#i “write” when the conditions are right

[hellsslibrary]

hi so ive been binging ur works lol I love that u write for blue lock and specifically the male reader !!! Sosoo I'd love to request a shidou x mean top male reader ? Like shidou keeps acting out so reader puts him in his place?

I do three things on purpose. I make you cut onions so I don't cry, I cling to you during horror movies because you get too focused, and I bend over in front of you during training because you're a dirty dog (real quotes from my husband as titles day one).

MASTERLIST is here.

#a.n. : You two humiliating a non-existent guy for the size of his dick........ Basic Tuesday for any gays, I guess.

!!Warnings: tom!dom!male!reader, sub!bottom! Shidou, overstimulation, time before the first selection, so you fuck in a room full of other people at night..... So, humiliation of a guy for a dick actually (not in his face tho), sex on a futon, Shidou without hair gel (I heard that someone didn't like Shidou without gel and cried hyperbolically), he calls you 'cupcake' one time.

One hundred and seven times.

You've thought about killing him so many times. Strangle him. Take his head off. Castrate him. Burn him. Drown him... Anything, really. Why is this idiot even more annoying than usual? Who knows. Well, obviously not you.

Your eyes watched him praise a player again. Of course, this is not surprising for him, he is very respectful to good players, but now? Fuck, this is out of bounds.

You can see perfectly well how his hands stay on this guy for too long. And the way his eyes look at you from time to time. It's been repeated too many times today.

Does he want you to crack? But no. He's going to do it today. And it won't just crack, it will come apart at the seams.

The sound of the futon moving can be heard in an almost empty room as your body bends over his, while his face is buried in the pillow, trying not to moan too loudly. Not that he cares about it, but you do very much.

"I'm s-sorry, cu-cupcake, please—!" he exhales raggedly, clutching at the thin fabric, trying with all his might to stabilize himself and his body from your obviously not gentle thrusts, which seemed to knock his soul out of him piece by piece.

A rhetorical question escapes your lips, and an almost animal grin appears on your lips, seeing his condition. "Now we're just barking, right? You forgot how to bite pretty quickly."

Shidou just whimpers, feeling his body twitching from your thrusts inside his sloppy hole. His curls are disheveled on the bed, and some are stuck to his cheeks or neck from sweat. He just couldn't look into your eyes as usual, knowing full well that he would break even more... He dug his own grave after all.

"That guy couldn't have brought you to this state, you know? He definitely has a dick smaller than my little finger," you reason, lowering one of your hands from his waist lower, feeling the muscles of his stomach tighten as you slide over them, reaching his v-shaped line, and then his crotch. "Don't you agree?"

"Fuck, yes! Def-definitely, yes... Probably th-the same size as an a-ant," Ryusei giggles, swallowing his saliva, arching his back harder, which makes you hiss, feeling like he's become a little tighter.

Although his giggles immediately fade away when you grab his overexcited, spent cock. You immediately slap the hand that's trying to stop you, grabbing his length, making him choke on his own sob.

Tears began to form in his eyes, lingering on his blond eyelashes, and then trickling down his cheeks. He couldn't take another round! He wanted to, but probably couldn't. You're huge, you tease him, you fuck him, you humiliate someone for the size of his dick... Did I mention that you're huge? Anyway, it's fucking Hell! He's a fucking puddle under you, even though he wanted to stay under you like that, because that's actually what he wanted.

Maybe you'd be more gentle if your count of murder methods stopped at about sixty.

"Still fucking want me like this, huh? How many times did you cum?" you ask rhetorically, realizing that he won't answer, just smiling, and then slapping his ass, which makes him squeak, and you enjoy his sounds, because you can't see almost anything.

"Don't worry, I'll do it over and over again until you don't even have the thought of leaving me anymore, do you understand?" Ryusei nodded, and his cock jerked in your grip, forcing you to enter him up to the hilt, and then pull your dick out of him, which immediately turns around to look at you. "Or maybe I need to make it so that you can't stand at all without help..."

Shido pales almost immediately, sensing the sincerity in your voice, and then moans too loudly when you thrust into him again. Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing his face back into the pillows so that he doesn't wake anyone up and so that he stops making silly excuses about how he wants you to pull out your dick.

He looked like a black hole right now, honestly. So he'd better not pretend to be a clogged pipe right now.

[thetadispatcher]

Vincent looked up at him and gave him a small smile, showing he appreciated the gesture. He knew it probably didn't mean that much to other people, but to him it meant a lot.

He liked knowing he had other people outside of those who called him family that cared, and didn't mind showing it to help him understand situations or just feel better about them.

The AP700 rested his head back against the other android, deciding he'd completely ignore Dan and Rook to focus on what Bishop was doing.

Nines gave him a calculating look, he had experience with people who would use anything to try to upset him. His human partner did it almost constantly to him, so he could easily recognize when someone else was attempting to do the same.

The only thing he needed any time to figure out was why, it seemed like everyone always had a different reason for why they were trying to get a reaction out of him. Gavin's was just because he liked to be an annoyance, and the fact he couldn't get Nines to react upset him.

Not that he cared, as he enjoyed watching the detective flush with anger whenever Nines didn't give him the reaction he was looking for. Not that he would show the human that he found his small shows of anger endearing.

"I am not that rebellious, no more then Connor is." He wouldn't call Sixty rebellious as the RK800 seemed to be down to do just about anything, he was more of an accidental troublemaker.

"And it's not like the military could do anything about it now if they did find out." Androids had rights now, and they couldn't do anything about the military androids Cyberlife failed to destroy as they were considered people. Also it would likely cause a lot of issues that wouldn't be worth the time and money to deal with.

John didn't see them doing anything about it ever, the androids didn't know anything he would consider damaging if it were to get out. And he never saw service, so he never learned any truly damaging information that the military would be concerned about.

"He might be, considering the fact he was already deviant when he was deactivated as we didn't have to convert him." Dan wasn't sure what to make of that possibility, but Kelvin was the oldest recorded deviant they knew of so far.

He just wasn't about to share that information as he felt the last thing androids needed was to know their god might be real, some might be a little disappointed to find out what he was like.

"I never said he was dumb, he can do some very complicated tasks quite well. Sure he does have his moments where he does something that one would call dumb, but he can hardly be held accountable for it considering his condition." Kelvin was surprisingly good at things one wouldn't expect someone in his condition to excel at, even if he did have times where he acted more childlike then a normal android.

"We are trying to teach him sign language and how to write, but it's a slow process as he sometimes will need to be retaught things he already learned. But if you think she can talk to him, you're welcome to try. It would be nice to better understand Kelvin just in case there is some mental trauma we don't know about. I would hate to learn about it by accidentally upsetting him and still not fully understand the reaction, it would make helping him calm down hard." Even a little more information would be useful, as it might give them a hint on where to look for more.

"Yes, that is correct. He was a gift to the studio that they really didn't care enough to keep, they deposed of him the first chance they got." Brent didn't seem bothered by the studio's blatant disregard for him, in fact he seemed to have expected the treatment and felt nothing about. The JB300 was one of the androids that showed no mental affects from being thrown away, and he even seemed thankful it happened.

"We have a few other ones, ones that you would recognize as a lot of people from your generation are the ones who were ordering these custom units." He could see why someone would want an android of their favorite characters, but he could also understand why they'd be thrown away. They only lasted as long as their novelty or until they needed an expensive repair thanks to being custom.

"Only one other one is present on the property currently, if you'd like I can introduce you to him." Dan knew he would be less bothered by being recognized as a fictional character, Brent just seemed to hate it as he wanted to be his own person and not Data. But the JB300 was okay with it if the person respected the fact he had picked a new name and didn't constantly remind him of his appearance.

The android looked over once again, waiting for Rook to snap back at him. When it was clear she intended to leave him alone he glanced back to Vincent. If his communication skills were poor, he felt he was about to set a new low, but still reached to give his friend a gentle pat in reassurance. Everything was fine, they were just having a feisty mutant over for a bit.

Bishop smirked. That gave him something to work with.

"Yes, that is expected behavior from the rebellious youngest brother."

Even the most collected deviant had to deal with their own emotions and while he couldn't say for sure how prominent Nines' ego was, Bishop would still poke at him until he got a reaction.

It was entertaining enough to him, in any case. He had no reason to stop.

"That's typical of private contractors." he mused, "So you were saved entirely by greed alone. I suppose there is some irony in that."

Much like the fact that androids were simply being tossed in a landfill instead of being recycled. It seemed Cyberlife's entire existence was simply tainted by incompetence.

Rook watched the way Dan's skin regenerated, glad to see no damage was done. The last thing she wanted was to be accused of having hurt the most important guy in the house, especially when she had done nothing but ask questions.

"Who knows, maybe he's patient zero." She shrugged, "Maybe he's like Sixty and likes the way he is. It's never good to assume somebody who's very energetic and content with what they have is dumb. I have a friend who is just as bouncy as Kelvin and she's smarter and wiser than most people."

It didn't look like Kelvin was causing real trouble on purpose. He just moved quietly and that made it easy to forget he was even there doing his own thing.

"So that's why you've got Commander Data running about. Maybe you could ask Willow to talk to Kelvin. He can't talk to you, but she can probably translate for him."

[mrsfancyferrari]

Hey I hope you've having an amazing day/evening/night. This is my first time requesting something😅, and I was wondering if you could possibility write something like what you did with my type but the reader having natural auburn curly hair, with freckles thinking that she's not his type or something along those lines.

Gold in Snow

Summary: you and lando are in a relationship but you're reserving hate comments about you being a ginger, with freckles because the fans don't think you're his type

Song: Golden Hour · JVKE

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 5.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The roar of the crowd was deafening. Another podium finish for Lando, another shower of champagne soaking his expensive suit. You watched from the relative calm of the garage, a small smile playing on your lips.

He looked genuinely happy, and that, more than anything, made the constant noise and pressure of Formula 1 palatable.

You’d been dating Lando Norris for almost a year now. A year of stolen moments, whispered secrets in hotel rooms, and navigating the chaotic whirlwind that was his life. A year of pure bliss…mostly.

The “mostly” came in the form of comment sections. Forums. Twitter threads dedicated to dissecting every pixel of your existence and comparing it to the accepted prototype of a WAG – Wives and Girlfriends – in the F1 world.

You were… different.

They’d say it with a thinly veiled, almost clinical detachment, but the message was always the same: you didn’t fit. You were too… ginger. Too freckled. Too… you.

The ginger part bothered them the most. Lando was a global superstar, practically sculpted from marble, with a smile that could melt glaciers. He was everything they wanted him to be: conventionally attractive, charming, and effortlessly cool.

And you? You were… well, very, very pale. Your hair was a fiery halo, and your skin was dotted with a constellation of freckles that bloomed fiercer in the summer sun.

“He likes the exotic look,” one comment had sniped. “She’s probably got a killer tan when she’s not hiding in the shade.”

You’d chuckled then, a hollow sound that didn’t quite reach your heart. Exotic? You’d spent your life battling sunburns and jokes about having no soul.

And killer tan? Honey, you burned so fast, lifeguards would start applying sunscreen just by looking at you.

You tried to ignore it. Lando certainly seemed to. He showered you with affection, praised your quick wit and sharp mind, and constantly reminded you how beautiful he found you, flaws and all.

But the insidious comments burrowed under your skin, planting seeds of doubt that you desperately tried to weed out.

You saw him heading towards the garage now, adrenaline still buzzing through him. His eyes found yours, and that signature Lando grin spread across his face. Your heart did that familiar little flip.

“Hey!” he said, pulling you into a hug. He smelled of champagne and victory. “Did you see that last overtake? Unbelievable!”

You laughed, burying your face in his still-damp fire suit. “Yes, I saw it. You were amazing, as always. Just try not to spray me next time, okay?”

He pulled back, his brow furrowed. “You okay? You seem… quiet.”

You forced a smile. “Just tired. It’s been a long weekend.”

He didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. “Well, we’re flying back tomorrow morning. We can just chill in the hotel tonight. Order some room service, maybe watch a movie?”

“Sounds perfect,” you said, meaning it. Just the two of you, away from the cameras and the judgment.

That night, as you lay in his arms in the dimly lit hotel room, the familiar ache in your chest returned. You couldn't shake the feeling that you were somehow… undeserving.

“Lando?” you whispered, the sound barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning.

“Hmm?” He nuzzled into your hair.

“Do you… do you ever read the comments? About us?”

He stiffened slightly. “I try not to. You know how toxic that can be.”

“But you do read them, right? Sometimes?”

He sighed, a heavy sound that vibrated against your chest. “Okay, yeah, sometimes. But I don’t pay any attention to them. They’re just… noise.”

“Noise that says I’m not good enough for you.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them.

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours in the dimness. “What? That’s ridiculous. Who says that?”

“Everyone. Online, anyway. They don’t think I’m your type. They think I’m… too ginger. Too freckled. Too… plain.”

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones. “Hey. Look at me. You are absolutely stunning. Inside and out. You are intelligent, funny, kind, and you have the most beautiful smile in the world. And yes,” he added with a mischievous grin, “I also happen to think your hair is gorgeous, and your freckles are like little constellations scattered across your skin. They’re unique, just like you.”

You felt tears welling up in your eyes. “But they say…”

“They say a lot of things. People are always going to have opinions. But their opinions don’t matter. Only mine does. And I think you are perfect.”

He leaned in and kissed you, a slow, tender kiss that chased away the doubts, at least for a moment.

But even as you melted into him, a small, insidious voice whispered in the back of your mind: He’s just saying that. He has to say that.

The knot in your stomach tightened with each passing day, each new photo plastered across social media. You and Lando, laughing at a restaurant, holding hands at the airport, just being normal.

What shouldn't have been a cause for concern, was. It should have been a happy bubble of romance, but it was quickly becoming a breeding ground for anxiety, a place where your insecurities festered and grew.

Because under each picture, nestled amongst the supportive comments and heart emojis, they lurked. The whispers, the not-so-subtle digs.

"He could do so much better." "She's not even his type." "Another generic influencer." And the worst of it? "Ginger + Freckles = No."

You knew it was irrational. Lando loved you. He told you every day, showed you in a million little ways, from the way he held your hand to the way he looked at you with genuine adoration.

But the internet had a way of burrowing into your brain, planting seeds of doubt that blossomed into thorny vines. You found yourself scrutinizing your reflection, picking apart every freckle, every strand of your fiery hair.

Was it too much? Was it enough? Were you enough?

"Penny for your thoughts?" Lando's voice startled you, pulling you back from the precipice of your spiral. He was standing in the doorway of your shared flat, his racing helmet tucked under his arm, a familiar mischievous grin playing on his lips.

"Just thinking about this weekend," you mumbled, avoiding his gaze. "Excited for the snow."

"Me too! Max and Steve are already counting down the hours. You're coming to the slopes tomorrow, right?"

You hesitated. "I… I have something I need to do in the morning. I'll meet you guys up there later, okay?"

Lando frowned, his blue eyes searching yours. "Everything alright, love? You seem a bit off."

"I'm fine," you insisted, forcing a smile. "Just… a doctor's appointment. Nothing serious. I'll explain later. Promise."

He didn't look convinced, but he knew better than to push. "Alright. Just text me when you're on your way. Drive safe.”

He kissed your forehead, the warmth of his touch a brief comfort against the chill that had settled within you and left.

The next morning, the drive to the snow mountains felt endless. Each mile was another step closer to the potential storm brewing in your head.

You told yourself you were being ridiculous, that you were letting faceless strangers dictate your feelings. But the seed of doubt had been planted, watered, and was now taking root.

When you finally arrived at the ski resort, the crisp mountain air did little to soothe your nerves. You walked into the reception area, the scent of pine and hot chocolate thick in the air.

"Name?" the receptionist asked, her eyes glued to the computer screen.

"It's… uh… Y/L/N, party of Lando Norris."

The receptionist's fingers clicked across the keyboard, and she looked up, a polite professional smile gracing her lips. "Ah, yes. Mr. Norris's party. You're all set. Here's your lift pass. Your equipment rental is just through those doors. Have a wonderful day."

You collected your ski boots and poles from the rental shop, the familiar weight grounding you slightly. You'd been skiing since you were a kid, practically born on the slopes.

It was one of the few places you felt truly free, truly yourself.

You strapped on your skis and headed towards the main lift, scanning the crowd for a flash of Lando's familiar McLaren Racing beanie or the boisterous laughter of Max and Steve.

The lift carried you higher and higher, the view expanding to reveal a breathtaking panorama of snow-covered peaks and pristine valleys.

For a moment, the internet, the comments, the doubts, all faded away. You breathed in the crisp air, feeling the thrill of anticipation course through you.

As you reached the top, you spotted them. Lando, grinning and waving, Max, already carving down the slope with reckless abandon, and Steve, carefully navigating the beginner trail.

You took a deep breath, pushed off, and let gravity do its work. The wind whipped through your hair, the sun glinted off the snow, and for the first time that day, you felt a genuine smile spread across your face.

You were good. Really good. You weaved and turned, carving graceful arcs in the powder, your ginger hair a vibrant streak against the white landscape. You glided past other skiers, feeling the rush of adrenaline as you navigated the slopes with practiced ease.

You found yourself on a black diamond run, moguls stretching out before you like frozen waves. This was where you belonged, where you felt alive. You took a deep breath and launched yourself into the challenge, navigating the bumps and dips with precision and skill.

Suddenly, you heard a whoop of excitement and a familiar voice. "Wow, check out the ginger ninja!"

You glanced over your shoulder and saw a couple of guys, clearly impressed by your skiing skills.

You grinned, threw them a wink, and continued your descent, the compliment a small spark of warmth against the doubt that still lingered.

The crisp mountain air bit at Lando’s cheeks, painting them a matching shade to the gaudy orange ski suit Max insisted he wear. He shifted his weight from one ski boot to the other, impatience radiating off him in visible waves.

He’d been waiting at the base of the slope for what felt like an eternity. Max was already halfway up the mountain for his third run. Steve was content to nurse a lukewarm hot chocolate and offer unsolicited advice on Lando’s form, despite the fact Lando hadn't even put his skis on yet.

"She's taking her time," Steve commented, taking another careful sip. "Probably intimidated by the black runs."

Lando rolled his eyes, though fondness softened the gesture. He knew you weren't intimidated by anything. This was more than likely your first time on the slopes, so you were probably taking it easy.

You were a natural athlete, thriving on competition, but you’d also confessed, with a sheepish grin, that skiing looked deceptively easy on TV.

He was about to tell Steve as much when Steve suddenly straightened, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Oh, there's your girl!"

Lando spun around, instantly forgetting the cold, the wait, and Steve’s irritating commentary. He searched the throng of skiers snaking down the slope, his heart doing a little skip. And then he saw you.

You moved with a surprising grace, your skis carving effortless arcs in the snow. Sunlight caught in your fiery red hair, turning it into a cascade of glittering copper. Each freckle seemed to dance on your skin, illuminated by the mountain sun.

He knew, objectively, that you were beautiful. He saw it every day. But seeing you now, flushed with exertion and radiant with joy, took his breath away.

He froze, utterly captivated, as you approached. You navigated the final stretch with smooth confidence. “Show off,” he muttered under his breath, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You slowed to a stop, kicking up a spray of snow just inches from his boots.

"Hey!" you exclaimed, laughing. You pushed your goggles up onto your forehead, revealing eyes the color of warm honey. "Sorry! How long have you been waiting?"

Your cheeks were rosy, your breath misting in the cold air. Lando stared, speechless.

"Baby? What's wrong?" you asked, your brow furrowing with concern. You reached out, your ungloved hand gently touching his cheek. The cold stung, but he barely noticed.

He swallowed, his voice a low rasp. "You're beautiful."

The words were a whisper, almost lost in the wind. He hadn’t meant to say it so abruptly, so…exposed. But the sight of you, framed by the snow-covered peaks, had rendered him incapable of coherent thought.

Your eyes widened slightly, and a blush bloomed on your cheeks, a delicate counterpoint to the healthy glow of the mountain air. "Lando," you said softly, "you okay? Are you coming down with something?"

He blinked, shaking himself slightly. "No, I'm fine. More than fine, actually. You just…you look incredible."

Steve coughed pointedly beside him. Max, having apparently teleported from the top of the mountain, snickered. Lando shot them both a warning glare. They knew how self-conscious you were, especially around his racing colleagues.

The comments section of his social media had been a cesspool ever since you two became public. Hateful words about your appearance, thinly veiled as concerned opinions that you weren’t “his type,” were a constant, ugly background noise.

He knew it bothered you, even though you tried to brush it off with a laugh and a casual, "Haters gonna hate." But he saw the flicker of hurt in your eyes when you thought no one was looking.

He hated those comments, hated the people who wrote them, and hated that they had the power to make you feel anything less than extraordinary.

He took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "Ignore them," he said, his voice firm, his gaze locked on yours.

You looked confused. "Ignore who? Max and Steve?"

"Everyone," he said, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "Anyone who makes you feel like you're anything less than perfect. Because you are. Perfect. Just the way you are."

The blush on your cheeks deepened, and you ducked your head slightly, a shy smile playing on your lips. "You're sweet," you mumbled. "But I know I'm not everyone's cup of tea."

"Good," Lando said fiercely. "You're mine. And that's all that matters." He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead, ignoring Max's exaggerated gagging noises.

He pulled back and met your gaze, his expression serious. "Listen to me. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you're not beautiful, or that you're not good enough, or that you don't belong. Because they're wrong. They’re absolutely, unequivocally wrong. You’re amazing, inside and out. You’re kind, you’re funny, you’re fiercely intelligent, and yes, you’re unbelievably beautiful. And I’m the luckiest guy in the world to have you."

A tear, born of emotion and the biting wind, escaped your eye. "You're going to make me cry," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

"Good," Lando said, wiping the tear away with his thumb. "Let them see you cry. Let them see how real and how beautiful you are. Don't hide anything. Don't let anyone dim your light."

He knew his words were bold, maybe even a little cheesy, but he meant every single one of them. He wanted you to know, deep down, that he saw you, truly saw you, and that nothing anyone said would ever change that.

Max, surprisingly, had stopped snickering. He clapped Lando on the shoulder. "Alright, mate, enough with the declarations of love. Let's hit the slopes. Before I get frostbite."

Steve nodded in agreement. “He’s right, Lando. You can gush later. Right now, let’s see if your girl’s got what it takes.” He winked at you. “No pressure.”

You smiled, the tension easing from your shoulders. "Pressure is my middle name," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Let's go."

Lando grinned, relieved to see the familiar spark back in your eyes. He squeezed your hand one last time before letting go.

He watched as you adjusted your goggles and clicked your poles into the snow. He felt a surge of pride watching you. He knew the comments would still be there, lurking in the shadows of the internet, waiting to pounce.

But he also knew that you were strong. You were resilient. And you had him.

He grabbed his own skis, a newfound confidence coursing through him. He would protect you, always. But more than that, he would celebrate you, every freckle, every fiery strand of hair, every brilliant facet of your being.

As you pushed off, gracefully navigating the gentle slope, Lando felt a lightness in his heart that had nothing to do with the altitude. He knew, without a doubt, that their love story was just beginning, and he couldn't wait to see where it would take them.

He followed you down the slope, his orange ski suit a beacon against the white snow. He caught up to you easily, skiing alongside you, matching your pace.

"So," he said, grinning mischievously. "Think you can keep up with me, ginger?"

You laughed, a bright, joyful sound that echoed through the mountains. "Try me, Papaya boy."

And with that, you kicked it up a notch, leaving Lando in your snowy wake.

He laughed, his heart soaring.

He pushed off, determined to catch up, knowing that even if he never did, he would be perfectly content just to chase you, forever. . . .

The papaya coloured dress hung on you, a vibrant splash of sunshine in the sterile white bathroom. It was Lando’s favourite colour, or so he claimed. He said it reminded him of McLaren, of speed, of… you.

But all you could see in the mirror was a canvas of imperfections.

Your reflection stared back, a stranger dissected and judged. The fiery red hair, usually a source of pride, now felt like a neon sign screaming "OUT OF PLACE."

The constellation of freckles scattered across your nose and cheeks, tiny sun-kissed stars Lando often traced with his fingertip, seemed like blemishes, flaws magnified under the harsh bathroom light.

The original plan, a simple elegance of no-makeup and loose waves, lay discarded. You'd envisioned a carefree evening, a confident entrance with Lando by your side.

Now, the thought of facing the public, the prying eyes, the inevitable whispers, felt like climbing a mountain of anxiety.

Social media had been a minefield lately. Ever since your relationship with Lando Norris became public, the comment sections had become a breeding ground for toxicity. Most were overwhelmingly supportive, celebrating your love.

But a persistent undercurrent of negativity gnawed at your confidence. The "fans," or rather, the internet trolls masquerading as them, were relentless.

“She’s not his type.”

“He could do so much better.”

“Ginger? Really? He's lowering his standards.”

The worst were the comments picking apart your appearance. The freckles, the hair, the perceived lack of "glamour." They painted you as an anomaly, someone who didn't belong in Lando's world. It was absurd, of course.

Lando loved you for you. He told you every day. But the insidious nature of online hate was that it seeped in, whispering doubts in your ear when you were most vulnerable.

Tonight, facing a McLaren party filled with glamorous personalities and industry insiders, the doubts had reached a crescendo. You grabbed a tissue from the dispenser, dabbing at the corners of your eyes, fighting back the overwhelming urge to cry.

The reflection in the mirror blurred, the colours swam, and the vibrant papaya felt like a mocking reminder of everything you weren't.

That’s when you heard the familiar click of the front door.

“Y/n?” Lando’s voice echoed through the house, a warm, comforting sound that momentarily cut through the anxiety clouding your mind.

Panic seized you. You couldn't let him see you like this, a mess of insecurities and mascara-smeared cheeks. You needed to compose yourself, to build up a façade of confidence before facing him.

Quickly, you turned the small lock on the bathroom door. The click was loud in the sudden silence.

“Y/n?” he called again, his voice closer now. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, just… just getting ready,” you managed, trying to inject a lightness into your tone that felt utterly fake. Your voice wavered, betraying your true state. “I’ll be out in a second.”

You heard him pause outside the door. “You sure? You sound… different.”

He knew you too well. He always did. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the tears away. “Just a bit of a headache. Nothing serious.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment, thick with unspoken concern. You could almost feel his presence on the other side of the door.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice softening. “But don’t rush. I’m happy to wait. Do you want me to get you some water?”

His thoughtfulness, his unwavering care, only made the guilt swell inside you. He was so genuine, so supportive, and here you were, hiding from him, consumed by the petty insecurities fueled by strangers on the internet.

“No, I’m fine,” you insisted, a little too quickly. “Just… give me a few more minutes, okay?”

“Alright,” he said, a hint of reluctance in his voice. You heard him move away from the door. “I’ll be in the living room.”

You let out a shaky breath, leaning against the cool porcelain of the sink. This couldn’t go on. You couldn't let these hateful comments dictate your life, dictate your relationship.

Lando deserved better. You deserved better.

Taking a deep breath, you turned on the cold tap, splashing water on your face. You grabbed a towel and gently patted your skin dry, removing the remnants of your almost-attempted makeup.

You looked at yourself again, really looked.

The fiery hair, the freckles, the flaws… they were all part of you. They were what made you unique, what made you you. And Lando loved you for it. He saw beauty where others saw imperfections.

He saw strength where others saw vulnerability. Why were you letting the opinions of anonymous strangers outweigh the love and adoration of the man you adored?

You let out a shaky sigh, a weight lifting from your shoulders. It wasn't a complete cure, the insecurities wouldn't vanish overnight, but it was a start.

With newfound resolve, you took another look at the papaya dress. It shimmered under the light, a vibrant symbol of sunshine and joy. You smoothed the fabric down, a small smile gracing your lips.

You unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out.

Lando was standing in the living room, fiddling with his phone. He looked up as you entered, his face immediately lighting up. He was wearing a simple dark suit, impeccably tailored, but it was the genuine warmth in his eyes that truly caught your attention.

He took a step towards you, his gaze sweeping over you from head to toe. The smile widened.

“Wow,” he breathed, his voice laced with admiration. “You look absolutely stunning.”

You blushed, the compliment genuine and heartfelt. “Thank you.”

He closed the distance between you, cupping your face in his hands. His thumbs gently stroked your cheeks, tracing the familiar pattern of your freckles.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice soft with concern. “You seemed a bit… off earlier.”

You hesitated, the urge to brush it off still lingering. But you knew you couldn't hide from him. He deserved the truth.

“I… I saw some comments online,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “About… about me. About not being ‘your type.’”

His expression darkened, his eyes hardening with anger. “Don’t you dare listen to those people, Y/n,” he said fiercely, his grip on your face tightening slightly.

“They don’t know anything. My ‘type’ is someone who is kind, intelligent, funny, and beautiful, inside and out. Someone who makes me laugh every single day. Someone who challenges me and supports me, even when I’m being an idiot. That’s you, Y/n. That's always been you."

He paused, his gaze searching yours, making sure you understood the sincerity of his words.

"And as for the… the physical stuff," he continued, his voice softening again. "Your hair is the most beautiful shade of red I've ever seen. Your freckles are like little constellations, guiding me through the darkness. And that little dimple you get when you smile? Drives me absolutely crazy."

He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Don’t ever let anyone make you feel like you’re not good enough, Y/n. Because to me, you are perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, but this time, they were tears of relief, of gratitude, of love.

You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest. “I love you, Lando,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his jacket.

He held you tight, his arms a comforting embrace. “I love you too, Y/n. More than you know.”

After a long moment, you pulled back, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. You took a deep breath, feeling a surge of confidence wash over you.

Lando was right. You couldn't let the negativity of others define you. You had his love, his support, and that was all that mattered.

You looked at him, a genuine smile gracing your lips. "Ready to go to this party?"

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Absolutely. And just so you know, I'm planning on spending the entire night showing you off to everyone. They need to see how lucky I am."

He took your hand in his, his fingers interlacing with yours. As you walked out the door together, you knew, with absolute certainty, that you were exactly where you were supposed to be. And that, you realised, was all that truly mattered.

The haters could say what they wanted. You had Lando, you had your love, and that was more than enough. The papaya dress suddenly felt like armour, not a target.

You were ready to face the world, hand in hand, imperfections and all. . . .

The party was exactly what you expected: loud music, flashing lights, and a sea of familiar faces from the F1 world – drivers, team principals, engineers, and their partners.

The sheer volume of people made your anxiety prickle, but Lando kept a firm grip on your hand, navigating you through the crowd.

He introduced you to what felt like a hundred people, his arm possessively around your waist, his smile beaming. You tried to focus on the conversations, to be witty and engaging, but the whispers seemed to follow you, phantom echoes of the comments haunting your mind.

“Lando’s with her?”

“She’s… different.”

“Not exactly what I expected.”

You squeezed Lando’s hand tighter, trying to ground yourself. He seemed oblivious to the undercurrents, his attention solely focused on you.

“Having fun?” he asked, his voice barely audible above the music.

You forced a smile. “Yeah, it’s… great.”

He looked at you, his eyes searching. He knew you better than anyone, and he could see the forced cheerfulness masking your discomfort.

“Hey,” he murmured, pulling you closer. “If you want to leave, we can. We don’t have to stay here.”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, I’m fine. I want to be here. With you.”

He smiled, relieved. "Okay, but seriously, if you change your mind, just say the word."

Just then, a tall, lanky figure approached, his face breaking into a wide grin. “Lando! Mate, good to see you.”

“Oscar!” Lando clapped him on the back. “Good to see you too. Oscar, this is my girlfriend, Y/N. Y/N, this is Oscar Piastri.”

Oscar offered you his hand, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Y/N. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

You shook his hand, trying to gauge his expression. Was there judgment there? Pity? You couldn’t tell. “Likewise, Oscar. Congratulations on your season so far.”

“Thanks,” he said, his smile genuine. "It's been... interesting, to say the least." He paused, then gestured to a woman standing beside him. "And this is my girlfriend, Lily."

Lily stepped forward, her smile warm and inviting. She had kind eyes and a simple elegance that immediately put you at ease. "It's lovely to meet you, Y/N. Lando talks about you all the time."

You blushed, glancing at Lando, who just winked. "All good things, I hope?"

Lily laughed. "Of course! He's completely smitten."

The four of you fell into easy conversation, discussing the season, the pressures of being in the spotlight, and the challenges of maintaining relationships in such a demanding environment.

You found yourself relaxing, the tension slowly draining away. Lily was refreshingly down-to-earth, and Oscar, despite his reserved demeanour, had a dry wit that you found endearing.

As the conversation flowed, you noticed Lily subtly steer the topic towards your interests, asking about your work, your hobbies, and your passions.

She seemed genuinely interested in getting to know you, not just as Lando’s girlfriend, but as an individual.

“So, Y/N” Lily said, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, “Lando tells me you’re a writer? That’s fascinating! What kind of writing do you do?”

“I dabble in a bit of everything,” you replied, feeling your confidence grow. “Short stories, poetry, some freelance journalism. It depends on what sparks my interest, really.”

“That’s amazing,” she gushed. “I’ve always admired people who can write. It’s such a powerful way to express yourself.”

Oscar nodded in agreement. “It is. I’m useless at it. Give me a steering wheel any day.”

Laughter bubbled up from your chest, your earlier anxieties fading into the background. You were having a genuine, enjoyable conversation, with people who seemed to genuinely care about you.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the noise. “Lando, darling! There you are!”

A woman, dripping in diamonds and designer clothes, glided towards you, her eyes scanning you from head to toe with blatant disapproval. You recognized her as the wife of a prominent team principal, a woman known for her sharp tongue and even sharper judgment.

Lando’s smile faltered slightly as he turned to face her. “Genevieve, good to see you.”

She completely ignored Oscar and Lily, her gaze fixed on you. “And who is this, Lando? A new… acquaintance?”

You felt your cheeks flush, the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You knew what was coming.

Lando’s arm tightened around your waist. “This is my girlfriend, Y/N.”

The woman’s eyebrows shot up. “This is your girlfriend? How… interesting.” Her tone dripped with condescension. “Well, congratulations, darling. I’m sure you’re very happy.”

She turned back to Lando, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Lando, darling, you really could do so much better. Don't you want to think about your image?”

You felt your heart sink. This was it. The moment of truth. You braced yourself for the inevitable onslaught of negativity.

But then, something unexpected happened. Lando’s eyes flashed with anger, and his grip on your waist tightened protectively.

“I’m perfectly happy, thank you,” he said, his voice cold and firm. “And Y/N is more than enough. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were in the middle of a conversation.”

He turned his back on the woman, effectively dismissing her. He looked at you, his eyes filled with concern. “Are you alright?”

You nodded, still reeling from the encounter. “Yeah,” you mumbled. "I'm okay

Lily stepped forward, her expression fierce. “Honestly, some people are just ridiculous,” she said, her voice laced with scorn. “Don’t let her get to you, Y/N. She’s just jealous.”

Oscar nodded in agreement. “She’s got nothing better to do than spread negativity. Ignore her.”

Lando squeezed your hand. “They’re right. Don’t let her ruin your night.”

You looked at them, at Lando, at Lily, at Oscar. You saw genuine support, genuine kindness, genuine acceptance. And suddenly, the weight on your chest lifted. The comments, the whispers, the judgment – they didn’t matter.

You had people who loved you, who supported you, who valued you for who you were, not for who the internet thought you should be.

You took a deep breath, straightened your shoulders, and smiled. “You know what? You’re right. I’m not going to let her ruin my night.”

Lando grinned, relieved. “That’s the spirit. Now, how about we get out of here and go somewhere more… private?” He winked suggestively.

Lily laughed. “Sounds like a plan. Oscar, you’re driving, right? I’ve had one too many cocktails.”

As you walked away, hand in hand with Lando, you glanced back at Lily and Oscar, a warm feeling of gratitude washing over you. You had found unexpected allies, people who saw past the surface and appreciated you for who you were.

You were still an outsider, still a ginger with freckles, still not “his type” according to the internet. But tonight, surrounded by love and support, you didn’t care. You had Lando, you had friends, and you had the courage to be yourself.

And that, you realised, was more than enough. The papaya dress no longer felt like armour, but a symbol of your strength, your resilience, and your unwavering commitment to being true to yourself.

You were you and you were happy. . . .

landonorris

liked by carlossainz55, alexandrasaintmleux, yourusername and 867,879 others

landonorris

Happy anniversary to my beautiful girl. Two years. Two years of laughter, adventures, and learning to love you more fiercely every single day. I know the internet can be a dark place, especially for someone as radiant as you. Don't listen to anyone who talks about you bad, especially those whispering nonsense about "types." They see a snapshot; I see the whole damn masterpiece.

Your fiery hair is sunshine on a cloudy day, each freckle a tiny star mapping out the constellation of my heart. They don't see the intelligence that sparkles in your eyes, the quick wit that keeps me on my toes, or the unwavering kindness you show to everyone you meet. They don’t see you. You are everything I could ever want, and more than I ever deserve. So, happy anniversary, my love. Let's keep painting our world with joy, ignoring the noise, and celebrating the beautiful, unique you. I love you more than words can say. ❤️

comment has been restricted

[satellite-evans]

Hi! Could I please request a one shot where Harry is sick maybe during tour and his gf has to take care of him? Thank you! I love your writing!

a/n: thank you so much for liking my work, it truly means a lot! it's a little short but I still hope you'll like it <3

sick on tour

The hotel room is quiet except for the noise of the air conditioning and the occasional sniffle from the lump of blankets curled up in the middle of the king-sized bed. The curtains are drawn, shielding the bright city lights outside from intruding on the peaceful, dimly lit space. Harry has always liked his hotel rooms cozy—candles on the nightstand, his favorite hoodie draped over the chair, and the softest pillows he could find. But tonight, none of it seems to bring him comfort.

You stand at the edge of the mattress, arms crossed, watching Harry sulk into his pillow. His curls are a mess, sticking to his slightly damp forehead, his nose a little pink from the fever, and yet—despite looking absolutely miserable—he’s still trying to convince you he’s fine.

“I can do the show,” he rasps, voice hoarse and scratchy. He attempts to prop himself up on his elbows, but the movement sends him into a fit of coughing. You sigh and press a hand to his chest, gently urging him back down.

“Baby, no. You can barely sit up.”

He frowns, brows knitting together like a petulant child. “S’just a little cold.”

“You have a fever, a sore throat, and you sound like you swallowed sandpaper,” you point out, smoothing your fingers over his clammy forehead. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Harry grumbles something incoherent and burrows further into the pillows. You can tell he hates this—hates being taken care of, hates being seen as anything less than strong. But the thing is, to you, he’s always strong. Even now, curled up in a nest of tissues and blankets, he’s still the man you love more than anything.

Tour has been brutal on him lately. Night after night of performing, giving his all to the crowds that adore him, leaving every ounce of himself on that stage. He never complains—not about the exhaustion, not about the jet lag, not about the toll it takes on his body. But you see it in the way his shoulders slump when he thinks no one is looking, the way his voice is a little more raw each morning, the way he clings to you just a little tighter when he finally collapses into bed at the end of the night.

“I can’t cancel, though,” he whispers after a long moment, his voice laced with guilt. “They’ve probably spent so much money—flights, hotels, tickets, clothes and waited months just to see me. I can’t let them down, I just can't.”

You soften, understanding where his frustration is coming from. Harry has always carried the weight of his fans' happiness on his shoulders, always put them first. It’s one of the many reasons you love him—but right now, he needs to put himself first.

You take his hand in yours, rubbing slow, comforting circles over his knuckles. “Harry, sweetheart, I already spoke to Jeff. He and the team handled everything. They put out a statement, rescheduled the show, and made sure the fans know how much you care about them Not that they need a statement anyway. They know how much you love them.”

His brows furrow. “You—”

“I took care of it,” you interrupt gently. “So you don’t have to worry, okay? The fans love you, but they love you healthy and not sticky. You can’t give them the show they deserve if you push yourself too hard now. That is not what they deserve.”

Harry lets out a slow breath, his tense shoulders easing just a fraction. He still looks guilty, but there’s also relief in his tired eyes. “You really talked to Jeff?”

You nod. “Of course. Your health comes first, baby. Now please let me take care of you."

You slip out of the room quietly and return with a damp cloth, gently dabbing it against his forehead. The coolness makes him sigh, his tense shoulders relaxing under your touch. Then, you hold up a spoonful of honey-laced tea to his lips. He scrunches his nose but accepts it, swallowing with a soft grimace.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice slightly clearer now.

You smile and brush your fingers over his cheek. “Of course, my love.”

After making sure he’s warm enough, you reach for the small bowl of soup on the nightstand that you kindly asked form the hotel staff. “Just a little, H. You need something in your stomach other than medicine.”

"The fans would've probably ask for me to sing medicine tonight but they can't because I need it. The irony." He said, trying to lighten the room up with a joke but cough wave that crushed him once again.

"Drink Harry." You said sternly.

He looks at you like he wants to argue, but he knows better. You lift the spoon to his lips, and after a moment’s hesitation, he leans forward and takes a bite. A small, content sigh escapes him, and you can’t help but grin.

“You’re good at this,” he mutters, sleep beginning to weigh heavy on him.

“I'm just good at loving you lovie,” you reply simply, brushing back his curls as he lets his eyes drift shut.

His fingers reach for yours under the blanket, giving them a weak squeeze. “Love you more.”

You sit beside him, pressing a soft kiss to his fever-warmed temple. “Just rest, my love. I’ve got you.”

And with the way he sighs, relaxing into your touch, you know he believes you.

Tomorrow, he’ll probably try to argue again. Try to tell you he feels fine, that he’s ready to get back out there, to put on another show. But for tonight, he’s yours to take care of. And you wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world.

[rafeysdeer]

boyfriend (aka insecure reader x bsf jason)

civil!reader x jason todd

prompt: where the reader has a terrible boyfriend and always ends up crying about him to her best friend, jason todd, or, where jason finally gets tired of seeing his girl being mistreated and does something about it.

a/n: i know i kinda say pretty much the same thing here, but these two are really cute, okay? i was like giggling and kicking while writing it, hope you guys love it. english is not my first language, also, feel free to send requests!

At 8pm, on your birthday, the day that was supposed to be about you, for you, where you were supposed to be going out and partying, you were curled up on the couch, wearing a sweatshirt three sizes too big for you, after the worst fight you've ever had with your boyfriend.

Your hand wrapped around your phone as you dialed the number of the only person who would understand you, who always did, your best friend, Jason. Your voice sounded tearful on the phone as you almost begged him to come to your apartment, you didn't have to say much, or wait long, before he shows up at your frontdoor.

As you wiped the tears away from your face and dragged yourself to open the door, trying to force a smile on your face, as he pulled you into his arms, before you could even say anything. "You need to break up with that asshole, you know that, right?"

Your voice sounds like a whisper against his chest as he softly guides you into the apartment, with you still clinging to him. "He already did it, he broke up with me, because he's seeing someone else" Your voice barely comes out, the tears running down your pretty face again, and Jason feels his blood boil, as if that asshole wasn't enough of a jerk to you.

With a quick look around the apartment he was able to catch the signs from the fight, the shards of glass on the floor, the broken flower vase, besides the complete mess that the apartment was in, your boyfriend was never exactly a controlled person.

"He doesn't deserve you, he never did," he whispers against her hair as he sits the two of you on the couch, which by some miracle, was in perfect condition, and he hears her whimper against him. "What if the problem is me? What if I wasn't interesting enough, or pretty enough-" His eyebrows furrowed together in the purest expression of disbelief before he shuts you up. "Honey, I'm sorry, but shut up, are you even listening to yourself? You're doubting of the best person I know for some asshole who didn't know how to value the fucking treasure he had."

Your eyes, shining with tears, stare into his, without any words to express how you felt. Jason hated your boyfriend, he always did, and with a good reason, he always treated you as if you were less than him, and you accepted it, because he made you believe that you were less.

Your eyebrows furrowed in doubt slightly, your body moving away from his a little so you could finally look properly at him.

"I would never leave you crying alone on your own birthday for the God's sake, or leave you alond at a party at two am for someone else to take you home." He grabs your hands, an almost pleading look in his eyes, and there it was, you finally understand, all the hate directed at your boyfriend, is because he knew exactly how you should be treated, he knew exactly how to treat you.

Your eyes were shining with something different than tears this time, affection, as your head slowly tilted to the side, absorbing the information. "I could be a better boyfriend than him, come on, I doubt that idiot knows that you only drink tea with cream and a ton of sugar? That you bake cookies to the children at the shelter, so they can feel loved?" He shook his head, he wouldn't let the guy who left you crying on your own birthday after telling you he cheated on you go unpunished, but that was a story for later, for when you understand that everything you ever needed was right there.

"Shut up, I love you," she says with the most genuine, silly smile she had in weeks, maybe months, before wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him in for a heated, well-deserved kiss.

"I've loved you since the day I saw you eating snow when you were six, Jay, I guess I just never thought it was mutual." He smirked, rolling his eyes, his arms keeping her wrapped around him. "I saw you having a crush on Edward Cullen when you were thirteen, do you really think I would still be here if I didn't love you?" You laughed, slapping his arm playfully.

"Shut up and kiss me."

[kasagia]

Hi babe 🩷 hope you’re doing okay and we miss you so much!! I don’t know if you’re still taking Feyd requests or not, but if so can you please write a little cutesy smutty piece about our sweet dark prince being so touch starved and never really knowing what a gentle or loving touch felt like and our reader shows him all the different ways that soft touches can feel good? I’m just in the mood for some Feyd worship (completely obsessed with him)

HIS Right Hand

Pairing: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!ex-bene gesserit!pregnant! reader Summary: After defeating Atreides, you and Feyd rule Giedi Prime peacefully. (As peacefully as you can with him by your pregnant side.) And you show your husband a whole new side of intimacy. Warnings: 18+, canon violence, smut, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen; A kind of sequel to Right Hand - my most beloved series with our Na-Baron. Hope you will enjoy it! 🖤🖤🖤 Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen's Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~Main Masterlist

Everything was wrong today.

Your old armour—the outfit in which you walked the corridors of Giedi Prime as Feyd's right hand—no longer fits you at all because your pregnant belly started to show.

Not that you hated it. Quite the opposite. You loved your unborn children with all your heart, but after so many changes that had come so quickly and suddenly into your life, the fact that your old clothes no longer fit somehow completely broke your composure.

So now you were standing in front of a tied prisoner; you don't even remember who he was anymore, and you were abusing him, making cuts in some places on his body, painting the floor with his blood, and his body with wounds in your current vision to get out some of these... anxiety in you.

You realise with dismay why your husband had done this so many times. It was just so fucking therapeutic.

Each cut represented your anger at something different. Stupid, useless advisors. Disgusting, back-pedalling Reverend Mothers. The emperor's spoilt little daughter was only on the throne because you and Feyd didn't want to take that position yet. A poorly cooked breakfast. Stupid, ill-fitting clothes...

"In my wildest dreams, I never thought that pregnancy would make you so aggressive, little witch. If I had known, I would have placed you in this condition earlier. It's rather... exciting to watch." Feyd sneers cockily, leaning against the doorframe and watching you work on the prisoner in unconcealed admiration.

He nods to the guards in the room, causing them to obediently leave, leaving the two of you alone with the barely alive man. Apparently, all of your deep conversations must have taken place in the presence of corpses.

"Don't provoke me, husband." You growl at him and plunge the dagger into the trapped man's chest like it was a bag of pins. The pierced flesh and muscle squelch under your movement, and you swear you see your husband's eyes blacken with lust at the sight and sound. Horny madman.

"Oh, but I love provoking you, my dear darling wife." He responds sweetly, smiling at you as he wraps his arms around your waist. He pulls you closer to him and licks the blood from your temple that had obviously splattered on you in your crazy attack on the poor man.

You must have looked ridiculously like your husband in that state. And that turned him on. Narcissistic asshole.

"Feyd." You growl at him menacingly and give him a dry, cold stare—something he's used to but has become... rare after the two of you ended up together.

He swallows and delicately reaches into your hand, removing the dagger from it—his experience with you stabbing him when you get overly emotional tells him it's best to disarm you before he says something that will unsettle you.

"What's wrong, my Baroness?" He asks, reaching for your chin and forcing you to look him in the eye. You might not have been as open a book to him as he was to you, but Feyd was slowly learning to read you. And each time, he revelled in the small victory of reading you. He hoped that this time he would succeed because you looked... very agitated and nervous. And he didn't like that at all.

"If you laugh at me, I'll spit your guts out and tell our children they never had a father." You growl your threat and rest your chin on his shoulder.

He stiffens a little, unused to being treated affectionately, but slowly he tangles his hand in your hair—perhaps one of the most ethereal things about you—and allows you to hide from his watchful gaze for a moment.

"That's a threat I'm not going to test. Just tell me who to punish."

"My clothes don't fit me anymore." You say tearfully, and, driven by some strange instinct, you nuzzle up to him, wrapping your arms around him tightly and pressing his body closer to yours.

You cry into his chest, completely oblivious to how stiff he has gone, frozen in shock at your odd behaviour.

You and he didn't have an easy past. It was unheard of for you to show any weakness, tears, or need for physical contact other than seeking sexual pleasure from others.

You, as a former Bene Gesserit, had to remain alert and composed at all times. He, as a Harkonnen, was supposed to be the definition of strength and brutality. That didn't exactly go with the cuddles, the tender, caressing touches, and other shit Feyd had read in one of your romance novels that you tried so hard to hide from him.

No, he didn't like them at all. He just liked to know what his woman was doing and liked.

Even after you and he finally ended up together, there wasn't... much tenderness in your relationship. Sure, the sex was amazing, the tension and chemistry between you unthinkable, but seeking solace and a cuddle that wasn't directly related to the hot passion of the moment? Never. Well… maybe in life-threatening situations. We all forget about control in such moments.

That's why Baron Feyd-Rautha, the great warrior, husband, and soon-to-be father, has no idea what to do when his pregnant wife cries and clings to him like some teddy bear (which neither of you have ever had, by the way).

"Hug me, damn it!" You say, or rather order him, irritated. And that side of you is already something more familiar to Feyd.

He obeys your command without hesitation, his strong arms holding you tight, and he swallows nervously, amazed at the power you have over him, how even when you're the one crying and showing your sensitive side, you still hold him by the throat, unsure of what to do next.

"Is ordering new clothes such a big tragedy?" He asks, unsure of your reaction, and by the way you stop shaking from crying in his arms, he dares to think he has solved your problem.

He's never been more fucking wrong in his entire life.

"Of course you have no idea what I'm on about!" You growl angrily and push yourself away from him. "All you know is how to twirl your sword and your penis and nothing else! I sleep in my old chambers tonight!" You scream furiously at him and leave the dungeon like a fury, slamming the grate behind you with such force that the right one falls off its hinges.

Feyd makes a note to check the state of his dungeons and thanks himself for having the prudence to pick the dagger out of your hand earlier. Now he knows damn well what it's like to be on the verge of life and death. And being on the other side of his treatment, he doesn't like it at all. Especially since his pregnant wife had bigger mood swings than him.

"Marital quarrel. You understand, right?" He says to the barely conscious man and ends his suffering by killing him on the spot. After all, he couldn't let anyone witness his little fight with his wife.

Unfortunately, this is not enough to calm his anger.

He moves on to the next prisoner, completely ignoring the knowing, discouraged glances the guards exchange. They're going to have a hell of a lot of cleaning up to do today after their Baron and Baroness visits.

Feyd tossed and turned over again. His large bed with its black velvet sheets was mocking him with how lonely and cold he felt without the familiar warmth of your body next to him.

Just a few months ago, he didn't even know what it was like to have you in his bed and in his arms every night. He didn't care about something like sleeping in his bed; he only considered it an interruption, something annoying that took him away from his training. And with you... he wanted every little second of a nap with you in his arms.

Damn. He was a Harkonnen. A fucking killing machine, he wouldn't let something as shallow as...

His thoughts are interrupted by the quiet opening of the door. He closes his eyes, pretending to sleep, and moves his hand under the pillow, gripping tightly the hilt of a hidden dagger (yours, ironically).

"Leave it, or you'll accidentally hurt me or worse, our children, and then I'll really start a civil war with you." You snap at him, both irritating him and calming his racing thoughts.

He opens one eye and checks the hour. 2:58. You should have been asleep by now in your condition. It wasn't healthy for you or your children.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this late visit? Is there something wrong with your rooms?" He allows himself to mock you, embittered by your childish behaviour, and sits down to get a better look at you.

Your hair is dishevelled—a clear indication that you couldn't sleep either, and the hastily thrown-on robe over your nightgown gives him a beautiful view of your figure and the slightly rounded curve of your belly. A strange warmth blooms in his chest at the sight, making him almost completely forget about your earlier unfounded outburst at him and that he should be mortally offended and angry at you.

"Move your ass."

"What?"

"You lie on my side."

Feyd snorts angrily, keeping up his indignant appearances while trying to hide the fact that before you came in, in his desperation he reached for your pillow, burying his nose in it in the hopes that the scent lingering on it would somehow lull him to sleep.

He shifts, raising his hairless eyebrows in surprise as you lie down next to him without a word. It is true that you growl something under your breath before pulling him roughly by his neck closer to you, but that's something Feyd was used to by now. He actually expected you to yell at him again. But you just bury your face in the crook of his neck and wrap your arms tightly around him, snuggling into him.

He lies still for a few minutes, then he hesitantly wraps his arms around you and rubs your back the way his mother used to do to calm him. An old, unwanted memory.

"What is that?" He dares to ask, but he doesn't let go of your grip. If anything, he presses a little closer to you. You were warm. And… cosy.

"Shut up. I need this." You mumble into his pearly skin and nuzzle his neck, burying your face deeper. He allows himself a small smile as you wrap your arms around his chest, clinging to him as he absentmindedly brushes through your hair.

"Why exactly?"

"I don't know. Fucking pregnancy hormones. So shut up so we can both sleep, or I'm going to start crying, and I promise you'll regret the day you put that thick, monstrous dick inside me." You growl madly, which leaves him completely confused about what you're on about or what exactly he did wrong this time.

"As you wish, my Baroness." He mumbles and presses his lips to your temple, making you purr in contentment and snuggle even closer to him.

He accepts your strange clinginess to him, though, more surprised by the fact that... he actually enjoys cuddling with you than by your mood swings.

"I like it a bit. This side of you."

"What? An aggressive cold bitch with mood swings?" You snort, raising a questioning eyebrow at him. He barely manages to keep from bursting out laughing at how accurately you described yourself. No one said you wouldn't reach under your pillow and commit an act of murder on him for such an insult.

"This is the version of you I've had every day since you stepped onto my goddamn ship. I meant more... that… that is... pleasant in a different way." His heart flutters faster when he feels your lips form a tiny smile against his skin at his words. He tightens his grip on you, making sure you’re covered tightly by the blanket.

"Whatever." You mumble dismissively, inhaling his scent. You intertwine your legs with his, pressing yourself as close to him as possible.

"You like it too." He teases you, delighting in the feeling of your heart beating gently against him.

"Feyd?"

"Hm?"

"Shut up." You shush him, to which he only mutters something under his breath and obediently falls silent. The feeling of guilt grows inside you, causing an unpleasant lump to form in your throat and tears to press to your eyes. Fucking pregnancy hormones.

It was probably the first time, with anyone, ever, that you were so... open about what you wanted, what you needed. And as good as it felt... there was still a little red lamp in the back of your head, a conviction trained over the years that you couldn't just let go of your barrier. But if not with him, then with whom else could you?

"I love you." You mumble against his skin and press a kiss to his neck, leaving a small mark there for your eyes only. He smiles a little and presses a kiss to your forehead, silently returning your gesture.

It wasn't the first time you'd "apologised" to each other in this way, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Just as it wouldn't be the first and last time you fell asleep cuddled up together, simply enjoying the other's closeness.

It's instinct. That's how Feyd tells himself when, during a meeting, he reaches over to his wife's side and rests his hand thoughtfully on her pregnant belly, stroking it gently.

It's instinct. That's what you tell yourself as, lost in thought while reading reports and listening to Rabban's words, you reach for the back of Feyd's head and begin to trace lazy patterns on his smooth skin.

You have been acting around each other in this way for several days now.

First, it started when Feyd decided to renovate the throne room, and he happened to start with your throne, which resulted in you landing on his lap for all sorts of meetings and audiences.

You thought it was just his typical prank, an excuse to hold you closer and enjoy the closeness of your body, but the next day during dinner, instead of sitting in his usual seat across from you, he chose to sit right next to you so he could keep his hand on your upper thigh or around you.

And you didn't remain passive to him. You also looked for various opportunities to lay your hands on him. And not at all with sexual overtones, which surprised you greatly.

You realised it this morning when you woke up for the first time in a long time with Feyd still in bed, and most importantly, cuddled up to you.

At first you thought he had overslept for his morning workout and that was why he was still cuddled up to you with his head against your belly, but the moment you felt his finger lazily stroking patterns on your side and found your hand in his tightening grip, you realised he had purposely skipped his morning workout to stay in bed with you.

"Are you sick?" You ask him in disbelief and let your free hand wander to the top of his bald head. You smooth your nails over his skin, not liking the way he lets out a quiet sigh at your caresses.

"Good morning to you too, woman." He mumbles against your skin, not even lifting his head to look at you.

"I'm deadly serious. Should I call a doctor? Have you gone mad? Am I supposed to rule Giedi Prime alone?"

You smirk as he rests his chin on your belly and gives you a hostile look. You decide to tease him even more and start tracing the lines of his eyebrows, his nose, his lips, and his jaw with your fingertip. He leans into your touch and purrs at the pleasant feeling of your soft skin.

"Unfortunately, I must curb your imperial ambitions. I am more than capable of ruling... for now. Unless my dear, cruel wife uses her skills that she learnt as my right hand to dethrone me, declaring our unborn children the rightful heirs to the throne and making herself regent."

"Nicely thought out. Do you want to retire?" He snorts in amusement at your question and shakes his head, not moving even an inch away from you.

"No, I am quite good right now." He mumbles and presses his lips to your belly. You smile, trying to hold back giggles as he tickles you, placing kisses along your baby bump.

It feels a little surreal. Being here with him, when he shows you such affectionate behaviour. Who would have thought a few months ago that you would find yourself in this moment? That from his right hand, his most trusted person, you would become his wife, the mother of his children, someone he simply adored.

Despite the many doubts and the series of unknowns that lay ahead on your path, you wouldn't trade your messed-up relationship for anything else in this world. Especially not when it felt so good to simply lie with his arms wrapped around you. And to think that at one time you would consider this a form of imprisonment for you...

"Fine. But only because I will still need you. Who would hold me and keep me warm at night if you left prematurely?"

"It's great to know you find useful uses for me, my Baroness."

"Very useful, I would dare to say, my Baron." You mumble, pulling him higher so you can plant a proper kiss on his lips.

You moan as he practices his skill in the way that drives you crazy, and you gladly grant his capable tongue access to your mouth. You wrap your arms around him, supporting yourself against him as you sit on your bed.

His broad, rough hands travel beneath the material of your nightgown, caressing the bare skin of your upper thigh as he removes the black silk material from your body.

Your hands travel to his pants, hastily pushing the material at his waist down his legs to finally...

"Can you stop for a minute?" Rabban's voice tears you from your memories of this morning.

You frown and try to understand what exactly he means, but Feyd takes over the situation and covers your ignorance by asking:

"What do you mean?"

"Touching... her like that. I thought it was supposed to be a serious political meeting."

Your head shoots to where Feyd's arm wraps around your waist so his hand can rest on your growing baby bump. His other hand—the one with the wedding ring and Baron's signet ring—rests securely on yours as he plays with your own rings. You blush slightly and are about to squirm out of his grip when Feyd tightens it around you, making it nearly impossible. You look up at him, almost sighing when you see his eyes crinkle at his brother.

"If it was supposed to be that serious political meeting, then we wouldn't invite you, brother."

"Feyd." You scold him quietly, but he doesn't take his watchful gaze off his brother.

Instead, he moves his hand to your thigh and squeezes it tightly, sending an involuntary shiver of arousal through you. In an instant, a thousand other uses for his large hand and thick fingers run through your mind, as well as the chair he was currently sitting on. Or the table in front of you. The floor. The walls. The windows... fucking pregnancy hormones.

"I just say that you could keep your hands off your whore for a while."

And after these words, you already know that a very cruel murder will take place here.

You watch Feyd carefully, ignoring Rabban's wide eyes of fear and surprise as he realises what has slipped through his lips. Your husband... wears the most calm expression his subjects have ever seen. But you know him too well. You see the glint of cruelty in his eyes, the exact moment when your reasonably rational Feyd leaves the scene and gives way to his innate, brutal Harkonnen nature.

Once, when you were still his right hand, it would have meant a lot of cleaning up after him and organising something for him to do to keep his restless mind occupied, to cool his raging blood—a whore(s), a prisoner to torture, a particularly intense sparring session, whatever.

Now, as his wife, it mostly meant entertaining displays of his cruelty to watch... which occasionally ended in an incredible fuck. And given your raging hormones and the way he dug his fingers into your thigh, you would have preferred to skip straight to the second one without watching your husband smear his brother's insides all over the floor.

But apparently your husband had other plans.

In an instant he's leaping, fucking leaping, the length of the table to get to his brother. After a rather brief and pathetic scuffle and a few broken chairs, Rabban ends up defeated on the floor with Feyd pinning his head to the floor with his boot and twisting his right arm out of joint.

"Are you jealous or stupid? How dare you talk about your Baroness in such a way? Either you have a death wish or you really envy me that I have a wife that I can touch and caress whenever I want, and you can only count on your fist, right, brother? Apologise to her."

"It is not..."

"He will apologise." Feyd interrupts you before you can even finish your sentence, preventing you from even offering to forget his brother's "sins" against you. "On his knees. Kiss the chair she is sitting on. The future of House Harkonnen."

You can barely keep yourself from rolling your eyes at your husband's crazy diva behaviour. Rabban, scared to death, without smelling, puts his mouth to the legs of your chair. Feyd nods with satisfaction and lets go of his brother, who takes the opportunity and runs away, before his brother decides to chop off his limbs.

You sigh as the door clatters shut behind him, and you place your crown on the table.

"That was cruel." You comment, rubbing your hand over the back of your neck. The metal thing was getting heavier and heavier on your head with each passing day.

"It turns you on when I'm cruel." He shrugs at you and walks over to you.

You groan as he stands behind you and begins to massage the aching muscles in your shoulders and neck. You lean into him and bite your lower lip, trying not to flatter him like that. You were still mad at him. It only took you a few seconds to remember why.

"Not to your brother."

"And why not?"

"Because... that's a bad example for our children."

"How fortunate that they are not here yet to witness my outrageous behaviour." He mocks you and pulls away. You want to snap at him angrily, but he suddenly reaches over and places his hands under your knees. You gasp when he suddenly lifts you up and sits you on his lap.

"But they can hear it. You wish they would treat each other the way you and Rabban do?" You continue, trying to ignore his dilated pupils and the glint in his eyes that only meant one thing. Trouble.

He gives you a small smile and lazily tucks your hair behind your ear before leaning down to press his lips to your neck. Bastard, you think as you try to control your shaking legs as he slowly strokes your bare ankle.

"You know perfectly well that this is entirely something else. Besides, who will forbid me to keep my hands on my wife, my baroness, the mother of my children, my right hand, my little witch?" He whispers into your skin, leaving a hickey on your skin with every nickname/role he utters.

"You're clingy." You gasp, squirming in his lap, trying to find a more comfortable position as he practically pulls you into him. And it feels so fucking good. You have no idea how or when the two of you got back to the can't-keep-your-hands-off-you stage, but you loved it.

"It's my wife's fault. She raised a monster." You smile at his teasing and nibble on his earlobe. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, his face buried in your cleavage as he tirelessly kisses every inch of your skin.

"A real monster, isn't it?" You ask, grinding against his crotch to prove your point. He can’t help but let out a raspy chuckle as you also gently stroke the back of his head.

"It's true… So what are you going to do about it?" He growls against your skin, cupping your collarbone gently. You sigh, digging your finger into the skin of his scalp and pressing your lips to the tip of his head.

"Oh, should I do something?"

"It would be appropriate." He nods, pushing the material of your dress aside with his chin to begin peppering kisses across your sensitive breasts.

"Since when did we do anything that was ever considered appropriate, my Baron?" You snicker at him as his hands go to the fastening of your dress.

"There's always a first time…"

"I'd boldly assume that neither of us has any more first times to tick off." You interrupt him with a mocking smile as he slides the material of your dress off your shoulders.

“No, that’s not true.” He mumbles, blowing warm air onto your nipples. You bite your lower lip to hold back a small moan and close your eyes, looking up at him from under your lashes. “I don’t remember ever doing this on this chair with you. Or anyone…”

"Unbelievable. I guess we need to change that."

"Very quickly." He nods eagerly and makes some room for you to place your hands on the waistband of his pants. Of course, still holding you in his tight embrace and not withdrawing his face from the valley between your breasts.

You unbutton his pants and wrap your hand around his cock. He doesn't need much preparation, already eager and ready for you, but you love hearing him pant with anticipation and frustration as you prolong the inevitable. You straddle him and position yourself above him, slowly lowering yourself onto him.

Even though you had done this countless times before, you doubted you could ever get used to it. The way he stretched you, the way he filled you so deliciously and perfectly, was simply indescribable, and you doubted anyone else before him had fit you so perfectly, had fulfilled all your inner needs and desires… or to be as fucked up as you.

Slightly irritated by his lack of movement, you lift your hips, prepared to ride him, when he suddenly squeezes your side tightly and settles you back down on his cock. You whine in protest, but he silences you with a lazy kiss, the pads of his fingers gently tracing circles on your bare back.

"Don't move."

"But..."

"I told you something, woman." He growls in your ear, sending a shiver of excitement down your spine. You wince, trying to keep yourself steady against him, but with every breath you take, you feel him more and more inside you. And it's incredibly difficult to stay still under these circumstances. "Do. Not. Move." He warns you, staining your arm with new marks with every breathless word.

You knew from the way his cock twitched inside you that keeping still was as much of a task for him as it was for you. It was little comfort to your desperate need for him, but it was some kind of comfort. At least you had the satisfaction of knowing you were both suffering.

But over time you began to understand why he suddenly insisted that you warm his cock. It felt so... nice. Him buried safely deep inside you, his arms around you and his mouth on your neck, his breath hitting your skin, his scent and warmth around you. It was like... a safe cocoon.

You almost snort thinking about how ridiculous it is to equate him with safety.

But right now, on his lap, as you stroked his shoulders, his neck, his head, his cheeks, and his lips with your fingertips, feeling him beneath you, inside you, and around you in such a vulnerable, passionate, and tender position... your heart beat a little faster.

"Feyd..." You mumble into his skin as he presses his nose to your neck and inhales your scent, inhaling it like some kind of the best drug.

Is it possible to be addicted to another person? Probably not. But you don't know how else to explain the tingling and buzzing in your head and the euphoria of being so close to him.

If love was a drug, then you never wanted to be clean again. No. You wanted to be tainted by it, soaked to the core, able to reduce him to the same quivering mess he reduced you to with the slightest touch of your skin against his.

Just a few months ago, such a thought would have caused you great anxiety. Now, it was an exciting challenge. What a bloody long way you've come.

"Y/N..." He groans, his hips bucking slightly, making him push himself even further into you. You moan, digging your nails into his shoulders, feeling his length deliciously poke through your walls.

"I know. I know." You mumble tearfully and stroke the back of his head, pulling him closer to your bruising, needy kiss, as if lamenting the fact that you can’t get any closer to him than you've already been.

He slowly thrusts into you, watching your every tiny reaction to his thrusts. All you can do is hold on for dear life, pulling him closer and closer, encouraging him to sink his night-black teeth into your skin as you leave bloody scratches across his arms and back.

You yank at his clothes, ripping his shirt and exposing his chest to you. Your mouth travels along his neck, worshipping every scar, every muscle, every perfect blemish on his body that years of training in war and combat have left—the living mark of being the Harkonnen heir.

You moan loudly as his thrusts intensify. He tightens his fingers on your hips, probably leaving a few bruises there, but all that mattered now was how wonderfully he was pounding into you from below, his chest rubbing against yours as he held you tightly against him, practically encouraging you to collapse onto him and cuddle up to him as he fucked your brains out.

It's humiliating how little it takes for you to come. After a few more thrusts, you're a moaning mess, a mass of bones and muscle you can't control, giving yourself over to him completely as the world around you turns white as his skin, screaming his name.

Your chin falls onto his shoulder; you are wrapping your arms tightly around him and letting him use you however he wants as you come down from your orgasm haze, appreciating the way his cock, wet from your cum, digs a spot inside you for release.

Feyd grunts, his thrusts becoming jerky as he presses his nose to your temple and sucks on the sensitive spot behind your ear, coming buried deep inside you. You shudder as his thick, sticky seed floods your already full womb and spills between the two of you, sealing you together.

You both breathe deeply and shakily, clinging desperately to the other, holding on to the other's body for dear life and not daring to move an inch as you appreciate the other's intimate closeness.

This was... completely different from your usual fucks. Usually it was raw passion, teeth and claws, desperate pursuit of orgasm, and finding pleasure in the other, but here... this was about closeness. A real sense of another person. You shiver as you feel something wet land on your shoulder. Your heart stops a little when you realise it's a tear. His tear.

Neither of you comment on this. You don't have to. You don't want to. You know how raw and vulnerable this moment is for the two of you. What you just did was really meant.

And you dare assume that this is the first time you've actually, truly gotten closer to each other. In a much more meaningful and deeper way than you've ever dared to think you could with anyone.

[babybearnation]

HAPPY BEAR RVENT EVERYBODYYYYYYYY

cat!lando + author!reader = interfering with your writing sessions because you're not paying enough attention to him?

woo this is so exciting haha & also i love this idea !!

cat hybrid!lando x gn!author!reader

cat!lando is a menace, we know this

he's clumsy, sure, but he also definitely has the cat trait of knocking shit off tables on purpose

the only thing that really quells his chaos is your attention

turn it away from him for one second though, and everything goes to hell

you left before he woke up once and came back to your house absolutely trashed, an injured lando and a very rapidly forming headache as he started crying and hissing once he noticed you

but back to the present

you had hoped the human side of lando would understand why you weren't giving him attention on this particular day but nope...

lando's cat side won again

you're working on book #2, the sequel to your best-selling debut novel

things are going well! the words are flowing, the brain is braining - its all good

and then lando wakes up

you pause your writing at that to make him some food because lord knows that man cannot be trusted in a kitchen

but soon you're back at it, pouring all your time and attention into your work, hands flying across the keyboard

your peace offering doesn't work for very long, however, as lando soon finishes with his food and enters your work space to come and bother you

he sees your laptop open and GLARES at it, a small hiss falling from his mouth that goes unnoticed by you

"y/n. y/n. gimme 'tention. y/n." <- lando every 5 seconds

"busy, lan. go play or watch something." <- you every 20 seconds

after about one 5 minute long youtube video, lando is slinking over again

"please?"

"busy, lando."

this goes on for a while before lando decides enough is enough and he must have your complete attention right now!!

he's not stupid enough to touch your keyboard/the power button, but he will flap at your laptop screen

when that doesn't work and you just carry on as normal, lando huffs and starts batting at your head and arms

he throws in the occasional headbutt/nudge every now and then

that still doesn't work

after that, lando decides to throw all caution and calmness to the wind and worms his way into your lap, blocking your screen and finally getting your eyes on him

you try and get him to move but he's staying put, his short-clad butt wiggling all over your lap

he'll allow you to go back to work on one condition

"lemme stay here! and give me pets! and... and lemme bite!"

"that's three conditions."

"y/n!" <- he's whining. of course.

give him what he wants and before long, he'll be fast asleep in your lap, tail curled around your wrist possessively as he purrs loudly against your neck/shoulder :D

© all rights to babybearnation 2025.

[nowimjustastranger]

StCMO Lore | Part 4

Final part folks! Featuring Bill's betrayal and all the nastiness that comes with it. Also, I removed Lee's backstory from Watchdog Ford's lore since I wanted to focus strictly on him and explore Lee in the actual series (when I get around to writing it, anyway).

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

A week later, Stanford finds himself back in Bill’s company, detailing what he had witnessed to Bill and conveying a desire to change his goal.

And, having been so close to corrupting Stanford with his poisonous words of encouragement with the intention of recruiting him only for Stanford to ruin his plans by taking the moral high ground, Bill finally loses his patience and turns on Stanford.

If Bill can’t have Stanford as a voluntary partner, then Bill will just break Stanford's mind and have him as an obedient worshiper. So Bill takes Stanford prisoner, locking him up in a dimension that he and his freaks had conquered, where Stanford’s helmet is removed before he is stripped of both his gear and his clothes. The conditioning starts soon after, Stanford resolutely refusing to make a deal with Bill.

Ten years later, Stanford is a shell of his former self, nothing but cold rage writhing in his chest like a living beast.

Meanwhile, Bill is frustrated after years of silence outside of screaming during torture and gets overconfident that, even though Stanford won't give Bill what he wants, Stanford's broken beyond repair both mentally and emotionally. On the contrary, Stanford was simply biding his time, waiting for Bill to slip up. And Bill does, leaving Stanford's mutilated body on the ground when his freaks drop in for a visit.

Stanford heaves himself up, his pain tolerance having steadily climbed until most of the torture was mild. Stanford fashions a crude bomb that he had been designing and refining in his head for years using the materials around him, killing Bill and his freaks with the equivalent of a black hole compressed into a tube. Stanford barely made it out of the dimension before it was consumed, the Axolotl saving him by pulling him out right as the bomb went off.

The Axolotl heals Stanford’s body, but can do nothing for Stanford’s mental wounds. The Axolotl leaves Stanford with his gear and some advice disguised as a riddle, alluding to Stanford’s purpose. Stanford takes the words to heart and fully commits himself to the never ending mission of saving the Stanley’s of the multiverse and, unbeknownst to Stanford, firmly setting him on the path to peace and happiness.

Stanford refined his technology and gear over the next ten years, even getting an experimental eye surgery so he no longer had to wear eye contacts (or glasses). He also had a neural port surgically embedded into the back of his head so the helmet could connect to both his central nervous system and occipital lobe, which required him to shave the back of his head down to the scalp.

The hair around the port will never grow back, though he keeps the back and sides of his head in an undercut hairstyle.

Additionally, Stanford builds a teleportation wrist gauntlet to help him jump from location to location within a dimension while the wormhole gun is reserved for traveling between dimensions. Stanford has also dabbled in tampering with his DNA to give him faster reflexes as well as make him stronger and faster. Although this risky procedure caused him to develop instincts that were animalistic in nature.

Stanford customized his black helmet with red accents, adopting a primarily black wardrobe. He designed and constructed gloves that boost his grip strength, making his hand akin to a shackle, his hold nearly impossible to break. Furthermore, his boots have built in anti-gravity technology so he can jump from great heights and land safely, and it also reduces the strain that rigorous parkour puts on his body.

[qoldenskies]

Okay okay I'll yammer about Rise!Splinter in your ask box because oh my god I cannot STAND people who legitimately villainize him on main. Like, alright, you can call him an emotionally unavailable or even slightly neglectful parent all you want, because even the show itself makes it clear that his parenting style wasn't exactly PERFECT and probably left the boys with at least a SMALL myriad of issues (Raph's parentification and Donnie's constant need for approval come to mind, though I can't say for sure whether those are entirely borne of Splinter's parenting style lmao). But I feel like so many people through trying to villainize his actions deliberately gloss over the fact that he was probably struggling with hardcore PTSD after spending a decade or more basically being forced to fight in a DEATH ARENA, not to mention probably having a good deal of body dysmorphia because he's suddenly been kind of forcefully shoved into a body that he can't even recognize as his own anymore. PTSD is a genuinely crippling condition to struggle with at times. On top of the depression he more than likely had, it'll make you not even want to get out of bed some days, and to struggle with that AND take care of four INFANTS that you've basically suddenly found yourself the sole caretaker of HAD to require a great deal of both mental and physical strength from Splinter. I'm sure he had his hard days, and the show points that out, but he was still trying his damn hardest to be there and be present for these kids, even if he fucked it up at every turn, even if he was far from the BEST parental figure that they could have had.

People can critique his parenting style as they wish (hell, even I do it), but so many depictions of him as an awful parent feel like they're glossing over the legitimate mental issues that he more than likely has, and idk sometimes I just feel like yammering about it on main

yeah like, a parent can seriously fuck you up completely unintentionally and have understandable, sympathetic reasons for it (while still not being in the right! a kid is never in the wrong for being hurt by an adult who failed them! but they're also well within their right to understand and empathize with a complicated parent who loves and changes for them!). generally im sure a lot of people who write abusive parent splinter genuinely had horrendous and abusive parents and are venting, which is why i tend not to be judgemental to people who do. characters are ultimately devices to drive a plot and if they're writing a story where they want to put them through some shit, that's one way to do it. aus are aus and allat

HOWEVER. lord does it frustrate me when people act like his behavior in the show itself is actually like that. i think its really uncharitable and unsympathetic. like if you want to see some of the things he did to them as potentially unforgivable thats fine, because if they're upset with him they dont have to forgive him, but him dealing with crippling ptsd and depression while being someone who goes out of his way to parent and change and grow while handling it just makes it idk nasty to me ,,,,

and also maybe this is just a hot take but esp. when it comes to raph and donnie i think them having more complex feelings about him makes for more compelling angst. its juicier, and i love to read stories that are empathetic towards everyone involved.

i am not a splinter defender but i will still fight splinter haters (not actually. dont fight me i will cry, i dont main tag most things anymore for a reason lmao)

[nightscythe]

dark sides of the primarchs' relationships

some of these are very dark (esp lorgar, angron, ferrus I guess) but I wanted to represent some of the less enjoyable themes in their relationships. some are kind of obvious, but I wanted to expand a little. again, it's how I write them, so you may not necessarily agree!!

18+ below the cut pls, it's sfw but some themes of death, obsession, etc, mostly pre-heresy

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

the lion: struggles to interpret his feelings and often mistakes them as needs - namely, sexual need, but really any physical need. the heavy feeling in his heart because he hasn't seen you for weeks? must be because he had become used to your presence and his body must adapt to being without you. the burning in his chest when someone else dares to speak to you with a more suggestive tone? well, its not jealousy, it is his body telling him he needs you. overtime this would start to go, he would learn to interpret feelings in a more emotional way, but realistically he would need to care enough to want to try in the first place. he would always struggle though, turning every single one of his feelings about love into his duty. you're his responsibility, everyone else is a threat.

fulgrim: whilst it is obvious that his desire for perfection may have an impact on you, it has an equal burden on him. he always doubts himself, always taking a pessimistic view of both himself as a lover and to relationships as a whole. and your reassurance may never be enough, even if you do mean it and he seeks it out. he will always make each gift, each speech, each act of love bigger to meet his own desire to be better. and really? it can become more exhausting than anything. especially if he is always trying to prove himself and it sometimes starts to feel artificial. there would be a breaking point though where he finally realises to you, he is perfect, and there is nothing else he needs to do. but there is always that little, teeny doubt.

perty: trust issues will get to him more than anything. he'd need someone who has so much patience that it wears you down, but ultimately it would be worth it. the worst part is that he wouldn't often share how he feels, he keeps it to himself and sits brewing thoughts in his own head that you may just be like everyone else and not truly care. he'd keep it from you, never uttering a word, silently letting it all fester until it gets too much. and breaking down that wall he builds from his own thoughts would take a lot of time, a lot of effort, and a lot of letting him work things out on his own. that's probably the biggest issue - he has a lot of time, something you may not as easily afford.

the khan: his idea of love is different. in a good way, maybe, but different to others. love for him is choice, and he will not restrict you to it. if you want to leave him, then go. if you want to spend a day without him, then do so. he'd really need someone who can deal with his laid back approach (or more so, his promotion of freedom above all other things) to love. that can be tough. his free spirit may just be too free to some people, and that's just what life is like. don't expect reassurance or speeches of his feelings, they are not happening. he's quick to make his decisions, his conclusions, and he's quick to temper. in the right conditions, this can make a storm. if anything ever goes bad.. good luck.

leman: it flips with him, very sudden, very easily. one day he's so enamoured, so utterly floored by everything you do that he's got massive heart eyes and following you around like a puppy. other times he's in his own world, following his own free spirit, that it can make you feel neglected. all of this just ends up causing more and more anxiety, unknowingly to him, and obviously to you. its all unintentional of course, he loves you so deeply. and his love itself? it's raw. he's so set on being stoic and strong but he is fragile too. he fears the worst, his emotions are never waste. everything he feels he shows directly to you. that can be overwhelming; all of this is overwhelming. especially when you could wake up one day and he's gone to do something without any warning, not evening thinking that you notice.

dorn: he's cold. he's so cold that it burns. or... is that the raging fire inside just reaching through the cracks? words mean nothing to him, and it can be difficult to truly know where you stand. he would never say he loves you, he would make you feel like he didn't ever need you, but should you ever leave? he'd tear the imperium down brick by brick until he had you back with him. it's unknowing to him. a duty. an unspoken loyalty. he doesn't believe in anything being temporary, so you're with him for life now. even if he never says it. and its the fact it's just actions, ones which may not mean anything to you, that makes it so hard. the door he gifted you with a heavy duty lock may be strange to you, but you did tell him you were worried about someone breaking in...

curze: does not feel he can be loved. he thinks he deserves it, but he never thinks anyone would dare. he thinks any affection shown to his is out of selfish fear and the second an opportunity presents itself, that love and affection would be gone. so he worries. he worries you are just like everyone else. makes assumptions, accusations, tells you that he thinks you're lying. probably because in the past he felt he should be loved and forced it out of people. he never once stops to think that maybe you lay beside him, you hold his hand, you take care of him, because you want to. it doesn't make sense to him, not without proof, or time, or anything to support your case. he'd get it eventually, he'd stop spending nights awake convinced you'll leave him when you sleep peacefully beside him with no intention of going.

sanguinius: his foresight is a burden, knowing what will happen to him means his guards are up. he would always be devoted, and he would carry the burden of fate to know he had shown you love in a way that mattered. but the sleepless nights would come, knowing the heartbreak would follow. especially at first, he'd try so hard, he'd want to protect others, you, from the fallout of fate. he'd never wanted you to see him in a way as more than a guardian, protector even, but it was inevitable. especially being who he is. and he would keep it to himself, and it would eat him up inside. he'd want to give you an easier way out, a ending where his death was the lesser of two evils, but he could never bring himself to leave. not before fate forced his hand.

ferrus: he has to make you better. you though fulgrim was obsessed with perfection? imagine that, but reversed, and intensified by a thousand. ferrus can make you better. he can make you stronger, he can make you everything you ever wanted. and over time, as he improves you, makes you need to know that he's impressed with you, it changes you. he's unrelenting. and it's not that he doesn't love you. oh, he loves you so so much. but there's a part of him that thinks his encouragement, his desire for your perfection, it helps you. together you can be the perfect couple, but not because of beauty or looks. then it feels like you're a project to him, little more than a toy for him to work on each and every day. and he'd let you go. he'd give you the choice, be free of him, but you'd hesitate. could you ever really be without him again?

angron: he only knows war. pain. death. love is so... small to him. he doesn't understand how to be gentle, how to replicate the love some of his brothers will. but he doesn't want to hurt you, either. and it shows. he will not hurt you, he will not make you feel pain, but he would die for you. and would you die for him? well. if you wouldn't, he would make you. love for him is a reflection of the strongest emotions he feels. the words he associates with it are different. violence. he'd kill anyone who stood between you. desperation. it's a feeling he can't describe as anything other than need. consuming. it grinds on him, wears him down, until he treats it the exact same way as everything else he feels. you're his, and you will become a part of him, whether you want to or not.

rob: it should be easy to him, but its not, and that makes him feel worse. he's not stupid, he can process love and emotion. yet... why does it feel so hard? he always feels like he is doing something wrong, always expression too little in case he reveals too much, whilst always trying to make up for something he fumbled already. its a vicious cycle. the reality of the situation is he's torn in every direction, he's needed by so many people, that he doesn't have time for love. yet he would fight to the very end of time to show it to you. and it exhausts him to no end. he'd just need a little patience, he'd very much enjoy if instead of something require brain or body power, he could just rest with you in his arms, enjoy the peace, but when that's every single evening, it could become a little hard

morty: he carries around a lot of anger and it's not always easy to hide. like a bitter old woman who sneers at kids for stepping on her lawn, but deep down she has a heart bigger than anyone - she just doesn't like it when he things are messed up. probably a bad analogy. the smallest things annoy him and he's got a quick temper. he constantly has to remind himself to check his own feelings, assess if he's reacting appropriately, then actually respond. so sometimes, it can feel artificial, like it's a brave face he puts on, and eventually you'll just want to know the real him. and you can, but it may not be as easily heard or understood. with time he would get better, he'd balance his emotions with your help, but until then it may never feel 100% real.

magnus: the poor guy, he just doesn't think (how obvious, I know). his actions are well intended but the way he comes across is a mixed bag. you're proud of something you've done or learned and in the spirit of sharing your achievement he does it in one try... or he tells you a more advance version of a spell with the intention of helping you but... it just comes across as him belittling you. like you were never good enough for him, that he is so so much better than you and his standard is so far above you. in reality, he's just happy, he's sharing those things because he thinks it will help you. he's worried that he's not good enough for you. he feels like he has to prove himself, to show you just everything he's capable of, elevate the two of you, together. aww :(

horus: he knows about his charisma. like a beacon that sits on his head and forces everyone to like him. and that makes him question the reality of everyone around him. are you nice to him because he's Horus, or because you want to be nice to him? are you kissing him because he's Horus, or because you want to kiss him? it's a guessing game that he is losing. he truly believes that those closest to him do not care, and overtime he has developed trust issues beyond saving. he'd never show it though, but inside everything can feel like a lie. he'd have a way to work it out though - he's not stupid - but his way is long and extended, tests and games which may not be appreciated, and it may feel like you need to prove to him why you care about him. was your love not enough? it was. but he just needed to know it wasn't manufactured by that damn beacon.

lorgar: love... its something different for him. it's not love. it's reverence. you become everything to him, his faith, his truth, his gospel. you become divine to him in every way, perfection incarnate, holy as the gods around him. and for that reason, it is all written in fate for him. you are meant to be with him, you are meant to stand by his side. he would build temples in your name, he would burn planets to the ground if it meant you were happy. he would destroy worlds to bring you what you wanted. but, if you are unhappy with that? if you do not accept his love and devotion? that's heresy. that's denying the truth. and escaping him, it can only come through death. his one is quite dark, i'm very sorry about that. unless you like it, then happy to help.

vulkan: he wouldn't have many faults, aside from obvious primarch things, but I think he's full of worry. not insecurity, but concern, always worried about you, always thinking he may hurt you, worried that the feats he puts himself through may have an unnecessary effect on you. he knows that he puts himself in danger but he can't stop himself, he know your concern that maybe just one time, he won't come back - but he will still test the limits anyway. he'd never show you every part of him, afraid it may just be too much for you, and though he's never hiding anything sinister, he'd always be hiding something. and you know it. and he'd smile, assuring you its nothing. it's literally just something like he's never tried kissing you in a certain way in case he hurts you. or he was wounded fatally again but he's okay. probably better if he just tells you... but secrets in the name of happiness, I guess.

corax: sometimes he goes, for days. for weeks, months even. some may even question whether you've just made it up in your own head. it's not that he doesn't care, or he doesn't love you, but... he got lost in his own head. what he needed to do. and it doesn't help that when you are together, he's cold, he's reserved, and its like you've never even met before sometimes. he can handle all of this, he's secure in his feelings and is loyal to you beyond anyone else, but can you? it's not that he would abandon you, or betray you, but when you've waited for him to come him for months and there's still no sign of him, your thoughts may start to go somewhere less pleasant. you can ask him to stop, but it's never permanent, even when he's fully opened to you emotionally - he'd unintentionally fill you with doubt.

alpharius: oh its a bit of a mindfuck. one loves you, one doesn't. one whispers sweetly in your ear, one just whispers. one touches your shoulder and catches the tips of his fingers on the curve of your neck, the other one just touches your shoulder. it's little things. barely noticeable at first. something the everyday person would have just shrugged off. but after time, you do notice. that's not Alpharius. and it makes you mad. to think he sent someone else in his place? he had to, and you'd never understand, but he hates it as much as you. do you know how badly he wants it to be him that is with you each day? how insulting it is to know that he was sharing you? it drives him to the brink of insanity. it's truly the worst feeling in the world. but there's nothing you can do about it, and you'll have to live with knowing that maybe the man next to you isn't the alpharius you love.

˗ˏˋ 𓅰 ˎˊ˗

[bunnysdollette]

₊⊹⁀➴ How to get your shit together in a slump: BD’s instant guide to feeling 100% again! ⟡﹒⪩⪨ 🫧🌸🧁

⋆˚｡⋆୨୧ Hi angels :) Thank you so much for the positive reception on my last posts. Anyway, I’ve been super down lately so I’d thought I’d create this post as a bit of a reference point for anyone who feels like their life is going off of the rails these days. This is how I get myself out of a slump. 💬

♫ todays song is…some by SOYOU

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ GET OFF THAT DAMN PHONE.. 📝 ⊹₊⟡⋆

wait! I was just joking. don’t close your phone until you finish reading (haha). anyway, take a look at your screentime for me. you might have been scrolling for hours or trying to distract yourself from how horrible you felt by doomscrolling endlessly…no. we can’t do that.

usually when I’m in a slump I feel damp, it’s not just about laziness. this could also be the result of exhaustion or a number of factors. dampness is an evil condition in chinese medicine where you feel heavy, tired, and dead. scrolling will only make this worse because you’re prolonging the pain. the first thing you should do is get up, stretch, breathe, and maybe crack a window. the airflow will make a big difference, I promise. 🌿

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ CLEAN UP GUIDE. 🌸 ⊹₊⟡⋆

when my room is a mess my state of mind is a mess. I can’t do anything, I’m literally loosing my marbles bc all I can see is a messy space. if your brain is in shambles rn, the smallest amount of organization you can do right now is tidy up your room a little bit.

this doesn’t even have to be a big clean, but small steps make a big impact!… remember your space is sacred. 🧘🏾‍♀️

make the bed. doesn’t have to be fancy, just make sure everything is where it needs to be.

wipe down surfaces like desks, mirrors, and vanities. you can even include a scented spray whilst doing this to make your space smell much cleaner and nicer!! I literally cannot function when my room smells like asscheeks.

remove any old cups, or food waste that you were procrastinating from doing so. don’t want to attract any bugs.

Sweep the floor. You probably don’t notice how many crumbs are on the ground, but please just do it.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ RECHARGE YOUR “STATS”. 🛁 ⊹₊⟡⋆

honestly the best way to get out of a slump is self care. neglecting your needs and body can often lead to things going downhill, depressive episodes, etc. We all forget to take care of ourselves properly sometimes, but it’s important to pay attention to our needs and personal wellness.

Ask yourself.

“Did I shower today?” ➜ Take yourself a nice, warm shower and stay in as long as you want.

Take some time to reflect on your day or anything that’s been on your mind. And be sure to wash up well, so you can feel really nice after and tap into your feminine energy. You can even add bath salts, milk, or bubble bath. It will literally make you feel like a princess. . . 👑

“Did I eat/drink today?” ➜ Go eat something.

I prefer light meals or snacks that are cold like fruit, water, or a juice when I’m feeling dead but you can also eat whatever you want. Just think about what will make you feel good and reduce the dampness as much as possible, and will prevent brain fog. Heavier meals aren’t the best for that though.

I bet you feel better already after doing these things! Remember that taking care of yourself is the most important and you are a priority.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ REFLECTING AND MAKING A GAME PLAN 🧁 ⊹₊⟡⋆

Lastly after you feel a little bit better now and you took care of yourself, I would really suggest reflecting either through journaling or shadow work questions. They’re the easiest way to just brain dump all of the crap you’ve been thinking about lately and get it out of your system in a healthy and helpful way.

You can write about things like “how have I been feeling lately?” “What’s one way I can improve in xyz” and so on. This is a mundane activity you can do at the end to organize your thoughts. Mental health is a huge thing after your physical health, as it literally not only affects your world but the world around us. Especially if you are trying to achieve your dream life/dream self, manifest anything, etc. you will need to take care of your mental health to not be consumed by your emotions and keep your mind in check.

Also something that is crucial is practicing gratitude and mentally grounding yourself. You can list things your grateful for, mediate, or exercise. Anything to get yourself into that mindset you need going forward. I personally love to listen to the wizard liz’s podcast in times like these, it’s a great motivation for me.

Remember that slumps, dampness, depressive episodes, all of it, is normal. We are just humans at the end of the day. Be a little nicer to yourself today and take some small active steps towards your goals. ✨🫶🏽

✧ thanks for reading beautiful !! ; so basically I’m thinking of maybe making a community here on tumblr for the girl bloggers that share dream girl content and stuff like that? idk let me know what u think. inbox is always open, stay hydrated and cute, buh bye 👋🏾

[ubemango]

commission 6: friends-to-lovers!Hoseok

note 1: for Miss Sam!!!!!!!! Thank you for your help back in November!!!!!!!!!! I hope sexy sexy brother’s best friend/f2l!Hoseok is Good To you!!!!!!!!!!! Mwah!!! 🥰🥰🥰🥰💕💕💕💕💕😁😁😁😁😁

note 2: a little background--the premise for this story did not come easy to me. Like At All!!!! I was struggling--AGAIN--with Exposition and you know what I learned? in medias res never fails me. Truly she is God. I love her. Anywho, Keyword(s): Talking to your dog for emotional support! Tension! Mutual pining!!!!!!!!! Being so close you don’t know what to do with yourself anymore!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Word count: 4.5k. Class is in session!

note 3: a big big biiiiiiiiig Thank You to @b1usides and @angelguk for helping me out with this ;_; Truly would not have come out with this without you I love you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Thank you for ur input and insight and interest and MWAH !!!

(note 4: I wrote all those previous notes back in 2020. GOOD LORD IT IS 2025. This is not a come back I just wanted to post this because I wrote so much of it and I’m tired of thinking my writing is too ugly to post. It can be ugly but also exist on this blog. Yay!!!!!!! Mindset mindset! I wuuuvvvv youuuu my friends I hope you’re doing well!!!!)

“Now?”

“Now,” Yoongi says, “and don’t come up with excuses about being busy because I know you’re doing your dalgona shit right now.”

You slide the bottle of instant coffee a little closer to your chest for protection. He probably overheard you talking to your mom about your plans in the kitchen last night. “You’re evil.”

“Whatever. Just–come, please? Everyone’s busy and Hoseok won’t finish unpacking today if we don’t get the help.”

Hearing that name sends electricity down to your toes. “What’s in it for me?”

“Being a nice sister–“ Yoongi’s breath is stifled with effort, probably from lifting a box– “and helping my best friend move into his new apartment?”

“I just got home–“

“I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important. The air conditioning here hasn’t been turned on yet,” he baits, and you hiss at that. “You know what that’s like.”

You do. The sun is unforgiving in the throes of late spring, and even you’d been contemplating holding out on your move back to avoid the heat. You’d made sure to finish unpacking last night, the loom of today’s plus-twenty weather with humidity heavy on your shoulders. Yoongi’s strangled tone tells you Hoseok’s got a billion and one things to unpack.

“Fine,” you concede. “Just text me the address.”

“Don’t take too long.”

The line cuts. You get the text in three seconds.

You stare forlornly at the whisk and bowl you’d gotten out, watching your phone screen light up with Yoongi’s text. To think you’d be hauling ass with cardboard boxes instead of making frothy coffee. What you thought would be a little welcome-back activity now that you’ve moved back home with your family instead lies toppled since you’ve been voluntold for other plans.

Plans to see Hoseok for the first time in years.

Immediately, you hold your breath. Maybe if you restrict your airflow then things won’t be so real and sudden, and why couldn’t Yoongi have called Namjoon, or something? He’s ten times as strong as you are. He lives in the city, too. You feel cheated. Older brothers don’t like taking things into consideration.

Your lungs burst into a yelp when something furry brushes against your leg, which, thankfully, stops you from contemplating all of Yoongi’s wrongdoings with revenge. You realize you’ve got your fist tight around the whisk.

“Girl, you scared me!”

Boppa stares at you with her long eyelashes and sits down at your feet. She’s the picturesque prettiness of a ten-year-old cockapoo. It’s kind of insulting looking at her sometimes.

“Boppa, I think my life’s about to fall apart and it’s all Yoongi’s fault,” you tell her.

She offers no response. You drop the whisk, reach over for her treat jar, and pop the dried meat into her mouth. Just a reward for the anxious rambling you’re about to dump on her pretty little head.

“Remember senior year, Boppa, and I couldn’t do my calculus homework because I missed too many classes? So Hoseok helped me out with all the problems I didn’t get?” You don’t think she does. She just pants, watching you put your mise-en-place away. “Or when he helped me make soup for Yoongi when he had the flu that one time?”

In your head, a dam breaks, and it all comes roiling back.

The way you remember Hoseok is different every time. Little disjointed moments throughout high school, college, and it starts with junior year, when he’d come over after a music council meeting with Yoongi. He’d walked past the living room, caught sight of your puffed face from crying over Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds; so startled by your hiccuping that he’d offered you a coupon to the pizza place near school and told you to get lunch with it the next day. Because pretty girls don’t deserve to cry, and Yoongi slapped his neck for being too nice to his little sister and dragged him upstairs to practice for their sectional.

It’s who he is, has always been. The kindness that never wavers, always there when you need help–carrying groceries into the kitchen when your mom complained about bad knees, patiently waiting for you to work through a difficult log function, walking Boppa when Yoongi was too lazy to do it. College Hoseok disappeared for a bit, busy with obligations and social circles. But like all strong currents, he came back with a force, seeking refuge on your couch after an overnight stay at school. 

(You’d made him a snack, that time. He gave you the prettiest smile ever. When you’d settled into bed, you could hear his snoring from your bedroom.

You slept so well that night.)

“Boppa, why,” you wail. “Why is this all coming back. I just got home.”

She blinks. You toss her another treat. She eats it well.

“I’m not in love with him.” Affirmations, affirmations. It’s good to air out your grievances, especially since no one is home to hear them. “I’m not!”

Boppa looks at you as if to say, I haven’t accused you of anything, so why are you so strung up?

“I don’t know what’s going on!” You shriek, slamming your palms on the counter.

Logically, you’re correct: you aren’t in love with Hoseok. He was just so overwhelmingly good. Attachments formed. Hoseok came to your home all the time. And home is a permanent fixture you could never get rid of, and you’d been away for two years, living in the western side of the city, forgetting you had a life back here, learning new intersections, knowing where to touch fruits to see if they were ripe, seducing the hot pharmacy man into a spicy romance (and subsequently dealing with the heartbreak), living, accomplishing, and these things end. Some parts of life end so you come back home, and Hoseok is home, you’re home, and the one thing about all of this is that it’s all Yoongi’s fault!

You close your eyes, feel the rush of your entire life come to a halt right at this very moment. You wanted coffee, not an attack on all your senses.

“Boppa,” you say, realizing something else. “I need a housewarming gift.”

You hear her get up, and you watch her stop where you’d left your extra bag of rice from unpacking. She lies down in front of it.

“Do you think that’s a good gift?”

She yawns. You google the meaning of offering jasmine rice as a gift for new homes.

“Abundance of love and food,” you say from your findings. It’s good. “Smart girl.”

She makes a grunting noise when you carry the bag away from her, and accepts the kiss you leave behind her ear as your goodbye for now.

She’s due for her mid-afternoon nap. You’re due for a reality check.

The drive over to the apartment is short, and you’re thankful because your seat belt scorches you when you shift the wrong way,  and suddenly your mood is sour all over again. But your parallel parking, though–it’s so immaculate you almost start crying. The balance of good and evil in your life makes you tired. The giant bag of rice almost makes you tip into the asphalt of the sidewalk.

Security buzzes you in with the code Yoongi sent you, and no later than 20 seconds pass when you find yourself in front of unit two-eighteen. You knock, and steel yourself.

The door opens.

“The fuck is that?” Yoongi snorts.

You heat high in your cheeks at the interrogation. “Boppa told me to do it.”

“Our dog told you to bring rice?”

“It’s a gift,” you seethe, “and our dog is a magical dog.” (It’s the truth. Somehow when Boppa howls, your mom will suddenly come up with cryptic news. The last time, an old auntie died.)

“I like it,” a voice says, and suddenly Hoseok is nudging Yoongi out the way. His entrance freezes you in your spot. His fingers brush against yours when he takes the bag from your hands. “Really. My mom brought rice for when my sister moved out–means abundance, or something.”

“Exactly,” is all you can breathe out, and he smiles–just as you remember–and then he disappears into another room. Never one for grand gestures; he comes and goes. Maybe it was just a ghost who happened to look like Hoseok and really liked lifting rice into the netherworld.

The slam of the grain against what’s probably the kitchen counter interrupts the thought. Yoongi makes a disgruntled noise, which more or less means come in before I start insulting you.

“We’re fixing the bed frame right now,” he explains, the door squeaking shut under his hand. “It’s already super hot in there so just–don’t come in.”

“Man sweats?”

“You know how meat smells when you’ve left it out on the counter all day?”

You recoil automatically. “I–? Ew.”

He’s joking. Probably. But it’s enough to make you stay away from that part of the apartment. The living room space is comfortably small; enough square feet to classify as cozy, not cramped. The linger of heat is a silent threat–you can already feel yourself starting to get sticky under your collar. They’ve got a mini-fan propped on one of the many boxes littered on the carpeted floor, though, whirring through little bursts of air.

There are so many boxes. The thought alone is making you sweat more.

“Thank you for the help.” Hoseok pops in again. Brushing his hair away from his sticky forehead, and you’re almost offended at how suave that move was. The audacity of good-looking people to do good-looking things unprovoked. “I really appreciate it.”

You could never refuse him. This is the truth you’ve always known. “It’s no problem. I didn’t think you’d have this much stuff.”

He flounders with a sheepish smile. “Yeah. I didn’t think I did either, but I had a whole nest of shit that I had back home in my closet and I didn’t want to throw anything out.”

“So for nostalgic purposes you’re risking heat exhaustion, is what you’re saying,” you joke.

“So mean.” Hoseok puts his hand over his heart. “You really wound me, you know?”

Yoongi interrupts with a cough. “You guys are boring, I’m going back to the bed frame.”

“I’ll be there in a sec,” Hoseok calls after him. He stands rigid for a second, gathering his thoughts. Probably just avoiding responsibility for a few precious seconds because going back to the proclaimed Meat Room sounds like a painful thought. “Um–I would catch up more but I just–I really need this done before we actually pass out.”

“It’s okay. Really.” He nods his gratitude. “Where should I start?”

“We’ve already done the bathroom, so… you think you can start with the kitchen?”

You nod. Hoseok sighs another “thank you, again,” and takes two steps backwards, as if to keep that soft gaze on you for as long as possible. He spins away before you can think too hard about it.

The kitchen is separated from the living room by the sink, and this is where all the goodies sit. One box is labeled with nothing on the side. Another has nothing but a picture of a smiling plate, a tiny fork and spoon holding hands. But the most enticing one is the box that says MUGS, SO MANY MUGS! MOM CAN’T FIT THEM ALL!

His mom’s loopy handwriting is so cute. You start with this one. In the bedroom, Yoongi screams.

“Are you okay?” You yell out, ripping at the tape with your nail, sorting the bubble-wrapped mugs by… colour? Shape? Who even owns a mug made out to be a literal octopus? The suction cups are so weirdly detailed. You put that furthest in the cupboard above your head, and pop a couple bubbles of bubble wrap to feel better.

“‘M fine,” he calls back. “Hoseok almost hacked off my thumb.”

“I did not!” Hoseok responds passionately.

They stay silent, save for more banging on wood. You organize to the clipped rhythm of the fan swaying back and forth.

It barely dawns on you that you’re in Hoseok’s new kitchen, voluntarily fixing his stuff. And if you thought about it, he would absolutely do the same for you. The symbiotic relationship of being nice just because. It’s the only way you know how to interact with each other. Someone gives, someone receives.

(You missed home. You missed Hoseok.)

It takes half an hour to sort through all the kitchen essentials. The plates and the bowls are stowed away neatly, cutlery in the first drawer below the counter. All the cleaning supplies are safe under the sink. The bag of rice sits heavy in its spot where Hoseok had left it. You’re sweating.

Not as badly as Yoongi and Hoseok are, though. They trudge in the kitchen, breathing hard, eyebrows wet with their effort.

“We’re done with the room,” Hoseok greets. Yoongi ignores you and goes straight for the handle of the fridge. He reaches for two water bottles, and hands the second one to Hoseok. “Wow, you cleared this fast.”

The compliment should not be as hard-hitting as it should be. Your giddiness is silent. “It was easy. Also your octopus mug really freaked me out so I put it, like, as far away from reach as possible.”

“I got him that mug,” Yoongi complains.

“You couldn’t have gotten him a nicer mug?”

“No?”

“You’re ugly,” you retaliate. Yoongi scrunches his face, and drinks his water angrily.

“I like the mug,” Hoseok inserts, brushing past you to open the drawers, eyeing your work, “but yeah, it is kind of. Uh. Out there.”

“Am I being insulted right now?” Yoongi asks.

“It’s an ugly mug,” you say.

“And you got him an ugly bag of rice.”

“I told you Boppa told me to do it!”

“How’s Boppa?” Hoseok interrupts, checking where you’d put the medicine, the first-aid.

“She’s–“

“–good,” you and Yoongi say at the same time. The look he sends you is venomous.

“Stop copying me.”

“You’re ugly,” you say again.

“You guys need to stop giving me whiplash every five seconds,” Hoseok complains. You know he’s used to it, though. Banter that toes the line of actual hurtful words. It’s a common conversation. He inspects the cupboard above the sink next, making little approving noises. “Ooh, bowls on top of the plates. Very nice.”

“I taught her that,” Yoongi says. Which–yes, he technically did, but now you’re just annoyed because he ripped the compliment right from your nose, and now he’s smiling because he knows you’re pissed.

The fan sings its mechanical song. Fighting Yoongi burns up so much energy you fear you’ll collapse once it comes down to fixing up the living room.

Except.

Your brother opens his stupid mouth again, and announces, “I need to leave.”

Hoseok whips around from where he was inspecting the cleaning supplies. “What?”

“Shit. I had to pick up mom from the station.”

The green-lit time on the stove says it’s five till seven. You picture your sweet little mother waiting behind the doors to the passenger pick-up parking lot, and confide in the thought that she’ll probably smack Yoongi once he pulls up. “You’re gonna be late.”

“Oh really,” he mocks. “If I get pulled over for speeding you’ll bail me out, right? Yeah? Cool. I’m sorry. Good luck. Don’t die. Hoseok, take care of her. Or–whatever. It was fun.”

Before either of you can respond, he bolts out, and slams the door behind him in a spectacularly hard fashion.

“Well,” Hoseok says.

“Huh,” you comment.

You make a mental note to kill your brother. Preferably by means of limited gore, maximum pain. Because now you’re alone with the bane (boon?) of your existence in the kitchen with too many thoughts in your head again and again it’s Yoongi’s fault and you wonder why your breakdowns always have to happen in the kitchen.

Calmly, you drink your water.

“So, uh…”

Hoseok fidgets with the empty mug box on the counter. His ears are bright red.

“You wanna–get started with the living room?” You attempt to save the conversation before it gets too awkward.

“Yes,” he agrees quickly, and scurries out with the same swiftness as Yoongi’s departure.

Did he not want to be close to you? Did you smell like meat, too? You put your deodorant on this morning. You sniff at your armpit secretly while Hoseok chooses a stack of boxes to open, and conclude that it is not your good-smelling sweat that’s driving him away, but something else you’re not aware of.

“Honestly, there’s not much here to unpack, a lot of these are just like–winter jackets, the electric cords for the TV…”

“Why don’t we start with the bookcase?”

It looms with emptiness, tucked away into the corner. The dark oakwood that housed all the precious things he said he couldn’t throw away. It feels a little personal, knowing it contains his accomplishments. His secrets? His school yearbooks? A family picture, maybe, stuffed toys he might’ve won from a carnival. For a second you imagine how it would feel, unpacking your things and his things in your own shared space.

“Sure,” Hoseok decides.

You pick the biggest box to open first. The tape has ripped at the corners, sides bulging slightly from the things crammed inside. Some dust flings off when you whip the top open, and inside is way too many books. Elementary school yearbooks, a massive cookbook, the entirety of A Series of Unfortunate Events.

“I didn’t know you read,” is the first thing that comes out of your mouth.

Hoseok startles into laughter. “Uh..?”

“I meant–oh god you know what I mean.” You blush at the slip-up. But Hoseok pays no heed, just laughs even harder.

“It’s fine. It’s–yeah. Back in high school. Found the first book in some second-hand store and ended up buying the rest.”

That explains why the first one is so much more worn down than the others. Loved, flipped through. You heave the box onto the floor, sit down next to it. Criss-cross applesauce. You begin sorting through it one by one.

“So how are you? Now that you’re back home, and all.” Hoseok handles something that clinks slightly–pots of succulents. He staggers on his tip-toes to fit them pretty on the top shelf. You think back to your brief crisis of identity in the kitchen at home.

“I wanted to make the dalgona coffee today but I had a change of plans.”

Hoseok sighs. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“All good. But to answer your question…” There was no exciting answer to impress him with. You’re back for convenience, lack of work. Ordinary reasons. You don’t want to entertain lengthy stories in the fog of this heat, anyway. “It’s… I’m just back. That internship was all I had going for me, so I’m still on a job hunt.”

“That’s really cool, though. I remember your sketchbooks. And when you built that seat to look like a huge-ass Converse shoe.”

It was one of your projects for junior year. “Yeah, it… I don’t know where that is now, probably stuck in the basement somewhere.”

“Sell it on eBay.”

“Like anyone would pay for that shit.” It literally was a giant wooden slab made to look like a shoe, soft enough for reclining. “It’s ugly.”

Hoseok shrugs. “It wasn’t. But keep thinking that, silly, go ahead.”

“It’s just–I can’t believe you know I built that. Like you remember that? I don’t even remember building it.”

He contemplates. “I’ll always remember you,” he answers, very simply, and for a while he lets it linger, like it hadn’t just gotten your heart racing so fast.

The silence is scary. Maybe he’s trying to read your mind. Maybe if you made a loud noise in your head, he’d be startled. You start thinking about the most obscene moaning noises, straight out of soft, amateur pornography that you see floating on your timeline sometimes. But Hoseok doesn’t budge. 

Damn. He just continues on.

“Do you still cry when The Proposal comes on?”

“Oh spare me,” you beg, itching to slap his leg. He shudders with his laughing. “How about you? You still cry when someone talks about the White Lady?”

You think back to a 16-year-old Hoseok sleeping over at your house once, so vexed by Yoongi’s searches on horror forums that night he’d made sure Boppa slept in the room with them. “You’ll curse my apartment!”

“I’d have to say the name three times, you know.”

He watches you from above with frightened eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

Hoseok should know better than to trust his best friend’s sister. Right as you taunt him with the first syllable–(“Whi…“)–he tucks the last succulent away on the shelf, drops down on his knees, and shoves a hot hand over your lips.

“I will actually, genuinely, really, reallyreallyreally hate you forever,” he threatens.

Well.

You wouldn’t want that.

He is devastatingly close, his gaze so frenzied you’re starting to feel bad. The heat comes in waves: the stifling living room, the pathetic blows of wind from the fan. Hoseok’s body. Proximity you haven’t known in forever. He just stares.

You garble from behind his mouth. “Sto’ wooing ame.”

“What?”

You slide his palm off your wet lip. “Stop looking at me,” you repeat.

“I can’t just look at you?”

Oh. He –?

“You – !” You swat at him like he’s a pesky mosquito, warding off the thirst for your embarrassment. He sits next to you, laughing. “I’m sweaty and my concealer is creasing.”

“You look fine.”

“To you.” You pat under your eyes. “I’m ugly to me.”

“Me is stupid,” he counters.

“Me will kick you if you don’t finish clearing this shit out!”

Hoseok relents, careful to test your aggression. He’s sweating, too. He wipes at his neck, sighing into straight posture from creaky knees. “We can just finish this then call it a night,” he offers. “Are you almost done with that box?”

You lug the cookbook into the remaining space of the shelf. “It’s done.”

“Cool. Then could you just–” he gestures to the cardboard near his feet with one hand, arranging more succulents with the other– “grab that for me?”

You reach over with a grunt, gentle in your hold of the pot. It’s a money plant. “From your mom?”

“I don’t even like plants,” Hoseok complains. He looks to the side of the bookshelf, realizing there’s no space to accommodate the larger pot. Dejected, he just leaves it where he stands. “I’m fixing this tomorrow, I don’t care. Let’s go outside.”

Outside is the balcony, which isn’t as oppressively hot as it is inside but still has you disappointed that it’s, well, hot. There’s no escaping it. Hoseok has to use his entire body weight to slide open the glass doors. “Shit fucking doors. Do you think Yoongi carries WD-40?”

“Probably. Tell him it’s his welcoming gift for you.”

He snorts. “I’d feel guilty. He already did a lot, building the bed with me.”

You follow him to where he leans on the railing. His unit faces west. Perfect for this time of year, when the sunsets are longer. It bleeds low behind the fading bricks of the faraway houses, the inner city high-rises, and if you angled yourself correctly it’s almost as if they lean on the sun itself. 

“This is the real reason why I chose this place,” Hoseok says. “Saw this sunset and knew.”

“I didn’t know you were so sappy.” You scrunch your face like you’ve been fed something sour. He laughs. 

“How else do you think I get all the hot ladies?” He teases. You stop at that. It suddenly occurs to you that Hoseok is a man who’s lived a million lives just as you have, and just as nothing stopped you from trying to date around (re: hot pharmacy man), the same laws should apply to him, too. 

You aren’t hurt, but it does cut a little. And before you can stop yourself, you ask: “Are any hot ladies coming over anytime soon?”

He sounds like he chokes. “God no.”

“Oh.”

“I – it’s boring stuff. Just. No. Maybe there could have been, but no.”

In your heart of hearts, you believe he’s stuttering because he’s embarrassed. But a part of you wishes he’s trying to appease the part of you that’s bristling, like he knows it’s not information you want to hear. It’s almost like a puppy nipping at their owner for forgiveness, though why would he want to be apologizing?

(Unless.)

“Okay,” you say. You try not to think too hard. “Sorry. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Your top lip is sweaty. Every crease in your body is sweaty. You’re also very much aware that Hoseok is looking at you like he wants to say more, but he just hangs his head low. “Thanks. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You know.” He wipes his brow. “Anything, really. Plans for the summer. Hot men to woo. Or hot ladies, I don’t know.”

You watch the sun set lower. It’s cooler now, and the cicadas are humming loudly. “I… no. I’m not really… I don’t know.”

Good lord. You have the strangest feeling to cut open all your guts and let Hoseok see you for everything you are. He does it so easily, to you. This is the universal truth that’s defined your existence since he entered your life.

“Ugh. I’d offer you beer to cheers for being lonely but you’re driving.” He pouts. “Fuck. Sorry. I don’t want to keep you any longer than you want to stay.”

“I don’t mind.” And because you like to torture yourself, you add: “Not if it’s you.”

(You can almost hear your brother’s voice. You’re so easy. The you in your head gives him a sucker punch and says: Well maybe I like to be easy! The Boppa in your head also kicks him in the shin. You think she’d be cheering you on.)

Hoseok’s eyes widen. “Really.” It’s not a question but a reaction, and Mind-Boppa gives you a fist bump.

“Yeah. Or you can tell me if that was weird. Like. Really. You can.” You’re about to ramble more but Hoseok interrupts you.

“No!” He says this a little too loudly. You flinch. “Sorry. No. No. That wasn’t weird.”

For the umpteenth time today you almost burst into tears. It’s everything sweet and bad and hot pressing in on you, and is Hoseok smiling? He’s laughing. You’re about to spontaneously combust and he’s cackling like he’s cracked the code of something. You must look horrified, because he starts to flounder.

“I’m–sorry. I’m sorry. Please. I’m not laughing at you. I’m just gonna ask you something, and I want you to walk out on me and forget everything I’m about to say if you choose to. Does that sound good?”

You think: it’s hot when he takes initiative.

You say: nothing.

You: nod for him to continue.

“Can I please treat you to dinner for fixing my kitchen for me?”

Catholics say the universe was created in seven days. Hoseok bursts and collides five hundred of them with one question.

“Will you pay for me?” You ask.

“Yes.”

“Do I have to look pretty?”

“You’re always pretty to me,” he says.

“What if I say no?”

“Then I’ll pretend I never asked you and you can go woo another hot person. But I prefer you don’t.”

The sun has set. There’s pink in the sky, and there’s pink in your eyes. You wonder if your pupils have turned heart-shaped. 

“Then my answer is yes,” you decide.

.

.

.

When you sit in the driver’s seat, you think about Hoseok’s smile and what you’d do to keep it there. Then, you declare to your driving wheel, “I’m going to kill Yoongi,” then pull off into traffic.

.

.

.

Hoseok closes the door behind him, and slides down with his back against the wood. “Yoongi’s going to kill me,” he says to himself.

[lesbianherald]

okay. one more thing. this is the one that people really might not like. because I love jayce. I have written over 100 thousand words of fic with jayce at the center. but I honestly can understand where people who watched only season 1 and don't like jayce are coming from?

because we have to remember... Jayce's arc represents a lot of... real world issues and experiences. so much so I could write a whole like 20 page essay on it. I know people know this but also it may be a good reminder that like:

no, I don't think people "aren't watching the show properly" if they don't love the character that manufactures weapons to use against an oppressed population, no matter the "intention" he had.

additionally, i think jayce in season 1 represents something a lot of people have been through in terms of people you are in close relationships with having this sort of conditional allyship with you and your people?

that bridge scene hits.... really really hard if you've been in Viktor's shoes. and I can see why people may not want to "stan" considering. Even if he apologized right after. Even if his heart is in the right place. even the way it is shot is very clearly supposed to represent a massive imbalance of power.

anyways. i find it a disservice to the narrative and its themes and a disservice to the character to diminish this stuff.

when you have a character with an arc related to growth, and then try to pretend he didn't really grow from much in the first place, that sucks the life and energy out of a really powerful arc. (which is one of the only things I thought was done well in season 2! so I find it very gahhh!)

ok now im done i promise

(also because i feel the ice cream truck falling on my head as I post this, I am not saying that the extreme jayce hate was warranted. I'm just saying that I understand why an audience member may be weary of him in season 1 and I don't think its media illiteracy for someone not to fully enjoy him)

spicy take of the week but i feel like the arcane fandom has really overcorrected with the jayce hate to the point where they've flattened him into someone who does no wrong/ has only done wrong because he's like 'too nice' or 'too good' or whatever. i feel like it really flattens his character and takes away from how much he grew to act like he didn't do some really fucked up shit in season 1

[preoccupied-educator]

Ooh, Juke podcasters AU?

Alright, I went back and forth on this for literal ages, but it is high time I actually post something so, I hope you like it! Happy Juke Jeudi! Also lol RIP me trying to write a summary, failing spectacularly and instead ending up with over 700 words of a relatively solid outline for a fic I'll probably never find time to write 🙃

A kinda-sorta-enemies-to-lovers with a classic misunderstanding and of course a HEA (that isn't really well thought out, but couldn't sit in my drafts any longer!)

Julie Molina doesn't really play music anymore since her mom died, but she does listen to it and talk about it at great length on her very popular podcast she started back in her junior year of college after a very interesting elective on the topic

Now, she's a bit of a celebrity in her own right, as episodes of her show, "The Studio" (where she reviews listener-submitted songs from up-and-coming bands in college towns all across America) reach thousands of listeners every week

Luke Patterson listens to music, talks about music and, of course, plays music in his band, Sunset Curve, with his two best friends Alex Mercer and Reggie Peters (they did have a fourth band member, Bobby Shaw, but that ended rather abruptly when Bobby decided he'd rather have a solo career with Sunset Curve's most popular songs)

Now, Sunset Curve is on the edge of celebrity - a rather stressful recon mission ensured Bobby no longer had access to their music (and no, they won't be telling that story anytime soon) - and they're calling in all of their favours to get a showcase slot at the famed venue, The Orpheum

(click to continue reading my rambling below the cut)

Luke has been working on the booking manager, Caleb, for weeks and he's finally agreed to book them a slot in two week's time...assuming they can sell half of the tickets for the show themselves by the time the doors open the night of the show [Alex has anxiously done the math on that and it works out to about 1300 tickets if Caleb expects them to sell the place out (he immediately had to do his breathing exercises after having that realization)]

Luckily, the two optimists in the band have a plan - submit their best song (along with a little plug about their show) to "The Studio", get a rave review, profit (read: sell a thousand tickets in less than 14 days)

Unbeknownst to the current members of the band, there is a reason why Sunset Curve has never been featured on "The Studio" before, despite being submitted a handful of times by local listeners

Back in freshman year, Julie went on an ill-fated blind date set up by her well-meaning but ultimately misguided roommate, with her cousin, one Bobby Shaw (it wasn't that Bobby wasn't a nice guy, but he talked mostly about his music with his band and when they passed a street piano on the way to the theatre, she accidentally let slip that she used to play music and he was like a dog with a bone and when she refused to show him what she could do, he got a little too bold - she had stormed away soon after, walking the 12 blocks back to campus blinking back tears) - hence her distaste towards the band

Now, Luke is nothing if not determined, so here we insert a chapter or two of him weaselling his way into "accidental" run-ins with Julie (maybe he figures out a mutual connection? - Willie knows Flynn knows Julie) who doesn't realize immediately who he is, but they obviously vibe

Once Julie figures out the connection there is a smidgen of hurt feelings and explanations and apologies, but eventually she is persuaded to feature them on her next episode (and even goes so far as to have the band in the studio to plead their case)

Lo' and behold! They sell the allotted tickets and the show goes off without a hitch - Julie is in attendance, only slightly begrudgingly having been dragged along by Flynn and Willie

She is obviously immediately smitten (more than she already was) by Luke's stage presence and also the way he winks at her during the bridge to Now or Never (listen, she's only human okay??)

Their set wraps up and there are congratulations all around and an invitation for post-show pizza and there are more vibes and some not-so-subtle suggestions from both Flynn and Reggie about chemistry and oozing that Julie and Luke are both trying very hard to ignore while they enjoy their pizza

Luke volunteers to walk Julie home since she lives a couple blocks over (there is jeering and a few not-so-subtle nudges from Reggie, a very serious stare-down along with a threatening "text me as soon as you're home safe" from Flynn)

The walk home is relatively quiet, when they get to her door Luke confesses he hopes he didn't mess this whole thing up by trying to get the band on her show, he'd really like to see her again, etc.. Julie assures him that he didn't..and he can see her again. There is a cute Juke kiss and ta da! The End.

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Books of 2025: ADRIFT IN CURRENTS CLEAN AND CLEAR by Seanan McGuire.

Ah, yes, my favorite January tradition: heartbreak in tiny series installment form :)

This one is about a turtle-obsessed disabled Russian girl who gets adopted by an American family and fitted for a prosthetic she doesn't ask for, want, or need, and then she splashes through her Door.

I love Russian language and culture things (shout out to accidentally double minoring in college), so I was excited for a Russian protag and a Russian-coded Door world! Excellent enrichment in my enclosure. Neat cultural expansion on the Wayward Children universe (multiverse? cosmos?? insert appropriately scaled setting word here).

I also liked the aquatic nature of Belyyreka--terrifying giant frogs and delightful giant turtles and delightful talking foxes on the riverbanks were all lovely, and the worldbuilding about different weights of water was neat! Very mind-bendy kind of setting, I dig it.

This installment felt very slim (146 pages in my copy), and Our World Heavy--the first 46 pages were in Colorado, and the last 100 were in Belyyreka, but it felt like we did More Frequent and Larger Time Skips in Belyyreka compared to Earth? Kind of speedrun mode, sans Quests, really (this one was a lot more oriented toward Finding/Building Your Family, which was signposted pretty clearly upon our arrival in Belyyreka). Mostly a quieter installment up until the, y'know, Typical Impending Tragedy of Return at the end. (Did I almost put it down at 1AM last night with 30 pages left so everyone could Be Happy? perHAPS,)

Overall: I had a good time! But, ow, my heart (once again and forever).

[luckyshouse]

i draw a lot of nsfw but im scared to post it because then it'll be obvious which things i fetishize and which ones i lie about fetishizing for clout but im more scared of the fact that if people know what im into theyll be able to look at my writing and be like (raises eyebrows. smirks knowingly) and that is by far my 100% least favorite reaction to any kind of sexuality i show ever