#dont know what fic

[cardinalcheerio]

How I imagine the Batboys insulting a random thug:

Dick: FLUBBERNUGET

Jason: I'll explain and I'll use small words so that you'll be sure to understand, you warthog-faced buffoon.

Tim: Crusty ass bitch

Damian: You are a disgrace to your ancestors, family name, city, self...etc. (goes on til thug is crying)

[choccy-milky]

sometimes you gotta lure your overly-studious ravenclaw gf into spending time with you 🥰 📚 ( from 'Every Teardrop is a Waterfall' by Kat_12739 on ao3, GO READ IT!!! the first story is about seb falling sick and still pushing himself/not admitting he's sick until he ends up in the hospital, the second story is about the birth of seb and clora's daughter and seb's reaction to clora almost dying in childbirth, and the third is about dealing with a fussy newborn lewis😭🥹THEY'RE SO GOOD AND SWEET AND SOMEWHAT SAD (not to mention beautifully written) so go check it out!!💖💖 )

[ibahibut]

💀: Fewer wounds, more kisses from me.

🐦‍⬛: Contract's accepted, mi amor.

Music inspiration: A Little Death by The Neighbourhood

[shizunitis]

Ghostfire Shen Yuan loyally following the lonely, undying, forgotten Luo Binghe from the original outline.

They never even met.

Shen Yuan had died long before Luo Binghe’s story was set to start. Abandoned by his System, he was left wandering the realms, searching for anything to latch onto, anything to stave off the darkness encroaching on his consciousness whenever he stopped. He keeps himself entertained with little jokes and references that will never reach anyone. At least back home, there were other people on the opposite side of his screen reacting, seeing. Paying attention.

He never would have thought he’d miss the times he was perceived by others. He’d give anything, though. Anything.

He stumbles upon the protagonist as he’s ascending the stairs of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect for the first time. Dressed in rags and heaving with the effort, Luo Binghe is exactly as Shen Yuan had pictured: a little bun, soft and kind and so very brave.

The excitement wears off soon enough. When the tea ceremony is held, Shen Yuan watches, hopelessly trying to stop the cup from hitting Binghe’s head. He lunges at Shen Jiu; let him be identified and exorcised, at least he would have done something with himself, however useless. It doesn’t work. Of course not—nothing can come between Luo Binghe and his fate.

Shen Yuan thinks about leaving. Many times. But every time he considers the possibility of going back to wandering the world, or just passing on… Well. There’s still a lot to see, isn’t there? It will get better. It will.

Only, it doesn’t. Not really.

There’s no harem; there’s no warm comfort offered to Luo Binghe by a sympathetic beauty, no wedding celebrations, no moments of gentle companionship, however brief, however superficial. There’s no camaraderie with his demon underlings, his generals, his allies; it’s all casual cruelty and dismissals, before it’s violence and subjugation.

There’s no joy. There’s no hope. There’s no ‘better’.

Something is wrong, that’s clear. Something is wrong, and Shen Yuan has no one to blame.

This is not the Proud Immortal Demon Way he knows.

Centuries later, when Luo Binghe begs for the heavens to allow him to die, Shen Yuan hears. When Luo Binghe rages against the passage of time, alone in the wreckage of his palace, left behind by everyone he’d ever known, Shen Yuan accompanies him. When Luo Binghe lies down in the Holy Mausoleum and refuses to get up, Shen Yuan waits, as he had for centuries, until Luo Binghe opens his eyes again and takes to the road.

They end up in a hidden realm so filled with Yin energy that Shen Yuan can channel it to manipulate his form into that of his former body. It’s not detectable by the living, but it’s there. He feels stronger, too. He can walk, float, fly, interact with what few other ghosts they encounter.

Still, Luo Binghe cannot see him.

Luo Binghe doesn’t talk much. Well, that makes sense, he was never in the habit of talking to himself, but still. It’s lonely.

They end up in a town where a diviner takes one look at Luo Binghe and offers him a free reading. Shen Yuan can’t enter her tent, well-warded against foreign entities as it is, so he waits outside.

She tells Luo Binghe of the little hanger-on he’s got. A powerful one, too, though he’s still getting used to his powers. He’s been here for a long time, she says. Since he was a child. He comes from far away—farther than even the most distant star.

Luo Binghe begins talking to him. Shen Yuan isn’t sure why, but he’s not complaining!

Luo Binghe also begins meditating again, trying to soothe the damage done by Xin Mo over the centuries. For every meal, he places a few fruits or snacks across from him on a plate he’d made himself, which he eats only after finishing his own dish. He makes space by his side whenever he walks on a narrow road. He stops at every landmark and tells stories about them, always starting the same way.

“Do you remember when…” becomes Shen Yuan’s favourite phrase.

One night, Luo Binghe sighs and looks across the table. Shen Yuan places himself so that he’s in Luo Binghe’s focus.

“What is it, Binghe?”

Luo Binghe doesn’t answer him, of course. Still, it feels like a conversation, when he says:

“I wish I knew your name.”

Shen Yuan frets. He’s been trying to manipulate the physical world, but he never got the hang of it. He’d tried drawing in sand, with water, just pushing things off shelves. And yet, nothing.

“I’m sorry, I wish—” he tries, but Luo Binghe is already talking again.

“I wonder if we ever crossed paths when you were alive.” He’s expressed this thought more than once. Shen Yuan never likes to think about how they’ve missed each other, how they’d been set up for failure from the start. “I wonder if we would have been friends.”

Shen Yuan scoffs. Of course not. Him and the protagonist? No way.

But—those cold star eyes, blindly searching for him, trying to land on him… They make him want to say, I would have liked that.

He reaches a hand out to touch Luo Binghe’s forehead. He’s taken to doing it whenever Luo Binghe broods, or makes a silly joke Shen Yuan wishes he didn’t find funny. It’s soothing.

He wishes Binghe could feel it.

When his finger touches the demon mark, it blazes. Luo Binghe gasps, that heavy gaze settling on Shen Yuan’s face.

Shen Yuan startles, and jumps away.

“No! Wait!”

Shen Yuan hesitates. Luo Binghe is looking around himself, eyes begging for even a wisp of Shen Yuan’s shadow.

He can’t deny Luo Binghe this.

He can’t deny himself this.

He reaches out again. This time, he cups Luo Binghe’s cheeks. When those eyes clear of panic and widen in awe, he whispers, softly, “Shen Yuan. My name is Shen Yuan.”

Luo Binghe looks like he’s been handed a treasure so precious he’s afraid to touch it. He hesitates, raising his hands in careful starts and stops, before taking Shen Yuan’s face in them, gently caressing the soft, cold skin of his face. His eyes dance with the haste he takes in memorising Shen Yuan’s features.

Then, he smiles. Helpless and weak and so, so precious. Shen Yuan has not seen hope so bright in Luo Binghe’s face since that fateful day on Cang Qiong Mountain.

“Hello, Shen Yuan.”

[scapegods]

Yeehaw Byler 🪑

my piece for @bylerbigbang w/ @willelworld

[one-chaotic-neautral]

Arcane ships ranked, for fun

The main ships and some rarepairs I've found, I like pretty much everything in the first 4 rows. I probably missed some but idk what they are and I'm too lazy to add more rn.

feel free to add your thoughts or ships but again its just for funsies :)

[fifty555]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ poetry? no, pottery!

a lil’ love between you and little lando norris 💞 with a twist as you’re a ceramist/potterer!

content warning; none! just enjoy the fluffs! ah, there’s a bit of explicit language (i think?), but nothing drastic! enjoy 😽!

summary; childhood friends reconnect after years apart—he’s a formula 1 driver, and you’re a ceramist.

hey, lover! part two here!

Lando Norris was used to his friends teasing him. Whether it was his golfing misadventures, his love for Twitch streams, or his occasional emotional outbursts on team radio, there was always something to make him the subject of banter on and off the grid. But the one thing they had yet to figure out—something that he was genuinely proud of—was the pottery.

It started innocuously enough. A vase here, a decorative bowl there. The other drivers had assumed Lando had simply developed a newfound taste for ceramic art after moving to Monaco. Carlos had even joked once, “You’re just trying to look posh, mate.”

But no one had noticed the small etchings at the back of each piece: a simple ‘Lan’ with a heart. Subtle, personal, and not exactly the kind of thing you’d put on items for sale. That mystery had lingered until one fateful evening when everything unravelled in the most chaotic way imaginable.

It was post-race at Silverstone, and the whole grid had gathered for dinner at a private venue. Spirits were high after a spectacular British Grand Prix, with plenty of laughs and, naturally, plenty of friendly ribbing.

Lando sat beside Oscar, carefully monitoring his phone, knowing full well that at any moment you might call. You were in your apartment in Mexico, finalising details for an art exhibit while simultaneously working on personal pottery commissions. Lando adored how dedicated you were to your craft, even if it often left you so absorbed that you forgot things—like where you’d placed your keys, or, as he was about to find out, something a little more important.

Amid the loud chatter, Lando’s phone buzzed, and your name flashed on the screen. Without thinking, he swiped to answer. “Hey, love,” he greeted, but before he could say anything else, your panicked voice filled the room.

“Lan, I lost my ring! I don’t know where it is!”

Shoot, he forgot about the speaker.

The room fell eerily silent as the unmistakable sound of your frantic cries echoed from the speaker.

Lando froze. His brain short-circuited as he realised his phone was still on speaker. Every single driver at the table—except for Oscar, Alex, and George—was staring at him like he’d just confessed to murder.

“Oh, for fu—” Lando scrambled to turn off the speaker, but not before you continued, “Baby, I don’t know where it is! I can’t even—”

He interrupted, voice strained with embarrassment. “Have you checked the wet clays? That’s usually where you’d lose it.”

The line went quiet for a second as the realisation hit you. “Shit. I’ll go check. Thanks, love. Enjoy your dinner with the boys, bye!” You ended the call abruptly, leaving Lando to deal with the aftermath.

“What the hell was that?” Daniel was the first to break the silence, leaning forward with a grin that practically screamed mischief.

“No, who the fuck was that?” Max followed, his bluntness cutting through the rising chaos like a hot knife through butter.

The room erupted in questions. Pierre was halfway across the table, trying to pry answers from Lando, while Charles was practically yelling over everyone else. Meanwhile, Carlos gave Lando a pointed look. “Mate, don’t tell me you’ve got a secret girlfriend and you’ve been hiding it from me?”

Lando’s cheeks burned as he fumbled to explain. “Look, it’s not a big deal—”

“Not a big deal?!” Charles’ voice reached a pitch that only dogs could hear. “You’ve been holding out on us! Who is she?”

Amidst the chaos, Alex calmly took a sip of his drink and glanced at Charles. “You’ve met her before.”

“I have?” Charles frowned, genuinely confused.

George pulled out his phone, scrolled through his photos, and handed it over. “Here, this’ll jog your memory.”

The photo showed George, Alex, and you at a karting event years ago, laughing over slices of pizza. You were unmistakable, even with the short haircut and boyish charm you used to sport.

And the fact that you used to terrorise Charles on the grid.

Charles’ eyes widened. “You’re telling me that demon is Lando’s—”

“Fiancée,” Lando corrected with a smug grin, cutting him off. “She’s my fiancée.”

If the table had been chaotic before, it was nothing compared to the uproar that followed.

“Fiancée?!” Charles looked moments away from fainting. Pierre had to physically restrain him from climbing over the table.

Max, ever the straight shooter, raised a brow. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since October 2020,” Lando admitted, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms defensively.

“You kept this a secret for three years?” Daniel looked simultaneously impressed and horrified. “And all we got were vases?”

“Wait,” Carlos interjected, pointing a finger at Lando. “The pottery—don’t tell me that’s her doing?”

Lando smirked, finally finding his footing in the conversation. “Actually, most of it’s hers. But I helped with a few pieces.”

“Explains the hearts,” Pierre muttered, earning a round of laughter.

Meanwhile, back in your studio, you’d found the missing engagement ring embedded in a chunk of wet clay. You snapped a quick photo of your clay-covered hands, the ring perched delicately on your finger, and sent it to Lando with the message: Found it. Your forgetfulness is rubbing off on me.

Lando responded with a selfie of his own, a defeated look on his face, and the message: The cat’s out of the bag.

You could only laugh, imagining the absolute carnage he was dealing with at dinner.

Now, the question is, how did you guys meet?

Well, let’s take a trip down memory lane, yes?

It started at a karting track in Guildford when they were both nine years old. Lando was already making waves on the circuit, a scrappy kid with untamed curls and an infectious grin. You, on the other hand, were a quiet but fiercely competitive racer, constantly being told you’d never make it because you were a girl.

That day, your paths crossed in the most cliché yet heartwarming way. You’d crashed during qualifying and sat on the sidelines, fuming as you inspected the damaged kart. Lando, fresh off his own session, wandered over with a bag of gummy bears and an awkward grin.

“Want one?” he asked, holding the bag out to you.

You glanced up, unimpressed. “Unless it fixes my kart, no thanks.”

“It doesn’t,” he admitted, plopping one into his mouth, “but they’re good for sulking.”

Reluctantly, you took one. That was all it took. From that day forward, you became friends—rivals on the track, co-conspirators off it. The karting world was small, and you often found yourselves travelling the same circuits, sharing snacks, and occasionally teaming up to prank the other kids.

But all good things come to an end, and for Lando, the end came when you abruptly quit karting at twelve. One day you were there, racing alongside him, and the next, you were gone. No explanations, no goodbyes—just a void where his fiercest rival and closest friend had been.

Years passed. Lando threw himself into racing, climbing the ranks to Formula 1, but he never stopped wondering what had happened to you. He’d hear whispers—something about pottery, about you exchanging one love for another—but nothing concrete.

Then, in 2020, he walked into a pop-up art gallery in London and froze. There, amidst a sea of ceramic sculptures, was a name he hadn’t seen in years: yours. And standing by a display of hand-thrown vases, chatting animatedly with a small group of people, was you.

Lando hesitated, heart pounding as he watched you laugh, looking so effortlessly radiant it hurt. He was a world-famous F1 driver now, but at that moment, he felt like the same awkward boy offering gummy bears to his angry rival.

Finally, he worked up the courage to approach you. “Hey,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Nice vases.”

You turned, your eyes widening in surprise. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, as if no time had passed at all, you grinned. “Nice curls.”

The conversation flowed as easily as it always had. Over coffee the next day, you explained why you’d quit karting. Your parents had pulled you out, worried about the pressure and the toxic environment you were facing as a girl in a male-dominated sport. You’d turned to pottery as an outlet and never looked back.

“I missed it, though,” you admitted, stirring your latte. “I missed racing. I missed… you.”

Lando’s heart clenched. “I missed you too.”

The transition from friendship to romance was seamless, almost inevitable. But given Lando’s high-profile career, you both agreed to keep the relationship private. It wasn’t easy. There were stolen weekends in Monaco, secret visits to your studio in between London and Mexico, and countless moments when you had to play it cool in public, even as your heart raced every time you saw him.

The secrecy was worth it, though. For three years, you built a world of your own, filled with laughter, late-night phone calls, and the kind of love that felt steady and enduring.

The proposal came during a quiet evening at your studio. You’d been working on a commission, hands covered in clay, when Lando appeared in the doorway, looking unusually nervous.

“What’s up?” you asked, wiping your hands on a rag.

He hesitated, then held out a small, unassuming box. “I, uh, thought we could make this official.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. “Lando Norris, are you asking me to marry you in the middle of my studio while I’m covered in clay?”

He grinned, the familiar boyish charm shining through. “Well, I figured it’s where you’re happiest.”

You couldn’t argue with that. Laughing, you took the box, opened it, and saw the ring—simple, elegant, and unmistakably you. Tears filled your eyes as you nodded. “Yes.”

For a while, life went on as usual. You returned to your pottery, Lando to his racing, and your engagement remained a secret known only to close family and a few trusted friends. But secrets have a way of slipping out, and yours did during that fateful post-Silverstone dinner.

By the time Lando returned home to Monaco, the internet was ablaze. He’d soft-launched your engagement on Instagram with a series of photos: your clay-covered hands holding the ring, more of you holding your ring in defeat after possibly losing it, and a final shot of the infamous ‘Lan ♥’ signature on one of your vases.

The caption read: ladies and gents, the chronicles of my fiancée losing her ring. she says that my forgetfulness is rubbing off on her apparently but she sadly chose to say yes to me 😌.

The response was overwhelming. Fans went wild over the reveal, speculating about your relationship timeline and falling in love with the wholesome chaos of it all.

Despite the initial embarrassment, Lando wouldn’t change a thing. Sure, Charles might never let him live it down, and Daniel would probably bring up the ‘wet clay incident’ at every opportunity, but none of it mattered.

As he watched you work on your latest piece, the soft hum of music filling the studio, he felt a sense of peace he rarely found anywhere else. You glanced over your shoulder, catching him staring, and flashed him a smile that made his heart skip a beat.

“Back to work, Mr. Norris,” you teased, pointing at the pottery wheel.

He grinned, sliding into the seat beside you. “Yes, ma’am.”

If this was what forever looked like, Lando was more than ready for it.

Because in the end, every gummy bear, every secret, and every chaotic dinner had been worth it.

i hope you guys liked it 🥹 tbh, this was originally a gift for my friend to motivate her but now she wants to actually marry him… i take no part in that declaration.

also, this y’all man 🤨☝🏻 damn, he’s okay, i guess.

i’m still very new here, so, there’s some things i absolutely know nothing about… BUT, i’ll get through it ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-!! i love y’all, strangers ‘round the internet 💌 MWAH!

[bunnieswithknives]

I was thinking about HotelOwner!Taco interactions earlier and I think that they should be friends. Or maybe frenemies.

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: Baby's First Commissioner Meeting :)

TL:DR This Post: Danny (orphan) gets poisoned with blood blossom extract by Vlad. He runs away from him and ends up under the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman! Starry is loudly pushing her batdad agenda.

(Also known as "Late At Night, When The Nightingale Sings" on my ao3!)

This was a fun rough idea I've been sitting on for weeks, thinking about how Commissioner Gordon and Nightingale's first meeting might go.

---------------

Commissioner Gordon likes to think that he's adjusting to the new normal of Gotham very well, -- the new normal being grown men running around dressed like bats, in military-grade strength body armor, committing acts of vigilantism, -- and slowly, little by little, he was no longer being surprised when this new normal pops up out of the shadows like the world's most terrifying daisy. His shaving lifespan thanks him for it.

....

The kid is a surprise though.

Granted, he seemed to be a surprise to the Bat too.

There's been a string of murders lately, -- which, in Gotham, is kind of like saying there's been another storm during monsoon season. And there's just been another; in some dilapidated building down in south Gotham, with the broken, boarded-up windows and mildew-crawling walls to match. The victim is a man in his thirties, multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, left in the center of the room for the blood to pool out around him.

The place is already secured when he arrives, the building swarmed with officers and the forensic detectives. The Bat emerges shortly after he does -- or, he might've been here the whole time, hiding someplace dark and shadowy. For his own sanity, Gordon doesn't think about it too hard.

The kid is a surprise, and he appears like a bolt of lightning.

He shows up in the middle of a conversation Gordon is having with the Bat.

A whistle, sharp and loud, slicing through the air, meant for open air rather than a confined space. Gordon's ears pierce and protest the sound, and the solemn, murmured chatter floating through the room abruptly cuts off like the swing of a gavel. As he turns towards the sound -- as they all do -- he swears, up and down, that he sees Batman's shoulders jump, just slightly.

At the source, perched on the window, is a boy. A boy in a gray-blue scarf and an oversized black hoodie, one that hangs off his frame and has ace bandages wrapped around the wrists in some attempt to cinch the sleeves. The hood is up, big like the rest of it, and threatens to swallow the upper half of the boy's face whole in the fabric. What upper half Gordon can see, is smeared with some kind of opaque, black face paint. He's holding onto the side of the frame with one hand, on his hip is a grappling hook. A familiar grappling hook.

Gordon has multiple questions, and his officers tense up.

Martinez puffs up, brows furrowing as his face shapes into a frown. Shoulders rolling back. "You can't be here, kid--"

The reaction is immediate, like a spark to gunpowder, the boy yanks his fingers from his mouth and his mouth twists into a scowl. Head snapping over to Officer Martinez, his hood manages to stay on but Gordon swears that as he bares his teeth, the glint makes them look sharper than they should be. His voice is rasp and quiet and harsh; snappish in its hissing; "Put a fuckin sock in it, Martinez. I'm not stayin."

Martinez reels back, and the boy immediately veers his attention off him. Like a switch, his demeanor drops. Despite half his face being covered, his mouth twists into a cringing, apologetic smile. Slanted and off-beat, embarrassed. It'd be disarming if this wasn't Gotham, and if he didn't just hiss at Martinez like he was about to bite his head off.

"Sorry." He whispers, voice deceptively polite and softer now. Gordon has to strain his ears to hear him. "I was looking for him."

He points his finger towards-- Gordon? No, Gordon follows the direction, and finds himself looking at -- the Bat.

The Bat, who always looks stiff as a pole, now looks even stiffer. Somehow. Well, the explains the grappling hook attached to the boy's waist.

"What are you doing here?" The Bat says, gruff and unable to completely smother the stumble of surprise in his tone.

The boy still holds a sheepish smile, and slips off the window ledge. His feet hit the creaky boards with a near-silent thud, the Batman finds his feet and rapidly begins crossing the room.

Gordon notes the slight tremble in the boy's legs as he straightens. He adjusts his scarf, which droops close to his knees now that he's standing, and slings a backpack -- how long has had that? -- off his shoulders. When the Bat reaches his side, he does as he always does, and looms over the boy like a spectre. A threatening mass of shadows cloaked in all-consuming black. Standing next to him, the boy looks teeny in comparison.

The Bat is a man who terrifies even the most hardened criminals, Gordon has seen grown men shiver in fear at the mention of his name. And yet when the boy looks up at him, he doesn't even flinch.

Instead, his sheepish smile melts away like ice under the sun, holding only traces of his previous embarrassment. It remains as a shadow on his face, a small upturn at the corners of his mouth. The boy pushes his hood back just enough to reveal glinting, ice-flint eyes surrounded in tar-black face paint. He holds the backpack up with one arm. "You forgot this."

[lucabyte]

I don't know how everyone isn't also always constantly thinking about how burial rites seem to be potentially one of the few things Siffrin instinctively remembers about their culture. But rest assured. I am in fact always thinking about it.

Textless version where they're just hanging out. It's fine!

[hajihiko]

inspired by a convo with @miggylol, some Peko loving ❤ I wouldn't call it a xmas present but maybe ... a stocking stuffer?

[marcell-arts]

doodles of viago de riva and his little protegee, Rookie!

i just finished veilguard and i am obsessed with the crows. you can check out my fic on this duo, focusing on pre-game events and what it was like for my crow!Rook to grow up in House de Riva!

[anna-scribbles]

chapter cards for thirteen: november - april

read on ao3

[spnregular]

i like thinking abt how cas finds dean beautiful in a way incomprehensible to most humans and that for the longest time he has no idea that he’s bagged a friggin male model.

of course cas thinks dean is an 11/10 but for like his bright soul or how his freckles look like some stupid star configuration and he fantasizes about how dean’s lumbrical muscles move or like etching love letters into his tibia. cas has no concept of dsl, no idea how dean being over 6’ is highly desirable or that his wide shoulders may make others swoon, or that people freakin pay to have eyelashes like his.

he gets some idea of this in his s9 human era but it’s such a haze of confusion and hormones and literally being murdered after sex that he doesnt really get it until theyre in their post-canon fix-it era, like eight months into their relationship bc he remembers some off hand comment from some npc in a bar and he just goes:

“Dean, you’re actually… very ‘hot’. In the human way.” he says this with his best wet meow meow face, eyes wide and lips parted in awe.

and dean is just like mock offended and rolls his eyes bc he thinks cas is joking but then realizes cas isnt and sort of takes it personally bc holy hell this is crazy and is like “are you telling me you’ve been lying about bein’ in to me? what about all that crap you said i-in bed, man!? you called me b-beaut—” and he gets rlly insecure bc he freakin knew it, cas cant really be this into him

and then of course cas HAS to prove to dean that he finds him wildly attractive which leads to the sappiest, hottest and weirdest sex of dean’s life as cas fucks him and talks about how hot his molar teeth and how sexy seeing his pulse in his jugular veins is

[frankiebirds]

every day i think about elle and morgan going on vacation together and at least morgan wanting reid to come with. what were their intentions. were they bisexual in nature. also im also almost certain that this is the first time morgan calls reid "pretty boy" and it's while he's inviting him on vacation with him. it's 2005/2006 you cannot be this bisexual at your government job.

bonus:

yeah i think elle also wanted him to join them.

[raffi-cat]

creaking grian

this is entirely @gladumf's fault

also technically fanart for their fic but it is not out yet lol, i'll add the link here when it is!

flat colors cause i think they're nice