#all of these are completed fics (except for just one)

[rose24207]

sliding into the requests and asking for something where Mafia Lando gets jealous when some guy flirting with you and he dosnt find out till he walks on this guy flirting and reader and Lando aren't even dadting but it should be common knowledge reader is off limits. 🫦

Your work is in flick. Like seriously you're other fics are so good. 🤌

The Rookie’s Mistake

Summary: In which a Rookie makes a mistake by unknowingly flirting with someone that belongs to Lando.

Genre: Mafia!Lando

TW: Mafia

A/N: thank you soo much for the request and the feedback. It brings me joy to read the positive comments! I hope you like it! English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist

It was late in the evening when you stepped into the dimly lit bar, the familiar hum of low conversation and clinking glasses greeting you.

The space was quiet, but that was how you liked it.

It was the kind of night where you could relax with a glass of wine, the weight of your thoughts temporarily lifting in the presence of a small crowd.

You’d been invited to this particular gathering, a casual evening among Lando’s men. They’d told you he was busy with something that couldn’t wait, as always.

But tonight, you weren’t upset by his absence. After all, you’d grown used to it.

You ordered your drink from the bar and settled in, letting your eyes scan the room.

Lando’s empire wasn’t easy to navigate, and most of his men understood that. They knew who you were—Lando’s—and they respected the boundaries that came with that. No one dared to flirt, not without serious consequences.

But the key word was most.

And tonight, it was a rookie’s turn to make a fatal mistake.

You saw him the moment he walked in—a fresh face among the usual crowd of hardened men.

His name was Luca.

You didn’t know much about him, except that he had just been assigned to Lando’s inner circle.

He looked cocky, sure of himself, his expensive jacket and confident gait announcing that he was more than just a rookie to him.

As you took another sip from your glass, you noticed him glancing in your direction.

There was an arrogance in his eyes that made something in your stomach tighten. He was the kind of guy who walked into a room and immediately thought he had the world at his feet.

Luca’s eyes flicked to you again.

This time, the look was different.

It was bold.

Too bold.

You raised an eyebrow, internally rolling your eyes. There was always one rookie who thought they could play it like that.

He sauntered over to where you were sitting, his smile broad and completely unaware of the invisible warning signs radiating from every person in the room.

Every one of Lando’s men who saw him move in your direction stiffened, exchanging wary glances.

They didn’t have to speak to each other—they knew better.

Luca, on the other hand, was too full of himself to notice.

“Hey,” he said, standing a little too close to your table as he flashed you a confident smile.

“I don’t think we’ve met. Name’s Luca.”

You looked up at him from your seat, coolly assessing him.

“I know who you are,” you replied, your voice calm, almost disinterested.

Luca chuckled, his smile widening. “Oh yeah? I guess I’m pretty memorable.”

He took a seat across from you without waiting for an invitation.

“You’re not from around here, are you? You don’t look like the usual crowd. More like… well, you’re too pretty to be hanging out with this lot.”

The comment made you roll your eyes inwardly. You’d heard worse from men who were actually worth your time, but Luca’s arrogance was another level. He didn’t even seem to care that the men who worked for Lando—who worked with Lando—were now all watching, a few of them with uneasy glances.

But none of them intervened yet.

No one dared.

“I’m not some random girl, if that’s what you’re implying,” you said, choosing your words carefully.

You wanted to make it clear, but without outright insulting him just yet.

“Of course, of course,” Luca replied, his voice smooth as silk, but there was a certain smugness to it now.

“I’m just saying… maybe you could use some company. It’s not every day you see someone so stunning walking around this place. What do you say? We grab a drink and see where things go?”

You weren’t sure whether to laugh or roll your eyes.

The audacity.

He was so naive, thinking you’d fall for some charming line. This wasn’t your first encounter with men like him—but it was definitely one of the more brazen.

But before you could respond, you felt it.

A shift in the air.

A dark weight that wasn’t there just moments ago.

The subtle sound of boots hitting the floor, slow, deliberate.

Luca didn’t notice.

He was too busy leaning in, clearly enjoying the small audience of Lando’s men who were now holding their breath.

The rest of the crew, including Marco, the long-time veteran of the group, exchanged glances.

They all knew exactly what was going on, and none of them were about to step in.

Not unless things went south.

Then, just as Luca’s hand moved a little too close to yours, his words still echoing in your ears, a voice you knew all too well interrupted.

“Luca.”

The sound of Lando’s voice sent an immediate wave of tension across the room.

The entire group of men froze, but Luca, for all his arrogance, didn’t seem to realize what was happening until Lando’s figure appeared in the doorway.

Lando stood there, eyes dark, sharp, like an animal sensing its prey. His gaze flicked to Luca, and then to you.

The moment he saw your face, the storm that had gathered around him seemed to calm, just slightly.

His expression softened, but his eyes were still cold, piercing through Luca like daggers.

“Lando,” Luca said, rising quickly, wiping his hands on his pants as if trying to look more composed.

“It’s nothing, I was just—”

“Don’t,” Lando interrupted, his voice low, deadly calm. “I know exactly what you were doing.”

The men in the room stiffened, each of them understanding the unspoken command in Lando’s tone.

Luca looked a little less confident now, though he was still trying to salvage his dignity.

“You’re new here,” Lando continued, taking slow steps toward the table.

The air felt thick now, heavier with every move he made.

“But you should’ve learned by now that you don’t flirt with what’s mine.”

Luca blinked, his smile fading as he seemed to realize the gravity of the situation.

“Lando, I didn’t know—” Luca began, but his voice trailed off as Lando’s glare intensified.

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” Lando said, his voice dangerously soft. “You didn’t know.”

You watched as Luca’s face flushed, all the confidence he had been exuding evaporating in an instant.

Lando was not someone to be messed with, and everyone in this room had known that from the start.

Lando’s eyes didn’t leave Luca for a moment. He gestured to the door with a sharp, almost imperceptible motion.

“Get out,” he ordered, his voice icy. “And don’t come back until you’ve learned some respect.”

Luca’s face contorted into a mix of frustration and embarrassment, but he knew better than to argue.

He quickly mumbled a hasty apology and made a retreat toward the door, his shoulders hunched in defeat.

As soon as the door closed behind him, the tension in the room lifted, but only slightly. Marco’s eyes met Lando’s, a quiet understanding passing between them. It was the kind of unspoken language only Lando’s men understood—the kind of trust that ran deeper than words.

Lando turned to face you, his gaze softening, the dangerous edge fading.

“Are you okay?”

You nodded, exhaling the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “I’m fine.”

Lando’s jaw tightened, his eyes still a little too intense. “No one touches what’s mine, Y/N. Not even the rookies.”

You smiled faintly, letting your gaze soften. “I know.”

And for a moment, it was just the two of you in the room. All the chaos, all the power, all the danger seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the quiet hum of the bar and the unspoken promise in Lando’s eyes.

You were his. And in this world of shadows and blood, nothing was ever going to change that.

Thank you for reading!

[whoreforsexymen]

Strong Drinks & Broken Links 🍺⛓️‍💥 CH. 1

Gray Hair & The Absence of Care

(Gif creds: me <3)

Pairing(s): Vander x Reader

Pronouns: GN!Reader (for now— please see this post for details)

Rating: SFW, except for strong language and consumption of alcohol (drink responsibly, people). Reader is old enough to drink, despite what Vander thinks.

Word count: 4.7k (the rest are going to be far longer, so be prepared)

Tags: Slowburn, Reader is implied to be 21+ years old, Age Gap, Heavy Use Of Language/Alcohol, Reader might be a little too angsty (I’m sorry), Tense Situations, Vander being the caring mentor type he is but in a poorly thought out way.

Notes: I don't think I've ever posted a fic on this account. So, welcome to my only outlet for the brain rotting obsession I have for this man. ALSO I SWEAR TO GOD NO ONE MENTION ANYTHING ABOUT SEASON 2, OR I'LL FIGHT YOU.

((If any of you want to be added to a tag list for this fic, please lmk!! Ask box is also open for requests/suggestions/comments 🤍 feedback is always appreciated 🤍🤍))

It had been a terrible night so far.

Not only had you been shortchanged more than two-thirds of the agreed-upon pay for a job you’d completed—but that paltry sum had quickly slipped from your grasp entirely, taken by a gang of thugs.

You had to give the undercity credit—it had an uncanny ability to remain a perpetual cesspool. You’d managed to take down two of the muggers, but the third—the one who’d made off with your coin—had slipped away while you were dealing with the others. Just your luck. The payout had been pathetic to begin with, and now you were left with nothing but the bitter taste of failure. It looked like you’d be scraping the dregs of the city to find enough for your next meal, yet again. 

That is, unless you decide to drink your dinner. As well as your sorrows, in the process. The idea struck you as you neared the central bar of the undercity, still sulking as you were making your way back to the shack you called home. The Last Drop. A name that said it all. If there was any place where the undercitizens of Zaun gathered, it was here. No doubt the owner had to be the wealthiest man in the area, though that wasn’t exactly saying much in a place like this. 

You made your decision. A warm meal might be out of reach, but liquor could suffice—if you drank heavily enough, that is. Or at the very least, it might dull the sting of the night’s failures. 

The bar was an eyesore, a hulking building among the rundown structures of The Lanes. A garish neon sign blinked above the entrance, buzzing like an angry fly, casting sickly light on the grime-streaked pavement. Inside, the din of loud music and the clatter of drunken chatter spilled into the street. It was a haven for folks with any background, no matter if they sought business or pleasure within its walls. 

You pushed through the door, noting how no one even bothered to glance your way. That was how you liked it—under the radar, always out of sight, always out of the mind of untrustworthy beings. 

Then again, you didn’t trust anyone anyway.

You duck and weave through the crowd of rowdy patrons, eyes scanning the bar for a table or booth at which you could hunker down and nurse your drink in peace. Your frown deepens beneath the hood of your jacket when you come up empty-handed. Typical. No matter, though. You’d have to order at the bar anyway, regardless of where you sat.

It’s when your eyes settle in the direction of the bar that luck seems to briefly shine upon you—there’s an empty stool. Without hesitation, you make a beeline for it, not wanting some drunken fool to snag it before you could. You practically dive-bomb onto the seat, landing with a small grunt, air knocked from your lungs. After the night you’ve had, this stool feels like an oasis, despite the new absence of oxygen beneath your chest. You settle into it like it’s the only thing left in the world, clutching the seat as if someone might try to commandeer it if you let your guard down low enough.  

The realization dawns on you that, in order to get a drink, you’d have to interact with the bartender. You hold that fact in high regard with contempt. 

Chit-chat? Not tonight– or truthfully any night. You’ve never been crazy about casual conversation. The events of the evening have only soured your mood further, and the last thing you need is some eager bartender trying to make nice. Normally, you’d avoid sitting at the bar for that reason alone, yet here you are.

Thankfully, the bartender pays you no mind, his attention fully set on the patron he’s currently tending to. That is, until said patron leaves and the barman finally turns to you, his new source of focus. 

The sheer momentum with which you rolled your eyes almost knocked you out of your seat. 

“Welcome to The Last Drop. What’ll it be?” His voice is deep, and heavy, garnering a thick accent that clung to every word. 

He’s an older man, though exactly how old is hard for you to pin down. His hair’s gray, his eyes tired, the lines of age having etched themselves into his face long ago. However, there’s something youthful about him—something that makes it hard to tell whether he’s an old-looking thirty or a young-ish fifty. Frankly, you don’t care enough to continue your mental evaluation of him. Age shouldn’t matter when it comes to bartenders. They either know how to pour a decent drink, or they don’t.

You don’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Something strong.” You mutter, your voice mostly flat, but with a hint of irritation that danced along the edge.

The bartender scratches at his graying beard, his gaze thoughtful as he considers your request. You grit your teeth, hoping he won’t try to scam you by giving you something weak and overpriced, just to line his pockets with your hard-earned coin. You’d seen it happen to others, and you’d be a damned fool if you let it happen to you. 

The bartender studies your face, or at least what he can see of it beneath your hood, before his gaze shifts to the shelves beneath the counter. After a moment of deliberation, he selects a bottle with thoughtful ease, pulling the cork out with his teeth. With his free hand, he grabs a tin cup and pours in a copious amount, sliding it toward you with a swift flick of his wrist. You’d almost call it a generous decision on his part, considering the fact that you hadn’t even paid your dues first. His choice to serve you first goes a long way in easing your suspicion, at least for the moment.

You dig into your pocket, retrieving the few gold coins you’d managed to hold onto when dealing with the aforementioned thugs. They weren’t enough for one measly meal, but they were enough for a drink or two– or three, but who’s going to keep track? Certainly anyone but you. You’d only stop once your pitiful wealth ran out. Without a second thought, you toss them onto the bar top, making it unspokenly clear to the bartender that you were hoping for much more than just this one drink. You grab the cup, lifting it to your lips and downing the lot of it in one quick, greedy gulp. The warmth spreads through you almost immediately, and it feels like a small victory over the obnoxious turn your night has taken.

The bartender watches this with a faint chuckle before you slam the empty cup back down onto the counter. He takes it without a word, refills the tiny tin chalice, and begins passing it back. Without missing a beat, you grab the cup from him, draining the contents in a second gulp before he even has time to set the bottle back down. 

“You look like you’ve seen better days,” he remarks casually, his voice low and steady as he finally reunites the bottom of the bottle with the countertop. 

“I’ve seen a lot of things.” you mutter, your eyes fixed on anything but him. The words come out flat, though there’s a weight to them. It’s more than just a refusal to talk—it’s a refusal to let anyone look too closely. You avoid eye contact like the plague. Eyes, after all, are the windows to the soul. And letting someone peer through them is a risky gamble you’ve never been apt to take.

You were clearly beyond uninterested in the beginnings of this conversation. The lack of willingness to be friendly reigning clear as you shove the tin cup towards him yet again. He grabs the empty cup and refills it once more—your third drink in under five minutes. He seems reluctant to hand it back. He maintains a grip on it as he eyes you again, this time much more thoughtful.

“Care to chat about it? Might be healthier than drownin’ yourself at the bottom of a bottle,” he offers plainly.

You give him a sidelong glance, not even trying to mask the edge in your voice. 

“Doesn’t sound like a good business strategy, encouraging your paying customers to cut back.” You fire back quickly, the sharpness of your words outpacing even your annoyance at the unwanted conversation.

The bartender chuckles again, a spark of amusement flickering in his tired eyes. There’s a glimmer of understanding in his smile—maybe he’s seen more than a few like you in this dive. Or maybe, he knows in the same fashion as you, that sometimes it’s more palatable to fill the silence with alcohol than with words.

“Fair point, but I’d prefer to keep my patrons alive. Helps me sleep at night, y’know?” The bartender shoots back, his eyes fixed on you, all too curious about what’s hidden beneath your hood. The conversation quickly turns uncomfortable, a painful reminder of why you’ve never liked bartenders—they always talk too much and ask too many personal questions. As far as you’re concerned, they should stick to the charade for the sake of their regulars, and leave all unsuspecting customers alone. 

The momentum of yet another roll of your eyes causes your head to bob ever so slightly— your hood creeping back towards the line of your hair. The new, incredibly subtle, view of your face made the barman clench the cup in his hands with rigor. 

His eyes narrow slightly, the amusement fading from his voice. 

“Where’re your parents, kid?” He asks, his voice low and in demand of an answer. 

The question hits you like a slap, and for a brief second, you find yourself caught off guard. You’re not someone who’s usually thrown by imbecilic remarks from the residents of The Lanes, but this one? It’s different. Not just the audacity of asking such a personal question, but the clear assumption of your age being made so boldly. 

Your head snaps up, and before you can stop yourself, you push your hood back, breaking your own rule about eye contact. Why? Who knows. Today has already gone off the rails, and you’re too far gone to care. The liquor’s sudden grip on your senses began to cloud your judgment, and honestly, it was far from shocking. To be fair, you had asked for something strong�� Not to mention having no substantial food in your belly to dilute the potency you sought after. All in all, there was no ignoring how the liquor was starting to pummel you like a brick to the face would. 

You meet his gaze, eyes scanning his face for any sign of what he’s gunning after by asking such a question. But there’s nothing obvious behind those gloomy eyes of his. No clear motive. You can’t tell if he’s purposefully trying to get under your skin or if he’s just another fool with a quick tongue. 

“Rotting in their graves,” you mutter, voice sharp and, in addition, spiteful. 

“Which I’m sure you’ve got one foot in, yourself, Gramps.” You make a mockery of the decades that are clearly stacked against you, hoping to push him back into his corner.

He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he practically snorts, running a hand over his silvery beard as he crosses his arms; resting them across his stomach with the casual authority of someone who’s seen it all. He’s not rattled by your quips—no, not in the slightest. 

“How old are you, kid?” His voice is flat now, a hint of something more serious creeping in, though you can’t figure out why. You’re even more unsure now about his intentions. Constantly expecting the worst from people was your lot in life. 

“Too young for you.” You snap back, pushing forward with your usual sharpness, trying to regain some control over this ridiculous conversation. You reach for the cup he had refilled for you, but before you can even graze it, he snatches it away, clicking his tongue like a disappointed parent.

“Tsk, tsk,” he tuts at you, as if you’ve done something wrong.

“I asked how old you were.” he repeats, his voice now devoid of any amusement. 

He watches you carefully, his gaze inspecting your face as if he’s trying to peel back layers you didn’t even know were there.

You roll your eyes, irritation growing, and narrow them at him, unwilling to back down. You can’t tell if he’s probing for something deeper, or if he’s just getting off on making you uncomfortable. Either way, you’re done playing his game.

“Why are you so curious, huh?” you scoff, leaning in and making a bold decision to double down on your irritation. “I’m just another patron here to drown in my sorrows and drink them away. Not to mention, I’m paying for the privilege.” Your words are bold, and with that same boldness, you reach across the bar and rip the cup from his grasp.

You try to bring the drink to your lips, intent on finishing it off. But just as the cup nears your mouth, the bartender’s large, rough hand slips over the opening of the cup like a solar eclipse. 

He glares down at you, his eyes narrowing as he sizes you up with a look that could strip paint. In that moment, something clicks in his mind. The defiance in your voice, the way you’re carrying yourself—it all reinforces his suspicion. You’re not old enough to be here. When you walked in, your hood had obscured most of your face. But now that it’s gone, he can see it clearly: you’re just a kid, trying to score some alcohol. The only thing that kept him from throwing you out on your ass, was your cadence. You looked young, and spoke carelessly, but you sounded grown. If you were in fact grown, he’d ease up. 

However, with the way you look—bloodied and bruised, no less—he’s convinced you’re in some kind of trouble. The kind of trouble he doesn’t want being drug through his bar. He doesn’t know where you’ve been, who you’ve pissed off, or what kind of people you run with. But this? This is his bar, and he’s fought too hard to maintain the fragile peace that reigns here. He won’t let you ruin that for him and his loyal patrons by dragging your poor choices in with you. 

“Seems I’ve struck a nerve,” he says, his voice no longer playful but flat and serious. “Either tell me your age, or you’re cut off.”

The room seems to hush around you. The muffled chatter of patrons behind you fades as the bartender’s tone sharpens, leaving no room for argument. It’s a quiet threat now, the kind that lets you know exactly how much leverage you have—and how little he’s willing to tolerate.

“You didn’t strike shit,” You hiss. “and I don’t need to answer to shit.” You add. 

The bartender bends over the counter, his face inches from yours. The bitter scent of smoke hangs thick on his breath, hot and rancid, and it presses against your skin like a physical weight. The damp air in the bar swirls around you, brushing your cheeks with an uncomfortable warmth that feels suffocating, as if the room itself is closing in.

“Keep talkin’ like that, and I’ll have no problem lettin’ my loyal patrons cut your tongue out for us to hang above the bar.” He says fiercely. 

You glance over your shoulder, catching the eyes of the dozens of patrons who have fallen silent, their conversations and business abruptly halted. It’s clear—they’re waiting for a signal, ready to back up their beloved bartender if things escalate.

“You can call off the cavalry, Gramps. I was just leaving,” you retorted, swiping one of your coins from the counter, as if to refund yourself for the drink you’ve yet to have. You release your grip on the cup, almost slingshotting it backwards from the sheer force you two had each been bestowing upon it. 

“Sit down.” the bartender commands, his voice low and final, as you attempt to abscond. 

You don’t reply, instead moving to shoulder through the row of patrons who are standing like silent sentinels, waiting for the slightest nod from their bar’s gatekeeper. It’s not like you expected them to part, but the way not a single person dares budge makes your blood boil. The crowd might as well be a wall of stone. 

“Sit. Down.” the bartender demands again, his tone sharper this time, a razor edge cutting through the haze of the bar.

You grind your teeth, your patience wearing thin.

“I’ll take my patronage elsewhere—”

You don’t even finish your sentence before a hand, seemingly out of nowhere, pushes you roughly back. You stumble, barely managing to stop yourself from falling flat on your ass. The sudden movement sends a rush of heat to your head, the anger spiking through your veins like fire.

You seethed at the touch, the anger burning hot in your chest, every muscle in your body coiled with frustration. But you knew better than to keep pushing your luck. Not today. Not in a situation like this, with dozens of hungry eyes watching, their hands twitching near their weapons of choice, waiting for the slightest excuse to make a move.

Biting back a torrent of curses, you forced yourself to swallow your pride, choosing to stay quiet—at least for now. It wasn’t worth the fight. You could practically feel the heat of their glares digging into your back as you turned on your heel, eyes locking once more with the bartender’s. You reclaimed your seat at the bar with deliberate flair, each movement oozing a sense of defiance and attitude. It was a performance, one you were used to. To you, it felt like you were playing the part of someone tough. But you knew, deep down, that to anyone else—especially the bartender—you probably looked like nothing more than a naive, immature idiot who didn’t know when to shut up. It wasn’t a great look, but at least it kept people from getting too close.

“I’m sat,” you muttered, voice brimming with the remnants of your irritation.

The bartender shook his head slightly, a hint of amusement creeping back into his expression. You could feel the tension in the room dissipate, the energy shifting as the crowd behind you resumed their rowdy conversations. The noise began to swell again, and for a moment, it almost felt like the bar was returning to some semblance of normalcy.

He grabbed a dirty glass from the counter, handling it with practiced ease, and pulled a rag from beneath the bar. As he began polishing the glass, he didn’t so much as glance your way. His focus was on the glass, and for a few moments, it felt like you were nothing more than a background detail to him. You could feel your impatience growing with each passing second. If he had something to say, you wished he’d just say it already. At least that way, you could get out of here—and maybe keep some of your pride intact.

The bartender continued his slow, methodical motions, running the rag around the rim of the glass with an almost exaggerated calmness. He didn’t bother to look up, yet you could feel the weight of his gaze on you through the silence.

“I’m gonna ask you again,” he said, his tone neutral, almost too much. “How old are you?”

You weighed your options. If you didn’t answer, you had no idea what would happen next. If you did answer, you still had no clue. It was a gamble either way.

“(Insert age here),” you muttered, the words slipping out begrudgingly, each one like a weight lifting off your chest.

The bartender scoffed lightly, a soft laugh escaping him that made your skin crawl. Your fingers began tapping impatiently on the bar’s edge, the rhythm a soft counterpoint to the growing tension between you.

“____ years old and still so naive… You really are just a kid, eh?” His words hung in the air, his eyes still locked on the glass in front of him, but you could see the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“There are worse things I could be,” you shot back, your voice laced with a mix of defensiveness and defiance.

“S’pose that’s true,” he replied, finishing up his polishing with the air of someone who had all the time in the world. He set the glass down next to the others—clean, polished, and waiting to be used. With a fluid motion, he slung the rag over his shoulder, then placed one hand on his hip and the other on the edge of the counter. He shifted his weight, leaning just slightly into the bar, his posture relaxed yet somehow still imposing.

“But on the other hand,” he said, his voice dropping to a more serious tone, “what you already are ain’t too good either.”

It wasn’t a threat—more of an observation, one that hung heavily in the air, like the smoke in the room. You felt the weight of it, but you couldn’t quite tell if it was a warning or just another way to mess with you. Either way, you could tell this conversation wasn’t over.

You could feel the first few bubbles of anger rising in your chest, the heat creeping up your neck as your blood threatened to boil. You’d always been quick to anger—an unfortunate side effect of your temper and stubborn streak. They were the crosses you’d carried for as long as you could remember.

You scoffed again, the sound sharp and biting, as if it were the only defense you had left. You had already rolled your eyes a dozen times tonight, but it felt like you were on the verge of an explosion.

“What’s your goal here, Gramps?” you spat, your voice dripping with sass, every word a little jab. You didn’t care to hide your bitterness. You liked to fight with words just as much as you did with your fists, and the bartender was starting to see that loud and clear.

“You got the answer you were looking for. Whether you believe me or not, you’ve already served me twice. If my age was such a concern to you, you would’ve kicked me out long before I even sat down.” Your words hung in the air once more, and you could see the gears turning behind his eyes, but he didn’t speak.

He just let out a quiet laugh, as if your logic amused him. And he didn’t bother to answer, not even in the slightest.

The silence stretched, thick and tense, and it was clear he wasn’t going to explain himself. He wasn’t about to give you the satisfaction of an explanation. He simply leaned back, eyes flicking over to the rowdy crowd behind you.

It was infuriating.

You stayed silent for a beat, but only because you knew you’d have more to say. And damn right, you did.

“Do you do this with every new customer?” You snapped, your voice rising now, the frustration boiling over. “’Cause if you ask me, I’m not sure how this shithole’s still in business. You discourage your customers from drinking, even though this is a fucking bar, and that’s all people come here to do. You make it impossible to drink peacefully, just like you make it impossible to drink at all!”

The words spilled out like fire, each one more forceful than the last. Your temper was no longer something you were trying to hold back—it was running rampant, and it felt good to let it out, even if it was in the form of a scream. You weren’t about to let this bartender—this stubborn old man—have the upper hand. Not when it felt like he was deliberately pushing your buttons.

“So if it’s alright with you, Gramps, you got your answer, and I don’t owe you shit. I’m leaving.” You actually raise your voice purposefully this time, slamming your hands down onto the counter as you push yourself off of the stool once more. 

The bartender wasn’t fazed by your outburst. In fact, he’d dealt with feistier, louder, and much more difficult people than you—people who could out-shout you or out-punch you if they had to. He wasn’t bothered by your temper. He had raised four kids on his own, after all. He’d learned a thing or two about handling stubborn personalities, whether they were kids or grown adults who carried themselves like children. And you, in his eyes, were just another brat testing his patience.

“You’re not going anywhere.” His voice was steady, calm, and authoritative, with an edge of finality that cut through the noise of the bar.

Before you could react, his hand shot out faster than you expected, grabbing your shoulder with an unexpected gentleness. He tugged you back into the seat with a kind of effortless force that made your breath catch in your throat.

You shot up from the bar stool in a flash, but his hold was stronger than you anticipated.

Instinct kicked in, and your own hand shot out like a snake, grabbing his wrist with a quick, almost violent motion. You shoved it off your shoulder, irritation flaring up like wildfire.

“Don’t touch me,” you hissed, your chest heaving as you glared up at him, the heat of the moment burning in your eyes.

You huffed, your fists clenching at your sides, teeth grinding. The room seemed to close in around you, but you weren’t backing down—not now, not after all of this. The tension between you and the bartender was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. You could feel the weight of the crowd’s silent attention being drawn to you once more as they waited for your next move, but you weren’t afraid. You didn’t have time to be.

The man let out a heavy sigh, the sound thick with disappointment. 

“Look, kid—”

“By the fucking god’s, I’m not a kid!” you snapped, your eyes flashing a level of ferocity that sliced straight through him.

He pressed his lips into a thin, hard line, his gaze cemented on you still as he took a long, steadying breath. Patience was his virtue, and he was willing to endure this sparring match for as long as it took. 

“It’s clear you’re in some kind of trouble,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Maybe, just maybe, instead of lashing out, you could let someone help—”

You cut him off mid-sentence, your words an unpleasant interruption.

“Help? You want to help? Surely that’s the wrong word. Surely, I heard you wrong, cause, from the way I see it, you’ve done nothing except cage me in here, threaten me, and withhold what I paid for. So if it’s with any consolation, take your ‘help’ and fuck off.” 

Enough was enough. Without another word, you climbed atop the stool, bracing yourself for what came next. You steadied your balance, then launched yourself toward the crowd with calculated precision. The dismount was quick—intentional, forceful. You tucked your legs in, soaring over their heads in a perfect flip, and extended them just before hitting the ground behind them. Without pausing, you bolted for the door, heart pounding in your chest.

To your surprise, you made it—flying through the door and slamming it shut behind you with a satisfying crash. Finally, you were free, never to be seen within a hundred yards of this bar ever again. 

The patrons had made a half-hearted attempt to grab at you as you rushed past, but a sharp, deafening whistle from the bartender stopped them in their strides. He shook his head softly, a silent message that it wasn’t worth the chase. That it was better to let you go. If you were in trouble, it would catch up with you soon enough.

Deep down, the bartender hated seeing someone so young seal their own fate in such a way. But, in the end, there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t save them all—no matter how badly he wished he could.

He couldn’t help but wonder— if maybe, just maybe, he’d been a little too assertive, or downright impetuous with you after all.

But it didn’t matter now. You were gone. All he could do was hope you’d survive out on those streets. 

taglist: @blogforhoes @committingcrimes-2047 @dirtandcrime @eternalgoddessofart

[estupidapendejaestupida]

My selkie Batfam AU! Where selkies are not only seals/aquatic animals, but can be other animals. Born with their pelt, and if they are separated from them since their birth it doesn’t really hurts them, but it makes them feel very empty, like they are missing something very, very important, but they don’t know why (kinda like Crack baby, by Mitski).

Bruce: lion (black) like his parents were.

Dick: wolf (grey)

Barbara: human

Jason: bear (brown)

Tim: human, but not really (lynx).

Stephanie: human

Damian: lion (brown) like Thalia.

Cass: tiger

Duke: human

Alfred: human

Who else should i have?

Ideas so far:

• Tim being mocked by Jason (during the attack at TT) and Damian (during his murder attemps) for being the only robin to be human. And btw, he isn’t living in the manor, he stays in The Nest.

• Damian being taught that he was bigger than his other soul and animal instincts, that if he wanted to be strong and worthy he had to control his animal soul and stop needing it or using it.

• I think I like the idea of Steph being a rat or something small like her mother, and her dad being all like “you useless fuck, ofc you had to be something weak and insignificant, you are weak just like your mother and blah blah blah”. Tell me what you think about it, and well make a decision together.

• Babs being human and not understanding selkie’s at all when she first began working with the bats, but then when she finds that B and Dick are both selkies she just becomes a master about their selkie cultures and habitats and how to treat with them and learns what to do and what not to do. So when another human of the pack needs help understanding one of the selkies, they ask for her help. Except Tim, tho. He kind of always got them at the first try… weird, huh?

• Alfred has to raise young selkie Bruce Wayne all alone after the Waynes' death, and as a human, he tried to teach him how to be a selkie. But a mere human is not really a good mentor for a selkie.

• Slade taking Dick’s pelt away when he was training him, and Dick suffering through feeling like half of his soul had been snatched from him. Feeling it so close, yet too far. And being forced to obey Slade’s every order, until he manages to take his pelt back and scape.

• Jason’s pelt getting burned in Ethiopia, and Bruce keeping it locked away, so when Jason comes back to life he is easier to manipulate by Thalia saying that Bruce threw away his pelt after he replaced him. And Jason blaming that on Tim when he attacks him on TT.

• SPOILER ALERT: Tim’s mom is a selkie, but since she got pregnant with Tim, she stayed as a human and hid her pelt away. She was hoping for Tim to be born completely human, and instead, he was born a selkie. She hid it from her husband, thinking that this way, taking his pelt since birth, he would grow to not need it and could live a normal life just like his human father. She did write a separate testament from his husband, way before she died, where she left a box for Tim. Inside the box is his pelt, and a letter explaining everything. Tim only gets to that box after she dies, and his dad enters a vegetative state after the accident overseas. The thing is that Tim never quite opens the box. He just leaves it somewhere well hidden in his old room at the Wayne manor. And since he never stays the night in his old room anymore, he just never got around to open it. One day, he will, tho.

Please tell me if I should keep this up? I already have a draft done, so if you guys like this idea, I'll publish it :3

I'll write many fics for every character, so it's not very 'one character centric'

[hyperfixation-fix]

Alright girls, guys, and gays - welcome to...

A Newby's Guide to the Marauders Fandom

You keep seeing your mutuals post about this Harry-Potter-adjacent fandom. It seems cool, and pretty damn gay, and you're kinda curious to know more. Except there's one problem: there is little-to-no actual canon.

How do you get into a fandom with little-to-no canon material?

Well friends, I'm here to help! Consider this post your roadmap to the fandom - useful locations are noted, major landmarks and tourist destinations are starred, and recommended routes are highlighted.

But where you actually go is up to you.

Level 1: The Basics

If you're the freshest of fresh meat to this fandom, you may like to start with a nice little overview of our chaos-fanon. Here are some YouTube videos that give you a good tl;dr:

a deep dive into the marauders fandom by uncarley (YouTube video, general topic, no major content warnings) - this is a great starter video, especially if you're not a fandom person usually. It's digestible, fun, and not too lore-heavy.

The Marauders Era Fandom Deep Dive! by Coffeekoe (YouTube video, general topic, no major content warnings) - alternatively (or in addition), this is another great starter video, but possibly more from a fandom-familiar perspective. Also Coffeekoe just has great vibes and I want to kiss them on the forehead. Mwuah mwuah mwuah.

Marauders Era Ships Deep Dive! by Coffeekoe (YouTube video, several different ships, no major content warnings) - after you've got the gist of how the fandom works, you might want to know a bit more about the common Marauders ships. This video gives an awesome (and comprehensive) overview.

Level 2: The Canon in the Fanon

You're going to have a pretty tough time in the fandom if you're not at least somewhat familiar with The Fanfic™���, All the Young Dudes. This fic is as highly revered (if not more so) than the real actual canon text (obligatory fuck JKR).

First off let's understand what it is.

All the Young Dudes is a long-form fanfiction written by MsKingBean89 and published on Archive of Our Own. And when I say long-form, I mean long-form - this thing is a monstrous 188 (chunky) chapters long. It spans from 1971, when the Marauders start their first year at Hogwarts, until 1995, when Remus dies. Speaking of which, it's also canon-compliant, so I'll save you some heartache and tell you right now that all of the characters die in pretty tragic ways. I'm not going to lie to you, it's a pretty heavy story - there are strong themes of child abuse, homophobia, underage drinking/smoking, drug abuse, abusive relationships, and trauma. BUT. I really enjoyed it and have read it twice now, simply because the happy bits are worth the painful bits.

With all of that in mind, here are (my recommendations for) your options for acquiring your ATYD education:

All The Young Dudes Deep Dive! by Coffeekoe (YouTube video, ATYD, some light discussion of triggering topics mentioned above, spoiler heavy!!!) - yep that's right, it's Coffeekoe again. Mwuah mwuah mwuah. This video is a super duper great alternative to reading ATYD, or a great way to dip your toe in and see if you want to commit to reading it in full. Obviously it's spoiler heavy, so if you already know you want to read ATYD and spoilers bug you, just skip it.

All the Young Dudes by MsKingBean89 (AO3 fic, mostly Wolfstar, triggers as mentioned above) - here's just a straight up link to the fic. You may need an account on AO3 to access it.

All the Young Dudes by BIBLIOBIBULI (YouTube, same as above) - if you're like me and love the idea of reading a long-fic, but don't actually have the time/energy/patience/stamina to do it, an audiobook might be the way to go! This one is great, and complete. You're welcome 🫶

Level 3: Fics of Note

Okay! By now, you should have received your official Marauders Fandom Certification in the mail (or, I guess, via owl), and you're pretty much free to go and explore the fandom on your own. You may, however, still come across references that confuse you. Those (probably) come from one of the many, many, many popular fics in the fandom.

Here's just a few of the major ones and links to them, for your convenience (asterisks indicate fics that require an account to access):

NOTE: This is not a rec list. Approach with caution and read all the tags.

Crimson Rivers by bizarrestars*

Just Lovers (Like We Were Supposed To Be) by bizarrestars*

Best Friend's Brother by bizarrestars*

Choices by MesserMoon

Kill Your Darlings by MesserMoon

All the Young Dudes - Sirius's Perspective by Rollercoasterwords

The Cadence Of Part-Time Poets by motswolo

Art Heist, Baby! by otrtbs

Only the Brave by Solmussa*

Level 4: You're On Your Own, Kid

You're still here? Why are you still here? You should be out there, enjoying your newly acquired fandom!

Fine, one last piece of advice and then you really have to leave:

Engage.

This fandom is unique because it is the weird, Frankenstein's-Monster-esque lovechild of thousands of strange little obsessive gremlin people like you and me. Sure, it only has one eye and far too many nipples, but who cares? We made this and we love it. And it's your job, as someone in the fandom, to keep it alive by engaging. Yes, this is true for every fandom, but even more so here. Comment, reblog, share, recommend fics, ask for fic recs. Fuck it, create too - write, draw, share headcanons, make playlists. It doesn't matter if it's "bad" or "wrong", there aren't any fucking rules.

Add another nipple, by all means! Eyes are overrated anyway.

[demonvampire180writes]

Stacie's Master List of 9-1-1 Fics:

(Mostly BuckTommy)

As We Go Along Rated: G

BuckTommy

Summary: Buck still bakes every time he thinks about Tommy. And he thinks about Tommy a lot. In fact, he thinks about him so much that sometimes the man manifests in the things Buck creates without him even trying. Especially with Christmas just around the corner.

No "happy" ending

It Was Dinner and a Movie Rated: T

BuckTommy

CW: Mild homophobic language

Summary: The boys decide to do a first date do-over now that Buck is more comfortable in his skin. And while things go mostly smooth, something small always has to interfere, and Tommy is over it. He was afraid to speak his mind once, but he's older, wiser, and has a much lower tolerance for others intolerances now. While this date won't be perfect, he refuses to let the small-minded make it worse.

LA's Link to the Sky Rated: G

BuckTommy

Summary: Buck and Tommy have a full week of opposing schedules and Buck is excited because he has something special planned for Tommy, and he can't have him catching onto it until Buck is ready.

Shine Bright Like a Northern Star Explicit Version Rated: M

BuckTommy

Summary:

Buck surprises Tommy with a late night beach date and things get a little bit emotional.

For the rated G version of this story, please check out Chapter 5 in my previously published work "A Thousand Butterfly Kisses."

A Thousand Butterfly Kisses Rated: G

BuckTommy (Incomplete 5/8 Chapters, All individual one-shots)

Summary:

A collection of short stories about various dates Buck and Tommy go on, including taking the kids to the zoo, picnics under the stars, ferris wheels and roller skating at the pier and so much more. Nothing but fluff and happiness for these two! (Except in one instance.)

Each story is completely independent of the other. At least one story will contain age related death but there will be a warning in the author's notes at the beginning if that's something you're triggered by. Any other triggers will be in the A/N each chapter as well as a short description of the story.

Soft Kitty, Warm Kitty Rated: G

BuckTommy

Summary:

Tommy keeps his promises, and even though he's late, he still shows up, tired and exhausted as he is. In thanks, Evan shows him what it means to be taken care of and prioritized.

The beginning is just like the end of 7x06 but hopefully it's only a small part of it.

Someone Like You Rated: G

BuckTommy

Summary: Buck manages to keep it hidden from everyone for over a month, but one day he just breaks. When he does, the only thing he wants, more than Tommy, is his big sister to hold him and tell him everything will be alright.

Post 8.06 Canon Compliant - No "happy" ending!

Right as Rain Rated: G

BuckTommy

Summary: The cat distribution system hits Buck while Tommy is at work.

Walk With Me Rated: G

BuckTommy

Summary: Buck and Tommy go for an early morning walk together.

Satin and Lace Rated: E

BuckTommy

Summary: Tommy likes to wear lace once in awhile, trying to be true to himself and getting out of the mindset of toxic masculinity, but he's never told Evan. One day, Evan walks into his bedroom after Tommy has gone to change after a very windy date, and to say Tommy is caught unawares is an understatement. Only Evan's reaction is totally unexpected and shenanigans Tommy has never experienced before ensue.

Oh Captain, My Captain! Rated: G

Bobby centric, includes all main couples

CW: Mentions of depression/poor mental health

Summary: Bobby has no issues being honest about his feelings. Until he does. It's been months since he left the 118, and he wakes up every morning regretting it, but he made this bed and now he's being forced to lay in it. But he doesn't want anyone to know. Can't let anyone know his weakness. Athena, the amazing woman and wife that she is, does notice however, and she makes it her mission to bring that smile back to her husbands face, and bring his family back to him, any way she can.

[dalmoonflower]

okay but just imagine like corruption kink hanbin🤭🤭 you guys started dating a year ago but still havent done anything because ur too innocent and want to take things slow. one day you both are cuddling on the couch and hes giving ur neck kisses and even giving small hickeys and it makes ur pussy so wet and u cant control it anymore so you get up and show hanbin how wet u are while whining and saying that it hurts and you dont know why UGJHH IT MAKES HIM SO GO CRAZYY😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

Oh my goooood anon your mind

—-

HANBIN CORRUPTION KINK + READER FIRST TIME

Let’s get one thing straight, Hanbin prides himself with his self-control. But every time you visit his dorms in a skirt, he loses his mind. His resolve slowly crumbles whenever he sees you prancing around the room in your innocent little tennis skirt. Or when the breeze lightly picks up and your frilly little dress sways in the wind, showing an inch more thigh than what he’s used to.

It’s when you greet him with a pretty smile and chaste kisses to his cheek, that he remembers who you are: an innocent little doll. His precious baby whose first everything has been with him - first date, first kiss, first boyfriend. Everything except sex.

He’s not one to pressure, and he likes to go at your pace. So you can imagine his shock when you utter “Hanbin, I want you” as he’s leaving hickeys all over your neck. What started as an innocent cuddle session while a movie plays in the background, slowly developed into tender touches. You’ve been in this position before, sharing passionate kisses deep in the night paired with the soft glow of the TV. What’s new however, is your desperate little breaths, begging hanbin for more of him.

You can’t figure out what changed, but you just felt a sudden urge of gratefulness for the man that patiently waited for you for months. Hanbin who quickly became your heart and soul. You want to give yourself to him, in every way possible. You’re burning up, and everything aches. You long for him, wishing to be touched in ways you can’t even imagine.

Hanbin looks into your eyes, searching for any ounce of doubt. He can’t find any. All he sees is passion, and complete submission to him. “Are you sure, baby?” he asks one more time.

You don’t know how clearer you can be. “It hurts binnie, help me” is all you are able to say.

“Alright then, I’ll take care of you, my sweet”. He inches his hand up your skirt, and he can’t believe how wet you are. You’re soaked through your panties, and he lets out a groan. He can literally smell the arousal on you. And when his thumb glazes over your core, you let out a sigh of relief, you don’t notice that you’ve been holding your breath this whole time.

“Does that feel better, baby?” he whispers against your neck. And all you can do is nod, before he fully slides your skirt and panties down your legs.

You want more.

He wants more.

But he knows he still has to go slow. You’re a gentle thing, and while he wants to ravish you - his brain knows better. So he takes his time, and makes sure you feel loved and safe.

—-

wow this almost turned into a full fic

[loveless-in-nowheresville]

-JJBA x reader jealousy headcanons-

Really randomly felt like doing this so-

here!

But yeah jealousy headcanons, self-explanatory I think. Got carried away (as I do) (Bruno oml I had. Much to say. Basically wrote an outline for a fic for him lol)

Characters: Joseph Joestar, Rohan Kishibe, Bruno Bucciarati (randomly much longer than the other ones whoops), Guido Mista, Leone Abbacchio

Warnings: jealous behaviors obviously, mild violence implied, slightly unhealthy relationship with Abbacchio and his low self-esteem, mildly suggestive I guess

-Joseph Joestar: A man who has no right getting jealous, but will anyways. Never a super intense jealousy, I think it would take quite a bit of boldness from another person flirting with you before he gets jealous enough to step in. Though when he does get jealous he’ll play it off really passive-aggressively, with that usual arrogant charm of his. “Oh I’m sorry (he’s not sorry), my date and I (he puts a hand on your hip) were just LEAVING (he gives you a pointed look that asks you to play along), let’s go, DEARIE ( a nickname he uses for you when he’s a bit miffed)” and before you know it you’re being dragged away by a massive British man. It’s a bit embarrassing really…because he Does start fights over you, and he always acts so proud of himself too-

It is kinda funny to see him acting all smug over winning a fight (easily, since he’s huge and muscular and a really good fighter) and then immediately getting dragged off and scolded by you. His sudden shift from that confident and arrogant guy to a nervous and apologetic mess is entertaining to see.

You do think it’s kinda sweet that he cares enough for you to actually get jealous, but you also know it’s kinda just a pride thing for him. He’s always been a man who takes things pretty far, always been a bit wild and untamable…and you liked that about him…but you always knew it would get him in trouble, and usually you were the one picking up after him when he lets his jealousy get the best of him and he ends up causing a scene.

-Rohan Kishibe: Man who fervently denies being jealous but gets jealous easily and all the time. He gives off weird vibes so sometimes people just ask: “is this guy bothering you?” if they don’t recognize him or can’t tell your in a relationship with him and wow does it make him mad. He goes into one of his little rants about how he is your partner and it is completely rude to assume he was bothering you just because he doesn’t coddle you like some other men would their partner. But honestly can anyone be blamed for thinking he was a little sketch? He typically doesn’t talk to you very nicely, and he looks like an odd individual just following you around.

Beyond people, he also gets strangely jealous when you show animals more attention than him. You stopping to pet cats or dogs on your little strolls with him, and he’s just glowering a short distance away. A full on SCOWL. He gets so annoyed when you coo and pet and hug an animal for too long in his presence. Probably because he thinks you prefer the type of love and affection animals can give you over the type he gives you. He knows he’s grouchy and irritable and sometimes struggles to say nice things, so in a way it makes him feel self-conscious. But he thinks that’s stupid, so he doesn’t use his words and instead acts jealous, making petty comments about how ridiculous it is that he must share your affection with animals and he’ll even shoo animals away from the two of you sometimes. You think it’s silly. And you can easily tell what’s going on, no matter how hard he tries to deny it.

-Bruno Bucciarati: (Bruno is so hot when he gets protective oml-) He’s a mature man, and doesn’t often give in completely to his unpleasant feelings and emotions, and jealousy is no exception. You will Not catch this man embarrassing himself by causing a fuss over something small. Someone flirting with you at the bar and even buying you a drink? Not a big deal. He trusts you, and he knows your heart belongs with him and he would never want to be one of those jealous lovers constantly smothering their partner.

When it does get to the point where he steps in, it’s when someone starts getting too handsy and cozy with you.

You still remember the first time Bruno intervened out of jealousy.

It hadn’t been a big deal at first, some inexperienced guy somehow let his friends convince him to try and talk to you at a restaurant. Bruno had stepped outside for a minute to take a work call, and either this guy hadn’t realized Bruno was your husband, or saw Bruno leaving as the perfect opportunity to swoop in and make his move.

You sip your wine, minding your own business and waiting patiently for your busy man to return, when your peace is rudely interrupted by some guy who thinks he can just come up and talk to you. You can’t help but find it a bit funny…surely this guy just didn’t know who you were? You let him make a fool of himself for a bit.

First there was his pathetic attempts at complimenting you, telling you your eyes were mesmerizing and you were like the sun and-well you didn’t pay much attention for very long, just nodding along with what he said.

You hadn’t noticed Bruno had walked back into the room. He was waiting, watching for a moment, knowing you were eventually going to send that guy away, but at first he thought it was a bit amusing too. Yes, that guy definitely didn’t know you were mafia, and that Bruno was your husband.

When you notice Bruno’s presence, you relax a bit, and this guy who couldn’t take a hint for some reason thought it was because of him and tried to shoot yet another shot.

He dares to invite you to dance with him.

You say you have two left feet.

He insists.

You say no.

This time he laughs and says that you were just being shy, and he reaches down and grasps your wrist and you realize this brat is gonna try and drag you into a dance.

Your attention had been so focused on the stranger, that you hadn’t noticed Bruno getting increasingly irritated at the audacity of your fanboy.

Before you make a move to break free from him, the sound of Bruno’s open palm slamming onto your table immediately focuses your mind on the man you’d much rather be dancing with.

Bruno wasn’t a PDA type of man, with the most he’d usually give you being just some handholding, or your arm wrapped around his, but now-

He had angled himself in such a way that your face was practically pressed into the exposed parts of his chest while he was turned just enough to shoot daggers at the man who had the nerve to try to drag you out of your seat.

You could feel the eyes of the patrons in the restaurant, the ones who knew Bruno watched carefully. They knew it took a lot to get Bruno to cause a scene in a restaurant, and some were morbidly curious to see where it might go, now that he’s finally been pushed there.

It was a moment’s lapse in his usually controlled demeanor, but his eyes remained sharp against the man, who backed up instinctively at Bruno’s interference.

“Mind if I cut in?”

You know Bruno better than anyone, and right now you can hear the irritation in his tone, and you realize this is the first time anyone’s been quite so bold trying to get your attention in front of him.

“Well, I, uh…we were gonna dance…” the guy stammers out. Despite not knowing who Bruno was, he could tell he should feel intimidated right now.

Bruno is already holding his own hand out to you, and when you take it, he helps you to your feet gently, keeping a much closer proximity to you than he usually would.

“You’d better get in line then,” he replies, not hiding the displeasure in his voice, but you can already tell he’s calming down a bit now that he’s got your hand in his.

This guy doesn’t even know what to say, just kinda stands there stammering like a fool while Bruno slides his hand down to your lower back, eliciting a small shiver and gasp from you, very effectively displaying the intimacy of your relationship.

He lifts your left hand up with his right, almost like the two of you were going to dance right there, but you recognized he was very purposefully just emphasizing his wedding ring on your finger.

“Bruno,” you hiss when the man awkwardly scurries off. He really was making a scene and it was embarrassing, despite how much you loved this side of him you rarely got to see.

You can practically see Bruno snap out of it, and he clears his throat and finally untangles himself from you and calls for the check, but he doesn’t apologize for causing a bit of chaos, because he doesn’t regret it.

-Guido Mista: He’s quick to jealousy, and his disposition means his jealousy is gonna be the problem of everyone in his vicinity.

At first it’ll start with intense glares at whoever he’s concerned about, and even you, kinda trying to goad you into telling whoever’s getting too cozy to piss off.

You’ll notice Guido lays on the physical affection very thick to try and leave a message. His hands are on you, practically pulling you into his lap, very intentionally placing his hands in positions to suggest the romantic nature of your relationship.

He whispers in your ear and rubs your shoulders and back and doesn’t even hesitate to badmouth whoever’s bothering him.

He might even start fights, usually never hurting someone too seriously, but not shying away from giving them a scare at least. (The proper way to handle someone making moves on your sweetheart is to inform the offender that you have a firearm.)

You find it embarrassing, but you’re flattered he feels so strongly about you. And you know it comes from a genuine protectiveness, but also a bit of possessiveness, given his unfamiliarity with serious relationships and his anxiety that he might lose you.

A guy who can learn to mellow out a bit as you become more comfortable in your relationship, but he’ll always be a bit fiery, and quick to act, especially when you’re involved.

-Leone Abbacchio: Probably at first bottles up any jealousy he feels. Just add it to the insecurity pile. He already has such low self-esteem.

He feels like he’s not good enough for you…you deserve a man who can actually give you that emotional intelligence and kindness you deserve…honestly you’d be much better off with a guy like Bucciarati than him, and he cannot help but feel that every time he hurts your feelings or makes you frustrated, or even when he swears you seem more relaxed and comfortable around Bruno instead of him. You’re probably just settling for him.

For some reason you’re pursuing a relationship with him, probably for some superficial reason he can’t see yet. Maybe you just liked his body, or you enjoyed how pathetic he was. No matter how much the two of you fought, he would Always come crawling back to you, a desperate man who couldn’t give up the only person who let him into their bed and showed him some genuine compassion, even though he couldn’t fathom why. Jealousy from him translates into irritability, a lot of it internally, mentally tearing himself to shreds for being so pathetic. But also externally, more likely to say something like: “THEN JUST LEAVE,” or “find someone else,” when the two of you have an inevitable argument. And sometimes it’ll result in an unfounded accusation, something like: “I know you’d rather have literally anyone else, but for some reason you think you’re stuck with me.”

It says a LOT more about him than you, but it still hurts your feelings that he might actually believe that.

Of course you want to be with him. He matters so much to you, he just doesn’t let himself see that. But deep down, he knows if you really didn’t want to be with him, there was nothing stopping you from moving on.

You need patience with him, but also firm and honest. He’s Really bad at opening up himself, but if you do it, he’ll try to do the same. Only because it’s fair.

It’ll eventually get through to him how you feel about him, and someday he’ll come to terms with how much he genuinely cares about you, and how he wishes for a future with you.

[laufire]

👀👀👀

postpartum depression — right! I put it as minor because Talia is one among several pov characters and it's only the main focus in 1-2 flashbacks iirc; though it does colour her dynamics in the present, and it's something she discusses.

FWIW -it's something I might also explore more in depth with Steph in a different fic; and maybe with Talia herself, if I end up doing something with this. I'll probably include all manner of physical pregnancy related issues... Those are horrifying.

amputated leg + missing eye — 🤫 yeah I think this one is something I've straight up said ñlakjsfasf. It's more than just Dami/Colin btw! This will be the series with Duke & Jason shenanigans (the murder issue, wild west time travel; though Jason isn't injured yet in those), among other fics (Chris Kent parentrapping Clois, and a Jaytim which I know you're not interested in lol, but that's the one with most focus on Jason's ailments).

aphasia — correct again! the brain was deprived of oxygen for too long during his grave scape and this Jason didn't enjoy the benefits of the pit.

heart transplat — not Bruce, but this made me realise I forgot to include Bruce's injuries in the blood transfusion fic on the list... and you know. lately I've been thinking about the idea of Bruce being permanently paralysed, circa Knightfall (no magical cure for him), but without wanting to write more than one (1) Knightfall fic lmao. and the blood transfusion fic is absolutely the PERFECT place to put it 🤔

hearing disability — it wasn't Dani, but I'm totally stealing your idea here because it fits PERFECTLY. thank you for that xD

blindness — not Roy but oof. that'd be rough.

seizure disorder — not Dick but I should think about other ailments to give to that man asdñlkfjasf.

brain bleed etc. — right at first try! Damian was born quite prematurely in the YJTV fic (where Ra's is somewhat better to his family -depending on how genuine you think he's been-, which I suppose it's fair because so is Bruce with his lol). but you know, it's an interesting headcanon for comics canon and the al Ghul dynamics there. I usually go with Talia trying to put him up for adoption and Ra's caughing her (except in the one WIP where he doesn't find out until several years later), but this could be interesting.

also, I got something else in mind for gothic heroine Steph...

PCOS — not Barbara, but someone else guessed that and you know, why not. I have PCOS and it's my right to give it to anyone and everyone xD (though I also have a headcanon of Barbara as a trans woman that I might use in some fics. she'll get to avoid it there!)

AIDS — I tend to go with cancer (ovarian/breast cancer specifically) for Catherine (though it's not something I've explored yet), but this would be interesting too.

Alzheimer's — not Bruce, but you're also not the first to guess this and... yeah I think I might eventually tackle this. Anything of the sort would be something absolutely terrifying for him.

thanks for that list! I'm writing those down too lol.

(also re: your tags, I like to keep Lois infertile -PCOS for her too- and Clois biochildren completely out of the picture, but that's an interesting headcanon for Jade especially)

this happens in other types of stories too, but it's like superhero canons and their magical healing recurrences make me all the more eager to give my favourite characters chronic and incurable injuries, conditions, illnesses and maladies and whatnot. ig it's getting sadistic with my blorbos and blorbinas time again, because I just had the thought of giving [redacted] a heart transplant, with all that would entail... honestly, I think part of me just loves the excuse to go down the rabbit hole of medical research lsjdjdjdns.

[volivolition]

DAY 4: DRAMA - Put on your prettiest face for the masses!

gonna start adding silly captions actually. [POINTS ACCUSINGLY] MELTY FUCK (AFFECTIONATE)!!

[lowrezbonuslevel]

Susie's Super Star Repair Service! (coming eventually...?) ft. new side blog, just dropped

"When strangely-familiar stars spark to life across the universe, Susie sees a chance to rescue her father from the byte-sized boundaries of his digital purgatory (and turn a profit, while she's at it). However, her developing plans evince an undesirable yet ultimately inescapable side effect—in piecing together Max Haltmann's soul, Susie will simultaneously restore functionality to the Deus ex Machina, Star Dream: the destructive, numb-hearted computer that has held him and his memories ransom for years.

"Still, no good businesswoman is afraid to take strategic and potentially-catastrophic-on-a-universal-scale risks when majority shares of her dreams are at stake. The biggest glitch in this technological operation, as a matter of fact, has nothing to do with her father, nor the not-even-half-baked Clockwork Star that became his tomb. No…

"The greatest risk is prolonged exposure to the trademark antics of a beguiling wizard extraordinaire (which roughly translates from Magolorese to 'least agreeable person in existence'). Susie knows he can't be trusted—but his understanding of ancient technology can't be beat and his long-suffering Starcutter can't be outpaced. If only she and her insufferable 'captain' can follow their begrudging agreement to the letter… maybe they'll both come out of this with only minor injuries and moderate insanity.

"The bottom line: it'll take patience, prowess, and persuasion for Executive President Susie Haltmann, the universe's greatest powerhouse of pink-haired persistence, to finally make her dreams reality—and with everything between a shrouded suitor, a cosmic jester, secret keepsakes, long-forgotten promises, clandestine coronal plots, and Star Dream itself threatening to send her off course… it might take just a little bit of magic, too."

some cover thumbnails. still not sure which one i'm going with, if any. but i did like the top middle so i gave it some values. (i wanted to incorporate magolor since he's unfortunately an important character, and the lor and star dream/haltmann of course... and, yup, that's it. nobody else along for the ride. no murderous stowaways or anything.)

this might be the last post about my fic on this blog (unless i make some particularly banger art based on it or something), so if this interests you, check out my other blog, dedicated to this and any future fanfic endeavors, fresh off the Gryll (btw that was a Kirby joke, based on the Kirby video game series, very few will get this!!!). and feel free to send in asks i suppose? i will try not to spoil TOO much

[psychicthepsychic-daily]

hood is the ceo of “other people have it worse” /HJ

[sortanonymous]

Sorta Angry Comics #2 - "Group Trauma-Dump (and Friendship Time! :D)"

Alternate Title - "Angsty Birds"

[trashcanwithsprinkles]

Do you have any Zhongli/Zhongchi fic recs? I haven’t found any that are nearly as good as yours 😔😔

funnily enough someone already asked this, but it was quite a while ago and tumblr is a mess to search old shit thru so here, this is the post this was asked during the ao3 crisis of- .......last year? i can't remember. either way, the post starts w me saying i don't have all the names and links but dw, after ao3 came back up i edited the post so you should see all authors and links in the recs.

i have to admit that for reasons unrelated to the fandom i haven't been reading many zhongchi fics as of late? so like- bear in mind i don't have an updated mental picture of any of the recs after the post was made. so if one went off the rails or if one of the WIPs finished, i'm not aware;; i also mention in the post that i'd add more recs if i had access to ao3 (which i didn't at the time bc it was down), and while that is true, it's been so long since i read any of them that i wouldn't be able to confidently reccomend them outside of 'i somewhat remember the plot and i remember liking it'. also i don't remember half of their names. so uh- yeah that's the list i think

[paimonial-rage]

My favorite works in no particular order:

Tipsy Tales (Anemo Boys)

Symbiosis (Ayato)

What Destiny Has Brought (Fischl)

Hello How Are You (Gorou)

Follow the Wind II (Kazuha)

Of the Same Coin (Mika)

Songs of the Wind (Venti)

Nothing Lasts Forever (Yae Miko)

Sharing a Drink They Call Loneliness (Zhongli)

Of Hopes and Prayers (Zhongli)

[sing-me-under]

*stands at the top of a stage with a megaphone *

LET BATMAN HAVE FRIENDS.

[a-most-beloved-fool]

I have been making progress on The-Fic-That's-Almost-Done, but, tragically, i've mostly been adding words in places that. don't actively need them. it's still a good thing, mind. i did hope to embellish those spots more. but there are still a few conspicuous holes which. need the words rather more intensely.

though, it does grant the amusing observation that the longer i work on a particular section, the more archaic and formal my language and grammar get. it's likely noticeable to a degree within my text posts, too, (i say while saying shit like "grant the amusing observation" and "noticeable to a degree". fuck, dude, i bet it is.) but it's. particularly funny to see the evolution of my paragraphs, sometimes, from the rough draft to the final (hopefully final) version.