin stares back at you with black eyes, drool leaking from its jowls. It’s mindless, intent only on slaking its hunger. Filling its empty belly. And it is not afraid of you anymore. It knows you’ll feed it until it’s full. It knows you won’t let it go hungry anymore. 

So, always leery of the bigger animal in the room, you mumble out a chest-thick, “Thank you,” and shiver when he grins. 

There’s a reason they tell you not to feed strays. They often come back for more.

[suncoved]

BIG MAN ON CAMPUS! — RAFE CAMERON

pairing; fratboy!rafe cameron x fem!reader

summary; you come to your first college party and have the worst panic attack of your life. who knew your knight in shining armour would be the captain of the biggest fraternity and the biggest fuck boy on campus

warnings ; panic attacks, anxiety, drugging, angst but like fluff!!

"Liv, i'm really not sure about this"

You're best friend and roommate looked at you with a blank stare, watching as you pulled the tight white dress down that had ridden up your thighs. She had dragged you out of your dorm only 20 minutes ago, telling you that if you didn't come she was going to wake you up with a bucket of ice water.

"Cmon babe, you made me promise i would drag you to at least one party this year. and i don't break a promise. Which also means that i promise if you don't like the first 30 minutes, then we can go home and eat 30 pounds of ice cream and pass out in our makeup"

You smiled at her, trying to push yourself through whatever anxiety was coursing through you. Liv was really a good friend, even if she was harsh about it at times, you know that she wanted the best for you.

The smell of booze and sweat hit your nose immediately as you walked into the frat house, the music blasting and the rainbow lights blinding against the otherwise dark space.

Liv pulled you to the corner of the living room, smiling brightly at you and giving you an extra tight hug. "Ok! I'm gonna go get us some drinks, stay right there and don't move!"

She had to yell because of how loud the music was, wasting no time before disappearing into the kitchen.

You stood in the party like a fish out of water, biting your lip as you looked down at your feet.

You'd like to say that you weren't that much of an introvert. I mean sure you liked to be curled up with a good book from time to time, and you were studying a bit more than healthy. But you like to go out and shop with friends, talk to new people in your classes and slumber parties on the weekends.

But parties were something you did not do. It had a combination of all the things you disliked most in life. loud music, people yelling, drinking, flashing bright lights and... frat boys.

You'd already been brought out of your shell at college, you were confident enough now to present in classes and partner up with new people on assignments, but this was pushing it.

You were a sweet girl, but naive. You didn't have enough experience with greedy men and even you would admit that you resembled a lost deer more often than you would like.

You lifted your head as you heard someone approach you, looking up quickly as you assumed it was Liv coming back from the kitchen.

But it wasn't Liv.

A brunette looked straight at you as you made eye contact with him, a red solo cup resting in his hand.

"What's a pretty girl like you standing here all alone in the corner" he stated, inching closer to you as you subconsciously stepped back a bit. "I'm Jeremey"

He reached out his hand to you to shake, only to receive a dumbfounded look on your face.

"Normally people reply back with their name, Babe"

"Oh! Sorry!" you replied flustered, repeating back your name as he grinned wide, showing his bright smile.

You didn't want to admit that when Jeremy was talking to you, you continually kept glancing over at the entrance to the kitchen, hoping that the next person to walk out was Liv, who was going to hopefully come to save you from this conversation.

"Hey, I was experimenting in the kitchen, wanna try my new concoction." Jeremy dangled the red solo cup in your face, the liquid pink and smelling of strawberries.

"No thank you. I don't drink" you replied sweetly, hoping to be polite and not upset him. "There's barely any in it, promise. Pleaseee, don't wanna hurt my feelings, do you?" He replied in annoyance.

A pang of hurt shot through you as you panicked, how could you have been so rude! Jeremy was taking time out of his day to talk to you and you rejected a drink he made you?

"Oh! no, I'm sorry. Thank you so much" you replied, taking the cup out of his hands and looking down at the liquid. He watched closely as you took a sip, your face twisting at the strong flavour of vodka.

"What do you think?" he smirked as he asked, bringing his hand up to your lips and wiping the extra liquid off with his thumb.

"Its- its great, thank you" you replied, your heart beating faster as you started to feel increasingly more uncomfortable. He watched you closely as he hinted to you to drink more, looking down at you like he was a wolf, and you were his prey.

You held back tears as you felt the room start to spin under your feet, your cheeks feeling hot and your hands shaking involuntarily. It hit you quickly that this wasn't alcohol that was making you feel like this, no, it was something else. Something much, much worse.

And you didn't want to stick around to figure out what it was.

"Um, sorry Jeremy, I need to go to the bathroom" you spoke up, using all your courage to push through the crowd quickly as he followed.

Your breath was now speeding up as you fought your way through the waves of people, your steps becoming faster as you felt the room spinning more and more, tears streaming down your face.

You didn't know where the bathrooms in this place were, but you didn't have time to think about that now.

You just needed to find Liv, or someone, anyone.

Your eyes fell on a room at the end of the hall, light spilling out of the crack where the door failed to meet the floor.

You didn't have time to think, just to act. Your balled fist made it up to the door, knocking over and over again as you looked behind you, Jeremy in the crowd but looking all over for what you assumed to be you.

You didn't even want to begin to imagine how stupid you looked, or how impolite you were being as your knocks became harsher and frantic as Jeremy came closer.

"Jesus, learn how to wait your fucking turn" a voice sounded as the door opened. you didn't even look away from Jeremy as you tumbled into the bathroom, accidentally bringing the person in the door with you.

"Yo, what the fuc-" the aggressive voice came to a halt quickly, but you all you could focus on was your breathing, which was out of control.

Your cheeks were wet with tears as you closed your eyes, bringing your hands up to your face and letting yourself sob. "I- I can't breathe" You let out, unknowing if you were talking to yourself or the person in the space with you.

You couldn't even handle your anxiety and emotions when you were in control of your body, let alone now.

That's the main reason you don't drink, because you tend to freak out to the point of no return, and this, this was much worse.

Your face was buried in your hands as the person softly closed the door to the bathroom. You didn't even register him softly moving you to sit on the toilet seat in the bathroom, kneeling down and removing your hands from your face.

You opened your eyes to see a man's face looking back at you, his features painted with worry and his body distanced enough away from you as to not upset you even more.

"Hey- hey. Its ok, what's wrong?" the boy asked, trying not to show how confused he was on how to deal with this situation. "Are you hurt?"

You shook your head quickly at his statement, your tears slowly coming to a halt as your vision became less blurry. You could now see his face more clearly. Fluffy dirty blonde hair, bright blue eyes, soft pink lips.

"Uh, um. Wait" He spoke, breaking eye contact with you for the first time since you entered the bathroom. He started frantically opening draws and cabinets, stopping when he found a box of tissues under the sink.

"Here" you looked between him and the box he was handing you before taking it in your hands, your fingers brushing past each other momentarily.

"Thank you, i-i promise I'm not this much of a mess all the time." You replied, earning a soft smile from the man. "It's ok, it happens to the best of us. Have you taken anything, or just drunk?" He asked delicately.

Rafe didn't understand what he was feeling at this moment. Because he'd never felt it before.

Sure he could be an asshole sometimes, He was rude and got into fights on occasion, and he had been known to make girls complete the walk of shame out of his room involuntarily after a big night out, but that didn't mean he would ever leave a clearly intoxicated girl alone at a frat party.

But this, this was different. He had to know what was wrong with you, and he had to fix it. Sure you were a mystery to him and only met you seconds ago, but he wasn't leaving until he knew you were safe and sound... and had given him your name.

"I don't drink- or, at least I didn't. This boy gave me something, it tasted weird. Then I got all dizzy and now- now I can't stop crying" You rambled, sighing softly and looking into his eyes.

He gazed back at you, running his tongue around his teeth before seemingly snapping out of the trance he was in. "Did you know the guy?" He huffed, obviously agitated with your reply as he ran his fingers through his hair.

You shook your head softly, a wave of sadness running through you because you couldn't give him the answer he wanted. Tears started running down your face again suddenly as you kept repeating 'I'm sorry' over and over again.

He lifted his thumb up to your cheek, softly brushing the tears away. "Hey it's okay, Don't worry. I'll keep you safe"

He didn't understand the feelings he was feeling, He had never craved to protect someone so much, He had never been this gentle in his whole life.

"What's your name?" he asked, distracting you to hopefully stop the flow of tears streaming down your face. He felt like if you didn't stop crying in the next minute, he was going to lose it.

You answered your name to him, earning a soft smile. "I'm Rafe, it's nice to meet you." He finished the sentence with your name, sending shivers down your spine.

"Liv" You gasped, making his head tilt in confusion before you shot up from your seat. "Wow, ma. Slow down, what do you mean?" Rafe replied, holding your hips to stop you from completely falling over. You sat back down quickly in defeat, your eyes wide with panic.

"Liv, I-I came here with my friend Liv. I'm gonna scare her. I need to find her." You gasped, your voice trembling as you spoke. "It's ok, We'll find her. Don't worry, it's ok." He repeated, desperate for your face to get back to your normal expression, aka, not struck with terror.

It was obvious to Rafe through the glaze cast over your eyes, the shaking from your hands and the drooping of your eyelids that someone had slipped something into your drink.

He had hosted enough parties at his fraternity to know what insecure, probably small dicked boys, not men, can do to women. And it revolted him.

"R-rafe. I'm gonna go to sleep now" You whispered, your body finally giving out before you could stop it, his arms quickly coming up to stabilize you before you toppled over.

He bit his lip as he tried to figure out what to do, pulling your body into his arms as you didn't even stir. He was scared. So scared.

He didn't know what you were given, how much you were given, what would happen after you woke up, if you even woke up at all.

He carried you up the stairs and into his bedroom, unlocking the door and locking it behind him again. His room was the only one with a lock in the whole house, because he was damned if he was going to walk in on random strangers having drunk sex on his bed.

He rested you softly on his bed, making sure your head was comfortably on his pillow and resting a blanket over your body after taking your heels off.

He looked at your sleeping form, your long eyelashes resting on your cheeks, your hair falling softly over your shoulders and your chest rising and falling with your breaths.

He looked at you one last time before leaving his room, ignoring every person greeting him as he made a beeline straight for the living room.

He scanned over the large crowd in the house, numerous people dancing, some making out, his frat brothers doing keg stands, and one very panicked girl going up to every stranger she sees.

Rafe took no time before walking straight to the girl in the middle of the dance floor, tapping her on the shoulder. She turns immediately to face Rafe, her face struck with confusion.

"Are you Liv?" Rafe asks, earning a confused nod from the girl in front of him” I am! Have you seen my best friend anywhere? She's about yay height, really pretty, heart of gold, she kinda looks like that baby deer from that Disney movie, she's wearing this white dress and-"

Rafe stops her ramble with a quick nod causing her eyes to widen. "What? Where is she?"

"In my bed" Rafe replied, remembering he wasn't all that good with small talk. "What? What the fuck do you mean, in your bed? What did you do? I swear to god-"

"Ok, calm down. Someone gave her something. I found her in the bathroom sobbing before she passed out. I put her in my bed then came down here, end of story" He replied, starting to get slightly agitated.

The girl he now knows to be Liv quickly walks off, heading straight for upstairs where the bedrooms are. Rafe rolls his eyes before following swiftly behind her, though he's glad that there's someone out there other than him trying to protect his newfound soft spot.

Liv halts at all the bedrooms, looking expectantly at Rafe before he walks in front of her and opens his door. Liv immediately rushes to you, still passed out on Rafe's bed.

She sits next to you, tucking your hair behind your ear before placing a kiss on your forehead. "Of course, on the first party she goes to, some sick fuck roofies her and she ends up in Rafe Cameron's bed" Liv speaks, not taking her eyes off you.

"How do you know my name?" Rafe asks, not even bothering to look at the person he's talking to as he focuses on your chest rising and falling. "Ha, everyone knows who you are Rafe. And if I find out you had anything to do with her getting hurt, I'm gonna chop your dick off and feed it to you and make sure everyone on campus knows it"

It would be a lie to say Rafe wasn't slightly amused by your best friend's words, holding back his smile and keeping his face stern. "I would never do that shit. Especially not to her" Liv's eyebrow quirked in confusion at the last bit of his sentence.

She knows for a fact that you did not know Rafe Cameron before this night, let alone any frat boys. Liv could cry at the sight of your passed-out form, taking full blame and responsibility for the fact that you got hurt when she was meant to protect you.

She pulled her phone out from her purse, about to call an Uber back to the dorms for both of you. "No, I'll drive you" He stated, not leaving room for an argument

Liv nodded slowly before pulling the blanket off you, your body involuntarily starting to shiver from the cold air.

Rafe walked over to his closet, grabbing his warmest hoodie. Liv looked up at him as he raised your body softly, placing the hoodie over your head and softly lifting you up into his arms.

Rafe walked with Liv down to the road outside the fraternity house, receiving hundreds of stares from people in the crowd. But he didn't care, all he cared about was you.

He let Liv open the door to the backseat of his truck, allowing him to place you softly inside before Liv climbed in next to you, placing your head on her lap.

The ride was completely silent, barring Liv's directions to the dormitories, but she didn't miss the way he was constantly looking in the rearview mirror at you.

It didn't take long before Liv was leading the way to your dorm, Rafe trailing slowly behind with you in his arms.

She flicked the light on in your dorm, Rafe quickly knowing which bed was yours from the multiple stuffies and pink blankets. He lifted the covers before placing your head on the pillow once more, knowing Liv was going to get you changed before she slept.

"Thank you, Rafe, for looking out for her when I didn't" Liv said as Rafe walked to your door, nodding curtly in repose to her statement.

He gave you one last look before he walked out of your door, watching as Liv was about to shut the door on him after saying goodbye. Panicked he placed his foot in front of the door before it shut, forcing it open.

"C-can I get her number, please?"

[luveline]

More spencer x hotch's sister? I love her relationship with hotch so much btw! Maybe spencer learns some of what she went through in her past?

“What did you get Haley for your six months?” you ask. 

Aaron shakes his basket of fries. You can smell them from your side of the table, salt and grease from the fryer. He doesn’t need to see you looking, maybe he doesn’t care that you want one or not, he tips half of the basket onto your plate and shrugs. “It was a long time ago, I’m not sure I remember. For our first year together I gave her a promise ring, I think.” 

“I don’t think I can get him a promise ring…” You swirl your drink with your straw. Fizzy bubbles rush to the surface. “A ring might be nice, though. Can he wear jewellery in the field?” 

“One nondescript ring would be fine.” 

“Maybe a necklace.” You stab a few of his given fries on your fork and smile. “I’m very stressed, but he’s been so kind the whole time. He never makes me worry about anything.” 

“Spencer is kind.” Aaron glances to the side as a couple sits in the booth opposite. “Admittedly, I was worried. But you’re happy, so I’m happy.” 

“Six months is a long time for no fights.” 

“Honey, some people don’t fight.” 

You toy with a stray piece of lettuce. “I’m really glad that we don’t, but I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.” 

“It won’t drop. You think I’d let you date Spencer if I suspected he was secretly evil?” 

“There are a few things wrong with that question…” You wipe your mouth with a napkin. “Okay, it won’t drop. Can we get, um, dessert? Rocky road sundaes?” They’re Aaron’s favourite, so they’re yours, too. 

Despite his assurances, you keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. You think about your conversation with Aaron for the days leading up to your six month anniversary with Spencer, which he aptly names your ‘half anniversary’. He doesn’t plan any surprises —he sends you a PDF with different options for everything. Five different restaurants with different options for courses, moods, and settings. There are notes for each place and why you might like them, and there are activities for each one afterwards based on the location. It’s so thoughtful it makes you feel sick. The other shoe looms, and looms. 

You choose a smaller restaurant just outside of the busy city, with a beautiful outdoor eating area on a stone veranda. It’s lively but not crowded, secluded but not completely private. 

Spencer tucks your seat in, and he kisses your cheek before he takes his own. When he does, he looks across the table at you, and says, “Wow, you’re so pretty.” 

“You think so?” 

“You’re beautiful.” He gives you one of his not so shy, almost cheesy smiles, like he wants to laugh. “Do you want your gift now or later?” 

“Is it rude to say I want it now?” 

“No, it’s not rude. I’ll feel better once I know you like it.” 

He presents you with a box wrapped in dark blue crepe paper and rounded silver star stickers. There’s twine wrapped around it and bowed, too beautiful to want to open. You look between him and the present in awe. “This is real pretty,” you say softly. 

“It’s nicer inside,” he says. 

You unravel the twin carefully, and you take off the paper to reveal a large, flat box. You put the paper in your jacket pocket, folded primly to keep. Spencer waits patiently. 

You press your thumbnail into the box’s seam and push. 

It’s four pieces of jewellery. What catches your eye first is the sapphires, blue crystal with deep dark hearts pressed into the pendant of a necklace, the heart of a bracelet, and the main bodies of their matching earrings. All simple, elegant pieces, and compiled, their impressiveness is amplified. Your breath catches. You don’t need to be an expert in jewellery to immediately assign a ballpark price tag, and it’s a lot. It’s sort of startling. 

But the price doesn’t matter half as much as the sentiment. 

“Do you remember them?” he asks softly. 

Fourth date. Hand in hand, you and Spencer walked through a shopping centre with iced drinks and churros, and you’d paused for a few seconds to ogle the jewellery display. You’d pointed straight at the sapphire bracelet and said, “That’s gorgeous. I think if I save, I can get it for Christmas.” 

“I know it’s not Christmas,” Spencer says, “I’m sorry, I cheated. But I hope you like them.” 

“Spencer, I love them, I love them,” —you reach your hand across the table— “I love you. Thank you.” 

He smiles at you. “Yeah, I love you, too.” 

You can’t stop yourself from getting up to hug him. He bends under your weight and holds your arms, doesn’t wince when you press the entirety of your face to his hair and breathe. “Thank you,” you whisper, kissing his forehead twice, “thank you, I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” He takes your face into his hand before you can leave. “You like them?” he asks. 

“I love them.” 

His smile is everything. “I really did cheat, I wrote it down when we got home and you know I can’t forget the things I read,” he murmurs, pulling you in for a kiss. 

Six months later and your heart still skips a beat. Doesn’t matter that he has an eidetic memory, what’s important is that he wrote it down. 

You take another hug, to his delight, and return to your seat. Your presents wait in a bag under the table. Two books, one jewellery box. He goes for the smaller box first. 

“It’s a ring,” you say, too nervous to let him discover it by himself. “I know you don’t often wear them, but I thought maybe it’s because it’s not something you’d get for yourself, and I think it would look good on you.” 

He opens the box with a smile. So pretty, and exuberantly bright. “Oh, wow.” 

“I don’t know if brands mean anything to you, but it’s Vivienne–”

“It’s beautiful,” he interrupts, “I love it. What finger do I wear it on?” 

“Most wear it on their marriage finger, I think, but you obviously don’t have to do that.” 

He slips it onto his ring finger, turns his hand one way and another, and there’s this joy that echoes all the way across the table from his very core. “Thank you. I love it, and now every time I look down I'll remember why you gave it to me.” 

You spend a lot of time apart, what with both of you working. “I thought that, too.” 

He takes the books next. His laugh is soft. “I’m not surprised.” 

“They’re… they’re my personal copies.” 

He startles at that. “They are?” 

“Yeah. Uh,” —you point at the first— “that’s my favourite, and I think it could be your favourite too.” 

“And this one?” he asks gently, slipping the first underneath the second. 

“Aaron gave that one to me. I know what you’re thinking, okay, that I’m giving something to you I should really keep. Maybe it makes you uncomfortable, I don’t know, but I love you.” You lick your lips. “It’s nice to fall in love. And you’ve made it so easy.” 

He stares at you, lips parted. 

You panic. “It was hard, growing up, and I know everyone struggles but it was hard. If it weren’t for my brother… I feel like it sticks to me and you’ve never made me feel that way. You love me for me. I was convinced nobody would ever do that.” 

“I know it was hard,” he says. 

“Really hard, sometimes, but you aren’t. I’m never scared of you.” 

He reaches across the table to touch your hand. “You aren’t supposed to be scared of anyone, angel.”

Warmth blossoms under his touch. You shake off the fog. “It’s not just about all of that, I swear, I really do think you’ll like them. But if I got it all wrong just lie to me, okay?” 

“You didn’t get anything wrong, shut up,” he says. Spencer stands, his turn to hug you, but he goes about it differently. He tips your head back and he kisses you, and his nose is a pressed line in your cheek as he squeezes you to him. “I’d be surprised if anybody who’s ever met you didn’t love you. Okay? Thank you for trusting me with it.” 

It, and not them, not the books. 

He peels away. You beam at one another. 

“Should we eat?” you ask, feeling pleased and shy at once. 

He kisses you again, one quick peck. “Yes, we can eat.”

[pucksandpower]

Breaking the Ice

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Lando Norris x Räikkönen!Reader

Summary: a boy who never shuts up meets a girl who rarely wastes the energy to speak … it doesn’t go as expected (or in which not having much to say runs in the Räikkönen family)

Lando shifts his weight from one foot to the other, fidgeting nervously as he awaits the arrival of the other drivers for the pre-season press conference. His gaze darts around the stark concrete room, taking in the harsh lighting and the row of empty chairs on the raised platform.

This is his sixth season in Formula 1, but the thrill of the new year and the prospect of racing still sends butterflies fluttering through his stomach. He sucks in a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves.

The door opens and you stride in, Valtteri Bottas at your side. Lando’s eyes are immediately drawn to you, the rookie driver already capturing attention despite your quiet presence. You move with the casual confidence of someone who has grown up in this world, unbothered by the lights and cameras.

Lando finds himself staring, captivated by the way you carry yourself. The famously reserved Räikkönen genes clearly run through your veins.

Before Lando can gather his wits to introduce himself, you slide into the chair at the end of the row, Valtteri taking the seat next to you. Lando blinks, realizing he’s been caught gawking.

Smooth, Norris. Real smooth.

He clears his throat and makes his way over, mustering his most charming grin. “Hi there! Lando Norris. Welcome to the circus.”

You turn towards him, your expression unreadable. For a beat, you simply regard him in silence. Then, “Hey.”

You give a small nod of acknowledgment before turning away, effectively shutting down the conversation. Lando’s smile falters as you refocus your attention on … absolutely nothing at all.

Well, that’s a bit rude. He frowns, stung by the brush-off. So much for breaking the ice. Maybe you’re just shy around new people? Lando decides to give you the benefit of the doubt as the other drivers begin filing in.

He takes his seat a few chairs away, sneaking sidelong glances at you. You haven’t so much as glanced in his direction again, adopting the same thousand-yard stare as the Iceman.

Like father, like daughter, Lando muses with a shake of his head.

When the press conference gets underway, question after question is lobbed at the drivers. Lando fields them with his usual charismatic charm, unable to resist hamming it up for the cameras with comedic flair. In contrast, you remain stubbornly curt whenever the mic is passed your way.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“I don’t know.”

Your terse responses draw titters of laughter from the audience and press corps alike. Lando watches in amazement, unable to fathom how anyone could be so … so ...

“Boring?” He blurts out before he can stop himself.

You cut your eyes towards him, holding his gaze for the first time since your noncommittal greeting. Lando feels himself flush, suddenly uncertain if he’s been too cheeky. But then the corners of your mouth tug up in an unmistakable smirk before you turn away again, leaving him to wonder if he’s imagined it.

By the time the press conference mercifully ends, Lando has decided you’re definitely an odd duck. But also … kind of fascinating? In an eccentric, robotic sort of way? He’s not sure what to make of his swirling thoughts as you all rise to make your exit.

Lando hangs back, angling to get one more shot at conversation. “Hey, uh, Y/N? I know you’re still getting your feet wet here, but if you ever need any advice or, you know, someone to show you the ropes, I’m always around.”

You pause, glancing back at him over your shoulder. For a fleeting second, Lando thinks he detects … what? Amusement? Disbelief? It’s impossible to tell with your trademark poker face firmly in place.

“Thanks,” you reply, your tone mild. “But I’m good.”

And with that, you pivot on your heel and stride away, leaving Lando to stare after you.

“Huh,” he mutters to himself. So much for breaking the ice.

As the next couple of days of testing wear on, Lando can’t seem to get a read on you. Oh, you’re perfectly courteous whenever your paths happen to cross in the paddock. You’ll return his greetings with a respectful nod or murmur of acknowledgment.

But that’s as far as it goes. You’re polite, but also totally inscrutable. Lando has no idea what you make of him, or really anything at all that might be going on inside that head of yours. All he knows is that his curiosity about you has been thoroughly piqued.

One morning, Lando spies you sitting alone, sipping from a a mug of coffee as you study a stack of data printouts. He ambles over, determined to try chatting you up again.

“Y/N! How’s it going?” His voice is cheerfully upbeat. “That coffee from the hotel? Because let me tell you, it’s rubbish. If you want a proper brew, you’ve got to venture out and find a decent cafe. I know all the best spots around here if you’d like some recommendations ...”

He trails off as you simply look up at him, silent and unblinking. Lando clears his throat, feeling oddly off-kilter beneath your steady regard.

“Anyway,” he blusters on, undeterred. “How are you finding testing so far? Not too overwhelming, I hope? If you ever want to debrief or go over data or anything, I’m happy to lend an ear. Or even an eye, I suppose, since it’s more looking at numbers than listening to-”

“Bwoah.”

The single syllable cuts through Lando’s babbling. You set down your coffee and rise to your feet in one effortless, graceful movement. Lando blinks in surprise as you turn and walk away without another word.

“Oh. Erm. Sure, just … ignore me then,” he mutters, feeling his cheeks flush hotly.

He shakes his head as you disappear around the corner, baffled by your total indifference. But then a wry chuckle escapes his lips as the truth dawns on him with crystal clarity.

You’re not rude or shy at all. That’s just … who you are. Curt, to the point, unconcerned with frivolous chitchat and social niceties. You’ve got laser-focus, and nothing is going to distract you from your pursuit of speed.

In that moment, Lando feels a swell of admiration. He gets it now — you’re carved from the same uncompromising bedrock as your old man. Refreshingly authentic without any affectations or pretense.

Most people would find your blunt aloofness off-putting. But not Lando. No, he finds the prospect of unraveling the mystery that is Y/N Räikkönen irresistibly intriguing.

He grins to himself as he ambles off to get ready for his own session out on track. Just you wait, Y/N. He’s going to get you to crack a smile yet, even if it kills him.

After all, whoever said being a woman of few words was a bad thing?

***

Lando is in the middle of his pre-race routine, trying to center his mind and get into the zone, when you appear out of nowhere and thrust something at him.

“Here,” you say brusquely.

He blinks, puzzled, as he registers the scraggly bundle of wildflowers gripped in your fist. They look like they’ve been unceremoniously ripped out of the dirt, roots, soil and all.

“Uh … what’s this?” Lando asks.

You meet his confused gaze head on, your expression typically unreadable. “Flowers. For you.”

“For me?” Lando repeats dumbly. He glances around, as if expecting a hidden camera crew to jump out at any second. “Are you … giving me these?”

“No, I’m giving them to the other idiot who won’t stop yapping at me every single day,” you deadpan.

Lando feels his cheeks grow warm at the mild rebuke. He knows you’re referring to his persistent, if extremely one-sided attempts at conversation over the past few weeks. All his friendly openings and invitations have been met with a string of indifferent brush-offs and noncommittal hums.

Can’t blame a guy for trying, right? At least he’s being polite, which is more than he can say for-

“Well?” You break into his thoughts, arching one coolly expectant brow. “Are you wooed or not?”

This time it’s Lando’s turn to stare at you blankly. “I’m … sorry, what?”

“Wooed,” you repeat flatly. “You said the girl of your dreams would woo you with flowers or some nonsense. So I got you flowers.” You give the bedraggled bouquet a little shake for emphasis. “Now you’re wooed. Happy?”

It takes a moment for the words to click into place in Lando’s brain. Then a strangled laugh bursts from his lips as he remembers the foolish, offhand comment he made in an interview a few days ago. He’d been prattling on about his imaginary ideal partner, somehow painting the ridiculous picture of himself being “wooed” like some lovestruck Victorian lady.

Leave it to you to take the whole ludicrous scenario at face value. Lando can’t decide if he’s more charmed or bewildered by the fact that you’ve actually gone to the trouble of physically wooing him with … weeds?

“You cannot be serious right now,” he sputters out between residual chuckles.

You simply stand there, utterly unfazed as you hold out the world’s saddest excuse for a bouquet expectantly. “Well? Am I doing it right or not?”

“Doing what right?” Lando shakes his head, chortling again. “This whole wooing business? Y/N, that was just me rambling on like an idiot, as usual. You didn’t actually have to-”

“But I did,” you interject, effectively cutting off his protests. “So. Are. You. Wooed?”

Lando opens his mouth, then closes it again as he searches for the right response. There’s no menace or mockery in your expression, just that same intense focus and matter-of-fact bluntness that you apply to everything. Somehow, he gets the distinct impression that you won’t be deterred until he gives you a straight answer.

“Uh … no?” He ventures at last. “N-Not really, I guess?”

You stand there for a beat, Processing his words. Then you give a curt nod of acknowledgment. “Okay. That’s a you problem.”

With that, you turn smartly on your heel and stride away, leaving Lando gaping after you in a stupor. He stares down at the shoddy little bundle of greenery still clutched in his hand, not sure whether to laugh or just shake his head in amazed disbelief.

“A ‘me’ problem?” he mutters, a wry grin tugging at his lips. “Well, you’ve got me there, Y/N.”

Because the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that you respecting him enough to even entertain his absurd hypothetical … that might just be his new favorite problem.

***

The roar of the crowd is deafening as Lando brings his car across the finish line in fourth place. Not his best result, but respectable points in the bag. He allows himself a tight smile as he peels into the pit lane and kills the engine.

Until the unmistakable bright green and black livery of your Kick Sauber fills his vision, that is.

Lando does a double take, his jaw dropping as the implication sinks in. No way. There’s absolutely no way you’ve … you’ve won this race, right? In that underpowered, aerodynamically-challenged shitbox?

He can scarcely believe his eyes as you glide to a stop behind the large “1” board. The cheers and applause swelling around the track leave no doubt — somehow, against all odds, you’ve just taken the top step of the podium.

Lando scrambles out of his own car, tugging off his helmet and balaclava as he hustles across parc fermé in a daze. The first thing he notices is the sheer confusion and shock etched onto the faces of everyone else milling around. Even the marshals look gobsmacked by this upset for the ages.

In the middle of the chaos, you’re casually unfurling yourself from the cockpit with your trademark nonchalance. Like this is just another ho-hum Sunday drive for Y/N Räikkönen instead of, you know, the most spectacular overachievement in recent Formula 1 history.

Lando stands there gaping at you, unable to fully process what’s just happened. He vaguely registers the rest of the top finishers pulling in around you, their body language radiating bewilderment and disbelief as they all turn to stare, dumbstruck.

No one can quite seem to believe that an underdog backmarker has just eclipsed them all in a car that typically struggles to score points, let alone wins.

For your part, you’re projecting indifference to the chaos swirling around you. You simply grab a water bottle and take a long, unhurried pull, seemingly oblivious to the escalating frenzy.

Then, you casually turn in Lando’s direction and arch one brow ever-so-slightly. A silent question.

“I … you ...” Lando sputters uselessly, his brain still stuttering to catch up. “Did you seriously just ...”

The corners of your lips quirk upwards, hinting at a suppressed grin. “Well?” You prompt him calmly. “Are you wooed yet or what?”

It takes a moment for the light to flicker on in Lando’s mind. Any other time, he’d be delighted by the playful ribbing, eager to keep the back-and-forth banter flowing.

But right now, something else cuts through the haze of astonishment clouding his thoughts.

“Wait … is this ...” Lando squints at you searchingly. “Did you just win this race … for me?”

The words slip out before he can stop them. Because that would be such an impossibly, endearingly you thing to do, wouldn’t it? To dedicate achieving the unachievable all because of an offhand remark about wanting to be wooed?

His heart does a strange little flip-flop at the mere idea of you going to such outlandishly romantic lengths, all for the sake of who-even-knows-what is brewing between you two these days.

For a long beat, you simply stare back at him, your expression unreadable as ever. Then, “What?” You let out a faintly derisive snort. “No, of course not. Why would I do that?”

The words detonate like a slap in the face, momentarily winding Lando with their blunt force. “Oh. Well, I just thought maybe since I mentioned the whole wooing thing, and then you ...”

You shake your head impatiently, cutting him off. “You’re not the one who won this race, Lando.”

With that, you turn on your heel and stride away, dismissing him with a curt finality. Lando is left speechless, mouth agape as he watches your retreating back.

Around him, the rest of the drivers and crew are still buzzing with perplexed whispers and incredulous looks. No one can seem to wrap their minds around what they’ve just witnessed.

A sudden boom of laughter from Stake F1 Team Kick Sauber garage shatters the tension. Lando glances over to see your grizzled race engineer doubled over, tears of mirth streaming down his face as he wheezes helplessly.

“That’s my girl!” He chortles, shaking his head in amazed delight. “Leave it to a Räikkönen to blow the entire fuckin’ field away and just shrug it off like it’s no big deal!”

Lando feels the corner of his own mouth twitch upwards, the pinpricks of embarrassment fading as quickly as they flared. Of course he wasn’t on your mind out there today — you’re a laser-focused competitor brimming with the same single-minded intensity as your father. No thoughts, just pure, unbridled velocity.

You don’t crave grandstanding or glory, you’re simply out there doing what you were born to do, with ruthless, unsentimental precision. No fuss, no frills. Just inevitable, undeniable greatness through sheer force of will.

For now, that’s more than enough to leave him feeling utterly, deliriously, irrevocably … wooed.

***

Lando flops back on the hotel bed with a contented sigh, still basking in the post-race glow. P3 on the podium is a stellar result, made even sweeter by the fact that you claimed second place.

He grins lazily as you emerge from the en-suite bathroom, having shed your team wear in favor of a comfy t-shirt and shorts. Even with your hair tied up in a messy bun and your face scrubbed free of makeup, you’re still the most beautiful sight he’s ever laid eyes on.

“There’s the champion,” he rumbles affectionately, reaching out to snag your wrist and tug you down onto the bed beside him. You allow yourself to be pulled into the circle of his arms with a quiet huff of amusement.

“I didn’t win, you dork,” you point out mildly, making no move to extract yourself from his embrace. “That was Max on the first step today, not me.”

“Mmm, true.” Lando hums his agreement, nuzzling against the crown of your head. “But you’ll get there again soon enough. Then we can really celebrate.”

He punctuates the promise with a languid kiss, smiling against your lips as you melt into him with a soft sigh of contentment. These tender, unguarded moments are rapidly becoming his favorite part of any race weekend.

You allow the liplock to linger for a few long, blissful seconds before finally pulling back with a faint smirk. “Speaking of celebrating ...”

Then, without any hesitation whatsoever, you deftly roll off the mattress and sink down onto your knees in one fluid motion, effectively pitching Lando’s heart rate into a gallop.

“Whoa, hey now,” he sputters out a nervous chuckle, propping himself up on his elbows to gawk down at you in surprise. “What are you doing down there, trouble?”

Rather than answering directly, you simply arch one eloquent brow and ask, “Are you wooed yet?”

Lando blinks, needing a second to parse your meaning. Then a bark of laughter escapes before he can stop it, finally realizing where this is going. “Oh my god, you cannot be serious right now. Are we really still doing that stupid bit?”

There’s no missing the impish glint in your eye as you regard him from your knees, clearly quite pleased with yourself for managing to get the upper hand. “Well? I’m waiting for an answer here.”

Lando shakes his head in amazed disbelief, unable to smother his grin. “Y/N, love, you have got to be the most impossible woman on the planet sometimes.” He reaches down to brush an errant lock of hair out of your eyes, cradling your face tenderly. “But lucky for you, it’s impossibly charming as hell.”

You lean into the caress ever so slightly, regarding him with an impish glint. “So? Do you feel wooed yet or not?”

Something warm and gooey blossoms in Lando’s chest as he studies your features — the amused quirk of your lips, the slight flush on your cheeks, the fire dancing in your eyes. You’re such an endearing contradiction, managing to be the most formidably stoic badass on the racetrack while also being irresistibly playful when it’s just the two of you.

“Y/N ...” he starts, a bemused chuckle rumbling from his lips. He presses a kiss to your forehead, relishing your quiet hum of approval. “You do realize you don’t have to keep trying to woo me anymore, right?”

You blink up at him, your brow furrowing slightly as you process his words. “What are you talking about?”

Lando nods towards the pillow behind him, gesturing vaguely. “The flowers. The race win. All the coy banter and teasing.” He grins, cupping your face in his hands. “Pretty sure that ship has sailed at this point, love.”

You continue to stare at him with a blank look, like he’s suddenly started speaking in tongues. The lack of comprehension on your face is so unguarded and genuine that it makes Lando’s grin slowly slip.

Hold on … could it be that you actually don’t realize-

“Hey,” he asks slowly, hardly daring to breathe. “Correct me if I’m wrong here, but … I thought after the whole flower thing, we kind of … you know ...”

He trails off helplessly, not sure how to broach the subject in case he’s somehow misread everything completely. Your brow remains furrowed, making him abruptly hyper aware of the fact that your lithe form is literally kneeling at his feet while wearing very little clothing.

A pregnant pause stretches between you, thick with confused tension. Then-

“Oh my god,” you blurt out, your eyes going comically wide as the pieces finally click into place. “Did you think we were … dating? All this time?”

Lando chokes on his own tongue, too stunned to respond right away. He simply gapes at you, feeling like the world’s biggest moron for somehow operating under the wrong assumption for … how long, exactly?

Now that he’s thinking back, neither of you ever explicitly defined what was brewing between you two ... you just sort of started spending more and more time together, growing more and more intimately intertwined until … well ...

Suddenly he’s laughing, helpless peals of mirth bubbling up from his core as the truth dawns on him. All this time, you two have essentially been a couple of awkward teenagers muddling through the beginning stages of a relationship, the wires of communication getting hopelessly crossed along the way.

But oh man, of course it somehow ended up going down like this between you two. Why would he have expected anything less idiotically convoluted?

You’re chuckling too, the laughter rippling through your body in delightfully unreserved waves as you sway back on your heels. And just like that, the last lingering hint of tension dissolves from the air as you surrender to the hilarity of it all.

“So … I’m just gonna go ahead and take that as a no then,” Lando finally manages to gasp out between wheezing chuckles.

“Well that would depend,” you shoot back, your eyes bright with mischief. You shift forward onto your knees, leaning in close enough for him to feel the teasing rasp of your breath against his lips. “Because according to you, I’m already spoken for.”

Lando’s laughter cuts off with a soft groan as your nose brushes teasingly against his thigh, his palms finding their way to your hips as if by muscle memory. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?” He accuses without any real heat.

“Nope,” you agree matter-of-factly before capturing his lips in a searing kiss.

He loses himself in the velvet glide of your mouths for endless minutes, his fingertips tracing maddening patterns across the sliver of exposed skin at your waist. When you finally break apart, you’re both panting softly, gazes locked in a heated stalemate.

“So ...” Lando murmurs at last, his lips brushing deliciously against yours with every word. “If we haven’t actually been dating this whole time, then what would you call … this?” He sweeps one hand up in a languid caress, hinting at the incredible tangle you’ve both willingly stumbled into.

“Hmm ...” You press another series of featherlight kisses along the sharp line of his jaw, leaving him shivering. “How about … badly in need of remedial communication skills?”

Lando bursts out laughing again — because really, is there any more succinct way to sum up the two of you? He tugs you up onto his lap, cupping the back of your head and crushing your lips back to his in a heated clash of teeth and tongues.

You willingly arch against him with a throaty sigh, hands roaming possessively across his chest. The two of you are a whirlwind of tangled limbs and shared laughter and scorching friction.

It’s all so achingly, impossibly right that Lando can hardly stand it. But as you meet his heated gaze, chests heaving and eyes sparking with unspoken promises, Lando finds he wouldn’t have it any other way. Not when the payoff is stealing heated moments like these, all tangled up in each other with boundless laughter and blazing passion.

“Y/N ...” he murmurs reverently, tracing the curve of your smiling lips with the pad of his thumb. “I adore you. You incredible, impossible woman.”

You lean into the caress with a soft hum, covering his hand with yours to hold him there. “So what now?” You arch a playful brow. “Are you officially wooed or do you need some more convincing?”

With a low growl, he abruptly flips you both over onto the mattress in one fluid movement. You let out a startled squeak quickly swallowed by his questing mouth as he settles between your parted thighs, pinning you to the sheets.

You arch up to meet him in a slick glide of fevered skin, clutching him close. Through it all, your soft laughter never ceases — bubbling up in breathless peals of delight that Lando hungrily drinks in.

Yeah, he’s pretty damn wooed all right. But from this moment forward, he’s going to spend every second making damn sure you never have to ask again.

[crownofgildedlilies]

sick days

pairing: aged up!bakugou x reader summary: Katsuki is sick, which means forcing him to slow down. wc: 1.9k event masterlist

You should have known you were in for trouble the moment you woke up. 

While you were waiting until the very last second until your alarm sounded to get up, the other half of your shared bed was suspiciously empty. A box of cold medicine still sat on the bedside table where you had placed it, alongside a nearly empty box of tissues and a half full glass of water.

You frowned. Katsuki was clearly trying to go to work. 

Groaning, you climbed out from under the covers and shivered at the cold air permeating the room. The winter months were only just starting, but they had already brought forth their punishing symptoms. 

Ice, snow, holiday cheer, and—

“Katsuki Bakugou,” You huffed as soon as you found your stubborn boyfriend dutifully going about his morning routine in the kitchen. “You’re sick.”

And colds.

He froze, his back to you, but you knew exactly what expression he wore. He knew he was supposed to be in bed, preferably still knocked out on cold medicine that made the stuffiness of his nose and increasingly frequent cough just a tad bit more bearable. It wasn’t often that he got sick, but in all the years you had known him, it always was a fight you rarely won to get him to slow down and take time to heal. 

Though, when his head had been too foggy with sickness the night before to even hold a conversation with you over dinner, you had stood your ground in convincing him to call Kirishima and swap patrol days. 

“Katsu,” Your voice wasn’t going to be confused with soft, but the use of his nickname seemed to convince him that you weren’t going to chew him out for trying to sneak off to work while you still slept. Turning to face you, he copied your stance of crossed arms and firm looks, except he’s leaning back against the counter and you’re blocking the exit of the kitchen, like he’d try and bolt past you and out the front door. “We decided you were going to take the day off and rest.”

“No, you decided.” His response was quick, but he even sounded ridiculously sick, so much so that he grit his teeth and turned his head away from your glare. You could tell, just from the way he held himself, he knew that he was in the wrong. 

Not that he’d ever admit it.

“Don’t do that.” Dating Katsuki meant calling him on his shit, and it was a talent you had perfected before you had even gotten together. And though the day he asked you to be official with him he had said he loved that part of you, the way his jaw ticked in stubbornness told you that maybe he didn’t appreciate it all the time. Not that you would ever set aside your beliefs to cater to his explosive tendencies. “Don’t turn this around on me because I want you to take care of yourself, instead of rushing into the next mess at half your best.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He sighs, still managing to sound exhausted despite having just woken up. And you know it’s as close as he’ll get to apologizing, and that he really does mean it, but you meant what you said, too. “You know that, angel.” 

“Don’t angel me.” You snap, a little too quickly, glare mixing with a pout and Katsuki smirks. Because he knows that he’s winning you over with his stupid pet names and even more moronic face you struggle to say no too. 

“I promise I can make it through the day with some medicine.” He swears, and for a moment you want to believe him, especially as he uncrosses his arms and opens them with a lopsided grin, clearly trying to convince you to come closer. “C’mere. Come kiss it better.”

You shake your head and roll your eyes, but your feet are already carrying you across the well-worn and loved kitchen floor towards him. 

Except, you only make it halfway before his body shakes with the force of his cough, and any of your resolve he had chipped away comes back twice as strong. 

You don’t even wait for him to finish coughing, as rude as it sounds, before you knot your fist in the front of his shirt and tug him from the kitchen. Even sick, he could easily keep you rooted to your spot and refuse to budge, but he manages to find it in him to silently admit defeat—a fact that proves to you just how poorly he felt—and shuffle along behind you.

“Stay home today and rest.” You order, still tugging him by the shirt all the way back to your shared room. You only let go when he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, and that’s so you could stand between his knees and hold his face in one hand to get him to meet your eye. “Get better so you can kick villain ass the way I know you can.” 

“Fine,” He grumbled, pouting, but his hands still ghost up the backs of your legs in search of familiar comfort, so you know he’s not too chastised. “But ‘m going to work tomorrow.”

Rolling your eyes, you duck down just slightly to press a quick kiss to his cheek. He finds a reason to grumble about that, too, and you’re forced to listen to his complaints that it wasn’t a real kiss while you ready yourself for the day. 

“I’ll be home as early as possible,” You promise, blowing him another fake, long-distance kiss from the doorway to keep from catching his cold. Katsuki seemed to have finally accepted his fate, lounging back against the headboard with an arm behind his head as he scrolled through the various television channels to try and find one entertaining enough to distract himself. 

“Yeah, whatever.”

He would have gotten away with it.

Katsuki was so close to getting away with it, that it would have been amusing, if you weren’t so royally pissed off. 

He had your coworker to blame, when he no doubt looked for a scapegoat for the situation. Your poor, innocent, concerned coworker, who had ducked her head into your office and asked if you were following the incident, a live broadcast open on her phone. 

It only took one scan of the headline for your annoyance to boil over into anger and you to call out for the remainder of the day. 

Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight detonates on burglary ring!

You hadn’t even cared to watch the various clips attached to the article about your boyfriend’s latest victory in your race to the agency he spent his days at. No one even batted an eye at your presence as you swiped the badge Katsuki had given you for emergencies that gave you access to the building—and more importantly, his office. 

Predictably, he was there, sorting through the pile of paperwork that never seemed to shrink on his desk. A consequence of being a top rated pro, you assumed. But Katsuki had a few other consequences he needed to worry about first.

“Bank robbers? Are you kidding me?” You shouted as soon as you slammed open the door. Your boyfriend’s attention shot up at the sound of your voice, eyes wide and shoulders tense, like he was a child caught stealing sweets before dinner.  

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” He tried, and the almost nervous, almost bashful, attempt at a placating smile was halfway to amusing. But you were annoyed enough to see right through his flattery. 

“Save it.” You huffed, shutting the door behind yourself. “I’ve got half a mind to yell at Kirishima, too. He was supposed to cover your patrol, not cover for you to sneak out to patrol.”

Though, if Katsuki hadn’t listened to you about not working, then he probably didn’t even tell Kirishima that he was going in. 

“I wasn’t patrolling, swear.” He leaned back in his chair, clogged nose making his voice sound nasally. Sick or not, you weren’t going to go easy on him. 

“Half my office couldn’t wait to show me the newest footage of you fighting in the streets today.” It was a lie, but you felt like exaggerating.

“Really?” Confusion shot through you at the shit eating grin on his face, as if he wasn’t the one in trouble. 

“Yes!” Exclaiming, you crossed his office to lean your palms against the top of his desk, desperate to regain control of the situation you suddenly felt on the losing end of. 

“And you watched it?” He was smirking despite the dark bags under his eyes and the redness tinting his skin from blowing his nose so frequently, and you felt like you were missing something important. 

“You really want to try bragging right now?” Narrowing your eyes, you dodged his question. You hadn’t watched the clips from the broadcast, too mad at him for effectively sneaking out from the bed rest you had forced him into. 

“Angel, you didn’t watch it, did you?” His smug tone was interrupted only by a small cough as he grinned up at you from his stupidly comfortable office chair. Pursing your lips and standing tall, you crossed your arms over your chest and tried to find his angle. 

“Why does that matter?”

“Because I wasn’t on patrol. I happened to be walking down the same street those dumbasses tried escaping on and just helped the pros actually on patrol get them.”

It made sense, considering he wasn’t in his hero suit like he usually was at the agency, but a set of workout clothes he frequently lounged around the house in. He smirked even wider at your frown, and you knew he enjoyed watching you piece together the fact that he was right. 

“Okay,” You scrambled to find the upper hand in the conversation. “But you weren’t supposed to leave at all.” 

“Right, fine.” He huffed, his previous air of superiority quickly replaced by chagrin at being called out. “But I needed to get some paperwork to bring home. I was going stir crazy by myself.”

“It’s barely lunch, Katsuki. You couldn’t just relax?” 

“Not by myself.” He confirmed, managing to weasel his way back into your good graces with his charming excuses. Huffing, you make your way around the desk to lean back against it, next to his chair. 

“Well. I’m still mad you snuck out,” You watched as his hands clenched into fists on the armrests at your words, managing to pull a shred of pity out of you. You should have known better than to assume he would have been able to let himself relax after so many years of relentless training to be the best. “But I took the rest of the day off.”

“I’m fine, and all,” Katsuki dropped his attention from your face, suddenly finding a spot on the opposite wall incredibly interesting. And you knew if you pressed him about it, he’d only tell you that the flush high on his cheeks was only due to his sickness. “But let’s go home.”

“You look like shit, Katsu.”

“I deserved that one.”

“Like, death warmed over, bad.”

“Alright!” He shouted, though his volume triggered a coughing fit shook his shoulders. 

Snorting, you pushed off the desk and made your way towards the exit, waving over your shoulder for him to follow you. With a frown, he grumbled something akin to ‘bet you’re happy’ that had you humming your one word agreement. 

“Karma.”

[gallusrostromegalus]

Not trying to be rude, genuinely curious, why are metal and wood not just earth?

Assorted Reasons off the top of my head:

Metal in this 5-element cycle accounts for all nonliving solids- metals, rocks, minerals, etc. Wood accounts for all Alive or Dead* solids.

*Dead being "Used to be Alive" Which is a really different thing than "Was never alive in the first place" in terms of physics, biology, and epidemiology.

Wood is neither properly a solid nor liquid. It's liquids trapped by malleable solids under pressure, which is a really different thing than "Solid" in terms of physics.

To Put it in ATLA Terms: Wood is it's own Element because Neither Earthbenders nor the Swamp Water Tribe can bend it. (at least once it's dead, and the Swamp Tribe was using Still-Living Algae, the wettest plant. Deceased Tree might be beyond them).

Also how Neither Earthbenders nor bloodbenders can bend Bone.

Putting Living Tissues solidly within either Water or Earth massively unbalances the Elements IMHO, hence, the separation.

the number 5 is in the Fibonacci sequence, and I can do silly numbers things with that :)

I like drawing Pentagram more than Square

This is actually about Magical Blood typing Hell, and two characters having an insane conversation about whether or not ice is a Mineral while their friend is bleeding out :)

[knoepfl]

Can you do Legoshi from Beastars with an extremely pessimistic, cynical, introverted, and antisocial fem! black cat reader of very few words who he meets when she's scouted as the new head writer since the President of the Drama was extremely impressed by her near-perfect grades?

Shadows and Stars

Characters:

1. Legoshi: A shy, introspective gray wolf in the drama club, empathetic but socially awkward.

2. Black Cat (Head Writer): A reserved, sharp-tongued new member with a guarded yet intense demeanor.

3. Louis: The confident, demanding red deer president of the drama club.

---

Trigger Warnings:

1. Social Anxiety: Depictions of awkward and tense interactions. 2. Loneliness: Themes of isolation and guarded behavior. 3. Stress: Characters under creative and interpersonal pressure. 4. Emotional Tension: Subtle, intense dynamics between characters.

Masterlist

Words: 1535

--- The morning light trickled through the half-open windows of the drama clubroom. Legoshi shifted uncomfortably as he adjusted a prop tree, his mind preoccupied with a myriad of thoughts. The sudden announcement from Louis the previous week had taken everyone by surprise—a new head writer had been chosen.

She had arrived earlier that day, slipping into the room with all the presence of a shadow. Legoshi watched her from the corner of his eye as she sat, barely speaking, her sharp gaze fixed on the scattered scripts before her. A black cat with an air of indifference, she radiated a quiet intensity that made even the most confident club members uneasy.

“Her grades are unmatched,” Louis had explained with his usual brisk tone. “She’s exactly what we need to elevate this production.”

Legoshi’s tail flicked nervously as he approached her.

“Uh... hi. I’m Legoshi,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual.

The cat glanced up briefly, her green eyes narrowing slightly before she returned to her work. “Okay.”

It wasn’t rude, but it wasn’t warm either. It was… curt, like she had decided he wasn’t worth more than a single syllable. He shifted awkwardly.

“So… um, you’re the new writer?” he tried again, his ears twitching as the silence stretched uncomfortably.

“Yes.”

Another sharp, clipped answer. Legoshi’s tail drooped. He wasn’t good at conversations on the best of days, but this was like trying to talk to a brick wall. Still, there was something about her that intrigued him—something about the way she seemed to carry a world of thoughts behind those short answers.

“Is there… anything you need help with?” he asked, trying to be helpful.

The cat finally put down her pen and looked at him fully. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice was calm and measured. “No. I’m used to doing things myself.”

Legoshi nodded, unsure if that was a dismissal. “Okay… I’ll just, uh, be over here then.”

She didn’t reply, her attention already back on the papers in front of her. He slunk back to his corner, silently berating himself for his awkwardness. But as the hours passed, he couldn’t help but watch her work.

Her movements were precise, her focus unyielding. She scribbled notes in the margins of the script, her handwriting neat and deliberate. Occasionally, she would pause to glance around the room, her sharp eyes missing nothing.

It was Louis who finally broke the ice—if only unintentionally.

“Legoshi, stop lurking and make yourself useful!” the deer snapped, gesturing toward the new head writer. “She needs the last script drafts from the archives. Take her.”

Legoshi’s ears flattened, but he obeyed. He shuffled over to her, mumbling, “Uh, we need to get the drafts. I can show you where they are.”

She stood without a word, gathering her things before following him.

The walk to the archives was silent. Legoshi felt like he should say something, but every time he glanced at her, she seemed lost in thought, her expression unreadable.

When they reached the dusty shelves of the archives, she finally broke the silence.

“This must be exhausting for you,” she said, her voice low but unexpectedly soft.

Legoshi blinked. “What do you mean?”

“All this social interaction,” she replied, glancing at him sideways. “It seems... draining.”

He hesitated. “It can be,” he admitted, “but I like helping people.”

She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as though she understood. They worked in silence for a while, sorting through the papers.

“You’re... different,” she said suddenly, her voice so quiet he almost didn’t hear it.

“Different how?”

She didn’t answer right away, her eyes focused on the script in her hands. Finally, she murmured, “Most people talk too much.”

Legoshi chuckled softly, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. “I guess I’m not most people then.”

For the first time, her lips twitched, almost forming a smile. It was brief, but it was there.

Maybe, Legoshi thought, as they continued to work together, she wasn’t as unreachable as she seemed.

---

The warm glow of the afternoon sun cast soft streaks across the dusty floorboards of the drama club’s archive room. Legoshi’s ears twitched nervously as he glanced at the black cat beside him. She was leaning against one of the towering shelves, her sleek frame almost melding into the shadows, her sharp green eyes scanning the scripts she had pulled from the stacks.

The air felt heavy. Legoshi shuffled his feet, his large claws scraping lightly against the floor. He wanted to speak, to break the suffocating silence, but her rigid posture and piercing gaze kept him rooted in place.

“Legoshi,” she said suddenly, her voice low and deliberate.

He flinched, startled. “Y-Yes?”

“You’re breathing too loud.” She didn’t look up, her tail swishing once before curling tightly around her.

“Oh. S-Sorry.” He ducked his head, his ears flattening as he tried to stifle the deep, instinctive breaths his body demanded.

For a moment, she said nothing, her expression blank as her eyes flicked between the pages of the script. Then, with a sigh, she set the stack down and turned to him fully, her hands resting loosely in her pockets.

“You’re... not what I expected,” she murmured, her tone unreadable.

Legoshi blinked, his tail curling awkwardly behind him. “What do you mean?”

“Most people are loud. Obnoxious.” She tilted her head slightly, her gaze narrowing as she studied him. “You’re... quiet. And you don’t stare.”

Legoshi rubbed the back of his neck, his claws grazing the fur there. “I-I mean, it’s rude to stare. And I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable…” His voice trailed off, his body hunching slightly under her scrutiny.

Her lips twitched—a movement so subtle it might have been missed entirely. “Not bad,” she muttered, almost to herself.

“Uh… thanks?” Legoshi offered hesitantly, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

She turned back to the scripts, her movements fluid and deliberate. The air between them settled into a tense quiet, though it felt less sharp than before.

---

Later, back in the drama clubroom, Louis was barking orders at the cast, his voice sharp and commanding as he directed a rehearsal. Legoshi lingered near the edge of the room, holding a box of props. His eyes darted to the black cat, who had returned to her corner with the same detached grace, her pen scratching lightly against the pages of her notebook.

Legoshi couldn’t help but watch her, his large, gray ears twitching slightly. There was something captivating about her—how still she was, like a predator lying in wait. She wrote with an intensity that made the rest of the bustling room feel irrelevant.

A loud clatter jolted him from his thoughts.

“Legoshi!” Louis barked, his sharp amber eyes boring into him. “Stop staring and do something useful.”

“S-Sorry!” Legoshi stammered, his claws fumbling with the box as he scrambled to set it down. His tail curled tightly around his leg as he ducked his head, trying to make himself smaller.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the black cat glance up, her green eyes briefly flicking to Louis before returning to her work.

---

Later that day, as the club emptied out, Legoshi found himself walking beside her again. She didn’t speak, her footsteps soft and deliberate against the pavement.

“I, uh, hope today wasn’t too stressful,” Legoshi offered, his voice barely above a murmur.

She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “Why do you care?”

Legoshi hesitated, his shoulders hunching as he struggled to find the right words. “I… I just want to make sure you’re okay. That’s all.”

Her ears flicked back, and she looked away. “I’m used to stress. It’s not a big deal.”

He nodded slowly, his claws tapping lightly against his thighs as they walked. “I guess… but you don’t have to handle everything alone. Sometimes it’s okay to let people help.”

She stopped suddenly, turning to face him. Her gaze was sharp, her tail flicking behind her. “Why? Why does it matter to you?”

Legoshi froze, his ears flattening as he struggled under her intense stare. “B-Because…” He swallowed, his large hands fidgeting nervously. “I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t fit in. And… I think it’s nice to have someone who understands.”

Her eyes widened slightly, the smallest crack in her composed demeanor. But just as quickly, she looked away, her shoulders tensing.

“I don’t need anyone to understand,” she said flatly, though her voice was quieter than before.

Legoshi tilted his head, his tail swishing gently behind him. “Maybe not,” he said softly, “but it’s okay if you do.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The fading light of the evening painted the campus in warm hues, and the air between them felt heavy with unspoken words.

Finally, she sighed, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “You’re strange, Legoshi.”

He blinked. “I-I am?”

“Yes,” she said simply, her lips twitching again in that almost-smile. “But it’s not the worst thing.”

Legoshi couldn’t stop the small wag of his tail as he followed her back to the dorms, the faintest hint of hope blooming in his chest.

Maybe, he thought, some connections didn’t need words—they just needed time.

---

[bogleech]

So yeah MSN posted this overly long clickbait compilation of tweets from across the last ten years(?!) in which someone from another country isn't sure if something from American media is real or not and they all have tons of notes on them indicating that these really are points of confusion. So many of them fascinate me???

I don't even know what this one means. No you wouldn't do that in casual conversation. I do not know where this is being done inappropriately in enough media to raise this question.

Where in the world do people always sleep in all of their clothes. Or do they mean pajamas? In that case, where in the world are pajamas still a thing.

I cannot think of a single film or television show I've ever seen that depicted a deviled egg.

Because it's the cheapest and most filling staple that almost everyone actually likes. Why doesn't your country have it, that's weird

This does not happen in real life, no.

No, this one is a movie trend we also think is weird.

My father is the only person I have ever seen drinking milk with dinner and we all poked fun at him for it. I have never seen it in a piece of media. My theory is that there may be like five or six movies in which this is depicted and those are the only movies this guy ever saw.

Why waste a bowl whether you're sad or otherwise? It's your ice cream. Also, one tub is one serving, duh.

I have personally never seen a movie or television show in which someone just called their dog "pooch"

Meatloaf is in fact considered a more obscure and divisive dinner in modern America. I love it but we think of it as like a weird grandma dinner since the 50's.

No that would be weird and rude.

I have never seen etc.

THE BABY MUSEUM

I only just learned because of this tweet that this actually is not a standard anymore since around 20 years ago

[ouraniatm]

would you look at that - cora had an extremely wicked, satisfied look on her face. is it because she succeeded in a mission either kafka or elio tossed on her? no. perhaps it's because she managed to find yet another, highly valuable machine for her to tinker with? absolutely not. if so, what else would it be...?

oh, you know ... it's because she managed to outrage the one and only, smug and arrogant member of the IPC's spoiled child, intelligentsia guild , dr. ratio, himself - or as she called him, dr. smartass. seeing the fury in his eyes, be it benign or extremely obvious, was VERY satisfying for the stellaron hunter. she couldn't help it ... especially when she was bored of the missions given to her.

❛ would ya' look at that - those lil' toys got to you. ❜ she begins, her tone snarky, as her icy blue eyes remained blank - though if one looked closely, you could see the viciousness from within. ❛ it's almost like...ya' didn't calculate your time of escape right~ hehe...welp, i'm off. see ya', dr. smartass! ❜

aaaand just like that, off she takes off, fully expecting for her biggest rival to chase after her. man, did she love this chase of cat and mouse.

@stcries ... continued from this.

[erwinsvow]

introducing... bitchy reader!

rafe never pays attention to sarah’s friends. new yet similar faces seem to make the rounds through tannyhill every week; the place was a revolving door. the occasional familiar girl would say hi to him, which would of course be ignored since he doesn’t care enough to say hi back.

so naturally, you become the exception to his little rule.

you and sarah are on opposite sides of the counter, flicking through magazines and taking sips from overpriced iced coffees, when he overhears a conversation that makes him stop and listen.

“-and he’s not like topper, like, at all. he’s really nice and actually talks to me instead of at me-”

“wow,” he hears you say, dragging out the syllables and sarcasm dripping from your voice. “such standards you have. no, really.”

“shut up. he’s totally sweet-” sarah says, but you interrupt her.

“he’s, like, totally a dirty pogue.” that catches his attention—not just the fact that there’s something going on between his sister and some pogue, but the way you say the sentence, how the words sound coming from your mouth. 

you nearly sound like rafe.

“that is so rude-”

“what? i’m just being honest. i’d be a bad friend if i didn’t tell you the truth.”

“what truth?” his sister questions.

“that you’re settling for some pogue boy because you’re bored of top. i get it. if i was dating him i’d be bored enough to fuck a pogue too.”

rafe cringes at the topic even though your word choice makes him laugh—topper is boring, though he doesn’t think he’s heard anyone else bring it up until now. he steps back into the doorway, watching the two of you. the crass words are coming from you, dressed in a sunny yellow dress and tapping pretty pink nails against the counter. 

“hey! i’m not bored-”

“you mean, you like hearing about his boat and golf every single day?”

“he has other hobbies! like-”

“like what?” you pause, watching sarah’s expression before giving her a pointed look—a look that says told you so. “who are you really trying to convince right now?” you flip through another magazine, finding something that must have caught your eye. you lift it to show sarah—some pinked striped pajamas and fuzzy slippers on the pages. “don’t i totally need this?”

“shut up.”

“that’s what someone says when they know the other person’s right,” you say with a mocking smile, setting down the magazine. he’s watching the whole thing—you’re funnier than he would have thought. “and if you change your mind just go to country club. top’s dime a dozen there.” the two of you start laughing. 

“i’m not gonna change my mind-”

“that’s what you said when you started dating topper,” you say it deadpan, and rafe holds back a laugh.

“-because he’s really nice. he’s a good guy.”

“ugh, sarah. making out with a dirty pogue at a bonfire is one thing. you’re talking like you’re in love. get a grip.”

“what? what’s so wrong with that?” sarah asks, taking a sip of her drink.

“because you can’t be in love with someone you have to hide your valuables around.” that’s when he decides to walk in—sarah sputtering on her drink while you roll your eyes.

“and what’re you girls talkin’ about?” rafe asks, and two sets of eyes turn to look at him. you look at him a little confused—in all the years you’ve known sarah and times you’ve been at tannyhill, rafe’s never once spoken to you.

“i don’t think it’s any of your business-” his sister says, and then he rolls his eyes. you interrupt right away.

“sarah, it’s okay.” you turn to rafe, looking right at him and leaning in a little like you’re gonna tell in something. “it’s really not any of your business.”

blank face, trying to be annoyed but not actually feeling annoyed, he stares back at you. his sister laughs stupidly, heading into the living room. she leaves you alone with rafe in the kitchen, but as you grab your drink and try to follow sarah, rafe says something.

“y’know i heard that shit you were sayin’. you’re funny, kid.” you turn back to look at rafe.

“thanks. i wasn’t joking.”

“yeah. good. at least one of my sister’s friends has ‘er head screwed straight.” you laugh, but the look on your face says you didn’t think it was funny.

“are you trying to compliment me? by insulting all my other friends?” he wasn’t expected that retort.

“no. no, i-”

“maybe if your friend wasn’t such a shit boyfriend, sarah wouldn’t be talking to some pogue. but hey, what do i know?”

“hey, kid, i-”

“don’t call me that.” you roll your eyes, walking to the living room without even glancing back at rafe. he calls out after you again.

“so have you?” you pause, turning again.

“have i what?” “made out with some pogue at the bonfire.” he shrugs. “that’s what you said to sarah, isn’t it?”

“again, how is that any of your business?” you ask, cocking your head at him.

“that’s not an answer.”

“i don’t owe you an answer. but for the record, no, i haven’t. i actually have standards.” he doesn’t miss the remark and what it says about his sister.

“good,” rafe says, looking at you. his eyes rake over your body before he can stop it—your short hem, the jewelry dangling on your wrists and neck, the heels even though you hadn’t gone anywhere.

“shut up. weirdo.” you walk to the living room where sarah’s waiting for you.

rafe’s gonna have a hard time staying away from you.

[starry-songs-canvas]

Fenton-Proved Kryptonite!

Sorry for the lack of prompt last week, been sick.

——————————————————

Lex Luthor had sent a representative for LexCorp, instead of coming to Vlad Masters himself.

Rude, but smart.

But this imbecile can’t seem to hold a simple business conversation! (No ghostly interference needed) Starring at his most recent attempt of a bust of his dear Madeline, (a good improvement from his previous endeavor, but even Vlad will admit it’s… slight imperfections. If only he could capture her essence as well as he does her idiot husband! At least those give him some stress relief.)

“I apologize for boring you, however I do happen to believe these major details are rather important.” Vlad growls.

“I- I apologize sir, but if I may ask, where did you get so much kryptonite?!” The representative chokes out.

Tl:DR, Vlad’s machines make kryptonite as a byproduct, which he then ice sculpts into Jack Fentons head. Imagine this, if you will.

[byeolyeou]

❝ that's one of 'em questions that requires a fuck-ton of alcohol t'answer . ❞ reno shakes bangs out of his face a little , teeth worrying his lower lip before he clicks his teeth - fingers fidgeting with his goggles out of old habit .

"i could have told you that." there's an edge of amusement to his voice as he leans forward in his chair. "you've done worse, how is this anything worth stopping?"

[hanasnx]

bruce trying to explain to dick and jason that the young woman they saw in the manor is his 19 yo situationship !!

PART ONE ✩ PART TWO MINORS DNI 18+

BRUCE WAYNE cuffs his last link, and straightens out the sleeve of his dress shirt.

"I'm not sneaking around." JASON TODD insists, as if it should be obvious and he's disgusted Bruce would imply such a thing. A resentful smile replaces it as he claps a harsh hand on the back of DICK GRAYSON. "Birdie here was just helping me out, he told me you'd be gone by now. Didn't know you kept my copy." He raises the book into view and wiggles it.

"Of course, I would. It has all your annotations." Bruce replies calmly, and Jason's expression drops subtly. Bruce approaches you and adjusts the blanket you held so you'd be more covered up. "Why don't you go freshen up? The car's waiting." Your cheeks heat even more than before, you're sure he can see the color bloom on them and spread to your forehead. He's not the least bit interested in your nightgown that the boys commented on, instead keeping warm and rough hands on your shoulders protectively.

"Hold on a sec', who is this?" Jason has the need to be combative, especially after the flash of vulnerability he displayed. He gestures to you with the book. "Getting younger every year, aren't they, Bruce?" A wolfish grin spreads onto his lips, his canines glinting in the firelight and you frown at his rude implications, talking about you like you're not even there.

"She's my date for tonight." Bruce replies coolly, and you glance between them, puzzled over how he keeps such a level head around someone intent to get under his skin. You were alone five minutes with Jason and he'd managed to annoy you. Bruce somehow senses your unease, and meets your gaze, a soft glow in his eyes.

"Yeah, Bruce, I'm with Jason here. She looks younger than us." Dick has joined in on the conversation that apparently does not include you. "Are you sure that's the kind of statement you wanna make?"

"This conversation is over." A harder tone takes root within Bruce's voice as he commands, and you've had enough.

"Hello? Why are you all talking like I'm not here?" you demand, looking between their expressions of varying shock. "I'm the Ice Princess of Gotham, goddamnit, I won't be ignored!"

A snicker breaks out from Jason, who pats Dick's arm with the back of his hand. "Damn, the kindergartner's got a mouth on her." Dick does not engage in the banter, batting Jason's hand away with a scolding, "Jason."

"I'm tired of this!" you declare, and bunch up the blanket, rolling it up and tearing at it with your claws before throwing it to the ground. "I hope you have fun going to whatever-it-is by your-self, Bruce. I'm going to spend my time with people more civilized." you hiss, proudly sticking your nose in the air as you go to the exit.

"Tell 'em, baby! You go, girl!" Jason jeers after you, "A little more ass next time, that nightgown's too long."

Dick has the urge to shove Jason into the fire, but now that they're adults it's not as feasible as when they grew up around each other. "You're a piece of shit, you know that?" he tells him, but it's more or less tired.

Jason side-eyes him with a shrug. "I knew she couldn't handle it. I'm a tough pill to swallow, and a little princess like that needed some humbling."

"Who says? Jesus, Jason, you think everyone needs to be taken down a peg."

"So, Bruce, what were you celebrating tonight? Her sweet sixteen?" That grin stretches back onto Jason's countenance as he interrogates his former mentor. "Finally sick of pussy your age?"

"She was a distraction." Bruce answers, passing through the two boys. All of the polite inhibition from before is lowered, the playboy veil gone now that you've left the room. All that's left now is Batman, and he opens the window. Dick and Jason's eye follow his back as the cold night air hits them. "Penguin and Batman are at odds, and if Bruce Wayne is the center of controversy, the tabloids don't even notice the dealings of a vigilante." He watches you enter a cab in a huff, your longcoat thrown over your nightgown and heels, and drive off. He turns to Jason, and tips his head toward the open window. "I'm assuming this is how you got in, so out you go."

"This is the fourth story, Bruce."

"So you'll have no trouble."

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

I love your writing and so I just had to request something, a reader x azriel one shot. We know that he doesn't talk that much and is more of a listener, but what if it's exactly different with her. He talks to her a lot and about everything. the IC notices this and is like: what? who is this? Is that really Azriel 😂

Speaks volumes

They were all used to Azriel just being there. They could feel his presence. Could see him quietly eating his meals. Nodding along at times. Opening his mouth only if it was necessary. And even then the conversation might have slipped towards work, Rhys’s assignments. Rarely would you find him indulging in a simple chatter. He didn’t waste his breath on it.

And then you come along. Rhys invited you to dinner one night. You have been a huge help with rebuilding the city. Building shelters and help camps for people who had fled to Velaris after the war. It’s his way of saying thank you. And Azriel had seen you around but that night something clicked within him. His body goes rigid when you’re seated beside him. Not that he hates it. He just wasn’t in the mood to talk tonight and now staying silent would appear rude.

“Sorry, could you maybe…”, Azrie quickly turned towards you. You were subtly pointing to the roasted vegetables on the other side of the table. “Sure, yeah, yeah”, he muttered, reaching out for the bowl. “Thank you, got little arms”, you chuckled. “It’s more that Rhys is a show-off”, Azriel pointed out, waiting for you to load up your plate. “You want some of that too?”, you asked so casually as if sharing food with him was second nature. Azriel swallowed thickly, “Yes, please”. His eyes follow your every move.

“Anything else catches your eye?”, he wasn’t even sure what he was asking about but his mouth seemed to be moving on its own accord. “I don’t usually do fancy dinners so I don’t know what’s…”, “Try this”, Azriel cut in, reaching for another bowl, the smell of spices deliciously hitting your nose. “Mom always made this for us growing up”, he carefully scooped up the soused meats. “Childhood favorite?”, you questioned leaning in to smell the different aromas surrounding your plate. “You could say. I’m more a sweet tooth kind of guy”, he shrugged, moving his fork closer to his mouth.

You nodded at his words, “So, I shall trust my sweet treat with you then”, you tried to suppress a smile. “You want me to pick your dessert?”, it was such a genuine surprise on his face. “Suddenly not sure if you are Mr. Sweet tooth?”, you nudged his side making him roll his eyes. “We’ll let the post-dinner tea do the talking”, he shot you a smug look before turning to his plate. You do the same but not before catching a glimpse of Cassian looking all smug at the other side of the table, you shake your head, mouthing a quick, “What?”, but he just continues to grin. Eyes so full of joy as he glances at his brother.