#these are for class and i hate both of them

[syrecjh]

hiiii this is my first time requesting smth but like I lowky have an ideaaa

so what if bakugo has a gf but none of his friends believes him bc of his personality n wtvvv. (basically they think he's making it up) so what if he tries to prove it to them n yet they still believe he's imagining

(sorry sorry it's lowkey kinda dumb 😭)

──★ ˙🌻 ̟ !!She’s Real, Damn It

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

They didn’t believe him.

It wasn’t like he expected them to throw a parade, but seriously—he tells them he has a girlfriend, and they laugh. Not teasing. Not playfully. Laugh. Mina actually snorted orange juice through her nose, Kirishima clutched his stomach like he pulled a muscle, and Sero just blinked like Bakugo had tried to claim he’d written a love song. On purpose. About feelings.

“Yeah, sure, Bakugo,” Kaminari grinned, elbowing him. “What’s her name? ‘Detonation-chan’?”

Katsuki Bakugo, currently a third-year, top-ranking in both combat and strategy, the closest thing this country had to a teenage thunder god, just scowled deeper into his bento. “She’s real, morons.”

“Uh-huh. And I’m the next Symbol of Peace.”

It wasn’t like he paraded it around. He wasn’t one for sappy Instagram captions or couple photos or public declarations. He liked things private—safe, just for him. And you? You weren’t even from U.A. You were from Shiketsu. You met through a patrol exercise collaboration last year, when Camie brought you along for post-mission hangouts. And you—smart-mouthed, too pretty for your own good, sharp-eyed and annoyingly patient—you caught him like a match to gasoline.

It started with exchanged numbers. With teasing texts. With sparring advice that turned into late-night conversations. Before he knew it, you were calling him ‘Katsu’ in that voice only you could pull off. Before he knew it, he cared. And then more than cared.

He was in it. One year strong. Still going.

But his friends didn’t believe him because, apparently, no one wanted to believe that Katsuki freakin’ Bakugo—resident boom boy and human middle finger—had someone who actually chose to date him.

When Mina brought up someone from the general course crushing on him—some second-year girl who baked cookies and giggled every time she passed—

Sero snorted. “Another one? What’s that, the fourth this semester?”

Bakugo barely looked up from the weights he was pressing.

“Not interested. I’m taken.”

That was the moment Sero dropped his water bottle.

“Bro. You’re still on about that imaginary girlfriend?”

"A year of make-believe,” Mina sing-songed.

Bakugo rolled his eyes so hard it looked like they might never return forward again. “She’s not fake, you extras. Just because I don’t broadcast her every second of the day—”

“Bro,” Kirishima cut in gently, “you do realize the more defensive you get, the more sus you sound?”

Sero smirked. “It’s giving imaginary girlfriend from Canada energy.”

“I’m gonna blow all of you up.”

“Hey, no offense,” Kirishima added, raising both hands in mock surrender, “but with your personality? Who would date you?”

That was it. He had enough.

So when the group sprawled out in the common room that evening—popcorn bowls half-empty and laughter echoing off the walls—he pulled out his phone and hit FaceTime. He didn’t say anything. Just angled it toward them while it rang.

“Okay, Bakugo, we get it, it’s a fake call—"

And then your face appeared.

Hair in a messy bun, hoodie drowning your frame, circles under your eyes from back-to-back Shiketsu mock evaluations. And still—the moment your screen lit up, you smiled.

“Hey, baby,” you said, voice warm. Soft. Familiar.

Bakugo didn’t even blink. “Hey baby, you busy?”

“Just died emotionally during Quirk Theory class. Save me. I miss you. I hate school. I want your hoodie and a nap.”

Bakugo’s mouth twitched. “You can have both. Summer’s in a few weeks.”

And then—then you noticed the boys.

“Wait. Are those your friends?” you asked, squinting into the camera. “Oh my god, you finally showed them I’m real?”

He gave a smug shrug. “They didn’t believe me.”

You leaned closer to the screen, giving them a tired smile. “Hi Katsu's friends! I exist. Its so hilarious how you think of me as someone imaginary.”

Dead silence. Kaminari dropped his popcorn. Mina’s mouth hung open. Sero choked on air.

Kirishima grabbed the phone next, eyes wide. “Wait, seriously?! You’re real?!”

“I’m offended.”

“You’re dating Bakugo?! Willingly?!”

Bakugo took the phone back, face flushed but smug. “Now do you believe me, jackasses?”

“Holy—she’s real,” someone muttered.

He leaned back, arms crossed, expression victorious.

“She’s not just real,” he muttered, lips twitching upward. “She’s mine.”

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

daddy j.t.

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Word Count: 1.5k words

A/N: Despite the title i swear this is an innocent fic. i actually kinda hate it cuz it went better in my head but this is really more of a rando fic abt y/n ft. jason but oh well

credits to @saradika-graphics for the dividers!

The end of the day was always a little bittersweet.

The scent of Play-Doh clung to the air, the carpet was speckled with glitter and suspiciously sticky spots, and somewhere behind you, a rogue pipe cleaner poked out from under a beanbag like a warning. But the chaos had quieted. The last of your tiny humans were zipping up backpacks, putting on Velcro shoes with dramatic effort, and waving their latest masterpieces in the air like sacred scrolls.

“Dorothy,” You called one of the little girls in the class, her parents were waiting at the door to pick her up, “Your mummy and daddy are here!”

“Mummy! Look!” The child beamed, clutching their drawing with pride.

You loved your job. Even on days when your knees hurt and you were 98% made of hand sanitizer, there was something sacred about teaching kindness, counting, and how to open a banana without crying.

The last kiddo was scooped up by their parent with a tired smile and a thank you, and as the door shut behind them, you exhaled.

Peace.

For about seven seconds.

A soft knock sounded on the doorframe. You turned to find your supervisor, Ellen, standing there with a polite smile and her signature clipboard clutched in one hand. You’d worked with her long enough to know what that clipboard meant: You were not in trouble, but you were about to be annoyed.

“Got a second?”

You gave her a tight-lipped smile, “Always.”

She stepped into the room, glancing around at the day’s chaos, “Your class room is always too clean after arts and crafts day, (Y/N). I'm impressed.”

“I almost got shanked with a glue stick during Free Play.”

She didn’t laugh, which meant: yes, this was definitely a clipboard conversation.

“So,” She began carefully, “I got an email this afternoon. From one of the parents.”

You nodded slowly, “Let me guess. Someone thinks snack time is pushing a pro-fruit agenda again.”

“It’s about something you said,” She said, a little sheepishly, "It was Elliot’s mom.”

Of course it was.

You’d dealt with Elliot’s mom before. Perfect nails, perfect teeth, perfect judgmental stare. The woman wore yoga pants like battle armor and asked things like “Have you disinfected the ball pit between uses?” as if you had a pit crew hiding in the janitor’s closet.

“What about Elliot’s mom?” You asked, already mentally bracing.

“She said she was uncomfortable because you called her husband ‘Daddy’.”

You blinked, “...What?”

“She just said she didn’t like it and would prefer if you didn’t use that language when referring to them.”

You squinted, “Did she mention me calling her ‘Mummy?’ Because I always say both. ‘Mummy’s picking you up,’ ‘Daddy’s gonna love that drawing.’ That’s just how the kids talk about their parents.”

Ellen shrugged helplessly, “She didn’t mention that. Just that she doesn’t want you using those terms anymore.”

You paused, “Okay… can I say Mum and Dad then?”

“That’s fine,” Ellen nodded, “As long as you’re not using ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy,’ she’s happy.”

You tried. You really, really tried.

After your chat with Ellen, you scrubbed the words "Mummy" and "Daddy" from your vocabulary like you were preparing for court. When it came to Elliot, you retrained your habits, rewrote your daily phrases, and caught yourself at least five times a day before you slipped into the dreaded forbidden words.

"Here’s your bag—Mum will be here soon." "That’s a drawing for Dad, right?" "Let’s put that in your folder so Mum and Dad can see it tonight."

And Elliot, sweet sponge-brain that he was, picked it up almost immediately.

Which is how you ended up here, standing in your classroom during pickup, facing the one woman who made your blood pressure spike worse than juice-box cleanup day.

Elliot’s mom.

She walked in with her usual tight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, designer tote slung over her shoulder like she was late for a brunch reservation. Elliot skipped over to her with the unfiltered joy of a four-year-old, shouting:

“Mum!! Look what I made for Dad!”

You smiled, crouching down to his level, “You tell Dad that’s going right on the fridge, okay?”

“I will!” He chirped, grabbing her hand.

You saw it happen in real time—her face twitching, smile faltering, lips pressing into a line of thin disapproval.

She turned to you.

“Can we talk for a second?”

You glanced at the drying station, then at your imaginary patience, “Of course.”

She waited until Elliot was distracted with a beanbag chair before leaning in, arms crossed.

“So… Elliot doesn’t say ‘Mummy and Daddy’ anymore.”

You blinked, “Right. I’ve been saying Mum and Dad, like you asked.”

She narrowed her eyes, “And now he says it. Like you.”

You tilted your head, trying very hard to keep your voice pleasant, “That’s… kind of how language modeling works in early childhood.”

“Well, I didn’t ask for you to change the way my child talks.”

You blinked again, slower this time, “You… asked me not to say ‘Mummy and Daddy.’ I adjusted.”

“I meant you, not him.”

You opened and closed your mouth, “...That’s not really how it works. The reason I use ‘Mummy and Daddy’ in class is because the kids internalize it. When adults model language, children mimic it. That’s literally how early language development works.”

She narrowed her eyes, “Don’t patronize me. You don’t say ‘Daddy’ to the other children’s fathers the way you say it about my husband.”

Your brain screeched to a halt.

You stared at her, “I—what?”

She leaned in like she was sharing some scandalous secret, “You have this little look when you say it. Like you’re thinking about something filthy.”

You paused. Visibly. Dramatically.

You blinked, “…Are you—Ma’am. What look?”

She didn’t flinch, “Don’t play dumb. You know what you’re doing. You say ‘Daddy’ like it’s some kind of game, like you want him to look at you.”

You blinked, absolutely stunned, “Ma’am, what—what are you talking about?”

“I saw that smirk,” She cut in, “You slut.”

That one hit like a record scratch in a preschool. You stared at her, stunned into absolute silence.

“In a nursery?” You said, voice sharp now, “You’re using that kind of language in a nursery now?”

She crossed her arms triumphantly, as if she'd uncovered a grand scandal, “You don’t have to pretend. I saw it. I see everything. That little smirk, that smile—”

“I smile at everyone’s parents.” You said flatly.

“Yeah,” She said, leaning in with mock sincerity, “But you don’t say ‘Daddy’ like that when it’s anyone else.”

You blinked. Then laughed. Just once. Incredulously.

“I have a boyfriend.”

She raised her perfectly plucked brow, “Oh sure you do.”

Your patience, already hanging on by a thread, snapped with a quiet, deadly precision.

“Your husband,” You said, “is not my type.”

“Oh really?” She snorted.

Before she could clap back, the door creaked open behind you—and speak of the devil.

That was the moment the door opened.

And in walked Jason.

He carried his motorcycle helmet in one hand, his leather jacket half-zipped over a black T-shirt that stretched snug across his broad chest. Built like a double-door fridge, he was easily twice as tall as Elliot’s dad. His shoulders were wide, and his presence filled the doorway without effort, making it clear he wasn’t someone you’d want to cross.

“Hey, babe,” He said, glancing at the parent you were with before checking his watch, “I thought you finished at 5?”

You turned slowly, “Hi, sweetheart. Yeah, we were just... clarifying a few things.”

Elliot’s mom turned slowly. Her eyes landed on Jason. Then traveled up. And up.

Her entire face paled.

Jason looked between the two of you, then walked over and casually pressed a kiss to your temple, “Need me to wait outside?”

“No,” You said sweetly, “We were just finishing up.”

You caught Elliot’s mom actually take a step back.

She looked between you and Jason. And then, with the elegance of a crumbling meringue, she grabbed Elliot and left—no goodbye, no “thanks,” no passive-aggressive parting shot.

Just silence and retreat.

As the door shut, you exhaled. Jason turned to you with an amused grunt.

“So… what was that about?”

You rubbed your temples, exhaustion catching up with you, “Apparently, I’ve been seducing people’s husbands by saying ‘Daddy.’”

Jason blinked, clearly trying not to laugh, “...I mean, I do get a little twitchy when you call me that.”

You swatted his arm, lowering your voice, “Jason. This is a nursery.”

Jason laughed softly, hoisting his helmet under one arm as you headed for the door.

As you stepped outside, you caught voices drifting from the hallway behind you.

Elliot’s mom, speaking loudly and with venom, was complaining to Ellen, “That man—that man—he has a record, I’m sure of it! It’s unsafe for him to be around our children! I want him banned from this nursery, and I want her fired. She shouldn’t be allowed to bring someone like him here."

Ellen’s tired, no-nonsense reply came seconds later, “He wasn’t even inside the building, just at the entrance to pick up a member of faculty. You need to stop stirring up problems and just—get out.”

There was a long pause.

Then a faint sound of flustered, sputtering denial.

You exchanged a look with Jason—who was trying very hard not to laugh.

You slid your hand into his as you headed out the door.

“Ready to go, Daddy?” You teased.

Jason smirked, “Always.”

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[kitping]

I have an annoyingly unexplained joint thingy that truly does not like my knees. I also have 17 different classes of 5-10 year olds. You can imagine that it didn’t take long I was pretty tired of “my knee doesn’t want to work right today, no I’m not sure why, but using the cane will help me be comfortable and help it rest so it can heal faster”. So when the fourth-grade class came in on day two and someone asked, I said “do you want the boring true answer or the interesting lie?”

“Can we hear both?”

“Sure. The problem is that there are invisible moles that live under the music room, and they’re attracted to the sound of the xylophones. If they ever manage to dig their way up through the floor, they’ll eat all the heads off the mallets- everyone knows invisible moles LOVE mallets- but they hate the sound of a cane thumping, right? So if when it’s super quiet in here I can feel the vibrations and sneak over and-“ *smacks the foot of my cane into the floor repeatedly* “-scare them away.”

“…really??”

“No. I strained my knee somehow and I’m using the cane so it has a chance to heal.”

“Awwwww….”

They really liked the moles, though, and spread the story around. So now, even a year or two later, if I have a flare and am walking around work with my cane, some kid will point and gasp in perfectly-executed alarm, “The moles are back! Oh NO!” to the merriment of all (except any new students, who just look Extremely Confused until someone explains).

Kids are awesome.

I usually default to the Herobrine one but occasionally I claim that my sister was a bear and we used to fight a lot.

[starcurtain]

Aventurine Fans Eating Good

Finished the Fate/Star Rail collab last night and enjoyed it much more than I expected. I don't know much of anything about the Fate series, so I figured it would be a slog, but it was both funny and a nice breather after the main story of 3.4. Also--a surprising feast for Aventurine fans in terms of both lore and characterization. I am definitely the fan that was served.

Some of the stand out stuff:

Hope this event will finally put the nail in the coffin for those people who kept insisting that Aventurine secretly hates Jade or that she's abusing him somehow. Their first scene was very nice, giving us insight into their relationship within the IPC; we see them discussing the plan, and it's clear that although Aventurine is very smart and clued into exactly what Jade is thinking, she's also certainly got the upper-hand when it comes to strictly business sense. Watching Aventurine follow her thought process to the conclusion tells us a lot about how Jade has mentored him throughout his time with the Stonehearts.

Aventurine is also willing to discuss his personal concerns and vulnerabilities with her:

And, ridiculously important for lore and dropped completely casually into the conversation: Aventurine told Jade about his dalliance with Boothill. This pretty much confirms that Aventurine and Boothill's deal is to hunt down Oswaldo Schneider specificially, and Jade not only approves of it but is encouraging it. Oh they hate his ass, for real.

This also implies that Aventurine isn't keeping secrets from Jade; he trusts her enough to tell her even about his under-the-table dealings.

I think it's clear they have a much better relationship that most of the players were giving them credit for.

In terms of other treats from the event, look! Aventurine is comfortable sharing space with Boothill and (later) Archer:

I've written before about how the devs normally position Aventurine's character further away from others during conversations and cutscenes, but it seems that he's a little more in his comfort zone now than he was in his first visits to Penacony. It's not just anyone that Aventurine is willing to stand shoulder to shoulder with--it says a lot that he was willing to put aside the space bubble here!

(This is also funny because Boothill in particular is the opposite of Aventurine, in that he's almost always positioned RIGHT NEXT to the people he's talking to--the space bubble is kind of nonexistent--but it still looks hilariously out of place to see him standing so close to Aventurine because Aventurine doesn't normally stand with anyone lol.)

Also: Boothill making a reference to xenophobia while the two indigenous characters from colonized worlds are on the screen? Wow, one of the members of the writing team actually remembered and cared enough to make note.

In fact, I thought whoever handled the writing for this questline in general did a much better job than the HSR writers normally do with characters' pasts affecting their current behaviors. Aventurine's consistent discomfort with the Master-Servant dynamic was excellent to see.

"Dead class structures"--my goodness, the word "master" showed up and the Proletariat just jumped straight out of Aventurine. A very good note for those interested in his characterization.

And speaking of characterization, Archer and Aventurine's dynamic was a definite high-point for the collab questline. I don't even know anything about Archer but his chemistry with Aventurine was great--mostly because it was actually just Ratio/Aventurine with a stand-in because the devs are allergic to giving Dr. Ratio screentime nowadays lol.

Aventurine's type is clearly "strapping, competent, reliable men who will lightly bully me into becoming a better version of myself."

We even got the "Trust me and my plan so we can trick everyone and beat our enemy." The fact that Archer was able to catch on with just one sentence from Aventurine was great, and the fact that he was even worse than Ratio at acting was pretty funny ngl. (Well, at least he put less effort into it!)

Archer and Ratio even have the same complaints:

Ratiorine fandom, I am politely requesting 5956760 fanfics of Ratio's eye twitching at some random new man showing up and folding Aventurine's laundry without asking and then just "poof" disappearing lol. Thank youuu~~

And pointing out some other fun snippets:

Aventurine being a horror movie buff was not on my bingo card, but it's an interesting tidbit to add to his characterization. Understandably difficult to spook someone who has beaten people to death with his bare hands to survive the Hunger Games. You know he's the person who watches the gory slasher flicks and is just devouring the popcorn while everyone else is getting grossed out.

Also interesting to note that Aventurine, the "give me two of everything at the highest-end luxury shops in Penacony" guy also apparently still shops at "interstellar junk markets." You can take the community bazaar out of the nomad but you can't take the nomad out of the community bazaar, apparently.

I want to know what dev managed to get this past the censors!! 😂

And Aventurine's tininess... I know the devs writing this quest were Aventurine fans; I know it.

This moment in general:

When are we getting our Bonnie and Clyde/Aventurine-Boothill western shootout with Oswaldo Schneider, Hoyo, when?

And, despite the tone of Aventurine's text messages post-Penacony sounding very much "I want to be friends" with the Trailblazer, it seems that, canonically, Aventurine hasn't made much headway in actually becoming Trailblazer's friend. Trailblazer's reactions to Aventurine were pretty :T through the event, and Aventurine's first claim is that maybe Trailblazer wouldn't even want to come out to meet with him. This is why Jade sent you to the Penacony Daycare Holy Grail War to make better friends, Aventurine. You gotta work a little harder at it, my dude.

Finally, I really appreciated this event taking the time to acknowledge that Aventurine is actually extremely smart and adaptable, capable of keeping a cool head under pressure, figuring out the enemy's strategy, immediately developing a plan to solve the problem, and executing it flawlessly.

And even more so than just painting Aventurine as a smart cookie who can see through others' ploys, I love that the reason Aventurine was able to see the ploy wasn't because of his status as a movie buff... It was because of his interest in business.

Aventurine can be a fake idgafer about his work all he wants, but when it comes right down to it, he was so interested in Grady's marketing strategies and business acumen that he went through the entire archive of Grady's works and learned the full history and tactics of this completely no-name director from a totally foreign planet. He's being unironic when he calls himself a "fan" of Grady's--not of Grady's terrible films, but of Grady's ability to achieve success.

My boy isn't just smart, he's still building his portfolio of tricks to get ahead in life.

Repeatedly, Archer asks whether Aventurine doesn't want to be a "hero of justice" sometimes, to which Aventurine never really fully responds. Yet in the team's time of greatest need in this quest, Aventurine was the actual "hero" of the moment--not using noble tactics, but by being true to exactly who he is: the shrewd schemer whose knowledge of underhanded methods and the cutthroat world of commerce can be applied even to righteous causes.

Aventurine's character in this event was, in essence, a perfect microcosm of the IPC's role in the game's overall story. Their methods might be less than ideal, their perspectives on right and wrong might be skewed at a 90 degree angle--but when push comes to shove, you're really going to need someone who isn't worried about getting their hands a little dirty, someone with the know-how to scheme their way out of the pitfalls, so long as they--deep, deep down--(mostly) have their heart in the right place.

A++ Aventurine content, thank you Hoyo~

[buckysdingus]

empty cups

todd stevens x reader

smut MDNI 18+

word count: 2.7k

summary: basically empty cups by charlie puth :)

warnings: oral f!receiving, p in v, spit play, talking ya through it, pet names (baby, sweetness)

a/n: first of many todd stevens fics. more to come! stay tuned! lmk what else you’d like to see- if smut isn’t your thing i’ve got some other stuff planned so pls stay tuned! lmk if you wanna be tagged when i post!

lewis masterlist!

the music was loud enough to make you think your hear was matching the beat of it. you felt it deep in your chest. the empty cups in your hand and scatters around only grew the atmosphere.

you also felt the rough hands of todd stevens on you. every time you lifted your arms, your t shirt would lift just high enough to expose your midriff and todd took advantage of that small window of opportunity.

his rough, calloused hands lightly touching the softness of your hips, waist and moving in front to your belly. his fingertips pushing the boundary between your lower stomach and the waist line of your low rise jeans.

your ass grinding against his front to the music, he felt like he was in heaven. he wasn’t prepared for what was coming.

you turn, his fingertips still stuck between your skin and jeans, now his fingers rest on your lower back just above your ass.

you go on your toes, mouth next to his ear, “wanna go upstairs?” you take his ear lobe between your teeth and pull it slightly before letting it go and go back to your feet to look at him.

his eyes lighting up with amusement and a smirk you wanted to kiss.

his hands raised from your lower back, up your waist and eventually one takes your hand. he nods to the stairs.

he stops to whisper something to a fellow frat, something about making sure no one goes to his room. the frat boy tells another that todd and his girl are going up stairs and not to disturb them.

you smile at the mention of you being todd’s girl.

you and todd started out as friend with benefits and if anyone asks now you’d probably both still say that but you both know it’s something more. i love yous have been thrown around a lot when having sex and the both you have stayed the night wrapped in the others arms and staying for breakfast during the morning. if todd sees you on campus he can’t help but ask to carry your books or walk you to your next class.

neither of you talk to anyone else outside of the other. no other sex, nothing. it’s just him. it’s just you.

reaching todd’s room, he unlocks it only to lock it back when you’re both inside. you both kick off your shoes, then connect quickly. your lips on his and his tongue immediately asking for entrance.

“do you want to turn up some music or the tv so no one will hear,” you ask between feverish kisses.

“nah,” he says, “everyone already knows, so let’s just makes sure they know more,”

it was a good enough answer for you.

his hands go under your tshirt and he grabs the hem of it and lifts it up and over your head, hating that he has to pull back for a moment to take it fully off.

you reach up and take off his backwards cap, tossing it to the side. then reach down at the hem of his shirt and pulls his up and over, tossing it to the corner with your own shirt.

your hands runs down the front of his body, slipping in his jeans and cupping him.

“already hard for me huh?”

“i was hard the moment you started dancing on me,” he tells you, his hands choosing your face holding you close to him.

you pull your hand out, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling them down, missing his boxers.

“woah woah,” he stops you

you frown with a confused look, “what?”

“tonight it’s you. all about you,” he tells you, slowly unbuttoning your jeans and sliding them down, him following suit.

before he’s fully down he’s back up, taking a step back to fully take you in.

“matching set?”

his eyes dart from your bra to your underwear, a deep blue matching set you had gotten just for him, though he didn’t need to know that.

the bra unbuckled in the front and the panties you had on was a thong. easy access at both places.

“do you like it?” you ask him faking shyness.

“you’re fucking beautiful,” his voice is low almost a growl.

his hand places itself on your lower back easing you down onto the bed. little groans coming from his mouth and he kisses you all the way down.

his lips move from yours to your cheek, jaw, sucking the pressure point at your neck, earning a moan and a back arch from you.

“you sound pretty,” he whispers into your neck.

“stop- stop teasing,”

“it’s gonna be a long night pretty,” he tells you, kissing down your neck, to your chest. he reaches a hand between your breasts, unhooking the strap with his one hand. the wet spot on your underwear growing as his breath sends shivers down your body.

his tongue sticking out, going up your right breast and circling your already hard, sensitive nipple. his mouth envelopes it, sucking lightly while his other hand cups your left breast. he pinches your left nipple in his fingers, earning him another roman from your pretty mouth.

his left thigh lightly moving along your core. the lightest touch to your clit , making you arch again.

he groans against your breast, rutting against your thigh. he moves his mouth over giving your other nipple the same attention as the right.

his right hand under your right breast, his touch ghosting the underneath of your breast. goosebumps flood your skin and you hiss as his teeth bare down on your nipple.

“t-todd please,”

his left hand slips down your body, into your panties, past your mound to your folds. you’re already slick, the cloth of your underwear wet.

he drags a finger slowly from your entrance up to your clit and lightly circling it. no pressure just soft, agonizingly slow circles.

“toddy…” you whimper.

“alright, alright,” he murmurs with a satisfied smile, kissing your lips one more time before moving down. he hooks his fingers on the sides of your underwear and he slides them down slowly, savoring all of you. soaking in your body with his eyes.

he puts his hands under your knees and drags you to the end of the bed, he kneels before you, starring at your core like he’s never seen it before. like he’s been starved for years and this is the first time he gets to taste you.

he never gets tired of it. of you.

he gently tosses your legs over his shoulders, one lick from your entrance to your clit. his tongue then focusing on your clit. circling, swirling and soon sucking.

you hand falls to his hair, gripping it as his hands gripped your thighs.

“oh my god,” you gasp, his tongue flicks at your clit, a surge of electricity shooting through you. your back arches again, trying to push him deeper into you.

he laps at your entrance beginning to fuck you with his tongue. that fucking tongue. it was long and thick and you didn’t know you could feel this way by a tongue until you met todd.

he knew what to do from the beginning. there were one or two things you talked him through but he understood quick. he loved giving you pleasure.

he hums against you, a deep groan from his throat, more electricity vibrates through you.

as his tongue goes in and out his nose nudges your clit at just the right pace and pressure. your hips buck up but one of his arms reaches across you, pushing your hips down.

“i don’t need help,” he tells you.

that sends you over the edge. your bones vibrate, your muscles spaz, your whole body shakes as he shows more attention to your clit, sucking hard.

“come on baby,” he murmurs against you.

your thighs lock around his head as you cum. your slick wetting his face and you can feel the smile on his face.

you grip his hair a little harder as a white hot feeling covers you. he laps you over and over again through it. he drinks you up.

your thighs grow tired and loosen, he pulls back for a breath, “you taste so sweet baby,” he tells you going back in for a few more licks.

his hands move back to your thighs, rubbing them and kneading them with his fingers as he trails kisses along your inner thighs.

he stands and moves towards you, one hand placing itself on the mattress beside your head the other grabbing your waist.

“toddy… inside,” you’re breathless as you plead.

“i’m sorry what was that?” his southern accent could make you come again without home even touching you.

“toddy,” you whine.

“use your words sweetness,” he tells you, lifting a hand to your face to move hair from your face, then tracing your lips with his fingers, “open,” he instructs.

you open your mouth, he stick his index and middle finger into your mouth and spits in your mouth and you close your mouth around them quickly, sucking at the digits, you linger on them.

“see how good you taste? let me do it some more. what do you want?” he takes his fingers out of your mouth, licking the rest of you off his own fingers.

“in me. want you in me,” you tell him.

“good job sweetness, keep using your words like that yeah?”

you nod fervently. anything to get him to put his dick in you.

he pulls down his boxers with one hand, then feels you with the same hand. he takes some of your slick and coats himself with it. he rubs himself some before bringing his fingers back to your entrance.

he begins with two finger already.

“fuck,” you hiss.

“gotta get you ready,” he explains, coming down to kiss you as he stretches you out, getting you ready for him.

your whines are swallowed by him, kissing away the small pain you feel.

he adds a third finger just in case. pumping in and out of you slowly, he doesn’t want you on his fingers he wants you on his dick.

“you ready baby?” he asks, you nod quickly.

he lines himself up before pushing into you.

your hands go to his back, your nails scratching down his back, marking him as yours. he loves the feeling, the pain from your nails. he loves looking in the mirror after a good night with you and seeing your marks.

he smiles at your nails scratching down his back.

you try pulling him closer, trying to tell him you wanted him closer.

“words,” he reminds you.

“closer,” your eyes are squeezed shut as he pushes further

“no, no,” he says, “look at me,” he says, his hand coming your face and caressing your cheek.

you open your eyes to see his already on yours. his smile growing wider as he sees your eyes. the color popping in the low light of the room, he can’t believe he gets to look at them.

“there she is, good girl,” he praises, “wanna watch you,” he tells you, placing another kiss on your lips.

you pull him closer, digging your nails in his back, his hips jut forward as he bottoms out.

you gasp as he lifts his head. your mouth going to his shoulder, biting down on it.

he pumps fast without warning. once he bottoms out it’s only a matter of time before you’re both exhausted.

he bottoms out again and stays there.

“mmmmm,” he moans in your hair, “you feel so fuckin good sweetness,” he tells you, “could stay like this forever,”

“do it then,” you say, resting in the moment, “i’d let you stay,”

“don’t tempt me,” he says. he shifts and you whine, “i’m sorry baby, i’ll take care of you now,”

he pumps again, harder and faster. the headboard of the bed banging against the wall, an imprint surely being made.

he pumps and pumps, his hand moving to your lips, “spit,” he instructs, you don’t think you simply spit into his hand, he does the same. he moves his hand from your face to between the two of you. he begins rubbing your clit, mixing your spit with his and your slick.

he rubs softly at first but as his pumping increases so does the circling.

“faster,” you instruct him.

one thing about todd is that he’s going to listen to you. faster? done. harder? already picking up the pace. he makes sure you’re happy with his work.

he goes faster, the pumping and circling over takes you. waves build and just as your about to- he stops.

“todd!” you shouts as his hand is pulled back.

“hold it until i say,” he says, you look into his eyes, they’re dark but not in a bad way. in a good way. you like when he’s like this, you like following his instructs.

you nod back at him, never looking away from him.

he goes back to rubbing you and pumping into you.

your brows pinch together, you bite your lip and the whole time he watches you with a smile. praising you as you go along.

“t-todd i will b-burst if you keep talkin,” you tell him.

“you like the sound of my voice sweetness,” he asks, his head lowering so his mouth is close to your ear.

you gasp and whine as you close in on your orgasm.

“not yet pretty,” he tells you.

“oh fuck todd, please,”

“beg some more. you’re so pretty when you beg,” he tells you, you can feel him righting up too.

“please, please let me cum,” you plead, “please todd, come for me too,”

he’s gone.

“come on baby,” he tells you as he reaches his release too.

you both come at the same time, he tired moving through it, he tries fucking you through it but this might have been the hardest he’s come with you. his thighs shake as his knees begin to buckle. he does keep rubbing you though, massaging your clit and overstimulating you.

“s’too much,” you tell him.

he nods, slowing his pace, then stopping.

“you’re so good,” you tell him, “my pretty boy is so so good,” you reach up tucking hair behind his ear.

you put a hand on his neck, right below his jaw, your thumb ghosting over his cheek. you pull him down to you kissing him again and again and again.

his hand reaches back down between your thigh. you’re still so wet and how could todd stop now?

he rubs at your clit again, softly this time. slower than any other time.

you moan with closed eyes, “s’ too much toddy,”

“come on baby, one more.”

he rubs more, more delicately. he’s taking his time with this one.

he inserts a finger, pumping slowly, then another. his pumps are graceful and purposeful. he curls his fingers inside you.

“god todd,” you whine pulling his head down to you, but instead of your face is your chest. which todd was not going to complain about.

as his fingers pump and his palm hits your clit your head rolls back along with your eyes. his mouth goes to your beast again, teasing your nipple with his teeth then fully giving it a soft bite.

his fingers curl again and with his palm against your clit you can’t stop the overwhelming sensation now coursing through your veins.

“fuck todd! yes!” your hips buck up at their own volition, bucking and jerking for moments on end.

“that’s it, good girl,” he talks you through it as he fingers you through it.

you whine as he slows, but love it all the same.

he falls to his elbow and soon to his side beside you. he tucks loose strands behind your ear and kisses your cheek.

“we’re not just a friends with benefits,” he tells you.

you turn your head, smiling wide at him, “was hoping you’d say that,”

he matches your smile, twisting over so his chest lays on yours as he kisses you for a moment.

“you should spit in my mouth more often,” you tell him with a blissful attitude.

“i want yours next,” he tells you.

“don’t worry, baby, you got all of me now,”

taglist:

@bluegardenn

[lafortezasboy]

SWEATER WEATHER.

the neighbourhood

— summary: feelings are confusing, and that’s how sophia feels. during the party and playing a game, sophia and you ended up in a small argument. bantering and leaving, you end up chasing sophia out of the party.

— warnings/tags: yn’s kinda dumb. like. super. mentions of alcohol, college au, gn!reader, fwb, angst, use of yn, not proofread

— a/n: this is before writing! let’s see where this goes!!!! i’m so excited

feelings are confusing. with ten thousand face kisses, multiple times holding hands in public, and convincing her to sneak out of classes to have miniature dates out of campus made sophia fall for you. she didn’t know why. you just had this aura — this charisma or being able to convince her to do anything, had her hooked around your finger without you knowing.

sophia never goes to parties. at night, she’s either studying for an exam that’s a few weeks away or doing extra credit work. as much as she hates it, she loves to have good grades. though, somehow you had convinced her to finally come out of her dorm. your puppy eyes had dragged her along.

she stood alongside you as you both entered, watching as you greeted some friends. sophia ended up seeing some of her friends. before you knew it, dani dragged her away from you. she ended up separating from you and moving to the couch.

“i’d thought you’d be studying,” manon said as she sipped her soda.

sophia sighed and lounged between her and lara, dani coming by to sit between her legs on the floor.

“i got convinced,” she said as her eyes glance at your figure in the kitchen getting drinks. sophia paused for a moment, admiring the way you looked under the dimmed, colourful light.

“ooh,” lara cooed, poking sophia’s cheek. “someone’s got heart eyes.”

sophia smacked her hand away.

“yeah,” dani said, toying with her curly hair. “aren’t you two dating or something?”

sophia shook her head with a frustrated sigh. she wanted to date you, but you made it confusing for her.

“why don’t you ask them to be yours or something?” manon asks.

“i just don’t think they’re ready.”

“did they tell you that?” lara asks. sophia stays silent and they all groaned.

“you can’t just assume that about them,” dani says, hands on the filipina’s knees.

“what if they are? and they’re just waiting for you?” lara asks, silently encouraging sophia to just ask you out already.

sophia groans, the pressure growing. she looks away from them and sees you again. you were talking to someone, laughing and smiling. she couldn’t help it. you were captivating in all the right ways.

“and we lost her,” manon says in slight defeat, a hand raising before falling back down onto her thigh, a small slap escaping. dani and lara murmured in slight agreement before dismissing the whole conversation to start a new one.

after ten or fifteen minutes passed, the group finally moved to play a game.

“what’s the game?” dani asks one of the passers.

“truth or drink!” he exclaims before whooping and heading downstairs to where they were holding it.

dani heads downstairs, shouting at the group to ask what alcohol they were using for shots and manon follows after. lara moves to stand up and looks at sophia.

“you coming?”

“i don’t drink.”

“then just say the truth.”

“the truth’s embarrassing.”

lara scoffs at her stubbornness and drags her wrist.

“just be a bystander then.”

as soon as they reached downstairs, they were already in a huge circle. manon and dani were already sat, just waiting for the other two to come by. lara sat sandwiched between them while sophia stayed behind them, sitting down and distracting herself by braiding lara’s hair, doing anything but focusing on the game. if she did focus on the game, chances were she would immediately be dragged in.

she tried to avoid it, but after every embarrassing truth and every drink, the laughter grew erratic and eventually sophia joined it.

“yn,” the host of the party spoke. “is it true that you and laforteza are dating?”

a crowd of “ooh’s” escaped the circle. sophia blushed and hid behind the girls.

you laughed awkwardly and shook your head.

“we’re just very good friends.”

“even after all the kisses?” manon blurted out, earning a hard smack on her arm by sophia.

“i mean…yeah. it’s platonic.”

“the kisses?”

you hummed at the question that came out of no where. the host hummed and rubbed their chin.

“why don’t you give laforteza a big kiss to show how platonic this friendship is.”

“no,” sophia said. “i’m not playing.”

“it isn’t something you have to do,” the host corrected with a finger in the air. “it’s something that yn has to do!”

“still! it’s-”

before she could even finish her sentence, you came by and crouched down beside her. sophia paused. why were you so…locked in on this dare? this was truth or drink! your eyes spoke to her and she leaned in, gently capturing your lips. the crowd quickly cheered, calling that you two were official now that the kiss was locked in and passionate.

you deepened the kiss by tilting your head, but not on purpose. when sophia felt this, she held the kiss for a few seconds longer before pushing you back. she looks at you with a flushed expression, pink cheeks and all. but when she saw your face, you seemed so…unfazed. unbothered. you looked at the host again, you shrugged.

“platonic,” you claimed.

sophia blinks a few times. what did you just say? you weren’t even nervous — just proud that you proved your point. the circle went silent and sophia just sat there. she was looking at you with the same eyes, but with frustration. she pushed you away before rushing up the stairs.

she heard the faint voice of dani telling her about the weather, but she didn’t even care. what the hell was wrong with you?

you stayed in your place before lara shoved your shoulder almost angrily.

“are you stupid?” manon asks you.

dani pull you up roughly by your shirt sleeve. “chase after her! it’s raining.”

you blinked at her words before fumbling over your feet, chasing after sophia. you rushed up the stairs and opened the front door, watching as heavy rain poured down. was she really just going to walk back to her dorm in the cold? you drove her here — is she…

you immediately stepped out of the house, looking at her figure under the streetlamp as the rain dripped all over your clothes.

“sophia!” you called out for her, but she didn’t stop walking.

you knew she wasn’t going to stop. your feet picked up and you ran for her, the small puddles of water splashing upwards as you went to her figure.

as soon as you caught up, your hand reached for her wrist and managed to spin her to face you.

“what is wrong with you!?” sophia exclaimed as soon as you spun her. her hands pushed you away like earlier and you stared at her like she was crazy.

“what’s wrong with me?” you asked, “you’re the one walking in the rain alone, soph.”

“don’t call me that,” sophia stated. “i’m not even talking about the rain.”

“then what are you talking about?”

sophia looks at you, her hot tears mixing with the cold water droplets from the sky. it was hard to make out if she was even crying or not.

“that kiss, yn!” she declared.

“that kiss was platonic! did you actually think something was in there? nothing was in there but friendship and—”

“what the hell is your definition of friendship?!” sophia asks you, her voice shaking slightly.

“of course i thought something was in there,” she continued. “the countless times you’ve kissed me on the face to finally kiss me at a party? only for you to call this,” she gestures between the two of you, “platonic?!”

“news fucking flash, yn. i don’t think friends kiss on the lips. or anything that we’ve done!”

you looked back at the house.

“you hold hands with your friends all the time,” you stated as you looked back at her under the rain.

“that’s different!” sophia stated.

“did you just- just not feel a spark whenever we did all those things?!”

there was a small string of silence between the two of you and the street lamp flickered.

sophia felt her heart ache at no reply. it was a silence of “no, i didn’t” and it hurt her.

“what the hell were you doing with me then?” she asks, her voice cracking. her hand moved to stop her lip from quivering.

“i was just-”

“being reckless. being fucking stupid.”

you looked at her, not saying anything. she took your exact words, and she hated that you didn’t correct yourself like she wanted to. looking at her, for once in the friendship, your heart felt a tug as you looked at her saddened expression.

“no — no, soph, please.”

you went out to reach for her but she moved back.

“dude, don’t. don’t even touch me. you told me that parties like this were supposed to be fun, so why did i end up crying?” sophia asks you. silence, once again. it was a question you couldn’t answer.

she looks up at you. for once, her eyes drifted into something different. a gaze filled with frustration and disgust instead of admiration and love. you didn’t know what else to say and it hurt. you knew she didn’t want comfort. at least, not from you.

“i don’t even want to do anything with you anymore,” she finally decided. the lamp flickered again. after her words, that’s when hell broke loose for you.

“no. sophia, please. i’m sorry- im sorry. i-”

“don’t even say sorry anymore!” sophia announced. “you saying sorry is so fucking stupid, because if you were sorry, this shit wouldn’t be happening. if you didn’t do this in the beginning, this wouldn’t have happened!”

“you’re so dumb, yn.”

“sophia,” you pleaded, tears finally falling from your eyes. “i’m sorry…”

she looks at you, her heart aching at your vulnerability. before she could even speak, lara, manon, and dani came by.

“let’s get you back to your dorm,” lara said quietly to sophia as they pulled her away from you.

you followed after but dani stopped you and you stayed put as they guided her to dani’s car.

“sophia,” you whispered quietly, hoping she’d pull back.

the lamp flickered under you before it finally died, a small exhale escaping the pole. you looked up, thousands of small droplets fall onto you. you watched as the car illuminated red to your body in the cold before it drove off.

what is wrong with you, yn…?

— final a/n: so! i did end up tearing up a little bit and GUESS WHAT. i didn’t end up using a c ai bot to rp w to help me write out in scenario. in fact, i had let down playing on loop as i wrote this but whatever WHATEVER. anyway. yeah!

[natalianovnas]

❛❛ 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐒 & 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒 ❛❛

꩜ ۫ . SUMMARY :: you only agree for the archery lessons because natasha recomended you to. you thought it’d actually be clint barton teaching — not some purple-wearing, overly confident, stupidly gorgeous brunette who keeps making your heart trip over itself.

꩜ ۫ . PAIRING :: kate bishop x new avenger!reader

꩜ ۫ . WARNINGS :: fluff, slow-burn, accidental kiss, light humor, nat being close to an aunt figure to you.

꩜ ۫ . WORDS COUNT :: 2.6k

You didn’t really want to take archery classes. Well, you liked archery but having to take the actually classes seemed like too much of a time filler but Natasha believed that if you were more experienced in it and had a bonus ability, it'll be beneficial for missions.

“It’ll help you focus,” she’d said. “Besides, Barton owes me a favor.”

So here you were, standing in the middle of a dusty training facility, holding a recurve bow upside down and questioning every life decision you’ve ever made.

“I thought Clint was teaching this,” you mutter when the tall, lean figure struts toward you with a smug smile and a ponytail.

“He was,” she says, pulling off her purple jacket and revealing slightly toned arms that do not belong in a Disney princess movie. “But he’s ‘retired’ or something. You get me instead.”

“Wow. Observant and pretty.”

You blink. “You’re definitely not Clint.”

You hesitate, then shake it. Her grip is firm, somehow warm but annoyingly confident, too.

She offers her hand. “Kate Bishop. World’s okayest archer.”

“I didn’t realize I signed up for sarcasm lessons.”

“Bonus round,” she grins. “You’ll thank me later.”

Lesson One:

You’re Terrible At This

Your form is bad—like, embarrassing bad. The first arrow barely leaves the bowstring before it plops to the floor like a sad stick. Kate winces like you’ve just stabbed her dog.

“Okay. Wow. That was criminal.”

You roll your eyes, “Gee, thanks. I feel so encouraged.”

“I mean that with love,” she says, biting back a laugh. “Okay, not love—just pity. Which is basically the same.”

She steps closer, much closer. Too close.

One arm snakes around your waist, the other lifts your elbow gently. “This needs to come up,” she murmurs near your ear. Her voice is warm, smooth but most importantly distracting.

You don’t move. You can’t. Not when her body is flush against your back, guiding your fingers, her breath brushing the side of your face.

“I… I don’t think this is regulation distance for a lesson.”

“It’s the Kate Bishop special,” she whispers. “Relax, I don’t bite. Well, unless it’s pizza.”

Your breath stutters. You fire the arrow, just to escape the moment. It flies slightly better than the first.

“Progress,” Kate says brightly. “We’ve gone from ‘tragic’ to ‘tolerably bad.’”

“Can’t wait to add that to my résumé.”

Lesson Three:

You Start Looking Forward to Them

You come back. Again and again, not for the archery, really, but for her.

For Kate’s dumb jokes, for the way she hands you your arrows like it’s an inside joke, for the post-lesson pizza she insists on ordering “for fuel.” Somewhere between lesson three and five, you stop flinching every time she touches your elbow, you start noticing the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s explaining something, the way her laugh makes your chest do weird fluttery things.

Natasha :

Natasha texts you exactly once during week two.

You:

How’s it going with the bow?

Natasha:

I hate you.

You’re welcome.

Lesson Five:

The Kiss That Wasn’t Supposed to Happen

It’s a late-night session, the compound’s practically empty & you’re both running on leftover Chinese takeout and an argument over whether pineapple belongs on pizza (Kate says yes while you’re morally opposed.)

You fire an arrow that barely misses the center of the target.

You’re proud, though.

Kate whistles. “Okay, okay! You’re not tragic anymore. I’d call that almost hot.”

You turn, a playful raised brow. “Almost?”

She shrugs, walking toward you. “I have standards.”

“Oh really?” you ask, stepping into her space now. “And what would qualify as fully hot?”

She raises a brow. “Asking for a friend?”

“No,” you say, braver than you feel. “Asking for me.”

Something shifts in her face, the teasing’s still there, but it’s softer now. More real.

Her hand lifts—hesitates—then tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear and that’s when it happens.

Somehow, some how, your lips brush.

Just a second, just a press. But it lands like a firework.

Then, that's just when it clicks,

“Shit,” Kate breathes, stepping back so fast she nearly trips on your dropped bow. “That—wasn’t—I mean—I didn’t—”

“Did we just—”

“Totally accidental,” she blurts. “Like gravity or amagnetic mouth pull.”

You stare. “Yeah. Magnetic. Mouth pull.”

“Yep. Real phenomenon, very serious. Probably physics.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. “You are such a disaster.”

She groans, rubbing her face. “I’m sorry. That was—unprofessional. And stupid. And—”

You interrupt her with a smile. “Do it again?”

She freezes.

“…What?”

“Do it again,” you say, quieter now. “But on purpose this time.”

She stares at you like she’s short-circuiting. Then Kate Bishop kisses you again.

Soft this time—Sure, Confident, like her hands when she steadies your arms during practice. Her lips taste like ginger chicken and a little bit of victory.

She pulls back first. Barely.

“I swear,” she whispers, nose brushing yours, “if you shoot like you kiss, you’re going to be unstoppable.”

You smile against her mouth. “Guess we’ll find out next lesson.”

. . .

The next time Natasha sees you, she just gives you a look.

Nat smirks and walks away with a single word:

You roll your eyes. “Yes, fine. You were right.”

“Bullseye.”

. . .

[leilasletters]

Kiss Me, Kill Me

🏈Jason Todd X Fem!reader📖

bad boy x smarter girl | detention glances & rooftop secrets | don’t fall for him, don’t fall for him, don’t—"he kissed her like a dare. she kissed him like it was the last mistake she'd ever make. and neither of them stopped."

masterlist

chapter 1

He’s 6'4" of leather-jacketed annoyance.

You notice him before you want to, stomping through the school courtyard like he owns the place—or maybe like he’d burn it down just to prove a point. Broad shoulders, dark messy hair, fists shoved into his pockets like he’s daring someone to say something smart.

You don’t. Obviously. Because you are someone smart.

And you’ve heard all about Jason Todd.

Ex-Robbin-something. Got expelled from like, three schools. Rumor has it he once punched a substitute in the throat for calling him “Justin.” (You respect that one a little.) He smokes behind the gym, skips half his classes, and once stole a teacher’s car keys “for fun.” Your friend Ivy calls him a red flag in human form.

And now he’s staring at you.

Correction: smirking at you. Across the lunch quad. Like he’s already won something you haven’t agreed to play for.

You roll your eyes and flip the page in your book.

Love is a scam. Hormones are brain damage. Boys like him are walking, talking patriarchal distractions.

You're not impressed.

“You know he’s gonna try, right?” your friend Talia says beside you, watching Jason like he’s a wildlife documentary subject. “The bet’s already out there.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Bet?”

“Oh yeah. Some rich asshole dared him to get you to go out with him before senior prom.”

You close your book with a snap. “Wow. Revolutionary. A man with no substance and too much time.”

Talia grins. “You’re gonna destroy him, aren’t you?”

“Emotionally, spiritually, academically,” you deadpan. “Maybe physically. Depends on his opening line.”

The first time he talks to you, it’s during chem class.

You’re dissecting formulas and he slides into the seat next to yours with all the grace of a hurricane. There’s a pen behind his ear. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and his forearms could crush small cars.

“You’re in my seat,” you say without looking up.

He leans forward, voice smooth and shameless. “You sure? Or just afraid you’ll fall for me if I sit too close?”

You blink.

Then laugh.

It’s not polite. It’s loud, sharp, a little unhinged. He grins like he likes it.

“Wow,” you say, tilting your head. “Did that line work better in the mirror this morning or when you were thinking of it during homeroom?”

Jason’s grin falters, just for a second.

“You’re quick,” he says, almost impressed.

“I’m brilliant,” you correct. “And not interested.”

He shrugs, unfazed. “That’s cool. I like a challenge.”

You lean in, chin on your hand. “And I like my brain unrotted by testosterone.”

The thing is: you’re used to being unbothered.

Most guys back off after the first attempt. Or cry misogyny when you talk circles around them. But Jason? Jason is either an idiot or a masochist. Maybe both. Because he keeps trying.

He carries your books once.

(You drop them.)

He writes you a poem.

(You correct the grammar.)

He sends you coffee.

(You throw it out. You’re not bribable. Okay maybe you are—but only by women-owned bakeries.)

Still, every day, he finds a new way to piss you off.

And you find yourself sort of looking forward to it.

There’s one afternoon—when the sky is gray and the halls are half-empty—where he finds you alone in the library, legs up on a desk, reading something dense and feminist.

“‘The Myth of the Male Savior,’” he reads off the cover. “Sounds spicy.”

You sigh. “Don’t you have a motorcycle to go rev in someone’s face?”

He leans against the table, arms crossed. “You ever think maybe you don’t hate me?”

You look at him slowly. His jaw is all sharp lines. His neck veins are sin. His chest could double as a bookshelf if he wasn’t so damn cocky.

You swallow. Then smirk.

“Jason,” you say sweetly, “I would rather staple my own tongue to a wall than date someone who thinks Fast & Furious is cinema.”

His grin is full-watt. “You’ve got issues.”

“You’ve got a death wish.”

And still… his eyes linger too long on yours.

Later that week, you find a note in your locker. It just says:

Bet’s still on. But now it’s personal.

– J

You should hate it. Hate him.

But when you walk into English and catch him already watching you—those stormy blue eyes, that cocky half-smile—you feel your pulse kick in a way that’s probably illegal in at least five states.

This is war.

This is a joke.

This is the beginning of something you’re going to absolutely regret.

to be continued....

masterlist

[slattlicker]

Okay before I start....I love you so much and your writing is magnificent and I could only hope to be like you one day.

Okay in this house we love a one bed tropes, enemies to lovers, and slow burn.

Maybe you're forced to be together for a mutual friends wedding or something, and because you're both terrible at rsvp-ing, there's only one hotel room left - a queen sized bed. Or a high school reunion or something.

Maybe a whispered: "what are we doing?"

A hurt : "I never hated you. I couldn't. I tried. I wanted to. But I never did.

I envision looking up into his dark brown eyes, mysterious and mischievous and hard, pupils blown wide, chapped lips puffy with use.

Okay I have so many thoughts and ill probably make it more complicated. Do as you will because its going to be good no matter what. 🖤🖤🖤🖤

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * tied for second place ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: you lost the senior class election to a guy with pizza. now you’re stuck in one bed with your former rival, ten years later, still arguing—just a little softer this time. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: this was supposed to be banter-heavy but then these two started unpacking emotional damage at midnight and now i wanna hold hands with them and make them smooch forever. thank you to this anon who gave such a compelling idea and who is probably hiding amazing writing of their own somewhere...xx

warnings: one queen bed · ten years of weird tension · bad reunion planning · emotional damage, lightly toasted · soft hands, soft hearts

enjoyyyy ♡

✧✧✧

the hotel lobby smells like chlorine and reheated meatballs.

you’re already sweating—partly from the humidity, partly from dragging your carry-on and duffel across three parking lots because the class president didn't reserve enough spots for anyone not arriving before 3 p.m.

you step up to the desk, smoothing the front of your black tank top, trying to look at least semi put-together despite the heat. jean shorts. platform sandals. makeup’s mostly still intact, thanks to the ac in your car. you’re not dressed to impress—just enough to avoid the “wow, what happened to her?” comments.

“checking in,” you say. “last name [last name]. i’m here for the reunion block.”

the girl at the desk pecks at the keyboard like it’s personally offended her.

“room 218,” she says. “you’re the second guest.”

you blink. “sorry—the second?”

she tilts the monitor so you can see. two names. yours and one that makes your stomach drop.

j. schlatt.

you barely have time to process before a voice pipes up behind you:

“yeah. i tried to switch it. she said no.”

you turn, and there he is.

schlatt stands just behind the velvet rope divider, wearing a plain black t-shirt, joggers, and a backwards hat. tattoos peek out from under his sleeves. his duffel bag’s slung over one shoulder. he looks… older, obviously. broader, sharper in the jaw, a little taller than you remember. still that same look on his face—like everything around him is dumber than it needs to be.

“of course it’s you,” you say, dry.

“trust me, i’m thrilled.”

the front desk girl slides your key across the counter. “they sorted everyone by yearbook photo order. isn’t that cute?”

your head snaps toward her. “that wasn’t alphabetized.”

“i know,” she says, smiling like it’s funny. “you’re right next to each other in the senior spread.”

you stare at her. then at schlatt. he’s already walking toward the elevator.

“unbelievable,” you mutter, yanking your bag off the floor and following him.

you hate the way your heart’s beating. too fast. too shallow. like you’re about to go onstage or get in a fight.

schlatt doesn’t look back, just hits the button for the elevator and runs a hand down his face. his other hand still holds the key card.

you stand next to him in silence. the air between you’s tight. stupid. familiar.

you break it first. “i didn’t even rsvp. ethan just assumed i’d come.”

“he begged me,” schlatt mutters. “said i was the only one from our class who could keep the energy up.”

you scoff. “oh yeah. you’re a ray of fucking sunshine.”

he doesn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

the elevator dings.

you both step in.

✧✧✧

the room is small. beige walls, beige carpet, beige comforter. one sad lamp. one queen bed.

you stand in the doorway, bag still in hand. it takes you exactly one second to realize the situation.

“…no.”

schlatt, already a few steps in, lets out a humorless laugh. “yeah. that was my reaction, too.”

you drop your duffel. “there’s one bed.”

he turns toward you, hands on his hips. “that’s what it looks like.”

“ethan seriously didn’t think to ask people’s genders before assigning shared rooms?”

“apparently,” he says, flatly, “he sorted us based on yearbook placement. said it was ‘symbolic.’”

your mouth falls open. “we weren’t even friends.”

“we were barely civil.”

“and now we’re—” you gesture toward the bed like it personally betrayed you. “—sleeping in the same fucking room?”

“same bed, actually,” he adds. “unless you wanna sleep in the bathtub.”

you close your eyes for a second. inhale through your nose.

this is fine.

this is completely, totally fine.

you toe your sandals off and step inside. the carpet feels damp. of course it does.

schlatt moves toward the desk, unzipping his duffel, and starts pulling things out. he's apparently a minimalist packer. toothbrush. one normal shirt. a single sad pair of basketball shorts. and what you think is a very wrinkly suit jacket and pants. he’s not even trying to hide the fact that he didn’t plan to stay long.

you set your bag on the luggage stand. try not to look at the bed. fail.

“so,” you say. “how do you want to do this?”

he glances up. “do what?”

“the bed,” you snap. “are we drawing a line down the middle? alternating sides? building a pillow fort?”

he raises an eyebrow. “you think we’re gonna touch in our sleep?”

“i don’t know. you look like a sprawler.”

he laughs again. “and you look like you steal blankets.”

you cross your arms. “you don’t know that.”

“i know everything,” he says, flipping open a water bottle. “remember that. you used to hate it.”

your jaw tightens. that tone—it’s familiar. sharp. testing. like he wants you to bite back.

you don’t. not yet.

“i’m not here to fight,” you say, turning toward the bathroom. “i just want to survive the weekend.”

he hums. noncommittal.

you close the door behind you, press your hands to the sink, and breathe.

ten years. ten years since you’ve seen him. since you both lost that stupid election and swore you’d never speak again. and now?

one bed.

you knew this weekend would be bad. but this? this is next-level inconvenient.

✧✧✧

you open the bathroom door and step out, still towel-drying your hair.

the air in the room hits cooler than you expect. damp skin prickles. you’re in a soft tee and sleep shorts, fresh-faced, lotion still tacky on your arms. for a second, you feel weirdly exposed. not naked, but… not guarded either. it's a vulnerability you weren’t planning on sharing with him, of all people.

schlatt is already on the bed.

sprawled. arms behind his head, long legs kicked out, one sock hanging half-off. he’s taken both pillows and stacked them under his neck like a king in exile. the tv’s on, muted, stuck on some late-night commercial for a law firm that handles tractor accidents.

you blink. “seriously?”

he looks over without moving. “what?”

“you’re taking up the whole bed.”

“i’m breaking it in.”

“move.”

“no.”

you toss your towel on the desk chair and walk to the side of the bed—your side, the side farthest from the window—and peel back the comforter, eyes darting at the mattress and really hoping it's clean.

schlatt watches you, barely holding back a grin. “you always get this cranky after a shower?”

you ignore him. slide under the sheets, still warm from the shower, and adjust your shirt. he doesn’t move over. not even a little. you’re both way too close. you, now under the blanket. him and his impossibly big form laying on top of it, making it a struggle to move at all.

“this is absurd,” you mutter.

“you could’ve stayed home,” he says. “nobody made you come.”

you shoot him a look. “please. you live for this kind of stuff. you probably packed a sharpie just in case someone asks for your autograph.”

“you think people ask for my autograph?”

“i think you think they do.”

"…well, maybe they will. i am famous."

"i guarantee you…no one watches your stupid little react videos."

he raises an eyebrow, glancing at you. "apparently, you do."

a beat passes.

you both glance at the tv. some poor guy just got awarded six hundred thousand dollars for a grain silo accident.

then—

a soft paper sound.

you both freeze.

there’s a thin white sheet being slid under the door.

schlatt sits up, slides off the bed and picks it up off the carpet. “well. here comes the circus.”

you watch him read it. his brows furrow. then raise. then he slowly hands it to you like it’s a cursed object.

you scan it.

welcome class of 2015! let’s make this weekend unforgettable!

✦ friday night: pizza mixer @ casa de ethan (byob, bring a lawn chair) ✦ saturday: – 9:30 am “casual kickback coffee circle” (location tbd) – 10:00 am mandatory group photo (wear class colors??) – 2:00 pm open gym (basketball tournament?) – 6:30 pm banquet (el rancho, semi-formal, pasta bar) ✦ sunday: reflections in the legacy room (brunch attire suggested)

you lower the paper slowly. “…he literally wrote ‘location tbd.’ for an event happening in the morning.”

schlatt leans back again, laughing under his breath. “you cannot make this shit up.”

you shake your head. “what the hell is a ‘casual kickback coffee circle?’”

“sounds like a cult's favorite morning sex position.”

you glance down the list again, ignore that comment. “‘brunch attire suggested?’ what even is brunch attire?”

“fancy but hungover.”

you groan and let the paper drop to your stomach. “this is gonna be a disaster.”

“wanna bail?”

you blink. “what, now?”

“i’m just saying,” he shrugs, arms still behind his head, “we go to the pizza thing, show face, and then spend the rest of the weekend getting drinks at a better hotel bar and people-watching.”

you look at him.

he’s serious.

and—for just a second—you kind of consider it. you look back and stare up at the ceiling for a long moment, paper still resting on your stomach. the room is dim except for the soft glow of the tv and the hallway light seeping in through the gap under the door.

“i do want to see a few people,” you say finally.

schlatt doesn’t move. “yeah?”

“yeah. i mean… i haven’t seen jess since college. and meera texted that she’s bringing her kid.” you shrug. “it’s been a long time.”

he’s quiet for a second. then: “they all hated me.”

you glance over. “they didn’t hate you.”

“they voted for ethan.”

“they voted for pizza.”

a short laugh leaves him. it’s tired. a little bitter. “he did bribe them with papa john’s during lunch rush. god. remember how personal that got?”

“which part?” you ask. “when you said i was a ‘pick-me, main character wannabe bitch’ or when i called you ‘a closeted megalomaniac narcissistic asshole’ in the middle of the quad?”

he groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. “jesus. i forgot about that.”

“you made me cry,” you say, not accusatory—just stating it. “not, like… a lot. but i went home and cried in the car.”

that makes him pause. his tone shifts. “i didn’t know that.”

you shrug. “no one did.”

schlatt sits up a little straighter, looking over at you now. “i took that whole thing way too seriously.”

you nod. “me too.”

there’s a beat of silence.

then he says, quieter: “i think it fucked me up more than i wanted to admit.”

your eyes find his. he doesn’t look away.

“i lost something that year,” he adds. “not just the vote. like—i don’t know. some kind of momentum. i thought it was supposed to mean something. that winning would fix… everything.”

you nod, because you understand exactly what he’s saying. “i felt like i had something to prove.”

“yeah. so did i.”

you both go quiet again.

outside, a car passes. somewhere down the hall, someone laughs too loudly. then nothing.

“you think ethan’s still proud of himself?” you ask, voice dry.

schlatt snorts. “he made a whole facebook post about the reunion, called himself the ‘architect of memories.’”

you groan, covering your face with both hands. “shut up. there's no way that's true.”

“it unfortunately is.”

there’s a flicker of something between you now. not forgiveness exactly—but recognition. a shared disappointment in how much you cared. how much it shaped you. how it still kind of lives in your bones.

“i don’t hate you,” you say suddenly.

he looks at you. like that caught him off guard.

you add, softer: “i wanted to. i really, really did. but i never did.”

he’s quiet.

then:

“…me neither.”

you don’t mean to look at him, but you do.

his jaw’s tight. he’s staring at the ceiling now, like there’s something up there he needs to focus on instead of this.

you shift, propping yourself up on one elbow. the sheets rustle.

“you know,” you say, carefully, “i used to think the only reason you went so hard in that election was because you hated me.”

schlatt doesn’t answer right away.

then: “that’s not why.”

you wait. he doesn’t elaborate.

so you push. “then what was it?”

he sighs. runs a hand through his hair, dragging it down his face. “you were good. like—annoyingly good. smart. organized. charismatic. people actually listened to you.”

you blink.

“you made me nervous,” he says, voice low. “like, if i didn’t push harder, i’d lose by a landslide.”

you let that settle. it shifts something in your chest.

“i thought you were a dick because you liked getting under my skin,” you admit. “like it was a game to you.”

schlatt lets out a breath, almost a laugh. “it was. kind of.”

you tilt your head. “what, like… playground teasing?”

“not exactly.”

you stare at him. he stares back.

the room’s too quiet. the air feels too warm.

“…i liked you,” he says, suddenly. “back then. after we both lost, i mean.”

you blink. you weren’t expecting that. not in those words.

he keeps going, slow but steady. “we still had to work together, remember? planning prom. setting up those stupid spirit weeks. every time i thought i was done with you, we got roped into something else.”

you do remember. endless afternoons spent arguing over themes, budget spreadsheets, teacher sign-offs. neither of you wanted ethan anywhere near the logistics, so you just… handled it yourselves.

“you didn’t act like you liked me,” you say, voice quieter now.

“i didn’t know how to,” he says. “everything about you made me feel like i had to prove something.”

you don’t say anything.

he shifts, one arm folding behind his head, the other resting over his chest. his voice drops a little.

“i’d go home and replay arguments in my head like an idiot. figure out the perfect comeback after the fact.”

you laugh once. “same.”

“really?”

“yeah,” you admit. “you made me feel small. and i hated that it mattered to me.”

he looks at you again. listening intently, his chocolate brown eyes studying you.

“i thought maybe if i kept pushing,” you add, “if i stayed ahead of you, i wouldn’t have to think about why i actually wanted your attention in the first place.”

schlatt’s quiet for a beat.

then: “so we were just two dumbass teenagers too proud to admit we wanted to kiss each other behind the bleachers.”

"ew, not there. like, the library or something," you say smiling, a little sad. “but, yes, basically.”

the room hums with the weight of that. with everything that didn’t happen.

and now?

you’re both older. a little softer. still messed up in some of the same ways—but the noise has faded. all that’s left is what’s real.

schlatt shifts closer—just barely. his thigh brushes yours through the sheets. he doesn’t pull away.

“can i ask you something?” he says, voice low.

you nod.

“did you want it to be me?”

you look at him. “what?”

“back then. did you want me to win?”

you blink. because yeah—yeah. somewhere under all that drive and resentment, you think part of you did.

“i definitely wanted to win,” you say honestly. “but… if it wasn’t gonna be me?”

you meet his eyes.

“it should’ve been you.”

something flickers there—something big. his fingers curl against the blanket. but he doesn’t push it. neither do you.

for a minute, the only sound is the dull hum of the ac and the soft creak of the bed frame whenever either of you shift slightly.

then he exhales.

“so…” he starts, “what’s your deal now?”

you raise an eyebrow. “my deal?”

he shrugs a shoulder against the pillow. “yeah. you’re here. alone. sleeping next to me in a hotel room that smells like feet and cheap lemons. what happened to the polished, high-functioning future congresswoman version of you?”

you huff out a laugh. “burned out, probably. somewhere between my third unpaid internship and the panic attacks.”

he doesn’t joke back. just nods. quiet.

you add, “i work in publishing now. not glamorous, but it pays the bills. and i get to tell other people when their writing sucks, so that’s something.”

he smiles. “still bossy.”

you nudge his leg with your knee, but you don’t deny it.

“what about you?” you ask. “you actually do youtube?”

“yeah,” he says, almost sheepish. “started as a joke. then it stuck. people liked it. i got a couple breaks. started doing more commentary stuff.”

“react videos,” you say, teasing.

“insightful react videos,” he corrects. “and vlogs, video essays, giving advice...but yeah. that. i got lucky.”

you’re both quiet again.

then, without really planning it, you ask: “you seeing anyone?”

he doesn’t answer right away. you can feel him shift next to you.

“no,” he says finally. “not for a while.”

you nod. “yeah. same.”

you don’t say more, but it’s there—between the lines. the weight of time. the difficulty of letting people close. of being understood. maybe even the fear that you already missed something important. maybe even this.

“been hard?” he asks softly.

you nod. “yeah.”

he turns his head to look at you. “why?”

you breathe in. “because i want to be known. but not… simplified. and that scares people, i think. or they lose interest when it gets complicated.”

he doesn’t tease you for it. doesn’t laugh.

instead, he says, “same.”

you both lay there. facing each other now. the bed too small, the space between you even smaller.

it doesn’t feel like high school anymore.

you're both adults, but this feeling…is nostalgic. familiar. nice.

the feeling of being seen. of feeling on the same level with someone.

schlatt shifts slightly, his voice low but a little brighter now. “so… ten years.”

you nod. “ten years.”

he hums like that number is still catching up to him. then he glances down, toward the edge of the blanket that’s draped over you. one corner tucked under your arm. one hand barely visible at your side.

his fingers reach out. tap lightly at the edge.

“permission to examine the hand of my former opponent?” he asks, mock-formal.

you roll your eyes but lift it anyway, letting your arm slide out from under the blanket. “you’re ridiculous.”

he cradles your hand gently in his palm, turning it slightly like he’s actually inspecting it. his fingers are big—warm and rough around the edges. yours fit in his easily.

“callouses,” he says, mock serious. “tense in the joints. likely from years of holding grudges and overachieving.”

you laugh, quiet and surprised.

he doesn’t let go.

his thumb brushes across your knuckles, slow. thoughtful.

then he shifts again, tightening his grip—not too hard. just enough to shake once, firm.

“truce?” he says, voice softer now.

you look at him.

and you nod.

“truce.”

the shake lingers. turns into holding again.

neither of you say anything for a while. the room hums with quiet—tv still muted, hallway noise distant, the soft buzz of the ac keeping everything wrapped in a low static.

eventually, schlatt shifts, eyes flicking toward the bathroom door. “i should shower.”

you nod, still curled under the blanket. “yeah.”

he doesn’t let go of your hand right away. just squeezes once, gently, before sliding out of bed. he grabs the gym shorts and wrinkled shirt from his duffel, then glances back at you. “try not to steal the whole bed while i’m gone.”

you smirk, already curling deeper into the sheets. “no promises.”

he disappears into the bathroom. the door clicks shut.

you stay still for a moment, letting the rhythm of the hotel room settle again. then you shift onto your side, facing the bathroom door. eyes closed, body warm, heartbeat weirdly steady.

you hear the water start. the dull pressure of the pipes groaning. a fan kicking on.

you don’t mean to drift, but you do—just hovering at the edge of sleep. the kind of tired that feels more like surrender than exhaustion.

you hear the bathroom door open again.

the soft steps as he comes back in. the room gets a little cooler. the light dims again.

then—

a pause.

sheets rustle. mattress creaks. you feel the bed dip beside you. but he doesn’t lay down all the way.

instead, there’s the weight of his elbow settling next to you. the sound of a breath—measured. careful.

and his voice, low and barely audible:

“i think i would’ve liked the last ten years a lot more if they’d had you in ’em.”

you don’t move.

your heart does, though. loudly.

you feel him shift again, starting to settle under the covers.

before he gets too far, you roll over, eyes still mostly closed, and press a soft kiss to his cheek.

he freezes.

you pull back just enough to whisper:

“good news,” you say, voice quiet but smiling. “our next ten years both have vacant positions. would you be willing to meet with me, perhaps an interview to see if i'm a good fit for what you're seeking.”

he turns his head slowly, eyes meeting yours in the dark. there’s a look there you haven’t seen from him before—not angry, not smug. just curious and intrigued.

“an interview, huh?” he murmurs, voice quiet, hoarse at the edges.

you nod, cheek still close to his. “thorough one. might take a few weeks. maybe months.”

his smile is soft now. “sounds like something i’d be willing to commit to.”

you hum, pleased. “you always were weirdly good at long-term projects.”

“i was just waiting for the right partner.”

that makes your stomach flip.

neither of you say anything after that.

you shift a little closer under the covers, your knees brushing his. he meets you there, settling in more fully beside you. the mattress dips. the blankets warm. it’s still that same creaky, questionably clean hotel bed—but suddenly it feels a little less awful.

he wraps an arm gently around your waist. not pulling. just there.

you tuck your hand against his chest, feel the steady rhythm of his heart. his nose brushes your hair. he exhales slow and even, like it’s the first time all night he’s really relaxed.

“night, rival,” he mumbles into your hair.

you smile. “night, landslide loser.”

he snorts. "we both are. we were never going to beat freshly delivered pizza."

"yeah…i guess so."

and that’s how the night ends:

tangled together. tired. not really looking forward to the mess that is ethan's "plans" tomorrow.

but at least you two idiots are finally figuring it out.

[colorlessjay]

Redrew old My Hero Academia OC Art

I reused the old pose cause I was genuinely proud of it

Now he actually looks like his age

lore:

Yeah this is still my OC Alex in the MHA universe. Shut up, I hate him

Anyways

Name: Alexander Giovanni

Hero name: FlashFire

Quirk: Flavor Fuel

Quirk Details:

The ability to transform his body into any matter of flammable fuel, depending on the flavor left in his mouth. Said fuel can then be ignited at his command, turning him into a ball of energy. Though in said state, all senses are null, leaving him senseless until he reforms into a solid state

Most parts of his suit are made up of synthesized fibers of his hair, letting them transform with his body at will

Hero Details:

Canadian Sidekick turned American ProHero, FlashFire made waves after his graduation at the top of his class, earning himself a notable reputation as a flashy (pun intended), overachieving, attention-seeking "bad boy"

A contrast to his sidekick, JackRabbit, a well-beloved "City Sweetheart" who easily works around FlashFire's erratic hero-ing

Both currently work under the Giovanni Industries' new American Hero Agency branch (Guilded Agency), already establishing themselves early in their careers. They have hired many new recruits to join their ranks, with FlashFire as the face of the Agency

However, things do take a sour turn when a new Villain manages to send JackRabbit to an early retirement, leaving FlashFire with shouldering the outcry from the public. His reputation quickly took a turn when he no longer had a sidekick to soften his persona

Not to mention, the new Villain has been let loose, breaking the Guilded Agency's streak of no loose ends and causing a flurry of rumors, speculations, and accusations to be thrown around

The Agency had to do damage control

And what better way to do that than to give FlashFire a sidekick who specializes in such a thing?

---

Anyways, boop

[kittydruthers]

would i be able to assume that college au kingdon get married relatively young? like mel is still in grad school by the time they get married?

1000% yes. They get married during Mel’s first year of med school while Frank is an R2. So she’s 22 and he’s 27 roughly at the time.

It’s something they’ve talked about abstractly for the future after Frank gets through his internship year and Mel is settled at med school they wanted to figure it out. Frank would be into the big wedding thing, but Mel really wants something small and intimate just them and their immediate families really. The idea of being Mrs. Langdon always makes Mel giddy. She’s practiced her signature a good few times is throwaway notebooks.

Except everything takes a big old turn for the worst when Mel’s mom gets sick. She’s finishing her senior year in undergrad, Frank is hundreds of miles away in Pittsburgh and her mom gets her cancer diagnosis and rapidly declines. Suddenly Mel is an orphan and she’s taking on all these responsibilities including being Becca’s primary caretaker largely by herself in the day to day, though Frank does what he can to support her and tries to come often when he has consecutive days off. It’s genuinely a pretty rough time for them both, Mel even more so.

When things are finally getting better in the fall with Mel and Becca settling in, in Pittsburgh with Frank they’re sorting through a lot of the realities in the aftermath. Money, work, school, Becca’s care. And the more they look at things the more sense it makes to just be married already. They share a life, they share everything really, it makes sense to share a name too. Frank also hates the fact that Mel’s insurance coverage has lapsed now and she won’t let him just pay out of pocket for it. But she will let him add her onto his insurance plan at work if they’re married. Her practicality continues to astound him sometimes.

He’s had the ring picked out for months. Showed it to Becca and to their mother before she’d passed. His original plan had been to ask after graduation but that got thrown out the window when everything turned inside out.

He cooks a romantic dinner for them and asks her over her favorite dessert in candlelight in their townhouse while she sits on his lap. He pulls out the two carat oval diamond in a vintage gold setting with small cluster stones on each side, not too ostentatious but perfectly suited for his sweetheart. Once he settles it on her finger she only takes it off in lab slipping it onto a chain around her neck or to sleep and shower.

They have a little courthouse wedding two months later with Becca and Frank’s parents and older sister and a meal out to celebrate. It’s not fancy, but it’s all they need. The honeymoon weekend they take is the best part.

On Monday back at the Pitt, Frank shows up with a gold band on his finger the nurses start to gossip about because no way is human tornado, Red Bull chugging, hot shot protege Frank Langdon married and they’ve never even heard about the girl (he’s been keeping it close to his chest, only shared with Robby and Collins and Dana. Mel is extremely precious to him and he doesn’t want his coworkers poking fun at her even through him).

Meanwhile Mel is the only girl in her class who’s that young and married. There’s some students who are a few older and who took breaks before going for their graduate education, and even some who’ve been divorced in the meantime. Someone makes a joke once that she’s practically a child bride and she almost drops the class before she gets talked off the ledge by Frank.

Sure it’s not typical. Nothing about them really is. But what does the noise matter when together they’re happy with the life they have?

[rosies-core]

what do you think some of the mha guys would be like in an american highschool? (ex stereotypes or sports they would play)

HIIII THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING THIS IS ACTUALLY SUCH A SILLY CUTE IDEA<33

• katsuki bakugo.

• i think for his stereotype he would fit as a jock, but also not completely???? like smart mean jock??? he wouldn’t be running around shoving people into lockers, ( except maybe he would ) but he would just be brooding in a corner with a jersey on.

• if someone tries to stop him from brooding he hisses. unless its his s/o, they would be brooding together <33

• for another part, he would probably be the type to show up to school on a fucking skateboard. bus? no, never heard of her. car? he threw it.

• he would also be the type to roast everything and everyone. especially cafeteria food, he is not fucking with that shit. will throw it against the wall, call it poisoned, maybe even literally call poison control if he’s feeling spicy.

• he’s also the leader in every group project. at first, nobody would trust him because he probably has never handed in a homework assignment in his life, but he would be the reason everyone gets A’s.

• last one, but he totally would flaunt his s/o. not in a disgusting way — just always cheering them on, giving them his jacket, cute stuff<3

• shoto todoroki.

• very quiet kid type, THE quiet kid of every class. except he wouldn’t be the one who would be carrying around a glock, he is just sleepy probably.

• totally in a book club with izuku, they are both genuinely friends with the librarian and enjoy organising the books. if there is a book limit in the library it doesn’t apply to him. he also probably hides there before he has a presentation, baby hates public speaking☹️

• always napping, but still has amazing grades.

• probably favourited by the teachers.

• also maybe in soccer??? maybe???

• i can picture him giving presentations in the most deadpan way, but the presentation itself will be the goofiest shit ever. like photos of katsuki doing backflips and using him as an example to “follow the rules” ( he gets a standing ovation ) ( and a black eye from someone……. )

• izuku midoriya.

• he is definitely in track. no doubt. he takes P.E. very seriously and will scream if you get out in dodge ball, hard to say if the gym teacher hates him or adores him.

• HE IS ALSO SO THE TYPE TO WALK YOU TO THE NURSE😭😭 even if you’re completely fine, it’s his way of bonding with you.

• as for stereotypes, i think he would fit into the nerd spot. always raising his hand, but not in a “look at me!!” way, he’s just genuinely smart 😭 probably offers to tutor other classmates, or maybe even give you test answers if you convince him its not cheating.

• like i said earlier, he takes P.E. way too seriously, but he would also be shouting anime references. bro is saying shit like “turn the zero into a one guys……….PLUS ULTRA!!” *falls on his face*

• a regular at the nurse.

• he also brings his own lunches and flinches when katsuki murders cafeteria food ( and maybe the lunch lady as well )

• denki kaminari.

• ART CLUB🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳

• ADHD as FUUCK. like upside down in his chairs, screaming at teachers, literally throwing pencils in the ceiling ( really good aim btw )

• like hitoshi, he would start a “bring your pet to school” campaign, but for his fucking ferret.

• cheats on every test, LIKE EVERY. also he will eat the cafeteria food with a straight face.

• probably always hungry, eating snacks in class so proudly you would think it was allowed. teachers definitely say shit daily to him like “you wont die from being hungry for two hours.” ( but then he faints and its they’re fault. )

• hitoshi shinsou.

• no. 1 hater of the school bathrooms.

• he would start a campaign for “bring your pet to school days” ( for his cat )

• he would also be the type to dye and cut hair in school 😭 text people like “show up to classroom B.” and gives them a mullet for 20 bucks.

• like shoto, he is known as the quiet kid, but is actually the one to bring a glock to school. ( kidding! unless..? )

• sleepy boy. shows up to his favourite teachers classroom and naps, they are weirdly used to it. he also definitely is late to school the majority of time, walks in with such a heavy sigh you’d think he aged 40 years overnight.

• probably excels in writing and got into the gifted class but failed out of it on purpose because he didn’t like the extra work, lmao

• isn’t in any after school clubs and kinda hates them.

[k1llerfr0sst]

“Batman’s refusal to kill, even when it means allowing known murderers to kill again, is not heroic—it’s selfish. Take the Joker. How many times has Batman caught him, only for him to escape and massacre innocent people? Batman knows Joker will never change, never be contained. Yet still, he insists on letting him live. And every time, more people die. There’s nothing moral about that—just arrogance."

A character analysis on Batman’s moral absolutism vs. real-world consequences. (+ Red Hood’s form of justice as a ideological opposite)

CONTENT WARNINGS

Violence (Physical harm, murder, brutality)

- Graphic depictions of violence, especially when discussing Batman and Red Hood’s actions in their idea of justice, and how aggressive the prison-industry complex is to both abusers and victims.

- Includes discussions about Batman’s refusal to kill versus Red Hood’s more lethal approach, the justification of murder, and the Jokers murders (especially around Jason Todd)

Systemic Inequality & Prison/Justice System

- References to systemic issues, corruption in Gotham, and parallels with real-world institutions like the American police system.

- Critique of the criminal justice system, including prisons and the portrayal of Arkham Asylum as a stand-in for the prison-industrial complex.

- References to the issues within Gotham and real-world parallels, particularly how Batman’s privilege as a billionaire impacts his choices.

Trauma & Mental Illness

- Batman’s trauma from the death of his parents and Red Hood’s trauma from being killed and resurrected.

- References to how distressing mental health causes crimes and needs to be systematically normalized and helped.

DISCLAIMER: Please don’t take this as a personal attack against your favorite character or however you relate to them, this is not intended as hate or to call these characters bad or unherolike, just a leftist perspective on how they could improve on their justice systems.

READ ME HERE (BATMAN)

I’ve started to unintentionally hate Batman. For years he's upheld an image of being the ultimate moralist—a man who doesn’t kill, who stands for justice above vengeance. But the more I think critically about it, the more that this entire persona feels hollow. It rests on the back of his privilege. Bruce Wayne is a billionaire—an upper-class white man—and that bleeds into everything he does as Batman

His version of “justice” is deeply entangled with the law; a law that we know is broken, corrupt, and biased—especially in Gotham, where police and political officials are explicitly and obviously on mob payrolls or worse. Yet Batman still aligns himself with these institutions. He acts as though he’s separate from them, a moral force outside the system, but he works with the police, he uses their channels, and he lets the courts handle people he captures.

One of his famous lines is that he isn’t "judge, jury, and executioner," but that’s exactly what he is. He decides who deserves to be chased, who deserves to be brutalized, and who deserves to be locked up. And with his intelligence, he absolutely knows what will happen to these people. He knows the horrors of jail. He knows who will die, who will rot, and who will eventually escape. He calculates all of that information into his moral code and decides what he thinks is a fit punishment for a crime—something is not his choice to make.

It’s a moral fantasy built on ego. His refusal to kill is often painted as strength or principle, but it's ultimately about preserving his image of himself. “I won’t become like them” sounds noble until you realize it’s less about ethics and more about identity. He wants to believe he’s better. That he's somehow untouched by the violence he enacts. But refusing to kill, even when it means allowing known murderers to kill again, is not heroic—it’s selfish.

Take the Joker. How many times has Batman caught him, only for him to escape and massacre dozens or hundreds of innocent people? Batman knows Joker will never change. He knows the system will never contain him. And still, he insists on letting him live. And every time, more people die. There’s nothing moral about that—just arrogance. In theory, yes, everyone deserves a second chance. But Batman isn’t a philosopher, and his world isn’t built to support healing and second chances, it’s made to punish and brutalize. Batman is supposed to be a protector of innocents. That’s his job, and he has to make the hard decisions. He has to choose what is better for the people despite his morals. Not out of vengeance, but out of necessity. When you're entrusted with protecting lives, you don’t get to hide behind moral absolutism while people suffer.

He becomes a symbol of a certain kind of ideology. A rich man who beats up the poor and mentally ill while refusing to address the root causes of Gotham’s problems, many of which he profits from as Bruce Wayne. And people adore him for it because he makes them feel like justice can exist without sacrifice (without confronting one’s own complicity, without personal moral failure) But real justice? It’s messy. It's not about looking clean while doing what's easy—it’s about doing what's right, even when it’s ugly.

Honestly he’s a direct reflection of American policing, especially the way it's idealized in media.

A man who works outside the law but still collaborates with the police, who uses surveillance tech, torture like interrogation methods, and physical force with little to no oversight. He embodies the fantasy of a "good guy with power" who uses violence to “keep order,” even if that order is deeply broken.

Batman decides who the threat is. Just like the police often do. He targets “criminals” without addressing why crime exists. Gotham is filled with poverty, systemic corruption, cycles of abuse, and mental illness. But instead of investing in infrastructure, mental healthcare, or community safety, Batman punches muggers in alleys and throws mentally ill people in Arkham Asylum—a place that’s basically a stand-in for the American prison-industrial complex. And then he walks away like the problem is solved. (Don’t get me wrong, in the newer comics he does act more radically, and explores a modern solution, and I’ll talk about that in a bit.)

That’s American policing. A reactive force that rarely prevents violence and almost never addresses root causes. Like Batman, American cops claim to "serve and protect," but what they actually do is punish and control. And when they fail—when people die, when prisons overflow, when violence continues—they don’t take accountability. They say the system needs more funding, more weapons, more power.

And let’s not forget that Bruce Wayne is a billionaire. He could actually “fix” Gotham. Fund housing, education, mental health clinics, jobs. But he doesn’t. Because that wouldn’t give him the same emotional satisfaction as suiting up and punching someone through a wall. It wouldn’t maintain the fantasy of being both traumatized and righteous.

Batman believes that he alone knows what’s right. That’s dangerous. It mirrors the mindset of American cops who believe they’re above the law because they ARE the law. No matter how many times Batman causes collateral damage or perpetuates Gotham’s suffering, the narrative always forgives him. Just like how police are almost never held accountable for systemic failure or brutality. Because the myth of the hero must be protected—even if the people suffer for it.

But to be fair in more recent comics there’s been a noticeable shift in how Batman is written—especially as writers and readers alike become more critical of the capitalist, conservative and authoritarian elements that defined him for decades. DC is starting to fiddle with the uncomfortable truth that Batman, in many ways, mirrors the failures of real-world policing and systemic inequality. And some newer stories have made deliberate moves to challenge that.

Modern Batman isn’t as rigid, detached, or brutal as he used to be. Some writers have started to explore a more self-aware Bruce Wayne—someone who’s actually engaging with his privilege and trying to do better, not just punch harder. He’s been funding social programs in Gotham, building better mental health infrastructure, and working with marginalized groups and vigilantes from the streets who don’t have the luxury of billion-dollar tech. In some issues, he’s even explicitly shifted away from working with the GCPD because he recognizes how corrupt and violent they are.

Even with all the recent character growth, where Batman is more compassionate, more socially aware, and even funding progressive infrastructure—he’s still deeply entangled in a system built on corruption. That’s the trap of his character. Because no matter how much he personally evolves, Batman still believes in law as the ultimate tool of justice, it’s a key point of his character, but the law itself is inherently flawed.

He might recognize that the Gotham Police Department is corrupt. He might distance himself from them, or even call them out. But he still puts people into prisons. He still trusts institutions like Arkham Asylum. He still believes that the system, if just operated by the “right people,” will work. That’s the fantasy—one rooted in liberalism: that reform is enough. That institutions are neutral. That the problem is bad actors, not the structure itself.

But in Gotham—and in America specifically—those structures were never neutral to begin with (Police beginning as slave patrols, prisons starting as a system of punishment and labor exploitation, with the post-slavery convict leasing system re-enslaving Black people for forced labor, etc). Arkham doesn't rehabilitate, it tortures. Prisons don’t reform, they disappear and isolate people. Cops don’t keep communities safe, they uphold power. And even when Batman tries to fix things—fund shelters, mental health clinics, community initiatives—he's doing it all through the lens of a benevolent billionaire. He’s still deciding what gets funded, who gets saved, what justice looks like. That’s not liberation, that's control.

So despite Batman becoming more left-leaning in modern stories, as long as he still operates within the same legal and moral framework—one that centers punishment, isolation, and billionaire saviorism—he’ll always be upholding the same system he claims to fight.

Because Batman’s core dilemma isn’t just “should I kill or not?” It’s “can I protect the people without tearing down the very system that keeps hurting them?”

And so far he hasn't had the guts to answer that

READ ME HERE (RED HOOD)

Red Hood is often held up as the ideological opposite to Batman—and for good reason. Where Batman refuses to kill, Red Hood kills without hesitation. He doesn’t believe in Arkham, or the courts, or second chances. He knows the system is corrupt and that it lets criminals walk free. And unlike Bruce, Hood doesn’t just acknowledge that, he acts on it.

In that way, Red Hood is more grounded in reality. He sees the failures of the legal system and doesn’t pretend reform is coming. He knows the Joker will never change. He knows serial rapists, abusers, pedophiles, and crime lords will slip through the cracks. So he picks up a gun and says, “I’ll do what Batman won’t.” He puts them down permanently, claiming he’s protecting the innocent by removing those beyond saving.

At first glance it feels righteous. Like he's the honest version of Batman—no more moral gymnastics, no more tying up murderers for the cops to mishandle. But dig deeper and Red Hood isn’t doing the right thing. He’s just doing what feels right. His justice isn’t based on principles—it’s based on anger

Because Red Hood isn’t actually fixing anything. He’s deciding who deserves to live and who deserves to die. He’s not just killing genocidal unchangeable supervillain warlords—he’s killing street-level criminals, dealers, gang members, people he sees as “irredeemable.” He becomes judge, jury, and executioner—but not from a place of balance or mercy, only vengeance. He’s operating from his trauma, not from a higher moral ground. And that’s dangerous.

This makes him less like an antihero and more like a metaphor for a frustrated, disillusioned liberal society (which reflects most of Americans today)—one that sees how corrupt everything is, but channels its rage in a way that doesn’t build anything. It’s the mindset of: “Burn it down, they’re all scum anyway.” It recognizes the system is irredeemable, but instead of imagining better systems, it just replaces institutional violence with personal violence. It feels radical, but it’s just another form of control.

Red Hood doesn’t protect people—he punishes. And that distinction matters.

Real justice isn’t about who deserves to be saved. It’s about asking why people become who they are, and whether we can build a world where they never have to. Red Hood doesn't want to build anything—he just wants to destroy what he hates. And that might be satisfying, but it isn’t stopping abusers from becoming abusers, just stopping them after the fact.

Murdering criminals as a form of punishment may feel like satisfying revenge but it ultimately fails to deliver true justice. Justice isn’t about causing more pain or balancing one person’s suffering with another’s. Inflicting harm in response to harm doesn’t undo the original damage—it only spreads trauma and perpetuates cycles of violence. When society chooses execution, isolation, or jail over rehabilitation, it sacrifices long-term safety and healing for short-term emotional relief. True justice must go beyond punishment to prevent further harm

At this point in time, both in real life and in the comics—choosing, or acting on revenge over rehabilitation is not just a personal preference; it’s an active choice that harms survivors

When society or characters prioritize punishment and retribution above healing and accountability, they reinforce cycles of violence that make survivors less safe, not more. Revenge focuses on making the offender suffer and ignores the real needs of survivors. It also distracts from addressing the root causes of harm, such as mental illness and systemic failures.

Rehabilitation recognizes that people who commit crimes, even serious ones like rape and murder, are human beings with rights and lives and capable of change.

While some offenders may never fully repair the damage they caused they can learn, grow, and reintegrate into society when given the right support and accountability. This process centers on accountability—not erasing or excusing wrongdoing—but on transformation, prevention, and restoration. It allows everyone to heal without witnessing endless cycles of violence and vengeance. Most importantly, rehabilitation aims to protect future potential victims by addressing root causes of harmful behavior rather than simply removing some offenders from society and furthering abuse

But I do agree there are situations that would require Red Hood’s methods. Like the Joker: people who have been given several chances at positive change, who cannot be kept institutionalized because they keep escaping, and who continue to hurt masses of people. Because despite what would be a radical and better solution then what Hood or Batman does, there is not a system or a society currently that could provide that for extreme re-offenders, and people like the Joker.

Morally and socially, I don’t believe in murder to control or govern a people, but it is his job to protect the innocents, and sometimes he has to make the morally incorrect choice for them.

In the end, despite their different ways, both Batman and Red Hood participate and actively support the system that causes violence in Gotham by refusing to dismantle or fundamentally challenge the corrupt institutions and social structures that enable that violence to start. They focus on fighting symptoms rather than addressing root causes, because doing so would force them to give up their control, their sense of purpose, and the clear-cut identity they’ve built around being vigilantes.

Further Explanation of Rehabilitation over Revenge

Rehabilitation is ultimately more effective than revenge because revenge, especially in the case of severe crimes like abuse and rape, is driven by emotion—a desire for justice, closure, or punishment that may feel satisfying in the moment but doesn’t address the root causes of the harm. Executing or punishing a criminal may temporarily provide a sense of justice or emotional relief for survivors, but it doesn’t stop the cycle of violence, nor does it help the abuser confront and work through the underlying factors that led to their harmful behavior.

Rehabilitation, on the other hand, focuses on understanding what caused the harm in the first place—whether it’s trauma, learned behavior, mental health issues, or societal influences—and actively working to address these root causes. By providing support like therapy, accountability, and education, rehabilitation offers the potential for change, reducing the likelihood of reoffending and helping the individual understand the impact of their actions.

Rather than continuing the cycle of violence through punishment, rehabilitation opens the possibility of healing—for both the survivor and the abuser. When abusers and rapists are given the tools to acknowledge their actions, understand the harm they’ve caused, and take responsibility, they have a better chance of reintegrating into society without perpetuating the same harm. This is a more logical, compassionate, and long-term solution than simply resorting to retribution, which only perpetuates further trauma and violence.

Thank you so much for reading!

Originally posted on my ao3 account

[seeyousoonnnnnn]

…

the bus let her off in front of a building that looked more like a hospital than a dorm — all gray stone and long windows with nothing behind them. sihloh pulled her hoodie tighter and dragged her suitcase up the steps. she already hated the way the cold bit into her skin.

her name was taped to the dorm roster in sloppy marker: room 206 – sihloh jackson.

the door creaked when she opened it.

and there she was.

billie eilish. in the flesh. slouched against the far wall, legs stretched out, hood pulled low, one red earbud tucked in. the other dangled by her chest, still attached to a phone covered in cracked stickers. she didn't look up.

her side of the room was soaked in red light. LED strips ran like veins across the ceiling, dripping soft crimson onto her bed, her desk, her black bedsheets. the smell of sharp perfume and something burnt hung in the air.

posters covered her wall — torn-out magazine pages, messy collages of bands and models, phrases scrawled in pen like:

don't look at me

don't touch my sh*t

don't be annoying.

sihloh hesitated in the doorway, suitcase still clutched in her hand.

"hi," she said. soft. careful.

no answer.

she crossed to the other side — the only other bed — and set her stuff down. her side was empty. too clean. bare walls, dark blue comforter, navy pillowcase from home. she unpacked slowly. a ceramic mug with stars on it. a string of tiny paper moons. she pinned up two polaroids: one of the sky, and one of a girl with curly hair — someone who used to feel like forever.

the contrast between their spaces was stark.

red vs blue.

messy vs quiet.

closed-off vs almost trying.

when sihloh plugged in her own set of lights — soft blue — they lit her wall like dusk. she caught a glimpse of billie turning her head slightly. not enough to look. just enough to notice.

a beat passed.

billie stood without a word, crossed to her dresser, and yanked out a black hoodie. her shoulder bumped sihloh's as she passed. not hard. not soft either. like she didn't see her, or like she saw her too much.

the door slammed behind her.

✧

sihloh met her first friends in the cafeteria.

a girl named macy with butterfly clips and a loud laugh, and a boy named jules who wore eyeliner and had a lip ring even though it was against the rules. they sat together at lunch, sharing cold fries and stories about the school.

"room 206?" macy said, eyes wide. "you're with billie?"

sihloh nodded, chewing slowly.

"she's, like... scary," jules added. "not loud scary. just—"

he shivered. "scary scary."

"she hasn't really said anything to me," sihloh admitted.

they both looked at her.

"wait," macy said. "she didn't call you anything? no nickname? no weird stare?"

"she barely looked at me."

"that's... weird."

"she called me a fake barbie the first day of class," jules said. "and i wasn't even talking to her."

"maybe she's mellowing out," sihloh offered.

macy snorted. "billie eilish doesn't mellow. she explodes or ignores."

sihloh didn't answer. she just sipped her water and looked out the window.

✧

that night, the dorm room was heavy with silence.

billie came back late. sihloh was already in bed, lights dimmed to soft blue. she watched from the corner of her eye as billie kicked off her shoes and pulled her hoodie over her head in one motion. she moved like someone used to being alone. everything she did was fast, quiet, practiced.

she plugged her earbuds back in and lay on her back, staring at the red lights.

"do you hate blue?" sihloh asked, before she could stop herself.

billie didn't turn. didn't flinch.

just said, "yeah."

that was all.

"do you want me to change them?" sihloh offered.

a long pause.

"...no," billie muttered. "it's whatever."

and it stayed like that. red on one side. blue on the other. a silent war of light and mood and something else that sihloh couldn't name.

✧

a week passed.

billie still didn't talk to her. but she didn't bully her either. not like she did with the others — jules, who now flinched every time she walked past; or trina, who dropped her books and didn't pick them up fast enough and earned a brutal smirk and an "aw, poor thing."

but sihloh? she just... existed.

billie would walk past her and go completely still. like she refused to look. or couldn't.

in class, their names would get called one after the other.

"eilish."

"jackson."

and billie's jaw would tighten like it physically bothered her.

but still—nothing.

no insult. no shove. no cruel smirk.

and it was starting to get under sihloh's skin. not in a scared way. in a why me? kind of way.

✧

friday night, after lights out, sihloh couldn't sleep.

she rolled over and whispered, "billie?"

no answer.

"...why don't you hate me?"

for a second, she thought billie hadn't heard. she started to roll back.

then, from the other bed, quiet as a ghost:

"who says i don't?"

[alastors-totally-canon-deertail]

Oh my god! Thank you! The way people portray Lucifer as a soft boi and the helpless victim to Alastor’s bully drives me up the wall sometimes.

Like guys, this is the literal devil. The actual embodiment of pride.

He is not an innocent participant in whatever he and Alastor got going on. Or did we forget he doesn’t like sinners, he signed off on the exterminations, and he’s thousands of years old.

I think he can handle himself just fine.

I hate seeing interactions between him and Alastor where Alastor is being a big bad meanie to poor widdle Luci.

They are both petty assholes and they both give as good as they get. And that’s what makes their dynamic so fun! Them being catty bitches to each other.

If anything Alastor’s the one at a disadvantage. Lucifer would realistically be the bully and the only reason Alastor is not a victim is because he doesn’t allow himself to be one.

He will punch above his weight class cause he got it like that.

I've noticed in a lot of fanwork with Alastor and Lucifer that it's common to portray Alastor as the aggressor and Lucifer as the one who simply retaliates. However I think a lot of people forget that, if we look back at episode 5 again, it's actually Lucifer who is the main antagonisor, not Alastor.

Alastor is clearly inwardly seething about something even before Lucifer arrives and is in a foul mood for most of the episode, and perhaps this is aimed at Lucifer to an extent given he scowls at seeing everyone prepare for Lucifer's visit and again when Lucifer arrives at the door to the point where his eye is twitching. However, Alastor says nothing and the two don't acknowledge each other (perhaps because Lucifer is focused on Charlie).

That doesn't happen until Lucifer openly insults the decor - work that Alastor did even though he doesn't want to and is invested in as a result - in saying "what in the unholy hell is that?" In response, Alastor explains about the renovations and prompts with a question of it adding colour, which is something Lucifer can easily respond to without being a jerk or looking bad, whether Alastor intended to give him a chance to be civil or not. One would hope Lucifer would take that chance and make at least an effort to coexist with Charlie's staff and residents, if only for his daughter's sake. Instead, Lucifer derisively asks Alastor who he is with instant condescension before he even knows a single thing about Alastor.

Alastor gets more rude by teleporting right behind Lucifer and shaking Lucifer's cane rather than his hand, and then wiping his own hand on his own coat. He is being petty here, and we know it because we know him, but Lucifer does not. There are other explanations for this behaviour, such as Alastor being a germophobe for example, or really not liking touch which is even true. That's the point of passive-aggressive behaviour. The antagonism is not in the open.

So far, Lucifer has no substantial justified reason to be rude and disrespectful. And yet, his next question is not only condescending this time but classist as well. He clearly did not ask if Alastor is a bellhop because he considers that to be a valuable job that deserves respect, and projects that attitude onto Alastor by association, making it very clear exactly what he thinks of Alastor.

Despite this, Alastor does not insult him back. He simply corrects Lucifer about his role and semi introduces himself by mentioning the radio show he is known for. This is another thing Lucifer can politely respond to even if he doesn't know Alastor by reputation, and another opportunity for Lucifer to stop being hostile and save face without looking weak. He does not take it. Instead he calls Alastor a has-been. Alastor corrects that he actually named the hotel. Lucifer pointedly changes his mind about the name, insulting Alastor yet again by saying the name isn't very clever. It is only then that Alastor finally loses enough patience to insult Lucifer back and make deliberate attempts to get under Lucifer's skin. It does make Alastor look kind of weak for a radio host and master manipulator who is supposedly skilled with words to not have a good comeback and to be unsettled so easily by petty jabs, but Lucifer was being worse than petty in this scene and I don't blame Alastor for feeling indignant at the constant and blatant disrespect. Anyone would be.

This dynamic continues into the "Hell's Greatest Dad" sequence. Lucifer calls Alastor a busboy, manhandles him, "fries" him with a gleeful smirk, and makes a show of displaying Alastor's decapitated head not once but twice. Right in front of Charlie, to both her and Alastor's discomfort. For Alastor's part, he once again does not insult Lucifer and only goes as far as needling him about his insecurities regarding Charlie. Petty, but nowhere near the same level of vitriol.

Even the most charitable takes of Lucifer wanting Charlie to introduce him to the other residents later to avoid a fight and wanting to protect Charlie from Alastor’s manipulations don't hold water when Lucifer has already turned down multiple chances at civility and took every chance to be insulting, and the fact that Alastor is manipulating Charlie is never once acknowledged in this context. Alastor is the bigger person here, and demonstrates a lot more patience and civility than Lucifer does. Of course, neither of them are saints by any means, but Alastor has far more justified reasons for disliking Lucifer than Lucifer does to dislike Alastor.

[egophiliac]

Hello ! I positively adore the running joke of Idia unknowingly finding Lilia to be the coolest guy ever whenever he doesn't know it's him, like when Silver described his father, or obviously with muscle red. I can't say what'd be funnier, Idia finding out his online best friend is actually Lilia, resident spooky hyper fairy; or them both never finding out, and it'd become even more ridiculous as time goes on. How do you think it'll play out ? You're always so on point

(Also, though it makes sense, I'm still devastated bat boy didn't get a ticket for the Halloween skeleton train : ( does anyone mentions him at some point ? Like how he'd have fit right in with all those Halloween town little freaks, and how he'd have impressed them with his spooks and scared techniques; after all he's been every Briar Valley's children worst fear on Halloween for centuries. I'm on the eng server and I didn't wanna spoil myself by watching the whole thing on youtube)

Have a nice day !

you and me both, Idia and Lilia being oblivious online BFFs (+ Idia being incredibly intimidated any time Silver brings up his jock gamer dad) is my favorite running joke/subplot. 🤝 it's SO good, to the point where I also am unsure if I actually want it to ever be resolved or not...maybe, like, as a post-canon stinger or something? everyone's standing around covered in overblot ink, and Idia and Lilia's phones go off at the same time...

(legit I do think this is part of why Idia couldn't be present for Lilia's dream, because for some reason Lilia decided he was going to just. embody his past self online. he probably quotes his own battle strategies or whatever in the middle of boss fights. Idia didn't pick up on the whole "oh how weird that we both live on a super remote island" thing, but he would spend thirty seconds listening to General Lilia describing siege warfare and be like "w-wait")

all that aside, however it does end up happening, I do see Lilia being very blasé and all "oh! cool!" about it. y'know, taking it very much in stride! and Idia...very much not.

(can't tell if tumblr is going to chew this into illegibility or not, this will be a fun surprise ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ)

as for Lilia sadly missing out on Halloweentown shenanigans...he does get one little mention as part of an offhand reference to the light music club, but so far no one has brought up how this basically is just Lost In the Book of Liliatown (Sebek's been too busy yelling about not getting to be in the same group as Malleus). 😔 honestly though, it's probably for the best that he got left out, because he would just settle right in and refuse to ever leave. canon would shatter. we would miss out on all the delightful angst of episode 7 because Lilia is too busy eating poisonous shrubbery inbetween practicing his very best screams, and no one can pull him away from it.

(I can hope for a sequel next year though...)