#usually the rich members are one of these two
Text
One of my all-time favorite antagonist organizations in the entirety of DC is the Court of Owls, and it's a guarantee that I'll eat up anything that features them. But my favorite thing in regards to them is the fact that Dick Grayson could've very easily been a Talon.
Case and point!
I dislike the New 52 era of DC for a number of reasons, but one thing I do think they got right was specifically how they handled the Court of Owls in regards to both Bruce and Dick, and the dialogue in this sequence here is some of the best in my opinion purely because of the reveal of what could've been had Bruce been just a little later to bringing Dick into his home.
If you look at Nightwing and consider just how powerful he is on his own as an unaltered human, and if you look at the Talons and how viciously deadly they were against the various members of Batman's family, and then you combine them?
Obviously, taking into account the different way Dick would've been raised means assuming he would lose some of his leadership and detective capabilities because— considering that Talons are all essentially mindless assassins that have to be told what to do and when to do it at every moment— he never would've had the opportunity to be an individual, or to be a leader, or to have thoughts for himself that would allow him to problem solve.
But if we're looking at lethality specifically, substituting those features for the electrum injections that would give him superhuman healing and senses, and the training that would teach him to disregard pain and emotions would remove the human limitations that he would be otherwise restricted by.
Combined with Dick's acrobatic flexibility (assuming the Court would allow him to continue maintaining it, with its many uses and advantages), the Court's training to withstand a multitude of different circumstances in battle would turn him into one of the most useful weapons in their arsenal.
The imagery of the Talons, as seen above, is also incredibly fitting to the themes of Dick throughout the years. The most glaring and obvious of which is the bird symbolism, which I'll refrain from going into detail about because of how obvious it is.
But there is definitely a fairytale-esque quality to them with the nursery rhyme that, in my opinion, fits very well with Dick's upbringing in a circus.
Circuses are often all about maintaining a certain level of illusion, painting a picture to portray a story about each act that is, usually, exaggerated for the sake of entertainment. Similarly, the Court utilizes the belief that they're nothing more than a wives' tale to allow them to continue operating from the shadows. At the same time, the rhyme itself paints them as this otherworldly, all-knowing, all-powerful entity and dissuades any thoughts of acting against them on the off chance that someone does believe they really exist. It's whimsy, in the same way that a circus is, because they're using a story and attempting to make the most of how people receive said story.
The story parallels to Dick becoming a Talon instead of Robin also scratches a very particular itch in my brain. There are two paths, but both of them are intrinsically interwoven with Gotham and Batman.
Dick becoming Robin means him joining Batman on the side of protecting Gotham and her denizens from harm and injustice. He doesn't kill because Batman and Robin aren't the judge, the jury, and the executioner. He maintains his humanity despite the literal physical limitations of a human body and the mental and emotional burdens that come with having free thought, morals, and ethics to take into account.
But Dick becoming Talon means joining Cobb and the Court also on the side of Gotham, but from a different perspective. The Court is made up of Gotham's elite— the rich, famous, and powerful who all want control but don't want the target on their back from being publicly in control. He'd be maintaining the skewed perception of what is just and unjust that the Court instills within him. In turn, this would mean fighting against Batman, who undeniably goes against the wishes of the Court's members who profit and benefit from the corruption of Gotham.
There is a sense of devotion that makes them different sides of the same coin, however. The Talons are tortured and brainwashed into submission, forced to ask "how high" when told to jump. Dick throughout his various comic appearances, has shown his intense loyalty to Bruce— a loyalty that rivals that same devotion of the Talons to the Court, especially in his younger years as Robin.
In conclusion to this tangent, Dick Grayson becoming a Talon was meant to happen, that is undeniable, but Bruce Wayne stepping in and stopping that (albeit unknowingly) is the only reason the Court doesn't have a near undefeatable weapon to use as they see fit.
Which just makes me wonder what other disastrous outcomes were avoided by Bruce taking in the other children.
#dick grayson#dc comics#nightwing#robin#batman#bruce wayne#court of owls#talon#the new 52 and i have beef but i will begrudgingly admit to loving how it handled the court of owls
23 notes
·
View notes
Text
Its giving major fructose father vibes 🙄👉🏻👈🏻
#idek what the bottom left photo is...#is it some expensive blow drier or something?#but damn....#but im wondering.... how is he so rich?#like... is he collecting song royalties? or does he get lots of ad campaigns?#usually the rich members are one of these two#he doesnt look like a trust fund kid... but u never know🙄#scoups#seventeen
168 notes
·
View notes
Text
"The studios thought they could handle a strike. They might end up sparking a revolution"
by Mary McNamara
"If you want to start a revolution, tell your workers you’d rather see them lose their homes than offer them fair wages. Then lecture them about how their “unrealistic” demands are “disruptive” to the industry, not to mention disturbing your revels at Versailles, er, Sun Valley.
Honestly, watching the studios turn one strike into two makes you wonder whether any of their executives have ever seen a movie or watched a television show. Scenes of rich overlords sipping Champagne and acting irritated while the crowd howls for bread rarely end well for the Champagne sippers.
This spring, it sometimes seemed like the Hollywood studios represented by the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers were actively itching for a writers’ strike. Speculations about why, exactly, ran the gamut: Perhaps it would save a little money in the short run and show the Writers Guild of America (perceived as cocky after its recent ability to force agents out of the packaging business) who’s boss.
More obviously, it might secure the least costly compromise on issues like residuals payments and transparency about viewership.
But the 20,000 members of the WGA are not the only people who, having had their lives and livelihoods upended by the streaming model, want fair pay and assurances about the use of artificial intelligence, among other sticking points. The 160,000 members of the Screen Actors Guild-American Federation of Television and Radio Artists share many of the writers’ concerns. And recent unforced errors by studio executives, named and anonymous, have suddenly transformed a fight the studios were spoiling for into a public relations war they cannot win.
Even as SAG-AFTRA representatives were seeing a majority of their demands rejected despite a nearly unanimous strike vote, a Deadline story quoted unnamed executives detailing a strategy to bleed striking writers until they come crawling back.
Days later, when an actors’ strike seemed imminent, Disney Chief Executive Bob Iger took time away from the Sun Valley Conference in Idaho not to offer compromise but to lecture. He told CNBC’s David Faber that the unions’ refusal to help out the studios by taking a lesser deal is “very disturbing to me.”
“There’s a level of expectation that they have that is just not realistic,” Iger said. “And they are adding to the set of the challenges that this business is already facing that is, quite frankly, very disruptive.”
If Iger thought his attempt to exec-splain the situation would make actors think twice about walking out, he was very much mistaken. Instead, he handed SAG-AFTRA President Fran Drescher the perfect opportunity for the kind of speech usually shouted atop the barricades.
“We are the victims here,” she said Thursday, marking the start of the actors’ strike. “We are being victimized by a very greedy entity. I am shocked by the way the people that we have been in business with are treating us. I cannot believe it, quite frankly: How far apart we are on so many things. How they plead poverty, that they’re losing money left and right, when giving hundreds of millions of dollars to their CEOs. It is disgusting. Shame on them. They stand on the wrong side of history at this very moment.”
Cue the cascading strings of “Les Mis,” bolstered by images of the most famous people on the planet walking out in solidarity: the cast of “Oppenheimer” leaving the film’s London premiere; the writers and cast of “The X-Files” reuniting on the picket line.
A few days later, Barry Diller, chairman and senior executive of IAC and Expedia Group and a former Hollywood studio chief, suggested that studio executives and top-earning actors take a 25% pay cut to bring a quick end to the strikes and help prevent “the collapse of the entire industry.”
When Diller is telling executives to take a pay cut to avoid destroying their industry, it is no longer a strike, or even two strikes. It is a last-ditch attempt to prevent le déluge.
Yes, during the 2007-08 writers’ strike, picketers yelled noncomplimentary things at executives as they entered their respective lots. (“What you earnin’, Chernin?” was popular at Fox, where Peter Chernin was chairman and chief executive.) But that was before social media made everything more immediate, incendiary and personal. (Even if they have never seen a movie or TV show, one would think that people heading up media companies would understand how media actually work.)
Even at the most heated moments of the last writers’ strike, executives like Chernin and Iger were seen as people who could be reasoned with — in part because most of the executives were running studios, not conglomerations, but mostly because the pay gap between executives and workers, in Hollywood and across the country, had not yet widened to the reprehensible chasm it has since.
Now, the massive eight- and nine-figure salaries of studio heads alongside photos of pitiably small residual checks are paraded across legacy and social media like historical illustrations of monarchs growing fat as their people starve. Proof that, no matter how loudly the studios claim otherwise, there is plenty of money to go around.
Topping that list is Warner Bros. Discovery Chief Executive Davd Zaslav. Having re-named HBO Max just Max and made cuts to the beloved Turner Classic Movies, among other unpopular moves, Zaslav has become a symbol of the cold-hearted, highly compensated executive that the writers and actors are railing against.
The ferocious criticism of individual executives’ salaries has placed Hollywood’s labor conflict at the center of the conversation about growing wealth disparities in the U.S., which stokes, if not causes, much of this country’s political divisions. It also strengthens the solidarity among the WGA and SAG-AFTRA and with other groups, from hotel workers to UPS employees, in the midst of disputes during what’s been called a “hot labor summer.”
Unfortunately, the heightened antagonism between studio executives and union members also appears to leave little room for the kind of one-on-one negotiation that helped end the 2007-08 writers’ strike. Iger’s provocative statement, and the backlash it provoked, would seem to eliminate him as a potential elder statesman who could work with both sides to help broker a deal.
Absent Diller and his “cut your damn salaries” plan, there are few Hollywood figures with the kind of experience, reputation and relationships to fill the vacuum.
At this point, the only real solution has been offered by actor Mark Ruffalo, who recently suggested that workers seize the means of production by getting back into the indie business, which is difficult to imagine and not much help for those working in television.
It’s the AMPTP that needs to heed Iger’s admonishment. At a time when the entertainment industry is going through so much disruption, two strikes is the last thing anyone needs, especially when the solution is so simple. If the studios don’t want a full-blown revolution on their hands, they’d be smart to give members of the WGA and SAG-AFTRA contracts they can live with."
#sag-aftra strike#sag strike#fans4wga#writers guild strike#actors guild strike#union solidarity#wga strong#i stand with the wga#wga strike#writers strike
7K notes
·
View notes
Text
LOST IN THE PADDOCK.
MV1 X FEM!READER
summary getting lost in the paddock and bumping into the current world champion was definitely not on your bingo card.
cw amara is the only oc, no use of y/n. this is my first time writing rpf since middle school, so bear with me. ALSO, this is a work of fiction: i don't know these people irl, i don't know how they act. NON-DESCRIPTIVE READER.
face claims girls on pinterest but you can obviously disregard them, and imagine whoever you want.
masterlist | taglist
—
"Ah, fuck," you mumble to yourself, panickedly walking away from the direction you came from while also looking for your best friend.
You call her name a few times in hopes of her popping her head out of the Ferrari building's corner but to no avail. The group and guides you had been with are nowhere to be found, and you have to avoid bumping into employees wearing the entire rainbow as they hurry around you.
You curse the moment you decided to enter the giveaway for those tickets. Although you weren't a Formula One fan, simply because you never fully listened to Amara's ramblings and analysis, when you stumbled across a giveaway of otherwise very expensive tickets, you didn't hesitate to enter it. Despite entering for her, you kept it a secret. The list of entries was long, and the odds were not in your favour, so you didn't want to get her hopes up. You couldn't contain the bubbling excitement when you got the e-mail verifying your win for two Paddock Club tickets for the Spanish Grand Prix.
After announcing it to your obsessed-with-cars best friend, you decided to make it a five-day trip, planning to sightsee Barcelona before the race weekend and spend a free day after it. The first day had been great, albeit tiring, but you had woken up the next day buzzing with anticipation to walk around the paddock. You were the assigned photographer, as you knew Amara would want to listen to everything the guide said. You were content with taking pictures of the place and her.
Until now. You were definitely not happy with being the camera guy. Because of that, you'd just lost your group in the middle of God-knows-where, with no idea where the building you came from was. So immersed in your grumbling and reading the map on your phone- you collide with someone. Your phone and water bottle slip from your fingers, and the tote bag slips from your shoulder to your elbow. You hiss at the sudden weight shift.
The smell of rich cologne enters your nostrils, but you don't dare look up. Your cheeks burn. "Sorry." You bend down to grab your things.
The man seems to have the same idea, as seconds later, he's on his knees and gathering his things before you can reach them. "No, it's alright! I wasn't looking where I was going."
He extends his full hands with a smile, and you return a sheepish one before grabbing your things. You take a second to look at him. He wears a Red Bull cap and T-shirt, looking like everyone who hurriedly passed you with papers and phones in their hands. I should ask him for directions. He looks like he knows the place.
"Uh...Is there any way you saw a group of people with guides walking around here? I'm supposed to be with them, but I kinda lost them." You lift the camera, further explaining why you're separated from them.
He can't help but chuckle at your flushed cheeks. "Unfortunately, no," he pauses. "Are you here for the weekend?" You nod. "Haven't they given you a map, then? They usually do, to avoid people getting lost."
You show him your phone. Your fingers brush as he pulls it closer to look at the map. "Yeah, they have. But I can't figure it out. Kind of my first time coming to something like this."
He looks at you briefly before returning his gaze to the phone. "Really?" He sounds surprised. He shouldn't.
You looked out of place compared to the rich-as-fuck members of your group. You had no idea how people dressed for these occasions. Even Amara didn't really know what to pack, so you both agreed to wear comfortable clothes. With the race being during June and in Spain, you would rather be comfortable than sweaty. The only thing tying you to the group was the Paddock Club pass you wore around your neck.
"My best friend is really into this. Loves the sport. I won us the tickets, but I'm barely grasping the basics." You laugh, and he joins. You like the way his eyes crease when he smiles wide.
"Oh, you're the ones that won the tickets! Someone told me about that, I think. Congrats!" You thank him. "How's your weekend so far?"
You shrug. "T'was really fun. Until I got lost while taking pictures of the Ferrari building." He snorts.
Leaning next to him, you try to follow his finger as he scrolls around the zoomed-in map. "You figured it out yet?"
"I think I have, yeah." He shows you the phone. "We're here. The garages are right there. You'll be watching the race on the floor above them." You nod, slowly grasping your surroundings. Turns out it's easier to figure it out when you're not panicking and a handsome stranger is helping you. "You got it?"
You flash a bright smile. "Yeah, actually, I think I do!" You look at him. "Thank you!"
He shrugs. "No problem. I know it's easy to get lost, especially with so many people running around."
"Still. Thank you. You probably have to be somewhere, and I took up a lot of your time." You step back, turning in the direction he'd shown you.
"Don't worry about it." He fixes his hair under the cap.
"Thanks again." You wave and turn to leave.
"Hey, I forgot to ask you." You turn, confused. "What team are you supporting tomorrow?"
Oh, shit.
It's like a deer caught in headlights situation. You suddenly forget all ten names of the racing teams, desperately racking your brain for an answer. You swear you know all ten.
"Uh..." you nervously clench and unclench your water bottle. "Ferrari?" It's more of a question rather than a statement.
He laughs, and your cheeks return to their warm state. Bad answer?
"Ferrari?" He asks as if saying really? You shrug, and he huffs a laugh.
"I told you I'm not good at this!"
You hear a shout and simultaneously turn to see a man in a Red Bull shirt beckoning him over.
"I have to go. But you should watch out for the Red Bulls. I hear they got the better cars!" He winks and waves before walking away from you.
You roll your eyes and smile wide on your lips. Of course, he'd tell you to cheer for his team. The back of your hand touches your cheek. It's incredibly warm. You blame it on the hot weather.
—
"I'm telling you, mate! She had no idea who I was!"
Lando rolls his eyes. "And I'm telling you there's no way. Your face is plastered everywhere."
It's Charles's turn to roll his eyes. "Or maybe she was more worried about finding a way back than asking for pictures."
"Yeah, maybe she was being polite. Didn't want to attract any attention to you." Albon adds.
Max shrugs. "I don't know."
"Was she pretty?" Oscar elbows Lando's ribs, as the latter can't contain his giggle.
Max's neck flushes. He shrugs again. "Yeah, I guess."
"Ohhhhh!" George and Lando pat him on the back teasingly, and Charles laughs at Max's expression.
Before they can tease him about this mystery girl more, a woman wearing a headset informs them they have to part ways and get ready for qualifying.
—
"And Fernando was so bloody nice, too! He was more than happy to sign the cap for you!" Amara waved her hands excitedly as she recounted everything you missed while lost.
You sat near the windows overlooking the pits, watching as the teams got their cars ready for qualifying, far away from the TVs and the crowded tables, not wanting to converse with anyone but your best friend. You chewed on your extremely expensive pasta, intently listening to her meet-up with some of the drivers.
"I can't believe you met the only driver I know," you whined, lips pouting sadly.
"I swear I didn't realise you were gone until they stopped us to greet the drivers. I was fully into that tyre explanation the guide was giving."
"Gee, thanks." You smile, giving her the middle finger.
"Oh, you know I don't mean it like that. Without you, I wouldn't even be doing the stuff we did today." Amara pulls on your middle finger, and you both giggle.
"So, tell me what you did when you were alone," she urges, sipping her drink.
"You mean when you left me wandering like I was looking for my mother?" She gives you a pointed look. You shrug. "I stopped a Red Bull guy to give me directions. He was helpful and cute. Also took some pictures while I was making my way back here."
"Oh, was he a mechanic or what?"
"I don't know. Didn't catch his name." You smile as you recount his advice. "He told me to look out for the Red Bulls because they have fast cars."
"Well, he's not wrong."
You finish your food and drinks, chatting until qualifying is about to begin. You sit on the balcony, watching the cars drive on the track. You get settled, watching the small screen in front of you, commentary loud in the headset you wear. Qualifying goes by quickly, with Amara explaining things you don't understand and you nodding along.
It's no surprise—in Amara's words—that Max Verstappen came first in his Red Bull. He's the one dominating this season, after all. Second comes Carlos Sainz, and third place takes Lando Norris. Your best friend cheers a little more for him. You shoot her a look, and she just shrugs. "What? He's fast, and he's handsome." You laugh.
You decide to leave before others, not stick around for post-qualifying interviews. Although there's a great chance you can catch drivers, take pictures and get them to sign autographs, you're both far too exhausted to stay. There's always tomorrow, Amara says, and you agree.
You're looking through the Uber app to find a car available to take you back to your hotel when you hear Amara all but screech beside you. You look up, watching as she runs towards a wall decorated with a gigantic poster of three drivers. You recognise Lewis Hamilton and Charles Leclerc and...Oh, shit.
"Can you take a picture here," she calls your name pleadingly.
Your eyes are wide and glued to the tall poster, even as you pull the camera up to your face. You snap a couple of pictures before Amara walks back to you. Her wide smile falters as she watches you stare at the poster intensely. You rack your brain for his name and know that you should know it. Amara has mentioned it before, but you just can't put your finger on it. He's in Red Bull, so it's either Checo Perez or—
"Is that Verstappen?" You point to him.
"Yep. Two-time world champion." Amara looks at the poster and then back at you, eyebrows furrowed. "Why are you looking at him like that?"
"He's the guy from earlier."
"What?!"
—
yourusername
liked by amaraiscool, yourmom, and 167 others.
tagged amaraiscool
yourusername chatted with a guy today, turns out he's the current world champion.
view all comments
amaraiscool i can't believe you met max verstappen
> yourusername amaraiscool i cant believe you let me get lost
amaraiscool and i can't believe you didnt recognise him.
> yourusername amaraiscool hes cuter in person, too bad you didn't get to see him :))
yourfriend1 THE DRESS IS SO CUTE, AMARA WTF DROP THE STORE!!!!!!
liked by yourusername
yourfriend2 johns freaking out rn lol
> yourusername yourfriend2 AW, i bet hes not being as dramatic as amaraiscool was when i told her :,)
> amaraiscool yourusername met THE max verstappen.
—
"You should totally text him," Amara says between bites.
She offers you a piece of chocolate, and you offer her a bewildered look. The hotel room's TV is playing a random spanish show, but with no subtitles, you can barely grasp what they're saying. Amara is scrolling on TikTok beside you.
"Text who?" You already know who.
"The two-time world champion. Duh." She rolls her eyes.
Amara hadn't stopped talking about the Max interaction since you'd pointed at his gigantic poster. The more she spoke on it, wiggling her eyebrows, the more you blushed. She had gone over a thousand scenarios, all of which you ended up hooking up with him. You had to remind her that despite his popularity, he was a stranger to you.
"I don't have his number, 'mara. I told you he just helped me find my way."
She flicks your forehead. "That's what Insta is for!"
"No."
"But why!?" Amara whines in your ear loudly, like a child when you take their candy away.
"It's weird! He's cute and all," you sit up, pointing your finger up," but he doesn't know my name," you put another one up, "he'll think I'm creepy," you point a third one, "and that is if he sees the requested message."
"Uh, you're ruining my scenario-building process."
"That's what Tumblr is for. Leave my quiet, boring life out of this." You dramatically sigh.
"Isn't that how all fanfiction starts? Boring and quiet life turned upside down?" Amara tilts her head.
"I don't know, 'ave never read any." You shrug, lips pursing.
She huffs a laugh, and you hold in yours. "Liar."
There's a pause. You think over Amara's suggestion. Max Verstappen is cute. And it wouldn't hurt to try and get his number. You'd never see him again after this weekend. And the worst he could say is: "Security, please get her out of here!"
What the fuck am I thinking? He's a literal superstar. Me bumping into him was a one-time thing.
Ah, fuck it. It's not the end of the world.
"You know what?" Amara turns to look at you. "If I get the chance tomorrow, I'll talk to him. Try and get his number."
Her eyes almost pop out of their sockets. "What?"
"I mean, I'm never seeing again? Right? It could go either way. He doesn't call for security to escort me like I'm crazy fangirl, or he does, and we pray no cameras recorded the moment."
Amara shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant, but she can barely hold her wide smile. "Sounds like a plan to me."
"Not much of a plan. I'm just indulging in your delusions."
You share a laugh before you fall back in bed beside her. You shuffle closer to your best friend's side, eager to watch the TikTok edit she is staring intensely at.
"Oh, look, it's your future boyfriend!"
"Shut up."
#max verstappen#max verstappen x reader#max verstappen x you#mv1#mv1 x reader#formula one#formula one x reader#formula one x you#f1#f1 x reader#f1 fanfic#lando norris#charles leclerc#george russell#max verstappen fluff#max verstappen angst#max verstappen social media au#smau#formula 1 smau#f1 smau#social media au#frank writes
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
The following is not my idea; it was the original brainchild of a friend of mine named Omicron, with help from various others including EarthScorpion, TenfoldShields, @havocfett and ShintheNinja:
So, you know what I want to do one day? Run (or play in) a D&D campaign in which the Big Bad Super Dragon that is fuckoff ancient and unfathomably powerful and whose actions have shaped history and bent the course of nations and had repercussions on the whole culture and society in the region where it's set; the Bonus Special Boss for some endgame optional quest after you defeat the direct BBEG and win the campaign...
... is a white dragon.
To explain this for people not deep into 5e monster lore; D&D dragons are sapient beings, and known for their instincts and tendencies, and whenever you meet an big evil dragon that's really old it's usually this ancient creature of terrible intellect Smaug-ing it up all over the place.
Except white dragons are fucking stupid. Like, they're still capable of speech and thought! They're just… feral, hungry morons. And you almost never see them portrayed as ancient wyrms for that reason; they lack majesty. Critical Role did it, yes, but even then, Vorugal is explicitly the most bestial member of the Chroma Conclave, and the others are the more intelligent planners and long-term threats. An ancient white as a nation-defining endboss, though; not a thug for a smarter master but as the strongest and biggest threat around is just not the sort of thing you tend to see.
Adventurers: "Oh wise Therunax the Munificent, gold dragon of Law and Good, what can you tell us adventurers of the evil dragons which rule this land?"
Therunax the Munificent, 500-year old Gold Dragon: "Good adventurers, know this: this land is torn apart by the evil of Tiamat's spawn. The eastern marches are the dwelling of Furinar the Plague-Bringer, black dragoness whose hoard is a thousand sicknesses contained in the body of her tributes. The southern volcanic mountains are the roosting of Angrar the Wrathful, the fiery red dragon, who brings magmatic fury on all who do not worship him. And the northern peaks are home to Face-Biter Mike, the oldest and most powerful of all, of whom I dread to speak."
Adventurers: "F-Face-Biter Mike???"
Therunax: "Oh yes, verily indeed; two thousand years has Mike lived, and his eyes have seen the rise and fall of five empires, and a hundred and score champions have sought to slay him; and each and every one he bit their fucking face off."
Like... I want to see a campaign where Face-Biter Mike is genuinely the most powerful dragon in the region, if not the entire world. Where sometimes he descends on a city to grab himself some meatsicles and causes a localised ice age by the beat of his vast wings and the frigid wastes of his mighty breath and by the chill his mere presence brings to everything for miles around him, and everyone just has to deal with that for the next decade. An entire era of civilization comes to an end, an empire falls, tens of thousands starve in the winter, all because Mike wanted a snack. Where his hoard is an unfathomably vast mass of jewels and artefacts and precious stones frozen in an unmelting glacier, except he is a nouveau riche idiot with fuckall appraising skill, so half of his hoard is coloured glass or worthless knicknacks, and he doesn't give a shit.
"Your Draconic Majesty, this crown is… It's pyrite."
"Yeah, well, it's brighter than this dusty old thing made out of real gold, it's my new best treasure. Throw the other one away."
"…throw the Burnished Tiara of Bahamut, forged in the First Age of Man, your majesty???"
"See? I can't even remember its fucking name."
"But my lord-"
"DO YOU WANT TO BE A MEATSICLE"
"…I will fetch a trash bag, your majesty."
But at the same time, he's not stupid, he's just simple, and in some ways that makes him more dangerous than the usual kinds of scheming Big Bad you see in these things, while simultaneously justifying why Orcus remains on his throne (because he's lazy). Face-Biter Mike doesn't make convoluted plans or run labyrinthine schemes; he just has a talent for violence and a pragmatic, straightforward approach to turning any kind of problem he struggles with into a problem that can be resolved with violence. Face-Biter Mike has one talent and it's horrifying physical power, so his approach to any complicated problem is "how do I turn this into a situation where I can fly down and bite this dude's face off?" with absolutely no regard for the collateral damage or consequences of doing so, because those are also things he can turn into face-bitable problems.
"My lord, the dread necromancer Nikodemion is using his undead dragons to attempt a conquest of the eastern kingdom; his agents are everywhere, his plans are centuries in the making, what can we do against such a mastermind?"
"I'm gonna fly over the capital and eat the eastern king."
"M-my lord???"
"The kingdom will collapse without leadership, Nikodemion will win his war, he'll take the capital and crown himself king."
"And that helps us… how?"
"Once he does I'll fly over to the capital and eat him."
"…"
"This is why you advisors all suck. You're all about convoluted plans when the only thing I need to win is know where my enemy is so I can fly down there and eat him. Stop overthinking things."
And, like, yeah, it's a simplistic plan, but when you're several hundred tons of nigh invincible magical death, you don't need brilliant strategy; the smartest way to win a war is, in this case, the simplest. He's not even all that clever at figuring out the consequences of face-biting, he's just memorised the common consequences of doing so.
(If you want to go all in on Mike being the major mover and shaker in the region; Nikodemion only even has a pet zombie dragon because Mike killed the last dragon to show up and contest his turf but wasn't going to eat a whole dragon by himself. Nikodemion got to stick around and amass that much power because Mike ate the Hero of the Realm while he was adventuring because he figured the Hero would come and try to slay him at some point. Nikodemion got started because Mike ate half the leadership of the Academy of High Magic who typically keep evil wizards and necromancers in check. And then eventually this product of Mike's casual, careless actions becomes a big enough problem to bother Mike personally, at which point Mike eats him too.)
He doesn't even really fail upwards, either! He is regularly reduced to nothing but the glacier he stores his hoard in, but he's Face-Biter Mike so nobody wants to commit to actually ending him forever lest they get their faces bitten the fuck off. And his hoard's in a huge-ass magical glacier so nobody can get to it without running into the Invading Russia problem; it's hard to wage war when everything is frozen over and you're both starving and freezing to death. Once he's been beaten back to his central lair and has lost all his holdings… I mean, he's still a problem, but he's a far away problem. So he loses his assets and spends a decade in a cave brooding it up while no one dares risk trying to actually kill him, and then a generation or two later he flies down to a kobold colony and gets himself some minions, or a dragon-worshipping mage comes to offer his service against a pittance from his hoard, or a particularly stupid cult starts thinking they can get in good with him and leech off his power, and then he's (hah) snowballing again.
He's also got a very… well, the kind of weird Charisma that Grineer bosses do. Like Sargas Ruk, who's a malformed idiot, but oddly charismatic. As he's a dragon, that makes him a natural sorcerer and thus Charisma is all he needs. He's pretty relaxed when he isn't in a face-biting mood, and he's kind of infectiously optimistic, because his life has taught him that he will succeed as long as he perseveres. So he just believes it.
And sometimes that's really refreshing to work for, as an evil minion of darkness! It's like, you're coming to your Evil Dragon Lord with terrible news; you've worked for evil overlords before, you know how it goes. You fall to your knees weeping and tell him that you've failed to seize the incredibly powerful magical artifact, you think your life is forfeit. And he's just like "Eh, it's okay, these things are all over the place. Better luck next time. You remember the guy who took it, right?" and you go "Y-yes, oh great lord!" and he's like "Sweet tell me his name later and I'll grab it" and then eats a frozen adventurer he kept around as a snack.
His followers tend to quickly realise that if they fail him, bringing some temple's silver or a sack of brightly coloured beads or a couple of dead cows means he's super forgiving because at least he's got something out of the day. "Oh boy, cows? It's been forever since I had those, ever since the Orc Steppe Nomads took over it's all about goats and onions. Today is a good day." He's a master of delegation by dragon standards, in that he just tells you "Just go get it done, I don't care how" rather than micromanaging you and constantly appearing as an image in smoke or taking over your campfire.
The key part of Face-Biter Mike as a threat to players (because he exists in the context of a D&D campaign) works well in that you can rely on several known quantities:
He will not pull sneaky shit that you don't see coming
He will not make convoluted plans that you must work to unravel
He will consistently attempt to come down and wreck you personally if he finds the opportunity and you are a threat to him
You cannot fight him head-on (at least not until the last leg of the campaign, and ideally as an optional boss rather than mandatory)
So as long as you are good at staying under the radar, thwarting his minions (whom he gives broad orders to with almost zero oversight) and not putting yourself in face-biting range, you can deal with him. If you succeed, it won't be the first time Mike has lost his assets and had to go brood in his glacier for a decade or two before rebuilding. It happens; he can deal with it. And that's a win for you within the context of a single campaign, so take the win.
And if you're not going to use him as an enemy, he works pretty well as a quest-giver, too! The costs for failure are obvious and straightforward, and "do whatever, just get me mine" means that players have a lot of freedom in accomplishing their goals. As far as evil overlords go he is actually one of the least dangerous to work for; his pride is relatively subdued by draconic standards, his goals are simple and typically achievable, and he is easily pleased.
(There's also a good chance he is the forefather of any draconic sorcerer in your party, because Face Biter Mike is a deadbeat dad.)
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
Good, Good, Great
Ghost x Fem!Reader (And they were roommates)!
[nsfw] cw(s): Jealousy, alcohol consumption, references to smoking, strip club, rdr calls ghost ‘big boy’ several times, suggestive content, non-explicit sex (it’s mentioned), rdr is highkey a brat lol, mention of dumbification.
PART TWO
3.4k words I don’t understand how UK currency works so i guessed, ALSO! Reader is kind of a slut!! Because we don’t get enough readers that have BEEN AROUND TOWN (iykwim) and I am hellbent on fixing that :) ALSO ALSO this kinda sucks and it’s prolly OOC but I spent like four days on it so here u go <33
You’re not dating — but he’s not keen on sharing. He sees you serving another table drinks, scantily dressed, hips swaying with every step, and can’t help but watch with a glare as some other man sets a 20 between your tits.
How Laswell convinced both herself and Price that a strip club was the best place to meet and discuss information on a new mission was beyond Ghost. It wasn’t until two blocks away from the venue did he begin to recognize the surroundings, the streets, and damn it, even the people.
He forwent the skull mask and the skull-patterned balaclava for a plain black surgical mask that left him feeling bare and exposed. Only a thin piece of fabric was between him and his anonymity; two strings that held together the Ghost façade from falling into Simon.
He’d be damned if he told the others that he recognized the club — that he frequented it. Not for a certain stripper, no, not for the girls performing at all. He knew every staff member from the amount of times he’d come to pick you up after your serving shift.
You always smelled like alcohol and someone’s blueberry vape, sometimes weed; you claimed that just came with the job. He’d respond asking if he smelled like gunpowder and metal, if that was the case. He remembered how you shook your head.
“You smell like cigarettes and aftershave.”
He grimaces as they approach the shining lights of the club. Myth is a looming building; five floors, only two used for actual club affairs. The other three were offices or something equally as boring; even if you would prattle on about your outlandish suspicions of a mafia being run up there.
The first floor had the basics; a main stage that was across from the full bar, a plethora of sleek tables and uncomfortable leather chairs filling the space between the two attractions. On the far wall, a few booths with itchy velour couches separated by fake bushes. Doors sat on either side of the four booths, both led to some sort of VIP room that Ghost had never stepped foot in.
The second floor overlooked the stage section of the first, only the dancers could see the people decorating the steel railings. It was usually reserved for the rich people, the important men who had had wives and didn’t want to be seen in the public eye, the men who were desperate enough to pay extra to pretend they could get some, and the people staff liked. Ghost happens to fit into the latter category.
There was a second stage on the upper floor, it wasn’t often dancers were up there performing, they were usually lounging around with someone they knew would paid them well. The was a second, smaller bar which served the singular purpose of storing new bottles, which caused you to complain about having to go up and down the stairs every time you had to get another round for a table.
His constant presence had led to him “befriending” the bartenders (if getting a free drink counted as being friends) and getting half-hired as security (he was roughly the same size as the men they already had for the job), even the hostesses knew to assign him to your section each time he walked in.
It baffled him, to say the least. Even after he was gone for 11 months the one time, (what a god awful time that was), the Myth staff knew who he was.
Ghost didn’t even register Price trying to tell him to stop as he walked to the shiny glass doors of Myth. The thing that dragged him out of an absentminded state was Soap’s obnoxiously loud laughter, Ghost stopped dead in his tracks and spun around to face the rest of the task force.
“Yae walkin’ right in like ye own the place, eh, Lt?” He had a conniving grin on his face. “Didnae take you for that kinda guy.” Gaz looked like he was trying to picture Ghost in a club, Price only looked at him with mild amusement on his face.
Ghost glares at Soap, embarrassed. “I’m going where we were told to go.”
“Wasting no time, either.” Gaz manages to crack a smile from Price with his chide.
“Are we going in, or not?” Ghost’s eyebrows raise in questioning, his patience already running thin. He looked over his shoulder at the bouncer, who he wishes he didn’t recognize as Paul.
Gaz had already fished his ID out of his pockets, the graying white background of the Royal Air Force card reflecting the sign lights. Soap wasn’t far behind him, most people who see someone with a mohawk assume it’s a teenager who lost a bet. Anyone could look at the Captain and know he’s over the age of 18, no college student could rival the man’s facial hair.
And Ghost? All he had to do was look Paul in the eyes and he was let though without even a second glance. It was no different than if he were just coming in to pick you up, although it was considerably earlier than your usual 2 AM clock outs. Ghost forgot the club was even open at 5 PM.
He got an odd look from Soap at the lack of identification, but odd looks from Soap were a daily occurance.
The club looked the exact same as when he’d left 4 months ago, the same blue-purple lighting, same ugly silver bead curtains hanging over the walls, and the same Thursday night bartender. His name was something along the lines of Tony (Tim?); Ghost hadn’t particularly cared about him, he’s never at the club on Thursdays anyway. Your shifts are normally on the weekends, only the occasional Thursday if there was an event.
The hostess seems to be familiar, too. She’s either Camille or Angelica; he could never really remember who was who. The two have the same bleach blonde, blue eyes, and freckles; they’re practically the same person to Ghost. He really only pays attention to you when he’s at Myth.
The hostess stares at Ghost for a second, as if trying to recognize him. Before she could try to speak, Price cut in.
“We’re meeting someone here. Blonde hair, a little older.” His eyes scan the half-empty floor of the room. “She might be upstairs?”
The hostess perks up at the mention of a woman. “Right. Follow me, please.”
The blonde led the group of them upstairs, two of the 20 tables had people at them. Only one of them had a Laswell-looking woman at them. The other was a group of seven men; each in a suit, and each with a glass in their hand.
Once the hostess set a few menus on the table, she spoke a final time. “Your server will be right over.”
Ghost let the others sit down before him, eyes lingering on the group of men across from them before they slid over to Laswell. She looked as comfortable as any other person in a strip club by choice, lounging back in her chair with a cocktail in her hand.
“You look disgruntled,” she notes, eyes resting on Ghost.
“You had us meet in a strip club,” Ghost mutters. “This isn’t my usual scene.” It was quite the lie, really. He’s spent more time here than any other pub in the Manchester area at this point.
“It’s close to home.” She takes a sip of her drink, completely at peace. “And it’s unsuspecting. Who comes into a strip club to talk about top secret information?”
Ghost looks at her, unamused. “Us.”
Laswell ignores the distaste in his voice. “You don’t have to worry about that group,” her head tilts in the direction of the rowdy group of men. “They’re all drunk or too focused on the girls to even bother listening to us.”
The distant sound of heels against the floor catches his attention, his eyes fly towards the staircase. And there you are, flouncing up the stairs with three glasses in one hand and a bottle of Blue Label in the other.
You make your way to the group of men, a customer service smile plastered on your face. Ghost can’t hear your words, but he watches you set the bottle down in front of the most important-looking man, along with two of the glasses you were carrying.
He watches as your shoulders bounce when you laugh at something he says, though it looks like the fakest giggle you can muster.
He watches as the man takes a 20 pound note from his pocket and tucks it right between your tits. On instinct, Ghost’s hands tighten into fists and he glares. It’s a sharp glare, one he’d give to some idiot recruit that tried being cocky. You gasp, then smile brightly at the man, he can tell you’re saying thank you profusely from the way your mouth is moving.
You step away from the man and Ghost’s eyes fly from him to you, and his glare drops into a normal enough look, but his fists are still tight; his fingernails dig into the palms of his hands.
Ghost’s eyes roam your body, how the little black skirt you’re wearing rode up just enough that it would be considered a tease, how the black shirt you’re wearing is just a little too tight around your tits, and the 20 pound note that was stuck right between the two of them. He had to consciously unclench his fist before anyone would notice.
Then you come prancing over, hips swaying almost hypnotically as you walk, a glass of bourbon nestled in your hand.
You smile sweetly as you bend down in front of him, showing off both your tits and the note right between them, and set his glass on the table.
“I believe that’s for you, big boy.” Fuck, he missed hearing your voice, the nickname flies over his head through his stupor. Even if it was the faux, sultry version of it you used for work. “Can I get the rest of you anything? A beer? Whiskey?”
It was almost impossible for Ghost to tear his eyes away from you, rather, that damn note between your breasts. He wanted to pluck it out and throw it right back at the other man, replace it with something bigger, better.
When he notices Gaz’s disturbed stare, his eyes avert from you.
Gaz’s eyes trail from his to yours, “I’ll take a Manhattan.”
You smile at him, “of course, is Sazerzac okay?” Gaz nods shortly, glancing away from you to avoid Ghost’s stare. “Anyone else?” You pivot towards Price, shifting your weight from one leg to the other.
Price angles his head to meet your gaze, squinting through the LEDs of the club. “Gin and tonic,” his eyes don’t leave yours, “Hendrick’s.” An offhand comment from Soap entertains the liquor’s Scottish origins.
You nod along with his words, then tilt your head towards Soap. “Can I get you anything?”
“I’ll have a Coke.”
“I hope you mean the soda,” you muse. You didn’t get any reaction out of the group, not a single smile — how disappointing. “We have the cherry kind, if you’re into that.”
Soap shakes his head, a small frown on his face. “Just normal Coke’ll do.”
You hum absentmindedly, “alright.” Your eyes flicker to Ghost, the smile on your face contorts into a little mischievous one. “Are you going to be wanting the bottle, Simon?”
You really are a vixen, aren’t you? Through grit teeth, Ghost spits out, “no.”
“Alright, then. I’ll be back with those drinks, boys.” A single wink, and you were off. Low heels clacking against the tile floor, hips swaying side to side. Ghost was all too aware of every detail of your retreating body, from the way your hair bounced with each step you took, how the skirt you wore rode up just slightly enough to make his grip on his bourbon tighten.
Ghost fights the urge to get up, grab you by the waist, and pull you onto him. Both his experiences and his logical reasoning say it’s a terrible idea, yet the idea of reminding you who you ultimately belong to is so enticing he could be drooling.
He’s seen you cockdumb; it almost always comes after you pull a stunt like this. Of course, he knows you do it just for the sake of getting him bothered and getting fucked stupid. But he also likes the idea that you do it just for him. You put on a little show.
He finally put it together years ago. Back when you would bring over some pathetic-looking hookup just to see his reaction. When you’d fake moan loud enough for the whole damn neighborhood to hear, then look at him the next morning through your eyelashes all innocent.
At some point, the hookups ended, and you began flirting with customers right in front of him. Just like you had done a moment before.
When your head disappears from view, Soap is the first to attack him vocally, almost gawking after you. “You’re on a first name basis with the bottle girls at a strip club?” He looks incredulously at Ghost, almost jealous.
“Is that why you were in such a hurry to get inside? You knew this was where your flings worked?”
Soap leans in closer, “how often do you come here, LT?” It was question after question from the Scotsman, and despite his inclination towards him, Ghost was getting slowly more fed up.
Ghost set his glass down, “I’m going to the bathroom.” He put his hands to his knees and stood up from the plush seat, eyes scanning the other group one more time before he left his teammates at the table.
It doesn’t take long for him to find you, leaning up against the doorframe to the server’s closet while you wait for another cocktail server to put in a ticket, twiddling your coworker’s Elfbar in your hands until she reaches behind her for the vape.
You hand it off to her and turn to face Ghost, a catty smile adorning your lips. “How can I help you, sir?” Ghost stops a few inches before you and a hand darts towards your cleavage. He tugs the 20 pound note from between your tits, your hands following his to grab for it.
You give Ghost several noises of grievances as he holds the note away from you, a look of slight disgust evident in the ways his eyes narrowed and his brows furrowed.
By the time you gave up trying to reach the banknote, he’d begun digging in his back pocket. “I’d like my tip back, asshole.”
Ghost says nothing in return, no noise or gesture to acknowledge he had heard you. Instead, he tugs a 20 and a 50 pound note from his pocket and tuck the two bills into the space between your breasts. The money from the other man was crumpled and shoved back into his pocket.
You don’t stop him, you’re a bit too turned on to even think of stepping away from him.
“There,” he mutters. “your tip.” He steps back from you, like he was going to leave and go back to his table. You, however, were having none of that.
“Hold on.” Your hand twitches, stopping before it could shoot out to grab his wrist (but you’re smarter than that, you know him). “You didn’t call or anything.”
Ghost frowns under the mask. “I’m not home.” It was a clipped reply, not one you wanted.
“What?” You match his frown, annoyed.
“I’m here for work. You saw the others,” his hand gestures vaguely to the upstairs, “they’re my coworkers.”
You raise an eyebrow, “you work with someone who has a mohawk?” Disappointment flickers in Ghost’s eyes, if it was from your question or just the thought of Soap’s haircut, you didn’t know. The poor man isn't even there to defend himself.
“Is it that hard to believe?” Ghost knows that, yes, it is hard to believe that he worked with a Scotsman with a terrible haircut while continuing to be the infamous Lieutenant ‘Ghost.’
The look on your face screams ‘yes.’
Ghost relents, “listen.” His voice has a certain sadness in it that makes you calm down a bit. Truthfully, you’re pretty damn pissed at him for just showing up out of the blue from God-knows-where, but your expression softens after a few seconds.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, Riley.” Your coworker nudges your shoulder to let you know it was your turn to use the kiosk. “Go back to your friends,” you wave your hand in a dismissive fashion. “I’m working.”
Ghost doesn’t budge, even after you’ve ducked between the bead curtains that dangle at the top half of the doorway. You pop back out of the doorway, an unsurprised look on your face.
“Don’t flirt with him.”
Your eyebrows fly up, an incredulous tone flooding your voice. “What?”
“Don’t flirt with him,” Ghost repeats, his eyes boring into yours.
You set a hand on your hip, annoyed. “I’m making money.” The look in his eyes doesn’t change, he’s utterly serious about some random man you’re flirting with for extra cash. A thought crosses your mind, and your annoyance melts into mischief.
“You’re jealous over him?” The way his eyes widen a bit is enough to tell you that, yeah, he is. “Really, big boy?”
And fuck, if you didn’t have him wrapped around your finger by the way you walked, you had him now. All it took was one stupid nickname and Ghost is crumbling into Simon.
“Not jealous,” is his defense. You just soak it in with a grin on your face. You step towards him a little, shoulders forward and leaning down ever so slightly so that your cleavage is a little more obvious, so that the money he stuck between your tits is poking right out at him.
“You sure?” You look up at him, still grinning like your coworker once had when she got a free vape from a customer. “Seems like you’re a bit jealous.”
All he can do is stare down at you, clenching his jaw shut lest he say something he really shouldn’t. But God, does he wish he could.
Really, if it weren’t only 5 PM, he would’ve let you get to him. Let you drag him into an empty VIP room and fuck your words right out of you, leaving you a whimpering, babbling mess. But Ghost — Simon — knows better than to incapacitate you when you’re working.
All he’s left to do is watch as you give him little smirks from across the room, as you adjust your clothes to be just a bit more revealing, as you get close enough that he can smell the remnants of your perfume when you ask him aimless questions. And that’s just what he’ll do once you prance off to get his teammates drinks.
You pat him on his covered cheek patronizingly before you slink away, outstretching your hands for the three drinks cluttered at one side behind the bar. You pass him by, drinks in hand.
“If anything,” you look up to his eyes as you pass him, “it’s the guys you’re with you should be jealous of. You know I like older guys.” That’s enough for Simon to be reclaimed by Ghost.
He follows after you, glowering at your back. You don’t have to look back at him to know he’s scowling at you, but it brings you a slight bit of satisfaction.
“C’mon, big boy,” you hum, “I’ll get you another drink if you tell me his name.” You look back at him once you reach the staircase and climb a few steps ahead of him.
Ghost stares into your eyes like a dead man, you almost think you’ve gone a bit too far. “No.”
You give him an exaggerated pout and turn back to the front to see where you’re going. “If you aren’t jealous, you shouldn’t have a problem with it.”
“No,” he huffs, irritation growing steadily. “Ask again and I’ll have your head.”
You quicken your pace on the last few steps, skirt bouncing from the motion; Ghost doesn’t bother to look away. He follows you back to the table where Laswell and the others are chatting quietly.
You lean down to set the drinks on the table, and Ghost takes his chance. His hands hover around your hips, bulge brushing against your ass as he moves behind you to sit down in his seat.
“Sorry,” he muses in the most unapologetic tone you’ve ever heard from him. It’s Simon’s eyes that look into yours, like a challenge. A really, really horny challenge. “Had to get past you.”
#cod mw2#simon riley x reader#ghost mw2#ghost x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost riley#simon riley#simon riley fanfic#fem reader#simon riley mw2#simon riley x female reader#cod fic#mw2 fic#mw2 x you#mw2 smut#mw2 x reader#simon riley smut#ghost smut#simon ghost riley smut
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
DPxDC prompt/story idea for anyone to use
We've seen a lot of 'Danny is the twin/older brother/clone of Damian/insert other batfam member' fics.
But...
What if it was Sam?
Talia's first attempt at creating Ra's heir was clearly going to be a girl. She knew that would be unsatisfactory for him, and he'd likely just order the baby's death.
So Talia hid the girl. She put her where ra's would never think to look for her:
with an annoyingly daft rich couple from a small town in the middle of nowhere that she met on a business trip.
Her only orders for the insipid pair was to keep the girl away from Gotham, as she was concerned that Bruce would find out and that would lead to Ra's finding out about Talia's small betrayal.
Talia returned to the League, lied to Ra's about the embryo failing. She took a year off to appear to rework the embryos collected to pick out a guaranteed male, and finally started a new one in the artificial womb, and eventually Damian was born.
Sam thought that her parents insistence on not taking her to Gotham for galas was because they were terrified she'd become goth, so... she did exactly that. The Manson's returned from Gotham to discover Sam burnt all the frilly pink dresses she had up until that point.
"What? I had adult supervision."
*points to Grandma Ida, sitting with a bag of marshmellows and a smirk*
Whether Grandma Ida noticed Sam's similarities to young Brucie Wayne, or the Fenton's did a standard contamination test, noticed the DNA and found that the only Manson willing to listen was Ida is up to the writer.
The portal accident happens, blahblahblah. We know the drill by now.
A reveal gone bad, the Fenton's being good parents, the GIW on the hunt, any combination of the above.
The kids are either rushed away by Ida or the Fentons with orders to go to Gotham, to Wayne Manor, or as usual, the kids just go there because it's the only place two half-ghosts, and three liminals can hide their ectosignatures.
Chaos happens, as it only can in a DP x Dc fic, and the batfam find themselves staring at the Batcomputer as the DNA results flash onto the screen, revealing that the young woman they thought was connected to Poison Ivy was actually...
"Dammit Bruce, are you just unable to keep it in your pants for even a second?!"
"Hnnn..."
"Wait, guys..." clicks to the maternal results.
"... Holy shit."
"... Mother?"
"Talia fucking hid another one?!"
"Langauge, Miss Steph. Master Dick."
"... New sister?"
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ 𓍢 THAT GIRL (she’s delicious) kim chaewon x reader
↳ warnings: idol au, 6th member reader, pt 2 of rich girl yn drives chaewon even more crazy
THERE IS NOBODY THAT CHAEWON hates more than yn right now, how can one human being have such and ego? how can she be so sure of her self?
ever since yn has come up with the ridiculous idea that chaewon has a crush on her, which she doesn’t. she hasn’t let it go.
all she does is constantly tease the leader and become a royal pain in the ass, more than she usually is, everything she does has been getting on chaewon’s nerves.
like right now.
chaewon clenched her fists at yn’s irritating giggle as she leaned against kazuha interlocking her hands with the japanese girl who quietly listened to the girl rant about completely unimportant things with a small smile on her face.
she doesn’t understand how kazuha could deal with her and for some reason it bothered her how close the two were.
it always felt like there was something more, sakura told her that she was being dramatic and even if there was something going on why does it matter.
“it matters because I don’t want anyone I care about dating that demon.” is what chaewon had said to the older girl who rolled her eyes in response muttering a “yeah right.” clearly not believing chaewon’s reason. “what’s that supposed to mean?” she asked the older girl who just ignored her, “that girl is evil.”
chaewon scrunched her face in disgust watching the duo, she walked over to them with determination, “why are you guys fooling around, we’re supposed to be practicing.”
kazuha flinches at the leaders tone while yn just flipped her hair over her shoulder and looked at her nails, her hands still interlocked with kazuha’s.
chaewon narrowed her eyes at their hands, getting a weird feeling in her chest, which was definitely not jealousy and was concern for kazuha.
“why are you so pissy?” yn asked, chaewon opened her mouth to respond but was cut off by yn, “how does my nose look?” she asks turns her head to side to show her side profile, “I think a nose job is the way to go right now.”
chaewon squinted at the girls antics, while kazuha shakes her head, “your nose is perfect.” she says.
“oh my gosh really?” yn asks leaning her face closer to kazuha’s with a smile on her face, “are you just saying that?”
kazuha was about to respond but was cut short by a very irritated leader, “who cares!? and I am not pissy.”
“you so are.” yn says holding her hand out towards the leader who looks at it in confusion, “pull me up.”
chaewon rolls her eyes and pulls the girl up from the floor a little too harsh which caused yn to lean into her extra close.
“and I know exactly why.” she whispers and chaewon’s eyes widened at their close proximity.
yn then leans away from her and turns to kazuha who got up as well, “well, let’s practice.”
chaewon watched as they walk towards eunchae and groans, what does she mean “she knows why”? how cocky can that girl be?
this going to be a long practice.
practice was long over and chaewon laid her bed staring at the ceiling while the simpsoms played in the background on her laptop.
she has to set the record straight with yn, the more days go on the more yn keeps dragging this crush thing.
she lets out a sigh and gets up from her bed and walks over to yn’s room she rolled her eyes at the gold door knocker on the girls door, she’s so extra.
chaewon reluctantly uses the door knocker and opens the door when she hears a soft “come in.”
when she walks into the room genie by snsd fills her ears as it plays from yn’s sparkly cd player.
it felt like walking into a new world, she’s never been in yn’s room before and it looks like sharpay evans barfed all over it.
she slowly walked into yn’s room and glanced at the floor looking at yn’s cat who slept on her crown shaped bed.
she turned to look at yn stood at her dancing and singing along to the song.
“did you know I actually have an exact replica of the outfit they wear for this song you know the white one with the fur?” yn says not even glancing at chaewon, still looking through her closet.
“daddy’s money?” chaewon asks leaning against yn’s dresser.
“tiffany unnie actually, she gave me the one she actually wore like a year ago, best moment ever, she’s like the older sister I never had now.”
chaewon raises her eyes brows in surprise but doesn’t let her voice show it, “oh yeah, you only have brothers right?”
“yep.” yn says before finally turning around to face chaewon, “now, why are you here? finally confessing your love?”
chaewon rolls her eyes as she watches yn laugh at her own words and sat on her fluffy bed, “that’s definitely it right?”
“no.”
“I’m actually here to talk about that.” chaewon says and yn raises a brow intrigued.
“I don’t have a crush on you.” chaewon says firmly and yn tilts her head to the side, “really?”
“yep.” chaewon says mocking the girls words, “no love here.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“what?!”
“just look at how you were acting at practice today.” yn says, chaewon thought the girl was looking her but she was actually looking at herself in the mirror behind her, “you’re obsessed with me, look at how acted over me just being close with zuha who is my best friend.”
“best friend.” chaewon mutters, “yeah right.”
“see, you’re so jealous.”
“I am not!”
“you so are.”
chaewon groans and throws her head back, how can she convince yn she doesn’t have a crush on her, maybe reverse psychology…
chaewon curses herself for what she’s about to do and tries to clam herself down from the feeling of fluster she already feels because she knows it’s gonna skyrocket after she does this.
she marches over to yn who looks at her with a taunting smile on her face, she grabs both sides of the girls face and smashes her lips onto yn’s, a surprised yelp escaping from the girl.
for a millisecond she feels yn kiss back but she immediately pulls away, chaewon can’t help but smile at the shock on the girls face.
she’s been waiting for the day that yn would become speechless and it seems like today is the day.
“would someone who has a crush on you do that? she asks with a smug smile.
yn is silent for a second before a smile slowly makes its way to her face and chaewon’s slowly disappears.
“yes, yes they would.”
#lesserafim x reader#chaewon x reader#kim chaewon x reader#chaewon#kim chaewon#chaewon le sserafim#lesserafim#girl group imagines
543 notes
·
View notes
Text
I see at least one cool bug a day, and usually many more, but it’s not because I live anywhere particularly rich in strange, wonderful creatures (I live in an unremarkable corner of Pennsylvania, USA) or spend all of my free time looking for bugs (well, just *most* of it). in my experience, finding interesting bugs is less about actually locating them and more about looking closely at tiny things you’d otherwise ignore!
this very long post was compiled over a couple days in late July, although I spent less than 10 minutes at a time searching. there’s a lot of fun creatures just out in the open.
plants are always a good place to start when looking for bugs, and I chose this small fig tree (Ficus carica) with a mulberry sapling friend. feeding on the sap of the fig and mulberry is the first group I’ll take a look at, the planthoppers:
these two are flatid bugs, Metcalfa pruinosa and Flatormenis proxima. flatids are slow-moving bugs that can be approached closely, but once they get tired of circling around stems to avoid you they may launch themselves into a fluttering flight with spring-loaded rear legs.
Aplos simplex, a member of the related family Issidae, also likes fig sap. its “tail” is actually a tuft of waxy secretions, which get shed along with the bright colors when it assumes a lumpy, bean-shaped adult form.
cicadellids, or leafhoppers, are just about everywhere on plants, but can be hard to approach without scaring them.
Agallia constricta on the left is a tiny species that feeds on grass, but many were scared up onto the fig by my footsteps. Jikradia olitoria is a much larger species that does feed on the fig; juveniles like this are curled, creeping goblins while adults’ rounded wings give them a pill-shaped appearance.
this big, pale leafhopper belongs to genus Gyponana. it’s tricky to get to species ID with these.
Graphocephala are striking little hoppers that eat a variety of native and nonnative plants. G. coccinea is the larger, more boldly colored one and G. versuta is smaller but more common locally. they’ll sit on the tops of leaves but take flight if you get too close quickly.
another group you’re almost guaranteed to encounter are flies (Diptera). these are a very diverse group, so much more than houseflies and mosquitoes (though I did run into both)
where I live, any plant with broad leaves is almost guaranteed to have a few Condylostylus, long-legged flies that come in shades of blue, green, and red. despite their dainty physique, they’re agile predators, typically feeding on other small flies.
next, a few hoverflies: the ubiquitous Toxomerus geminatus and a Eumerus that I’ve been seeing a lot of this year (but maybe I’ve just noticed them for the first time). syrphids have varied life histories, but most adults drink nectar and many of the larvae are predaceous on aphids.
the metallic green soldier fly is Microchrysa flaviventris, nonnative here. Coenosia is a fun example of a “fly that looks like a fly,” with big red eyes and a gray body, and you might think they’re just another dung-sucking pest, but they’re actually aggressive predators! this one seemed to have nabbed itself some sort of nematoceran fly, maybe a fungus gnat.
many flies are very tiny, just millimeters long. the first two little fellows are lauxaniids, while the last one, an agromyzid leafminer Cerodontha dorsalis, burrows through grass leaves as a larva.
while moths and butterflies (Lepidoptera) are drawn to plants for their flowers or to lay eggs, many small moths can easily be found resting on or under leaves during the day.
these first two are tortricids, many of which are flat, rectangular moths resembling chips of bark or dead leaves. the apple bud moth, Platynota idaeusalis, feeds on a wide variety of hosts, while this beat-up old Argyrotaenia pinatubana would have developed in an edible tube nest of pine needles.
Callima argenticinctella feeds in bark and dead wood (a resource used by more caterpillars than you’d realize!) while the last moth, possibly an Aspilanta, is a leafminer.
although beetles (Coleoptera) are famous for their diversity, I didn’t find too many on the fig. the invasive Oriental beetle Exomala orientalis resting here can be found in a wide range of colors, from this common tan to to deep iridescent black. the other beetle is a Photinus pyralis firefly, sleeping under leaves as fireflies do.
a few spare hemipterans: a Kleidocerys resedae that blew in on a wind, and below, the mulberry whitefly Tetraleurodes mori feeds on its namesake host. as for Hymenoptera, I saw manny tiny parasitic braconid wasps and various ants attracted to the planthoppers’ honeydew excretions—always worth checking underneath roosting hoppers for things having a drink.
a couple handsome spider boys were scrambling through the fig seeking females, a jumping spider Paraphidippus aurantius and an orbweaver, Mecynogea lemniscata.
and to round it off, a young Conocephalus meadow katydid and a Carolina mantis, Stagmomantis carolina.
there’s 31 species of arthropod in this post, and I probably saw some 45, not all of which stayed for photos. if you walk slowly and look closely, you can see a sizeable chunk of your local biodiversity in under fifteen minutes! of course this will depend on where you live and what time of year it is, but there’s almost always more cool bugs out there than you’d expect, even on just a single plant.
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
NCT Dream on their wedding day.
AN: Yes I know how weddings usually happen in Korea and China but let me dream.
Mark Lee
Church wedding DEFINITELY A CHURCH WEDDING. I think that it'll be intimate with just a few guests. Like knit-tight friends and families. And definitely Johnny is his best man, he has to be! Mark's vows are so poetic and long AND he'll cry halfway when reading the vows. He won't be crying when you're walking down the aisle but the moment he's telling you his vows, his voice becomes shaky and tears will fall!! Also would smile nonstop, looking at you, and telling you that you look so beautiful!! He couldn't believe he's marrying you.
Huang Renjun
A Garden wedding! He'll make sure that you two will have a wedding during spring or summer where the weather is sunny and the flowers are blooming!! It'll be an intimate wedding too and I feel like he doesn't have a best man (he loves Dreamies equally.) He'll be the type to cry \during the first look, seeing how beautiful you are in your wedding gown. He'll be surprised, as if you took his breathe away. But I feel like there's still a touch of the chinese tradition in his wedding, so I think it's a bit mix-cultural wedding too.
Lee Jeno
Oh it's a simple indoor wedding, but the designs are just extravagant because you know, he still wants what you want, and he's just there going with the flow with the wedding planning. Jaemin as his best man, end of debate. Probably has a color motif for your wedding AND the prenup wedding shoot was something else. It looks like straight out of a magazine and it's displayed outside the venue halls. You two are hot and so in love. Probably won't cry, would let out a laugh because its YOU who's crying in your wedding with him. (I mean who doesn't that's Lee Jeno WTF.) But would be the most comforting groom ever!!
Lee Donghyuck
HAECHAN WILL BE HAVING A BEACH WEDDING. It should be a beach wedding!!! His tan skin perfectly kissed by the sun. It'll be a non-traditional wedding that's exclusive too! Probably has Taeyong to officiate the wedding (Im not kidding with this one.) and Taeil to be the wedding singer. His wedding would be fun but it gets dramatic when it's time for the vows because Haechan started crying before he could even talk! You two were a bunch of crybabies during the exchange of vows. Also you two kissed while the sun was setting. So romantic omg.
Na Jaemin
Extravagant, and grand wedding. Imagine Hyun Bin and Son Yejin's wedding, I feel like that's what Jaemin's wedding is. But despite the grand wedding, there's only a few guests, so its very exclusive too. The wedding prenup shoot was also breath-taking. When you walked onto the aisle, Jaemin would be in daze, mouthing "Wow" when he sees you even though you're covered in veil. He'll be smiling widely that the NCT members are teasing him for looking like a love fool. When you reached the aisle, he'll whisper "I love you." to you.
Zhong Chenle
Just like Jaemin, Chenle will have an extravagant and grand wedding too. It's just going to be huge wedding that's going to be the talk of the town, for the sole purpose that his parents invited A LOT OF PEOPLE (imagine the wedding in Crazy Rich Asians.) But what matters is that he's marrying you. There won't be a lot of crying because you two would constantly tease other, especially during the vows! It'll be filled with laughter and teasing, just two idiots in love with each other.
Park Jisung
An indoor wedding too! It'll be cute and motif in pastels, so it's very innocent-like and is filled with flowers. An intimate wedding too, so only a few guests. Jisung would be a MESS, he'll be nervous thinking about getting married to you, that his hyungs has to convinced him that everything will be fine. That's why when you reached the end of the aisle, he'll be crying mess already!! You'll be worried but he assures you that he's fine, he'll unknowingly slipped that he's happy today because you two are getting married!! :<
#nct dream#nct imagines#nct dream fic#nct fic#nct#nct x reader#nct dream imagine#nct scenarios#nct fluff#nct dream reactions#nct drabbles#nct dream imagines#nct reactions#nct mark#nct jeno#nct renjun#nct haechan#nct jaemin#nct chenle#nct jisung
508 notes
·
View notes
Text
—seven days. [ ii ]
pairing: max verstappen x manager! reader.
summary: as the third time world champion, max verstappen's manager, you function on the belief that whatever max verstappen wanted, max verstappen shall get. but this time, after four years of working as his manager, you can't give him what he wants anymore and that was to stay.
author's note: not beta-read. not edited. here's part 2 folks. part 3 is on the works now. did i write this fic instead of studying for my important quiz tomorrow? yes, yes i did. pls pray for my score.
masterlist.
For Christmas in 2019, Max has gotten you an apartment near his in Monaco. It is a loft apartment good for one on the 8th floor, a building away from where Daniel and Max lived. Originally, he wants to get you the unit a floor below his. You decline quickly, insisting that you are very fine with rooming with Julia and Kendall, who are both members of the Red Bull PR team whom you have gotten close with since your first year working with Red Bull. Max may have beef with the PR team for making him do a lot of embarrassing shit for the views but you're besties with most of them and actually thank them for making Max suffer through PR stuff because you cannot afford therapy and watching Max suffer through PR-related activities is a good form of free therapy. Also, Monaco apartments are fucking expensive. Red Bull might be paying you well but not well enough to afford an apartment in a country as expensive as Monaco.
“I want you close,” he tells you. If you did not know any better, you'd have butterflies fluttering in your intestines right about that moment. Sometimes, Max utter the most heart-fluttering of nonsense without meaning to. It causes your heart to stutter more times than you would like to admit.
“Well, I don't want you close.”
Max will never ever win an argument with you. He knows that. You know that. The best he can do is come to a compromise, a compromise that is usually tailored to suit whatever you want.
So you got that small loft apartment a building away, good for one person only. It's easy to clean and it's cheap, Max already said that, which makes you happy because you can set a payment plan for that. An apartment as a Christmas gift is already too much, borderline giving you a heart attack already. Rich people spending their money give you, a person of the middle class folks, heart attacks. Why can't Max be normal and give you a normal gift? A bracelet? A bag? You’ll even accept it if he gave you a slice of cheesecake. Not even your parents can buy you an apartment.
It has only been three years since the keys are passed on to your ownership and people say three years is enough time for a person to make a place home. But your apartment doesn't even feel like home, only a place you’ll sleep in if you happen to be in Monaco for the evening.
Home is that humble, two-storey house painted in red and yellow in Lynnwood Avenue, Vista Del Pueblo, Austin, a total picture of a picket fence dream. Home is Abuelo's old farmhouse in El Paso where you spent your childhood riding horses and driving ATVs across the dusty dry earth. Home is the retro milkshake place owned by the sweet old couple that has been in the neighborhood longer than your entire existence. Home is the tree-lined streets where you walked the family senior dog, Niko. Home is the Austin Fire House, your Dad’s workplace that you visited a handful of times back when you were a child to deliver cookies that your Abuela baked so your Dad could share it with his co-workers. Home is your mom’s clinic in the middle of downtown, always smelling like eugenol, disinfectant, formaldehyde, and her perfume. Home is not glitz and gold and glamor and cash cash cash. Home is not seeing wealthy people left and right. Home is not Monaco.
And it is not like you stayed long in your place either. You're always off traveling around the world with the Red Bull team and accompanying Max wherever he needs your presence. You don't even spend your breaks in that apartment because you immediately fly home to your family once a break is graciously given to you before flying off again to watch Max collect trophy after trophy.
Six days from now, you're going to be flying off to Texas. That means you have six days—less than six days actually—to pack all your crayons and go. Of course you're going to pack up the day before you leave. Doing shit last minute makes your life exciting, and it's not like you had a lot of shit to pack anyway. All your belongings can be tucked into a total of three suitcases. Three years worth of belongings in three suitcases.
you: you doin good there?
Max has been holing himself up in his penthouse since your arrival from Abu Dhabi, probably dealing with his breakup with Kelly. A shame, really. You thought the two looked good together. (Do they really? the asshole part of your brain thinks.)
And P. Thank God for that child’s existence. You hate children but P is an exception. P brings the best out of Max. Max has gotten the chance to act as the father he never had. It's heartwarming, to be honest.
him: not really no
him: can you bring me coffee
you: on it champ
Fifteen minutes later, you’re knocking on the gigantic double doors of his penthouse, a tall styro cup of espresso from that cute café two streets down and a slice of blueberry cheesecake because you’re thoughtful enough to buy him his favorite cake. You experienced a breakup before. A cake and an icecream work wonders when it came to healing broken hearts.
“You're fast,” he immediately says after opening the door. You kind of expect that he’d look worse, snotty and messy and looking like he ran from hell and back. But no, he looks……fine? His sweater and shorts look absolutely neat and comfortable and dry of snot. His hair is a little fluffy from lying on his bed but not too messy. He doesn't even look like he was crying. No red-rimmed eyes. No red nose.
You fake gasp, putting a hand on your chest for additional dramatic effect, “The fastest racer in F1 callin’ me fast. Truly honored.”
A smile plays on his lips, sidestepping and beckoning you in.
You frequently come by Max’s home, for work purposes of course, but you still cannot help but be amazed by the enormity of it every time you enter. Max’s penthouse is twenty times bigger than the apartment you currently live in. One man and a big house—it must be very lonely now that P and Kelly are no longer around. Now, you’re even more worried about what will happen the moment you go back to Texas.
Oh… You still haven't told him yet.
“Coffee,” you hand him the warm styro cup to which he accepts gratefully. He utters his thanks, taking a whiff before sipping, letting out a pleasured moan.
You make your way to his gigantic kitchen, navigating your way through his cabinets in search of a plate and a fork. You slide the cheesecake on the plate towards Max, who followed you to the kitchen and sat on the empty stool in the kitchen counter.
“Thank you,” he says, picking up the fork and taking a bite. He glances at your feet, eyes trained on your YSL. The obnoxious sound of the heels clicking against the floor as you walk probably is the one that caught his attention.
“You know, you've been wearing the same shoes since 2019.”
Points for Max for noticing. These YSL Opyum heels are the first luxury items you bought for yourself after saving for three years to buy one pair. You saw a rich international student wear it once back in university and you liked how sophisticated it looked compared to all the pairs of converse or platform boots you owned. So you made it your life’s goal to own one. In 2019, after doing tons of part time jobs in university and working with Red Bull for a whole year, you managed to buy yourself one on your birthday and you’d been wearing them to work ever since.
Your regular work uniform consists of a Red Bull polo shirt, a pencil or a slit skirt, and that specific pair of heels. Around 2021, you bought another pair to replace the old one because the old one broke. And 2022 again.
“What's wrong with ‘em?” you ask, brows furrowing as you followed his train of sight. Your heels might be a year old already but they still look fine.
Max blinks, “No, there's nothing wrong. Just…Do you think you would want to wear some other design?”
“No,” is your reply. “I like ‘em just the way they are.”
“Okay.”
Your conversation drifts into something else as Max finishes his coffee and cake. You spend the rest of the day in Max’s penthouse, lying on his plush couch while a slasher movie from the 2000s played on his wide TV. He has given you access on his Netflix account so you abused it to your heart’s content because you don't even have. a Netflix subscription. You can absolutely afford one, you just choose not to. You have opted in using your phone mid-movie because the movie is beginning to get real scary but you do not want Max to think you're a coward so you acted like you're disinterested instead.
“Oh look, Charles is also back in Monaco. Do you want to hang out together?” you nudge Max with your foot, who swats it away from him, face contorting in disgust. You show him the post on Charles private IG—yes, you were mutuals in each other's private IG because whoever is friends with Max was friends with you by extension—on your phone.
“Stop makin’ that face, my feet are nice.”
Your toenails are a glorious red now. Ferrari red actually and they suit you better than the Red Bull red. Huh, maybe you should have considered applying for Ferrari instead of Renault in 2018.
“No, it isn't.”
You roll your eyes, pulling it away from him and sitting up, “Do you want me to schedule you a dinner with Charles? You might need the bro time, you know? Dad said bro times are also important, but not as important as family time, of course. My bro broke up with his sweetheart back when I was still in uni and his best buds were the reason he was back up in tippy top shape by the end of the week.”
Max stares at you blankly, “I think I understand the words individually but not the sentence entirely. I don't know if it's the accent or you Americans just have a strange way of structuring your sentences.”
“Point is, hang out with a friend because a friend can help you move on from a pussy.”
Max hurls a throw pillow at your direction, which you luckily avoided thanks to your non-racer level but still considerably good reaction time, but unfortunately, this action causes your center of gravity to shift and before you know it, you're falling from the couch. Unconsciously, you grab Max but then Max doesn't expect that you’ll grab him so now, you’re both falling off the couch and onto the floor.
You groan.
“Fuckin’ ass, man. That was uncalled for.”
He flips you off.
Nevertheless, Max ends up following your advice though and calls Charles to hang out the next day. Lestappen fans should be thanking you on Twitter the next day for bringing those two together on an off-day in Monaco. Maybe they'll hang out and eat together in a restaurant? Maybe they'll go on a yacht picnic?
Except Max sends you a message at high noon.
him: sos
you: is your kitchen burning
him: no
him: but this is still an emergency and you need to come quick
him: he’s with his girlfriend and i don’t want to thirdwheel
you: succ it up
him: you can’t do this to me
him: i just got my heart broken in abu dhabi
you: where are you
him: home
him: i also need help in cooking
Charles is the one who answers the door when you knock. He looks genuinely surprised when he sees you and you deduce that Max hasn't told him that you're coming over.
“Babe, who’s that?” you hear Alex’s voice behind Charles and you light up immediately, quickly moving past Charles to throw your hands around the sweet young woman.
“Alex!” Alexandra laughs and hugs you back. The sound of her laughter is as pretty as she and God definitely has favorites because why did he sculpt this twenty-one year old like the daughter of the Aphrodite while you look like you were born from one of Hephaestus’ sperm that lost the gene pool contest? The world is unfair. You always get the short end of the stick, may it be career-wise or appearance-wise, and you can't even bring your personality to the table because normally, without the whole act of professionalism and sophistication you put on, you act like an extroverted American frat boy on a good day and a sassy drag queen slash war freak on a bad day so yeah, you guess that's the short end of the stick, too.
“Seriously?” you look up and saw Max holding a frying pan, staring at you unimpressed. You roll your eyes and slowly pull away from the hug, gaze returning to Alexandra.
“How’ve you been, sweetie? Been a while since I last saw you.”
You didn't get a chance to talk to her in Abu Dhabi and in Las Vegas.
“Good,” she replies, smiling sweetly and ugh, you want to pinch her cheeks so bad. But Charles is pulling you away from Alexandra before you can do so.
“No, no, she is mine, yours is right over there,” Charles says, pointing at Max, who's still standing there in the corner. “Go on. Shoo.”
You roll your eyes before walking up to Max, “‘Sup?”
Max raises a brow at you, “So Charles’ girlfriend gets a hug and I get a sup?”
“Well, she's Alexandra Saint Mleux and you’re just….” you look him up and down. “Nevermind, what you trynna cook?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“I thought you said you were cooking.”
“I said I needed help with cooking.”
Your eyes narrow into slits, “You’re going to let me do the cooking, aren't you?”
“You know that pasta you made in September that you said was your mother’s recipe?”
A sigh escapes your lips as you roll the sleeves of your button-up to your elbows and power-walked your way to the kitchen, the sound of your YSL heels clicking against the floor bouncing against the walls of Max’s kitchen.
Lunch goes great. Charles and Alexandra love your cooking. Max has even asked for seconds. Good to know that he's eating well. Somewhere down the line, champagne is served even though it’s mid-afternoon and the four of you're sitting in Max’s balcony, staring at Monaco scape below. Thankfully, it is a cloudy day in Monaco. The heat of the sun isn't too harsh on the skin. Despite that, you hand Max a sun screen.
“Sorry about Kelly, by the way,” Alexandra says. Your conversation has drifted towards Max’s failed relationship now.
“That is very nice of you to say,” replies Max, smiling slightly. “But I’m okay.”
You give him a look, clearly unconvinced. Admitting vulnerability gives him hives so he's definitely lying.
“You look too okay for a guy who ended a three-year relationship,” Charles muses and his words get you immediately thinking.
Oh? So they’ve been dating that long? You never noticed.
“Even [Name] looked worse when she broke up with that Williams mechanic two years ago and they dated for like what? Barely a year?”
“Unprovoked!” you exclaim. Alex and Max laugh.
But yeah, Charles is right. When you broke up with Leo in 2021, it was not the prettiest sight. He entered Williams mid-2020 as a mechanic and he immediately caught your attention. He's kind and handsome and a very sweet guy. You have similar interests—engineering—and a similar sense of humor and you just….work so well together, you know? You were sure he was your soulmate the moment he cracked up that Physics pickup line and you know it was the same with him. You swore to God that you’d run away from all the British charming assholes but Leo made you eat your own words and gave you a run for your money.
But alas, 2021 season came and Red Bull Racing became busier than ever because Max and Hamilton got crazily competitive and Max demanded your full attention, needing you as a support system to win.
And Leo. Well, he’s busy, too. Engineers are always busy. But he felt neglected because all your attention was on Max. He felt like he was competing with Max for your attention and it shouldn't even be a competition in the first because Leo was the boyfriend and Max was not. And you cannot even deny that you prioritized Max that year. You wanted Max to win. You needed Max to win, so he can finally ask Horner to move you to the engineering team.
Losing Leo is devastating but Max won the WDC title that year and while you spent nearly a month crying over Leo after the breakup, you're hoping that at least, in 2022, you’ll finally get that damned engineering position at the cost of losing your soulmate. That the tears you shed and the broken heart you carried inside your ribs will be worth it if it was in exchange for your dream. Then, it does not happen. The job isn't given to you and you spent the early months of the 2023 season wishing that you have chosen Leo instead of Max Verstappen.
“You’re still friends with him, right?” Charles turns to you.
“Of course,” you say honestly. You're still mutuals on IG and he still hearts your IG stories at times. You still talk, too, on the freer nights where there's a lot of time to waste. “We ended on good terms.”
“How about you, Max?”
“Can we not talk about this please?”
The four of you empty that bottle of champagne and once the sun has begun retiring for the night, Alex and Charles also left. You're soon to follow, fixing your tote bag and going through the mental checklist in your head so you will not forget anything and not waste energy returning here to pick it up.
“You can stay for dinner.”
Max’s offer surprises you.
“No.”
His face drops as quickly as your answer came.
“You're goin’ to let me cook again.”
“No, I’ll cook.”
You give him an unimpressed look. Clearly, you're not convinced.
“I swear, I’ll cook.”
“What if I get poisoned?”
“You won't get poisoned.”
When you continue staring at him, he sighs.
“Just stay please?”
Of course, you stayed. He asked after all.
You keep your eyes on him as he makes dinner with clumsy hands and a bit of unsureness behind his actions.
“You're goin’ to burn it, honey,” you point out.
“What honey? I didn't put any honey in it.”
You blink. He blinks back.
“You’re gonna give me aneurysm one day.”
Shaking your head, you walk into the bathroom at the end of the enormous hallway, lock the door behind you, lean your back against the door, and slowly slides down until your ass meets the cold bathroom floor. You slap a palm against your forehead and purse your lips to stop a scream from erupting.
God fucking dammit, Max is too adorable back there and this is not doing good things for your heart.
#max verstappen x you#max verstappen#max verstappen x reader#manager!reader#fluff#formula one#formula 1#f1 x reader#f1 imagines#f1 fanfic#mv1#mv1 x reader#mv33#mv33 x reader
625 notes
·
View notes
Text
Birthday Blues
Read part 2 here.
Steve hates his birthday.
He knows he may not be the only one who gets "birthday blues" but he feels like it's a lot deeper than just the blues.
When he got closer with Eddie and learned of his own shitty upbringing, he thought it'd be a bonding moment for them. Eddie has to hate his birthday too, right?
Wrong.
Despite Eddie’s mom dying when he was only six, and Eddie’s dad being a deadbeat, leaving Eddie on his own before Uncle Wayne took him in, Eddie loved his birthday.
The Munsons may not have been rich but Wayne always did his best to provide Eddie with new(er) clothes, or dice, or guitar picks. A new album or poster for his bedroom walls. Maybe even his favorite food at the diner--something they didn't do often as they usually survived on box cereal and spaghetti-Os.
And when Al Munson finally rolled into town conveniently around his only child's birthday, well he'd give the sort of shitty, low-commitment gift only a father could give.
And Eddie looked forward to it all the same. One or two shitty presents in six years is better than none when it comes to his father. He'd take what he could get.
So, when Eddie's birthday comes and goes and Steve gets invited to his and Wayne's get together with the kids, and then a later party with the members of Corroded Coffin--well of course Steve goes. And he showers Eddie with love and meaningful but still kinda pricey presents, because he can. And he wants to. Despite the merciless teasing he endures. The look on Eddie's face makes Steve feel like he's the one that got the greatest gift of all.
This, of course, all falls apart when Eddie points out Steve's own birthday must be coming up, and he's right. And because he has no tact he announces in front of everyone who realizes in horror that they've gone years of knowing Steve and celebrating his birthday exactly zero times.
Steve's equally horrified now because now everyone is tripping over their feet desperately trying to make it up to him with cakes and ice cream and movies and handmade cards and weird action figures Eddie probably would have liked better.
It's only after Steve gracelessly accepts all of their gift-giving, and fends off at least three panic attacks and two migraines that he has to put on his bitch voice and scream that the only thing he wants for his birthday is to be left alone.
And like usual, the kids do not listen.
Until Eddie steps in. He makes them go, Robin too, even if she is pissed about it. But they go when Eddie assures them that Steve probably just feels a little overwhelmed right now and needs some space.
He's close to leaving too, knowing he may have made a mistake and should probably get out of his hair... But then Steve starts crying and Eddie has to stay.
It's not loud or ugly, just these little, tiny pitiful things like Steve is trying his damnest to not cry. Like the act of tears falling would kill him.
Eddie cautiously slides next to his shaking form on the couch, careful not to jostle him too much.
He bites his lip as he experiments with placing a hand on Steve's shoulder.
Steve tenses under his touch until Eddie speaks,
"Stevie, I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. None of us did."
His parents were hardly around. Never gave him practical toys he wanted, just whatever they thought a boy should have to shape him into a "proper young man", if they thought he needed toys at all. No parties. Ever. He briefly wanted to throw ragers when he realized he was old enough and his parents wouldn't be home, they never were, but those made him feel even worse so he got used to spending the day like any other. All alone in a big, empty house. Not a home.
Eddie continues to rub soothing circles into Steve's back as he lets it all out, explaining his woes as best he can through a sore throat and runny nose. Eventually he pulls Steve into a proper hug-turned-cuddle until his breathing steadies and he isn't shaking anymore.
"I'm sorry." Eddie holds his breath, hoping it doesn’t trigger another panic attack.
"No--don’t be. Thank you."
"For what? Making you cry?"
"For caring enough to bring it up, even if it was a lot. But mostly for being here, after. Just..."
Steve didn't have to finish his sentence. Eddie knew what he was trying to say.
Thank you for staying. Thank you for holding me. Thank you for loving me.
"Always, Stevie. I'll always be here for you."
Steve squeezes him, and Eddie squeezes back once, twice.
He doesn't say it, but Steve understands.
Happy Birthday... I love you.
#wrote this because.... it's my birthday#i'm 22#and i've had the birthday blues my whole life#and i thought maybe Steve could relate#steve harrington#eddie munson#steddie#steddie ficlet
746 notes
·
View notes
Text
[Image Description: A series of sixteen tweets by John Rogers @jonrog1 that say:
1) A moment at the Teamsters/UPS rally this morning clarified our current struggle with the studio CEO's (among other bosses). Teamsters got a lot of wins, but one of the main sticking points is the pay for the 65% of local UPS workers who are part-time …
2) If you read the SAG-AFTRA demands, a truly STUNNING amount of their points involve protecting background actors, and trying to improve conditions for the 87% of their union who makes less than $26,000 a year.
3) As WGA members know, this is not a strike for the showrunners. We're trying to fix the fact the the current younger generation of writers can't even afford housing and their pathway to advancement has been cut off.
4) Like … folks, I'm fine. There are maybe two proposals in there that affect me. I'm walking in 90% weather and losing over 50% of my income for the year because I want the younger writers to get what I got at this stage of their careers.
5) Our unions and the CEO's and various negotiators have a fundamental cognitive disconnect. Because CEO's types only succeed by FUCKING THEIR PEERS.
6) Zaslav, Iger , those types of execs, etc have never gone without so a fellow exec or a junior exec could thrive. A fellow exec failing is the moment to use your own leverage to advance past them, if not destroy them.
7) Part of it is the money but part of this, I think, is a genuine inability to grasp even the concepts of any labor action. Because it is always other-directed.
8) So many people treat capitalism as part of nature red in tooth and claw, but it's not. It's a human construct. There are different rules you can play by -- but not if you want to win.
9) The greatest gift capitalism ever granted was the ability to validate selfish behavior as a virtue because that's "just what's necessary, I don't make the rules!" (Look ma, it's reification!)
10) This is where I usually point out that Adam Smith wrote that you have to overpay workers to keep your labor force up, and you need to take into account the psychic damage of capitalism to the workers, and that admiring the rich is the greatest source of moral corruption …
11) But I'll stave off that diversion to just land with … this is a discontinuity of attitudes which I think was once breached by the fact that management USED to come from people who loved building their company or their trade, even if they eventually did management shit.
12) Now, even that thin thread of SYMPATHY (Adam Smith joke, get it? People?) is gone. The CEO's are working off a different scorecard, practically and morally. We're not just playing by wildly divergent rules, our lives and careers are DEFINED by those wildly divergent rules.
13) To them, we are IN FACT being "unreasonable", as our behavior does not make sense in their moral framework. They don't think they're being evil, they think they're playing by the actual rules, and we're nuts.
14) There's not great conclusion to this, other than to note that the bit about making writers homeless was described as "cruel but necessary" because they genuinely don't understand the meaning of cruel, because they are always on the other side of the power dynamic.
15) And if they're ever NOT on the top of the power dynamic, they're not suffering, they're dead. They are un-people in their own eyes.
16) These men are not irrational, but they are deranged. This isn't about money, it's about identity. And in a fight about identity … they will set billions on fire.
Because they can always get more money. But they'll never shed the stink of losing to their lessers."
end of image description]
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Batman Quest To Get A Birkin Bag
Ok so I have a very indulgent, SuperBats head fanfic that keeps me company on days that I forget to charge my earphones while walking my dog and to bore my wonderfully accommodating friends over dinner.
Long story short it’s a character study about Clark after his death. Doomsday kills him becuase we do not subscribe to Synder movies in this household.
Mostly its about Bruce grieving and reflecting on his ten+ year marriage with the man of steel with a large helping of the Justice League members bonding and finally getting to know Bruce and in turn Clark. (Kal never really got to say specifics about his life because Bruce wanted to keep his identity secret therefore a lot of Clark's life was private.)
For most of the fic Clark’s dead. But I'm one for angst with a happy ending so he comes back. How he comes back I have all kinds of versions but I just want to share this really silly one that I’m slightly obsessed with.
It’s about two years after Clark died. Currently, Bruce and Hal are off-world for a two-month mission. Shortly after they leave the League are battling some sorcerer who's in possession of a Jinn. During the battle two of the three wishes are used and at the end it's Flash who gets to use the last one.
He wishes for Clark to be revived back to life.
Jinn says he can't do that
Flash thinks of course just like in Aladdin you can't bring the dead back, make someone fall in love or wish for more wishes.
The Jinn is like how dare you think that's not within my power of course I can bring back the dead, I can't bring back Superman because Clark's not dead. he's just in his grave too weak to break out of his grave due to the lack of sunlight.
Flash hears this and immediately rushes over to dig up Kal.
The next month and a half are all about Clark adjusting to the changes over the last three years (Like having a new kid at the manor: Tim) Meeting new members (Green Arrow, Martian Man Hunter), and really bonding with his teammates ect.
While waiting for Bruce's return Clark asks Barry what he'd like.
Barry is confused
Clark clarifies that Barry was able to bring back one of Bruce's loved ones “to life.“ That’s never happened and for a man like Bruce who loves deeply for his family he going to be very grateful and he will not take “I’m just glad I could help” for an answer. So Barry needs to think of something or Batman will.
Barry doesn't know what to ask for but knows that Bruce is rich. He figures this would be a great time to get that designer bag that Iris always wanted but they could never justify ever buying. (Listen I don’t know if Iris is a designer girly but in this fic she really just likes this one bag.)
So Bruce and Hal get back and after the big celebration party, the JL held for Clark and Bruce's reunion. Bruce approaches Barry thanks him and asks if there’s anything he can do.
Thinking Barry is going to ask for a house, pull some strings with his Brucie persona so he can better his life at his job or status. Maybe ask for Bruce to fund or set up a wellness program for people in Central City.
But Barry is just like: Uh well Iris has always liked this bag.
And Bruce is thinking Really Barry You brought the love of my life back to life I’d move mountains (without Clark’s help) for you and you want some designer bag for your wife?
Bruce: Do you have a picture?
And as soon as Barry shows him the bag Bruce knows moving mountains would be so much easier.
The bag Barry wants to get is a Birkin Bag.
Now if you know anything about Birkin bags 1. they’re stupid expensive. 2. If you can afford one that doesn't mean you get to buy one. Hermes the company that makes them has this irate practice that you have to work up a good relationship with the store and the sales associates in said store to even get the privilege to buy a Birkin (usually by buying a ton of other Hermes products you don’t want.) Sometimes you buy half the store but if you’re not a high-profile client or they don't like your image they just brush you off and postpone your chance to ”buy” a Birkin. And if you do all of the above prerequisites You don't even get to pick the bag they "give" you one. Want a pink colorway? Sorry here's lime green you're welcome.
Now Barry has no knowledge of any of this and just thinks a Birkin is just some overpriced bag. The problem is Iris only likes this one colorway ( Size 35cm, Red Alligator Exterior, Gold hardware, Yellow Slik interior ect.)
This is going to be near impossible.
But In Bruce's mind, Flash did the impossible in bringing back Clark (Bruce thinks Clark was wished back to life because that's the story everyone is sticking to. Because the emotional trauma of letting Bruce know that Clark was alive the whole time rotting away in a grave for 2 years is not on anyone’s todo list.) So he will get this bag Even if it kills him. He's the goddamn Batman.
And all this lead up is to what I'm actually obsessed with
I just love the idea that Bruce is running around Brucie-ing it up to try to get in Hermes' good graces but his image of being a drunk playboy is activity stopping him from buying any bag.
He calls up the Daily Planet and starts setting up all these puff PR-boosting articles to up his image. Which starts rumors becuase Burce Wayne doesn’t do interviews so why now?
Gotham elite catches wind that Burcie Wayne wants a Birkin richest man in America can't get one. So they all start getting Birkins. They ware them to his galas, just to troll Burcie. The elite jump on the waitlist inflating the list to stupid long. Hermes starts to wear the exclusivity of Brucie Wayne as a sign of good taste and prestige.
Bruce searches the second-hand market and can't find the colorway Iris's wants.
Bruce goes undercover as a worker for a local Hermes store to become his own sales associate just so he can get around the prejudices of Bruce Wayne image and start racking up a sales history. (He just selling and buying to himself lol.)
So Bruce is playing a luxury salesman using his background of old money and Alfred’s butlering to woo potential buyers. Working his first retail job ever. Having to suck up to management so he can plead his case about Bruce Wayne. Using his access to get informed on what bags are currently available, who’s on the waitlist, where they rank, and criteria on how and what moves you up the list ect.
After months and becoming the number one salesman, he makes his case to allow Brucie Wayne to buy a bag.
It’s declined.
So he switches tactics.
He just makes a new cover as a recently won lottery winner looking to burn cash and wants to burn it with Hermes. And starts a new sale history. Using all of his knowledge and intel about what gets you on the waiting list.
He gets stonewalled a few times by former co-workers that he gets around by blackmailing them with gossip and infractions he witnessed or was told In confidence when he was a fellow sales associate.
Finally, his lottery winner persona is put on a waitlist. The only problem is he’s at the very bottom.
So what does he do?
He suties up As Batman and starts intimidating all those who are higher on the list than his lottery winner cover rocketing him up the list.
He hits a roadblock when he tries to scrace a woman on the list who doesn’t believe he’s actually Batman becuase “Why would Batman even want with a Birkin?”
Which leads to an escalation that gets him an earful from Superman who’s called to the scene by said woman whos terrified after Batman strings her upside down over the edge of her high-rise penthouse.
Clark offers to buy the bag becuase who wouldn’t want that kinda of PR endorsement?
Which Bruce vittamently refuses becuase it would cheapen the gift.
Finally, after a week of terrorizing wait-listers, his lottery winner persona is “given“ the opportunity to buy a bag.
But disaster strikes when that lucky break he thought he got because he was next on the list was actually bad luck becuase the person was bumped off becuase they bought the bag that Bruce had painfully calculated to purchase which was the only bag that would be made in the next 3 years that has the colorway that Iris wanted.
So Bruce tracks down and comforts the buyer in the dead of night as Batman. The buyer freaks out and says they didn't even want this colorway and really wanted a Caranery yellow ostrich skin colorway and if he could get her that one she'd trade for it.
This leads Bruce to play matchmaker for a series of buyers that have Birken Bags they don't love and would trade for their dream bag. And after months of fetch questing and matching sad Birken owners around the world with their dream bags Bruce he pulls it off. He finally gets a Canary, yellow ostrich skin colorway Birkin bag trades it for Iris’s dream bag. Only to find out it was ruined in a car crash that was caused by an alien invasion 2 months before that the JL had a particularly nasty time with and it was Bruce’s Batmobile that was thrown into her parked car.
The bag is a mess the zipper borken, missing hardware, leather scratched. But Bruce so done with everything accepts the trade and takes it back to the cave. Where he proceeds to 3D scan the bag then composite a CAD model and starts to collect all the raw components of the bag himself.
Getting only the best materials (much better than what Hermes was using) Talking to Killer Corc on how to find the best alligator pelts. Flying to India to personally pick out the red dye for the color. Mining the gold for the hardware from an asteroid that was threatening the Watchtower.
After he has everything Bruce proceeds to by hand construct an exact replica of Iris's dream bag. Essentially making the most over-budgeted fake to exist. Where he finally gives it to Barry (who has no inkling of the time and effort Bruce has put into this side project that has taken the better part of a whole year) who jokes in saying “Oh wow takes 12 months to run to the store huh?”
#Shit I'm never going to write#Fic Idea rambling#Silly Ideas#Superbat#The Flash#Batman#Superman#Burcie Wayne#bruce wayne#Messing Around#DCAU#Stupidly long#I'm great at parties ;)
312 notes
·
View notes
Text
knee socks - carmen berzatto x waitress reader
summary: four discoveries come about your and carmens secret relationship; he’s very into knee socks, you’re acquainted with a staff member he has a tricky relationship with, he can be possessive and weirdly enough he likes being called daddy?
You’d stayed back last night to help Carmen, despite the raging headache that had caused you to have to take a 30 minute break from waiting tables just to rest your head. Carmen appreciated that, and was not shy in showing you. Once he’d insured everyone had gone home for the night, doors locked and safety measures taken care of, he had come into the office and kissed you softly, before walking you to your apartment. Where things had escalated, resulting in you falling asleep stuffed and sated and Carmy going home with a pair of your panties.
Today however you felt refreshed, you’d woken up at the crack of dawn, showered, threw on your uniform and decided you’d wear a pair of knee socks due to the cold fall weather. You arrived to the usual chaos of The bear, Tina and Sydney getting started on prep, Marcus unloading the batter he’d made the night before and Richie barking orders at your fellow waitstaff about today’s schedule. Carmy however wasn’t anywhere to be seen, so you assumed he was in his office going over stock orders or doing payroll.
“Hey, you look pretty good this morning princess” Rich or Richie to everyone else, whispers into your ears.
“Don’t be gross Rich.” You mumble, grabbing your apron and tying it around your waist as he mockingly smiled back at you.
“Damn can’t even give out compliments anymore.” He throws his hands up in mock self defence.
Your and Richie’s relationship was simple, he was a longtime friend of your brothers and had always been mockingly flirty and playful with you, occasionally you’d reciprocate the flirtyness but it was all in good fun. Carmy however hated it, so much so that he’d ensure he did his best to put a distance between you two most of the time.
As the day went on Carmen would make subtle appearances from the office, coming into the kitchen to help Sydney with recipes she was working on, answering some of Tina’s questions, giving Marcus the green-light on some new dessert ideas, the works. But what you noticed from these appearances were the glances he kept making towards you, or specifically towards your legs. Until it finally hit you, it was the knee socks.
-
Carmen couldn’t think straight with the way you were just casually waiting tables while looking like a goddess. Your uniform clung so nicely to your body, your smile ever so bright and those god damned knee socks. He was convinced you were trying to send him into cardiac arrest. He’d never even known he had a thing for those until today and he wasn’t about to let them go to waste.
carmen 🐻
You busy right now?
you
Kinda, why?
carmen 🐻
Need your help in the office, now.
you
Alright, coming
-
"Hi" you smiled shyly, walking up to his desk and taking a seat on one of the chairs opposite his desk.
"Come 'ere " he says lowly, beckoning you forward with two fingers. You slowly get out of the chair and make your way behind the desk to his side.
"Hi, again" you say as you look down at him, with a sweet smile on your face.
"Hey, feelin' any better, since last night?" He questions as he turns his chair to face you and pulls you in between his legs, his hands holding your hips in place.
"Y-yeah a little, thank you by the way" you reply softly, flustered by the touch he was so lovingly giving you.
"Your welcome, just wanted to make sure you were alright, it was so worth it" he smiled as his hands began to roam, up and down your hips.
"Wh- why was it worth it?" You reply, voice barely above a whisper, as you look down at him though your lashes.
"I got to kiss you, touch you, and keep your panties" he smirked at the last part, knowing it was going to annoy you.
"Thanks for reminding me to kick you for that by the way." You playfully swat his shoulder and he fakes a pout. You began laughing at him.
"What?" He asks, curiously.
"Nothing" you smile as you lift your hands to play with his hair.
"No tell me" he insists, as he squeezes your hips and pulls you down, to straddle him.
"Mmm, it's just I didn't expect you to be such a softie" you smile as you move down on him a little harder, to feel his crotch.
"Of fuck- I" he tries talking but the feeling of you pressed down against him is too much.
"Fuck-“ he says your name “you're gonna kill me" he replies as he pushes his hips against you and you feel his hard on.
“These knee socks have been killing me all day, did you wear em just f’me?” He grunts the last part.
“I did, wanted to impress you.” You smile, wiggling into him.
“It worked, I’m fuckin impressed and so hard f’you.” He smiles into a kiss he plants on your lips.
"I want you now, please daddy" you weren't sure where the 'daddy' came from, but honestly you didn’t care at this point, you needed him. His eyes widen and you're pretty sure you feel him get even harder once the word leaves your mouth.
"I'm your daddy?" He questions you with a smirk on his face.
"Ye-yeah, daddy" you whispered as you continue to grind down on him.
"That's right, I'm your daddy, keep grinding on your daddy till you cum" he groans, face all red.
"Mmmm" you whisper against his neck as you continue. Just as you feel him moving to reposition you, the phone in his office begins to ring. You look up at him and he shakes his head.
"Leave it, keep goin" he groans as he pulls you down, once more. You're so close to your climax when the phone rings again.
"Mmm, just answer it" you groan as you attempt to get off him, he however pulls you back down and answers the phone.
"What?"
"Ok, and?"
"Fine"
"I'll send her in"
He slams the phone back down and kisses you hungrily once more. You oblige and bring your hands up to his hair.
"Who was it?" You ask, pulling back from the kiss.
"Dumbass Richie, he wants to see you, claims one the regulars is here and only you can help him service them" he spits, you can tell he’s annoyed by Richie’s interruption.
"Rich’s always been quite the mood stealer" you smile, as he kisses your neck lightly.
"Rich?" He questions as he pulls back from your neck and looks up at you.
"Yeah, Rich?" You reply confused, had you said the wrong thing?
"Why the fuck, do you call him that?" He asks angrily, as he lets go of your waist. Alright so Carmy’s moods did always change quickly, noted.
"He's a family friend, I've known him since I was like 18 he's like a brother to me, at-least that's how I feel about him." You reply, whilst putting his hands back on your waist.
"Alright then, Good" he says refusing to smile.
"Why the long face, hmmm?" You question as you smile at him.
"I don't want anyone else to have you, I'm territorial, possessive, I don't know call it what you want but you're mine now and I don't need anyone getting in the way of that" he smirks.
"Mmmm, I just loveeee being owned by men, it's so empowering" you say sarcastically.
"I don't mean it in that way, you know that" says Carmy quickly, afraid you misunderstood him.
"I'm just fucking with you, and this may sound a bit anti-feminist, but I like the thought of belonging to you" you whisper into his ear, leaving him groaning.
"Alright we'll, Rich’s waiting for me, bye Carmy" you say as you try to get off of him. His grip however is too strong and he manages to pull you back down.
"I want to take you out for dinner tomorrow night, somewhere nice but chill ,not too fancy." He says shyly.
"I- I would love too, also not too fancy? this doesn't sound like Michelin star chef Carmen Berzatto" you joke, and he simply smiles at you. He finally let's you out of his grip and you give him a sweet peck, before making your way to the door. Before you can leave the office he calls out to you.
"Wear something pretty ok?"
You turn around and smile at him before replying with poise, "only for daddy"
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
"Can I sit here?" "Y/N, that's my lap."
Yep! Inspired by this post haha I couldn't RESIST
Aemond x reader | drunk tipsy reader
“May I sit here?”
“Y/N…that’s my lap.”
You pouted at Aemond, your lower lip jutting out. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Tipsy.” You corrected, raising a finger in delicate objection, swaying on the spot. “In fact, I feel quite unbalanced…oh no…” With a sigh of false distress, you sank to sit upon Aemond’s thigh, grinning as his hands came up instinctively to support your waist.
“You’re insufferable.” The prince fought down the smile tugging at his lips. Your faces were very close as you leaned against his chest, gliding your fingers through his long silver hair.
“You love me anyway.” You skimmed your lips along his forehead, before planting a sloppy kiss to the side of his face.
Aemond took hold of your face, gripping your chin between two long fingers. “Indeed. For some odd reason, I do.” He pulled you in for a kiss, teasing your lower lip with light nibbles.
You scooted to a more secure position in your lover’s lap, wrapping your arms tighter about his shoulders. Aemond’s head tilted back as you deepened the kiss, sweeping your eager tongue against his.
“You taste of several different ales.” Aemond observed, pulling away enough to measure your expressions with his keen violet eye.
“Tipsy.” You repeated, feeling it necessary to defend your current blurry state of mind. “And horny.” You giggled.
Aemond sucked in a sharp breath, pressing his finger to your lips to shush you. You took it upon yourself to take that digit into your mouth, laving it with your tongue in the way you wished to suck on a different member of his.
“Y/N, by the hells.” Aemond tried to be cross with you, but his eye crinkled as he looked up at you. “You are in a state.”
“You could help me…out of a state.” You wiggled suggestively where you perched upon his legs.
“Not while you’re inebriated.” Aemond shook his head, his mouth thinning into a line. “That’s out of the question. Go drink some water, then come back and woo me.”
“Woo you?” You laughed raucously, throwing your head back. “I never dreamt I’d hear you say the word ‘woo’. Woo!” Your laughter caught in your throat as Aemond raked his teeth across your exposed neck, nipping at your delicate flesh. You looked back down at him, the pout back on your face. “That’s not playing fair, Aemond.”
“Hmm. Rich coming from you, my lady.”
You scooped your hair to one side, arching your neck for him. “Do that again.”
“No.” Aemond practically growled, gripping your waist tighter, making to move you off his lap.
You clung tighter to him, refusing to be removed. Aemond only struggled momentarily before falling back against his seat, a bemused expression upon his face. “I’ll make a deal with you, though I don’t usually bargain with drunkards.”
“Tipsy.”
“Go drink some water, enough to sober up and I will take you back to our chambers where we may resume…whatever this is.” Aemond gestured with his free hand to your entwined bodies. “If you still wish to.”
His words almost sobered you on their own, you tilted your head looking at him, a warm emotion spreading through your chest. Carefully, you rose back to your feet, placing a delicate kiss to the palm of Aemond’s hand. “Alright.”
The prince seemed genuinely surprised at your sudden shift in demeanor. He closed his fingers around where you’d kissed, rubbing the skin there lightly. You wanted to kiss him everywhere your lips could reach, but first you’d need to find where they had put all the water.
#aemond x reader#aemond drabble#aemond imagine#aemond x y/n#aemond x you#aemond fanfic#aemond fluff#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond targaryen x you#hotd aemond x reader#prince aemond x reader#aemond one eye x reader#aemond targaryen fluff#aemond stannies#pro aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen#aemond one eye#aemond targaryen fanfic
5K notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
shopcbdnoow
Shop CBD Now
harmonyjapanese-blog
Learn Japanese in Perth from Chikako Uemura
lovehouseofhairuk-blog
House Of Hair
guldanasblog-blog
Без названия
