#Pooled Distribution | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kxsagi · 2 months ago

Note

Could you do something about the Blue Lock Boys with a girlfriend who practices a sport like Muay Thai or boxing professionally and is quite famous for dragging her opponents? 💘

“𝐊𝐎: 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐚 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝”

a/n: get em girl boss

ft. itoshi rin, itoshi sae, isagi yoichi, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, kaiser michael, karasu tabito, bachira meguru, shidou ryusei

itoshi rin

silently obsessed. he never says anything, but you catch him rewinding your fight clips with laser focus like he’s decoding national secrets.

“your weight distribution was off by 3% in round two.” bro how do you even know that?

secretly has your “top 10 verbal takedowns” saved to his phone. watches them when he needs cheering up.

he’s not impressed when you trash talk. he’s turned on.

you call someone “a wet mop with delusions” and he just raises an eyebrow like, hot.

refuses to sit in the VIP section, instead sits in the back so no one sees how fast he’s clapping when you land a KO.

“that punch was sloppy.” five minutes later in private: “... you looked good though.”

itoshi sae

you could be dragging your opponent across the ring by their hair and sae would still be in the front row sipping iced coffee like it’s a spa day.

literally unfazed. she’s choking someone? cool. what’s for dinner?

sometimes you don’t even notice he’s there until he shows up behind you post-match like, “hey. you’re bleeding. want tacos?”

thinks your trash talk is theatrical brilliance.

“she said ‘i’m gonna turn you into a cautionary tale’ and then actually did. love that for her.”

got banned from interviews because he kept answering on your behalf. “how do you feel about the win?” “she’s hungry. move.”

you're punching people, he's posting “date night ❤️” selfies.

isagi yoichi

isagi fell for your smile. the public fell for your fists.

he watches your matches like he’s witnessing a crime. jaw clenched, eyes wide, muttering prayers like a soccer mom watching an MMA bloodbath.

you’re standing over your KO’d opponent, shouting, “tell your coach to pick better fighters,” and he’s clapping like “yay baby good sportsmanship 👍”

pre-fight: “good luck, you got this ❤️”

post-fight: googling how to hide a body because you just ended someone's career.

once tried to “trash talk” your rival to hype you up and said, “you’re gonna get dropped so hard, your sponsors are gonna ghost you. better hope your wifi connection is stronger than your jaw.”

kisses your bruised knuckles gently like you’re a porcelain doll, not the reason three people retired early.

nagi seishiro

doesn’t understand anything about boxing but calls you “champ” with his whole chest.

falls asleep watching your replays. wakes up like, “oh nice punch babe.”

once live-tweeted your match with absolutely zero context: “she kicked someone. she’s mad. i want a sandwich.”

wore your merch to your match, but accidentally put it on backwards.

lets you practice moves on him but flops like a ragdoll after one jab. “ugh too hard. let me lay here. i’m your emotional support floor.”

told the team your pre-fight stare “felt like being hunted by a hot panther.”

thinks your trash talk is poetry. “you said she hits like a toddler with pool noodles? iconic.”

mikage reo

you’re the fists, he’s the PR team. this man markets your violence like a startup.

“she punches, she profits, she slays. watch the brand grow.”

always wearing your custom gloves around his neck like a necklace. people think he boxes, too. he does not.

posts ringside selfies with captions like: “date night 🥰✨ (she sent someone to the ER xoxo)”

gets personally offended when your opponent breathes in your direction.

“did she just look at you funny? okay, but WHO gave her that right.”

hands out business cards that say “a maneater’s boyfriend 💋”

has your catchphrases trademarked. yes, even the one where you threatened to turn someone’s ribs into origami.

kaiser michael

somehow thinks your fights are about him.

“she wins because she’s inspired by my greatness.” kaiser pls.

stands ringside with his arms crossed and a smirk like he’s the final boss of the match.

you said “i’m gonna fold her like a beach chair” and he printed it on a hoodie. wears it proudly.

reporters: “kaiser, are you afraid of your girlfriend’s aggression?”

kaiser: “afraid? i fuel it.”

makes you couple’s merch that says “she hits / he hollas”

once kissed you mid-match. literally interrupted the referee. said it was “good luck.” you still won.

karasu tabito

you flame someone during weigh-ins and he’s behind you whispering, “YEAH. GET HER ASS.”

follows your rival’s private account on twitter just to “hate more efficiently.”

“i’m not petty. i’m supportive.”

once shouted “THAT’S MY GIRLFRIEND!!!” when you dislocated someone’s shoulder.

analyzes your fights like a reality show. “did you see her face when you landed that hook? chef’s kiss.”

lets you demonstrate chokeholds on him just so he can say, “yeah, she does this to me at home, too.”

acts scared around you for fun. “i told her i forgot to do the dishes and she did a spinning elbow. i think i blacked out. she’s so cute.”

bachira meguru

paints your face on a flag. brings it to every match.

screams “GET HER, BABE! TURN HER INTO A HUMAN PRETZEL!!” from the sidelines.

once tried to jump into the ring mid-fight because “your foot looked lonely. i wanted to help.”

you: death glares your opponent pre-match.

bachira: “aw she’s so pretty when she’s homicidal 🥰”

makes you fan edits that go viral.

also made one of your KO punches into a meme template. it’s now used in sports arguments across the internet.

your opponent: “you suck.”

bachira, holding up a glitter sign: “say that again but louder so everyone can hear my girlfriend crack your jaw.”

shidou ryusei

lives for the chaos. you throw one punch and he’s tearing his shirt off in the stands.

“THAT’S MY GIRL!!! KICK HER IN THE TEETH!!!”

got banned from five venues for excessive screaming. wears it like a badge of honor.

tried to propose mid-fight once. while you were punching someone.

rewatches your KO clips with suspicious enthusiasm. “look at that form. look at that power. i’m so in love with her violence.”

also calls you pet names like “bloodthirsty babe” and “my precious little war crime.”

100% believes you could take him in a fight. wants you to prove it.

484 notes · View notes

comatosebunny09 · 4 months ago

Text

carpe noctem [ resolution ] | sylus

— summary: he tells you to take a load off—clear your head. it would be a nice gesture if the center of your torment didn’t accompany you (or the one where sylus is tired of waiting for you to want him, too). — cw: reader is not mc, femme reader, assassin reader, misunderstandings, self-deprecating thoughts, mutual pining, sexual content, more self-indulgence, alcohol, language, mentions of violence, implied naughty things done in public, sylus is probably ooc, i struggled with this but i hope someone likes it, mdni — tracklist: mystery survivor - brown eyed girls bonnie & clyde - dean heaven & back - chase atlantic pon pón - khruangbin lago azúl - jamila velazquez efecto - bad bunny lights up - harry styles

You’re halfway through a glass of something acrid when heavy leather plops on the bar counter beside you.

Its brass buckles gleam ominously beneath the foggy, red glaze of Lux. You arch a brow. Tilt your head. The ice in your glass shifts, and your jaw slackens.

You don’t have to turn around to know who the source of the commotion is. Feel him before you see him, a solid mass of shifting muscle pressed up between your shoulder blades. The heat he exudes permeates through layers of skin and flesh. His cologne surfs above that of alcohol and tobacco, curling around your senses in a steady creep.

He leans closer, and the static from his proximity prickles your skin. He perches loose fists on the counter’s edge, bracketing you between sinewy arms, just barely brushing yours. Just barely.

You smirk. Try to hide that shiver when his lip grazes the outskirts of your ear, purposeful, slow, breath disturbing the delicate baby hairs framing your face.

“Up for a joyride?” he asks, his voice gritty, steeped low between the rock of the music and your pulse wild in your throat. It pools hot in the chasm in your chest, a slow trickle to your belly.

You set your glass down. Peer over your shoulder. His face is so close, that pretty nose, those grey-fringed lashes, you can almost kiss it.

“Can I change first?”

It’s a solid question; you’re still wearing your costume. Body glitter. Makeup. Limbs still hum with the adrenaline from your show. From the attention. From his eyes sweeping over you from the second floor’s rail as you swiveled your hips in rhythm with the music.

He noses along your cheek, siphoning the breath from your lungs in a sticky gasp. That mouth again—it moves along your ear, murmuring so hot and fevered, you wonder if you’re dizzy because of it or the alcohol coloring your veins.

“Later.”

You suppress a frown as he draws back, taking that overwhelming pressure with him. You watch him retreat into the crowd of club goers, eyes burning like two feverish flames before he makes for the door.

You’re surprised by his easy command over your body, but you don’t have to be told twice. Don’t think twice.

Downing what’s left in your glass, the sting eases the ache of your nerves. You slip a fistful of crumpled-up bills onto the counter for the bartender before snatching up the leather jacket and sliding off the barstool faster than she can thank you for the tip.

“Have fun!” she calls at your back.

You miss the knowing smile kissing the bartender’s lips as you follow behind your boss’s afterimage, wending through the sea of pulsing bodies with all the purpose of the world.

—

It’s chilly out.

The night air nips at your exposed skin, salted with the scent of exhaust fumes and evergreens and fried food.

You had shrugged into his coat on your way out of Lux.

It's too big for you, the sleeves’ hems brushing past your fingertips. But it smells like him, like drive-in movies and fresh cut grass and safety. And it’s warm like him. Warm like the blissful sweep of sun rays. Like a campfire amid the first crack of winter. You’ll bear the jacket’s weight if it means being closer to him. Carrying a piece of him over your shoulders, distributing his load so he doesn’t have to bear it all himself.

He’s waiting for you. Propped all cool against his bike like the love interest of some dark romance novel, silhouetted by the winking city lights behind him. He’s a behemoth of black leather and white hair, and he smirks at you over crossed arms when he sees you. He reaches into his saddlebag to procure a helmet with cat ears mounted on its front, thrusting it towards you.

You lift a brow. Snort. Your lips crook as your heels click over asphalt. He’s so sure you’ll come with him. You’ll come to him.

But you’d follow him to the ends of the world if he asked.

You take the helmet, your skin tingling when your fingers brush over matte kevlar. For a moment, the art of breathing eludes you. You excuse it as a consequence of the air, of the alcohol bubbling beneath your skin, of your hair tickling your neck.

You mount the bike behind him after sliding the helmet onto your head. It purrs to life between your thighs, shaky like a slumbering beast, smoke crawling from the exhaust. You put as much space between your bodies as possible, hips pushed back, still wanting to maintain a modicum of decency. He peers at you over a broad shoulder, and you know he’s nothing short of amused behind the dark wash of his visor.

You gasp, your helmet fogging with condensation, when he tugs you closer by the wrist. His back is deliciously rigid pressed up against your breasts. He taps your hands crossed over his navel, ensuring they’re secure, ensuring you’re holding tight before kicking the kickstand back. You lay your cheek between his shoulder blades once the tension abates. Brush off his brazenness as him wanting to keep you safe.

You cling to him for dear life with a yip in your throat as the motorcycle peels off. And he chuckles something smoky, adrenaline spuming all hot through your veins.

The pair of you cut a sleek outline of black as you whip through the quieted streets. Your destination’s unknown, but you’re just thrilled to be out. To be at his side like the universe isn’t conspiring against you. The wind is brisk and welcoming, licking your exposed thighs and legs, prickly through your stockings.

Your lips ache with a smile, and once you’ve grown accustomed to the speed, you unwind an arm from around his middle to hold it out behind you. Lean slightly back. Wind eases through the spaces between your fingers. You feel like you’re flying. Free.

It’s a rush, whatever hair you didn’t squeeze into your helmet whipping wildly around you. As street lights glaze over your visor, you feel like you’re in a dream. And the music playing in the built-in headset is transcendental, aiding that out-of-body experience.

It’s been too long since he’s taken you out for a ride on the back of his bike. Hardly had time for it, what with the missions and deals and a pretty, infectious damsel soaking up the space between you.

She’s off in Skyhaven on leave.

You thought it strange she’d vacation there of all places, but you didn’t argue when you dropped her off at the station, shrugging her somberness off as anxiety for the trip.

Your boss has been surprisingly bold in her absence. Grew more purposeful with the brush of his fingers, with his staring, more concise with his words. You know it’s just his way of filling the crater Ms. Hunter left in his chest. You’re something of a placeholder. Someone to pass the time. But you’ve been taking advantage of it. Flirting back for old time’s sake, teasing him, manipulating him with the flutter of your lashes, knowing he could never be yours deep down.

Something pulls in your chest. A steady tug like ivy through a lattice fence. A pull on your conscience. Your smile falters the slightest bit. You shove down those gut-wrenching feelings, trying to enjoy the night. The airiness between you. The familiarity. It’s just a joyride. No harm, no foul. You’re not betraying anyone by enjoying yourself a little. Besides…

You never know when it’ll be snatched away like a rug from beneath your feet.

—

You don’t expect an airfield to slide into view, the steel grate of a barbed fence, a stretch of grass painted with dew. The familiar outline of a jet catches your sight, the sleek metal gleaming in the coppery blink of the moon. You wonder what bossman’s up to as he cuts the bike into a hangar, its rumble echoing off thick metal walls whilst you ease to a stop.

He cuts the engine. You watch the muscles in his back swim as he tugs off his helmet, shaking out those wispy tendrils of white. So cool, you think with pursed lips. You follow suit when you remember yourself, dismounting the motorcycle after him, throat thick with questions.

You wordlessly trail behind him, the click of your heels reverberating throughout the hangar, traded for that of muted clops against the asphalt on the airstrip. Crickets. Wind. Engines humming in the distance. He’s nearly twice your size, yet you’re practically his shadow. Always have been, a silent presence at his back, a viper ready to strike at his command. Loyal thing you are, through and through.

“What’s this about?” you finally ask when you near his private jet. You’ve had enough ambiguity for the night.

He’s halfway up the stairs, massive hands swallowing the rails. He studies you from his shoulder, a roguish crease around his eyes.

“Do you trust me?”

You snort. Has he ever given you a reason not to? He’s always had your back. Always a sturdy palm on your shoulder, squeezing. Antiseptic and gauze to dress your wounds. The comforting burn of whiskey in your throat. A voice to lull you into a fitful sleep when the nightmares bare themselves.

Your voice is husky, low, a smile tugging at your lips, a thrill coiling around your spine.

“Of course.”

You take the hand he offers you, guided up the steps into the jet’s cabin like something delicate.

The crew greets you, all knowing smiles and quick bows beneath the sepia-toned cabin lights. Sylus’ hand falls to the small of your back, searing through the heavy fibers of his jacket, possessive yet respectful, burning down to bone as he leads you down the aisle.

“Wait a sec,” you muse, a quizzical glance cast over your shoulder, aimed at him. “I didn’t pack anything.”

He quirks a brow. Smirks. “Well, it’s a good thing I know your measurements.”

You try not to linger on what that means. On the tight coil in your stomach, the way he looked at you as if only you exist in his world.

—

He’s as cryptic as ever. Then again, you haven’t pressured him for answers. Figure he’s keeping to himself for a reason, the blue light of the tablet in his hand ominously shadowing his face.

Another mission, perhaps? An undercover gig where you play a glittering, docile doll on his arm until he gets what he’s after? He’ll fill you in on the intricacies later, you’re sure. You trust him so much, it’s sickening.

It’s been a while since you’ve been on a night fight. You’ve long since traded the distant gleam of the city below for the dark brew of clouds outside the window. And despite the luxury flanking you, you grow antsy.

You’d slipped off your heels. Fidgeted with the buckles of his jacket in the face of his silence before tearing yourself from the seat to grab something to drink. Something to take the edge off. To dispel the slew of questions in your mind, the curl of your tongue, the gnarl in your stomach, a voice far-off telling you something was amiss.

Your hips sway something dangerous as you near your seat. Two crisp glasses of bubbly fizzle in your palms, a sly little smile on your face. He doesn’t look up when you plop down, still thoroughly engrossed in whatever’s on his screen until you thrust a champagne flute towards him. He accepts it with a quirk of lips, fingers purposeful in their excursion over yours on the stem, eyes drinking you in.

You shudder, feeling like he’s stripping you down to the marrow with that devastating gaze. Clearing your throat, you take a sip. Hide your anxiety behind the rim, opting for cool, calm, collected. It’s a good burn. A good fizz, loosening the restraints of your inhibitions. Maybe you can badger him now.

“Are you kidnapping me?” you joke, crossing your legs. Innocently drag your toes up his tibia for added effect, luring a chuckle that bleeds sin from his throat.

He sets the tablet down on the side table with his champagne flute. Leans slightly forward, fingers wrapping around your foot to drag it into his lap. “Would you like me to?”

A thrill shoots through you. Spools hot in your stomach. You’re insane, because you think being kidnapped by him wouldn’t be so bad.

His fingers are magical. Give you a glimpse of a night two months back. You still taste him. Still feel him, the texture of his shirt between your fingers burned into your mind. The sounds he poured into your mouth, the dangerous press of his body against yours…

Shifting gears, you swipe a finger over your bottom lip in contemplation. His digits knead through tension and pressure. You bite back a sound. Swallow. Don that playful mask.

“Dunno. Think I’d be fine with it if it were you holding me hostage.”

His smirk deepens, a dimple cratering his cheek, lashes dancing as he watches his hands at work. You want to ask why—why he’s being so attentive, so disarming, so god damn irresistible when he smiles like that. When he laughs like that. When he does that, that thing where he makes you feel like he could throw it all away for you.

But, you settle for letting the steady hum of the jet engines saturate the air between you. Don’t want to disrupt the moment, the spell falling like a gauzy shawl over your shoulders. The burn of his gaze on your cheek as you peer out the window.

He’s an enigma and could put back up that aloof front at the snap of your fingers. And you might just remember that you’re dropping your defenses too low. Growing too close with a man who couldn’t be farther away.

—

You land somewhere remote.

Somewhere off-grid where the sun always shines and tropical birds sing in the trees overhead. Someplace where the ocean glitters a clear blue, and sand gets stuck between your toes, gritty, trapped against the soles of your feet by your sandals.

It’s humid, the kind of damp that pastes your blouse—yes, you finally had time to change, to freshen up—to your torso like snakeskin. But you bear with the mild discomfort because you don’t think you’ve ever been somewhere so beautiful.

It’s like a best kept secret. A treasure Sylus has hoarded from you like a crow’s nest, though you can understand why.

It’s an island untainted by city life. Sleepy, save for the calming crash of waves along the shoreline. The air smells of sea salt and greenery. Of memories of a distant youth, all splotchy in your mind. You can’t recall much of your past up to a certain age—brainwashing—but it conjures something deep-rooted and nostalgic. Something that makes you all warm and fuzzy inside, and your lips ache with a smile.

You were greeted by locals upon your arrival. Men in linen shirts, skin kissed by the sun. Women with pretty freckles, wavy hair, and hugs as welcoming as a summer’s day. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Sylus so at ease—or as calm as someone like him can appear. He was boyish in a way. Infectious, gazing at you with eyes that glittered like the sun refracted off the ocean in the distance.

You pretended your voice wasn’t lodged in your throat at the sight. Like your body wasn’t humming with a pleasant sensation when he laced your fingers together, tugging you down the shore. Confusing you more than the jet lag, than the dizzying weight of the sun.

Dirt roads branch and twist through this tropical oasis. You take a Jeep to a tucked-away bungalow, sunlight dappling your bodies through the leaves as you ease out of the SUV. It’s so very him, isolated and distant. And despite how modest and unassuming it looks outside, the bungalow’s inside is something to whistle at.

It’s luxurious. Two stories. Hardwood floors, ceiling-high windows, posh furniture, beach motifs, elegant coastal decor. Of course, you don’t expect anything less from your enigma of a boss. He’s just full of surprises, isn’t he?

“I take it you’re enjoying the view,” he asks from behind as you study the beach not too far from the veranda. The lazy back and forth crawl of the waves. Seabirds pecking at the sand. Palm trees scraping a sky so blue.

“It’s gorgeous,” you say, awestruck. Not really thinking, leaning into your hands pressed against the glass. You’re childlike. It’s magical. You feel like you’re witnessing something intimate. Somewhere you have no business being, territory that’s off-limits.

You turn suspicious eyes on him, crossing your arms, drumming your fingers against your bicep. “What are we doing here?” Straight to the point. You’d been burning to get to it.

You didn’t prod him much during the jet ride. Assume that you’re here to uncover some elusive protocores. Here to take out a big baddie and end his nefarious dealings. Maybe negotiate with the local military for some state-of-the-art weaponry. Not to let your guard down like the atmosphere suggests.

Sylus grabs a peach from the fruit bowl settled on the kitchen island’s center. Tosses it up before catching it with practiced ease, and his fingers swallow the damn thing whole. You watch with bated breath as he brings it to his mouth. His eyes narrow behind it, unreadable half-moons, a sly smile stretching past it.

“House-sitting,” he replies before taking a bite. The sound is juicy, overwhelming, pristine teeth tearing through peachy pink skin. Your mouth waters. You’re hungry, stomach flipping, but you don’t think it’s food you crave.

“House-sitting,” you parrot, testing the weight of those words in your mouth, distracting yourself. You round the island to stand across from him. “For who?”

“An old colleague,” he answers as if it’s as easy as night’s transition into day.

You scoff, rolling your eyes, looking off to the side. Sylus associating himself with anyone long-term is a foreign concept. Anyone other than you, the twins, Mephisto, Ms. Hunter…

But, you’ll bite.

“Then why’d you bring me here?”

You stiffen when he moves. When he props his hands on either edge of the granite countertop after setting his peach down, and the span of his arms is so ridiculously wide. He pitches himself forward, spilling like liquid fire over the island, and the heat of his body is tangible. So close, static builds, his breath stirring the baby hairs matted to your skin by sweat.

A veil drops. Anticipation wells in your chest. His gaze flicks from between your eyes down to your lips that part and quiver with the effort of breathing. With an attempt to form words.

His jaw slackens in kind, contemplative. Like he’s at odds with himself, mulling over something deep in his mind. For a moment, you think he’ll kiss you. Selfishly hope he kisses you.

Instead, he crooks a finger beneath your chin. Tilts your head slightly back, and you’re watching his eyes gleam like gems held to the sun from down the bridge of your nose.

His fingers curl around your neck. Tangle in the fine hairs at your nape. Grip loose enough for you to pull back if you deem the pressure too intense, but firm enough to anchor you to the spot. Your pulse thrums something frenetic beneath his fingers. He swipes a worn thumb pad over the corner of your mouth, and you widen it without realizing.

You unconsciously lean into his palm. Eyes shroud with something dark and unmistakable. A quiet yearning to mirror his. An unspoken plea, your defenses slowly burying themselves beneath the wooden panels of the floor.

You’re closing both your hands around his wrist, tender. Cautious. Holding his hand to your cheek like you’ll fall if he lets go. You turn your face towards his thumb, its roughened callus easing over your bottom lip, lightly pulling it down, delightful tingles echoing through your body as you absently nuzzle into his palm.

“So you can’t run away from me this time,” he rasps, entranced by your mouth. By the suppleness of your skin, the warmth bleeding from your face into his palm.

Run away? Why would you—

Who would want to—

You’re out of your mind. So deliciously delirious. Whether from the jungle heat or the molten pressure of his presence, you’re unsure. You just want to live in this moment forever. Preserve it like a snapshot from an old, disposable film camera. Your inhibitions don’t live here, your conscience. Only you and this man who pilfers the air from your lungs, who stirs the earth beneath your feet.

You blink drunkenly, your stare dropping to his mouth. Back to those eyes leaking a mysterious shade of ruby. Pupils blown wide. “What do you mean?”

“Is it so wrong to want you all to myself?” he husks, voice abrasive. Disarming. You feel it in your toes. Feel it embedding itself into your psyche. “No distractions, no misunderstandings?”

You laugh. Swallow against the grit of your throat. Lick your lips. “What do you mean by that?”

You know what he means. The weight his words carry. Yet you play coy. It’s easier to deflect. Easier to deny than to call it what it is—a weekend getaway. A chance to pick up where things left off. An opportunity to stir whatever mess swells between you. Some time to play until his precious little hunter is back in his arms.

He draws you closer. So close, your foreheads touch. You’re standing on tippy-toe, palms flat against the granite, watching his lashes flutter as he studies your mouth. Breaths hot and dizzying against your skin. He’s massive. Could cover you like a blanket, swallow you whole like a riptide dragging you out to sea.

“Still playing oblivious.” He sounds forlorn. Voice cracks as it peters, and it simmers in your stomach. “No matter. You’ll find out soon enough,” he says, trading his despondent smile for a smirk.

His thumb cruises along your cheek. And for a moment, it looks like he’ll kiss you. Steal the taste of your lips. But he’s a conniving little shit. He releases you from his spell, hand falling from your neck, fingers grazing your shoulder. He draws back, snatching up his peach for another bite.

You blink away the bleariness. Tamp down a pout. Watch as he moves towards the door, a hand stuffed in his pocket.

“Where are you off to?” you call at his back. Chew your lip, brows knit. Only he could make you this petulant—this lovesick.

“To visit an old friend. Try to enjoy yourself while I’m away. Take a load off. Enjoy the sights.”

He disappears through the desk-speckled doorframe before you can get another word out, swallowed by the sun. Leaves you to nurse the violent thrum of your heart. To bask in the heady scent he leaves—the molten ache spooling between your legs.

You cross your arms. Huff like a bratty child. He’s doing this on purpose, you’re sure. Punishment for you leaving him hanging, much like you did him that night.

Hard to relax when you want to throw yourself against the floor. Kick and scream. When you want him to kiss you like the world will end tomorrow.

You’ll pay him back when he returns.

—

And you do.

In the form of a red, floral dress that clings to the devastation of your body.

Spaghetti straps barely cling to your shoulders. Loose knot tied against your naked back at the swell of your rear. The chiffon hem brushes your ankles, but a dangerous slit reveals enough skin to draw the attention of the bar’s other patrons. Locals. Middle-aged men with sweat beading on their temples and mustaches, drunken smiles on their faces, their tongues swiping over their lips.

You had enough Spanish in your mouth to stumble through ordering drinks.

Tequila. Not your go-to, but it’s a good burn. A burn that loosens your reservations, your arms in the air. It’s enough to make your hips sway seductively to match that smile on your face as you move through the hazy film of smoke adorning the bar, guided by the croon of the Reggaeton thumping in the floor.

The attention’s nice. The staring, the lust coloring the air—you’re good at this, remember? But you’re centered on one man in particular. Dancing just for him. Just to fuck with him. Feel his eyes drilling down to your very being as if only you exist, and it makes your body hum pleasantly alongside the sting of the alcohol.

He can’t keep his eyes off you, perched at the bar’s counter on a stool, swirling the contents of his whiskey glass. Whether he’s watching you out of a habit of concern—he’s stared down every man who came within an inch of you, trying to guide you into a dance by the hips, by your arm, or a hand at the small of your back, and if looks could kill, everyone here would’ve been burned to cinders—or genuine intrigue, you’re unsure. But you play on your delusions anyway, figuring he’s just as enamored by the swivel of your hips as much as everyone else here.

He bought this dress just for you. Had it tailored to the shape of your body, down to the cinch of your waist, the span of your shoulders. You discovered it when he left you to your own devices earlier, boredom and curiosity leading you to scavenge through the luggage he packed for you after you walked the surf.

When Sylus returned to the bungalow as the sun crested over the sky, you begged him to take you out. You wanted to dance. Wanted to explore this peaceful, tucked away island he whisked you off to, to have you all to himself. Wanted to make him pine for you as much as you yearned for him. Retribution for how he’d left you mentally reeling. Left your body burning.

Besides, you couldn’t let such a pretty dress go to waste.

Your gazes interlock every so often. His lips quirk seductively. He raises a glass to you, brows lifting slightly. He chose to hang back while you took to the dance floor. You’re enjoying yourself. He’s enjoying you, too. And the music’s nice. The atmosphere’s soothing. Sure, the bar’s a little run-down, a hole-in-the wall, half of it opening up into an impromptu patio outside. But it has its charm.

You’ve never seen your boss dance before, but you figure a man like him has some rhythm. He’s cultured. Clearly been here before if the way the natives acknowledge him is anything to go by. Like someone to be respected or feared.

You contemplate sidling over to him. Grabbing his hand, pushing your breasts up against his bicep, that pretty little beseeching smile crooking your lips. Think about dragging him out for a dance. Having that calamitous body pushing against yours, his hands at your waist, lips imprinting themselves on the hollow of your neck, voice murky in his throat.

But before you can bring the thought to life, someone plops on the barstool beside him. A man who looks like he could be Sylus’ age, though his stubble ages him. Dark hair, bushy brows, ill-fitting suit. He’s clearly inebriated by the slouch of his body. A carefree contrast to the regal set of Sylus’ shoulders. He knows him. Sylus looks annoyed when said man claps him on his back, his raucous laughter cutting through the music. His glass poised at his mouth, he leans closer to Sylus, murmuring something near his ear.

Something esoteric by the looks of it. Something that you can’t catch, but it probably concerns you. Because when you turn in the midst of your dancing, you don’t miss both sets of eyes tuned to you—one set playful and knowing and adorned with crow’s feet, the other somber and far-off beneath furrowed brows, above tight lips.

You wonder what they’re on about. You’re about to sashay over before a stoutly, older man draws you close to salsa, pulling a laugh from your throat. And you’re so pretty and carefree as you move, your eyes occasionally flitting back to your boss and his company as they talk.

—

The rain doesn’t detract from the island’s mugginess. In fact, it becomes even more humid, with bodies huddled together beneath the bar’s half-roof, trying to keep from getting wet. It’s fruitless, the rain puddling at your feet, making the concrete floors nothing short of slippery.

You don’t contest, laughing something unhindered when Sylus takes your hand, drawing out of the crowd. He flashes a smile over his shoulder before you jog after him, engulfed by the downpour and the gray haze cast by the heavy clouds overhead. You’re surprisingly fast for the towering heels you wear, strapped to your feet. And you’re both acting like two mischievous youths by the time Sylus pulls you under the awning of a nearby cafe, figuring the weather’s too tumultuous to make for your bungalow on foot.

It is there where your mirth simmers. Where you realize you’re soaked to the bone, your dress molded to you like a second skin. You’re incredibly close. So close, his overpowering warmth permeates through layers of flesh, and you’re spinning. Your nipples knot beneath the drag of the fabric. Sylus takes the opportunity to lure you closer, his back colliding with the stone wall behind him when you careen into his chest.

He’s so very handsome, white locks pasted to his sculpted face. So pleasantly solid against your palms pressed against his chest. His hands burn something fierce through your skin, fastened to your back. Time slows to a crawl, the rain an afterthought as you slowly look up, lost in the heady, love-drunk stir of his eyes. It wouldn’t take much to stand on tippy-toe to kiss him, to taste the rain intermingled with the saccharine flavor of his mouth.

So, you do.

Your fingers clasp around his biceps. And he doesn’t fight you, instead urging you forward, leaning down to meet you halfway. You come together like the moon drawn to the earth, and twin, relieved sounds leave your chests when your mouths collide.

He takes your breath away, sucking it into his lungs like it’s his own. Cups your cheek in his palm, greedy, greedy as he anchors you to him. Your arms intuitively snake around his shoulders, wrists cross behind his neck. It’s like kissing fire, and the sounds he pours into you make your toes tingle, your center pulse.

Without warning, his fingers mold around your thighs, the thick flesh cratering between them before he rucks you up to encircle his waist with your legs.

You’re a mess of gnashing teeth and hair and desire as he turns your body, walking you into an alcove devoid of light, hidden from the street. And as your alarm bells sound in your mind—wait, stop, no—as your spine crashes into a textured, brick wall, you allow him to ravage you. To flood your body with every bit of emotion he’s held back for God knows how long via his mouth. Via his hands bunching your dress around your hips. His teeth scrawling down your neck before seeking refuge in your shoulder.

You throw your head back, sighing hot and wanton, mouth curved into a smile. He’s hard and thick pressed to the apex of your thighs. All for you. Just for you.

This isn’t right. Isn’t how you envisioned things culminating between you, but you think, fuck it.

What happens here can stay here, the echo of your voices painting every crevice of the alleyway.

— tags: @melonssoup, @dana-nite, @allura-miss, @l1ttlebabyapple, @asakiyu, @loliesaregreat, @theloveofnagiseishiroslife, @mentaltrouble2201, @jupitersays, @animecrazy76, @wowunreal, @jaeminsbuckethat, @darkeskye, @lookingforlia, @aishasylus, @t4naiis, @everywherenothere, @unknown-ends, @blessdunrest, @lunebulous, @iwantmyredvelvetcupcake, @ceronnica, @sillyfreakfanparty, @midiplier, @abbylee0710, @hanaluxx, @nicohii, @beewilko, @viqlume, @snowfall-jess (sorry if i missed anyone).

falling action | masterlist

#sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #sylus qin #lads x reader #lads x you #lads fic #carpe noctem series #inspired by mr. & mrs. smith #limerence series #love and deepspace #lads fanfic #sylus x non!mc reader

948 notes · View notes

mostlysignssomeportents · 4 months ago

Text

The future of Amazon coders is the present of Amazon warehouse workers

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in BURBANK with WIL WHEATON TONIGHT (Mar 13), and in SAN DIEGO at MYSTERIOUS GALAXY on Mar 24. More tour dates here.

My theory of the "shitty technology adoption curve" holds that you can predict the future impact of abusive technologies on you by observing the way these are deployed against people who have less social power than you:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/11/the-shitty-tech-adoption-curve-has-a-business-model/

When you have a new, abusive technology, you can't just aim it at rich, powerful people, because when they complain, they get results. To successfully deploy that abusive tech, you need to work your way up the privilege gradient, starting with people with no power, like prisoners, refugees, and mental patients. This starts the process of normalization, even as it sands down some of the technology's rough edges against their tender bodies. Once that's done, you can move on to people with more social power – immigrants, blue collar workers, school children. Step by step, you normalize and smooth out the abusive tech, until you can apply it to everyone – even rich and powerful people. Think of the deployment of CCTV, facial recognition, location tracking, and web surveillance.

All this means that blue collar workers are the pioneering early adopters of the bossware that will shortly be tormenting their white-collar colleagues elsewhere in the business. It's as William Gibson prophesied: "The future is here, it's just not evenly distributed" (it's pooled up thick and noxious around the ankles of blue-collar workers, refugees, mental patients, etc).

Nowhere is this rule more salient than in Big Tech firms. Tech companies have thoroughly segregated workforces. Delivery drivers, customer service reps, data-labelers, warehouse workers and other "green badge," low-status workers are the testing ground for their employer's own disciplinary technology, which monitors them down to the keystroke, the eye-movement, and the pee break. Meanwhile, the "blue badge" white-collar coders get stock options, gourmet cafeterias, free massages, day care and complimentary egg-freezing so they can delay fertility. Companies like Google not only use separate entrance for their different classes of workers – they stagger their shifts so that the elite workers don't even see their lower-status counterparts.

Importantly, almost none of these workers – whether low-status or high – are unionized. Tech union density is so thin, it's almost nonexistent. It's easy to see why elite tech workers wouldn't bother with unionizing: with such fantastic wages and so many perks, why endure the tedium of meetings and memos? But then there's the rest of the workers, who are subjected to endless "electronic whipping" by bossware and who take home wages that look like pocket change when compared to the tech division's compensation. These workers have every reason to unionize, living as they do in the dystopian future of labor.

At Amazon warehouses, workers are injured at three times the rate of warehouse workers at competing firms. They are penalized for "time off task" (like taking a piss break). They are made to stand in long, humiliating body-search lines when they go on- and off-shift, hours every week, without compensation. Variations on this theme play out in other blue-collar sectors of the Amazon empire, like Amazon delivery drivers and Whole Food shelf-stockers.

Those workers have every reason to unionize, and they have done their damndest, but Amazon has defeated worker union drives, again and again. How does Amazon win these battles? Simple: they cheat. They illegally fire union organizers:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/31/reality-endorses-sanders/#instacart-wholefoods-amazon

And then they smear unions to the press and to their own workers with lies (that subsequently leak):

https://pluralistic.net/2020/04/03/socially-useless-parasite/#christian-smalls

They spend millions on anti-union tech, spying on workers and creating "heatmaps" that let them direct their anti-union efforts to specific stores and facilities:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/04/21/all-in-it-together/#guard-labor-v-redistribution

They make workers use an official chat app, and then block any messages containing forbidden words, like "fairness," "grievance" and "diversity":

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/05/doubleplusrelentless/#quackspeak

That's just the tip of the iceberg. A new investigation by Northwestern University's Teke Wiggin draws on worker interviews and FOIA requests to the NLRB to assemble a first-of-its-kind catalog of Amazon's labor-disciplining, union-busting tactics:

https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.1177/23780231251318389

Disciplining labor and busting unions go hand in hand. It's a simple equation: the harder it is for your workers to form a union, the worse you can treat them without facing labor reprisals, because individual workers' options are limited to a) quitting or b) sucking it up, while unionized workers can grieve, sue, and strike.

At the core of Amazon's labor discipline technology is "algorithmic management," which is exactly what it sounds like: replacing middle managers with software that counts your keystrokes, watches your eyeballs, or applies a virtual caliper to some other metric to decide whether you're a good worker or a rotten apple:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/26/hawtch-hawtch/#you-treasure-what-you-measure

Automation theory describes two poles of workplace automation: centaurs (in which workers are assisted by technology) and "reverse-centaurs" (in which workers provide assistance to technology):

https://pluralistic.net/2021/03/19/the-shakedown/#weird-flex

Amazon is a reverse-centaurism pioneer. Take the delivery drivers whose every maneuver, eyeball movement, and turn signal is analyzed and inevitably, found wanting, as workers seek to satisfy impossible quotas that can't even be met if you pee in a bottle instead of taking toilet breaks:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/20/release-energy/#the-bitterest-lemon

Then there's the warehouse workers who are also tormented with impossible, pisscall-annihilating quotas. Some of these workers are fitted with haptic wristbands that buzz to tell them they're being too slow at picking up an item and dropping it into a box, pushing them to faster, joint-destroying paces that account for Amazon's enduring position as the most worker-maiming warehouse employer in the nation:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/05/la-bookseller-royalty/#megacycle

In his paper, Wiggin does important work connecting these "electronic whips" to Amazon's arsenal of traditional union-busting weapons, like "captive audience" meetings where workers are forced to sit through hours of anti-union indoctrination. For Wiggin, bossware tools aren't just a stick to beat workers with – they're also a carrot that can be used to diffuse a worker's outrage ahead of a key union vote.

Algorithmic management isn't just software that wrings more work out of workers – it's software that replaces managers. By surveilling workers – both on the job and in social media spaces (like subreddits) where workers gather to talk, Amazon can tune the "electronic whip," reducing quotas and easing the pace of work so that workers view their jobs more favorably and are more receptive to anti-union propaganda.

This is "twiddling" – exploiting the digital flexibility of a system to "twiddle the knobs" governing its business logic, changing everything from prices to wages, search rankings to recommendations, in realtime, for every customer and worker:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

Twiddling combines surveillance data with flexible business logic to create an unbeatable house advantage. If you're an Amazon shopper, you get twiddled all the time, as Amazon replaces the best matches for your searches with paid results. If you buy that first product result, you'll pay an average of 29% more than the best match for your search:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/06/attention-rents/#consumer-welfare-queens

Worker-side twiddling is even more dystopian. When a nurse is assigned a shift by an "Uber for nurses" app, the app checks whether the worker has overdue credit card bills, which trigger lower wages (on the theory that an indebted worker is a desperate worker):

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/18/loose-flapping-ends/#luigi-has-a-point

When it comes to union-busting, Amazon's found a new use for twiddling: lessening the pace of work, which Wiggin calls "algorithmic slack-cutting." The important thing about algorithmic slack-cutting is that it's only temporary. The algorithm that reduces your work-load in the runup to a union vote can then dial the pace of work up afterward, by small, random increments that are below the threshold at which they register on the human sensory apparatus. They're not so much boiling the frog as poaching it.

Meanwhile, Amazon gets to flood the zone with anti-union messages, including mandatory messages on the app that assigns your shifts – a captive audience meeting in every pocket.

Between social media surveillance and on-the-job surveillance, Amazon has built a powerful training set for algorithms designed to crush workplace democracy. That's how things go for Amazon's warehouse workers and delivery drivers, and the shelf-stockers at Whole Foods.

But of course, the picture is very different for Amazon's techies, who enjoy the industry standard of high wages and lavish perks.

For now.

The tech industry is in the midst of three years' worth of mass layoffs: 260K in 2023, 150k in 2024, tens of thousands this year. None of this is due to a shortfall in profits, mind: Google laid off 12,000 workers just weeks after staging a stock buyback that would have funded their salaries for 27 years. Meta just announced a 5% across-the-board headcount cut and that it was doubling its executive bonuses.

In other words, tech is firing workers not because it must, but because it can. When workers depend on scarcity – instead of unions – as a source of power, they dig their own graves. For well-paid, scarcity-based coders, every new computer science graduate is the enemy, eroding the scarcity that your wages depend on.

Amazon coders get to come to work with pink mohawks, facial piercings, and black t-shirts that say things their bosses don't understand. They get to pee whenever they want to. That's not because Jeff Bezos is sentimentally attached to techies and bears personal animus toward warehouse workers. Jeff Bezos wants to pay his workforce as little as he can. He treats his tech workers with respect because he's afraid of them, because if they quit, he can't replace them, and without their work, he can't make money.

Once there's an army of unemployed coders who'll take your job, Jeff Bezos doesn't have to fear you anymore. He can fire you and replace you the next day.

Bezos is obviously incredibly horny for this. Like most tech bosses, he dreams of a world in which entitled hackers can't call their bosses dumbshits and decline to frog when they shout "jump!" That's why Amazon PR puts so much energy into trumpeting the business's use of AI to replace coders:

https://www.hrgrapevine.com/us/content/article/2024-08-22-amazon-cloud-ceo-warns-software-engineers-ai-could-replace-your-coding-work-within-2-years

It's not just that they're excited about firing coders and saving money – they're even more excited about transforming the job of "Amazon coder," from someone who solves complex technical problems to someone who performs tedious code review on automatically generated code barfed up by a chatbot:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/01/human-in-the-loop/#monkey-in-the-middle

"Code reviewer" is a much less fulfilling job than "programmer." Code reviewers are also easier to replace than programmers. A code reviewer is a reverse-centaur, a servant to the machine. Every time you hear "AI-assisted programmer," you should substitute "programmer-assisted AI."

Programming is even more bossware-ready than working in a warehouse. The machines coders use are much easier to fit with surveillance technology that monitors their performance – and spies on their communications, looking for dissenting chatter – than a warehouse floor. The only thing that stopped Jeff Bezos from treating his programmers like his warehouse workers is their scarcity. That scarcity is now going away.

That's bad news for Amazon customers, too. Tech workers often feel a sense of duty to their users, a "vocational awe" that drives them to put in long hours to make things their users will enjoy. The labor power of tech workers has long served as a check on the impulse to enshittify those products:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/25/moral-injury/#enshittification

As tech workers' power wanes, they don't just lose the ability to protect themselves from their bosses' greediest, most sadistic urges – they also lose the power to defend all of us. Smart tech workers know this. That's why Amazon tech workers walked out in support of Amazon warehouse workers:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/19/deastroturfing/#real-power

Which led to their prompt dismissal:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/04/14/abolish-silicon-valley/#hang-together-hang-separately

Tech worker/gig worker solidarity is the only way workers can win against tech bosses and defeat the shitty technology adoption curve:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/13/solidarity-forever/#tech-unions

Wiggin's report isn't just a snapshot of Amazon warehouse workers' dystopian present – it's a promise of Amazon tech workers' future. The future is here, in Amazon warehouses, and every day, it's getting closer to Amazon's technical offices.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/13/electronic-whipping/#youre-next

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #bossware #shitty technology adoption curve #amazon #electronic whipping #reverse centaurs #labor #unions #Teke Wiggin #disciplinary technology #scholarship

424 notes · View notes

blueberrybirdsworld · 2 months ago

Text

Collision 10/20

Summary:

Lando always had a type : blonde, models, not ready to settle down. Yet once he met her, all his world is changed and he slowly start to realises maybe he was wrong all this time.

It's a prequel story of The Cat Distribution System, on how Lando Norris fall in love with Ariana. Could be read seperatly.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : SMAU, Fluff, slow burn, enventual smut and angst

Warning : none

Serie Masterlist

CHAPTER 10 : SMAU

Brazil was beautiful.

The sky burned in soft blue over white sand and palm trees. The house his friends had rented was like something out of a commercial — open-air, sleek pool, view over the ocean, warm breeze even at night. Every room was already taken, suitcases unpacked, sunglasses thrown carelessly on tables.

Lando arrived late in the afternoon, exhausted from the flight, shoulders aching, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.

Not just from travel.

From thinking.

He stepped into the villa, greeted instantly by the sounds of voices, music, and the scent of grilled food. Someone was already mixing drinks in the kitchen. Flip-flops scuffed the tile floors. And as soon as he walked in—

“Landooo!” Max shouted, arms thrown open. “Finally. Took you long enough.”

Pietra appeared next, grinning. “We were about to leave you behind. Again.”

Charles and Alexandra lifted their drinks in a lazy toast from the lounge chairs by the pool. Carlos was sprawled out near the deck with Rebecca, both mid-laughter over something Lando couldn’t hear. Pierre waved from the kitchen, Kika already dancing barefoot with a speaker tucked under her arm.

It was like walking into a summer postcard.

Normally, he would’ve loved it.

He would’ve dropped his bag, grabbed a beer, thrown on music, jumped in the pool fully clothed just to make everyone laugh. But today—

He felt like he was walking through someone else’s story.

And he didn’t belong in it.

He gave a half-smile, did his best to fake the energy, let everyone pull him into a group hug that smelled of sunscreen and sun-warmed cotton.

But everyone noticed, he wasn’t fine.

An hour later, after greetings were exchanged and drinks handed out, Lando found himself sitting on a low wall near the edge of the deck, staring out at the ocean.

Pietra approached without a sound, then sat beside him.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

He hesitated.

She nudged him. “Is it because of the ballerina?”

He looked over at her, eyes tired. “Ari.”

Pietra blinked. “You call her that now?”

“She said I could.”

Pietra studied him for a long moment. “You miss her.”

He didn’t answer.

Behind them, the others were still laughing, shouting about something dumb Pierre had done on the flight. They were loud. Happy. Together.

Lando looked down at his hands.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” he said quietly.

Max appeared next, holding two beers. He handed one to Lando, took one look at his friend, and frowned. “You look like someone just crashed your car.”

“It’s not,” Pietra said. “It’s the ballerina.”

Carlos blinked. “Wait. What ballerina?”

Rebecca and Alexandra, overhearing from the patio, perked up. “There was a ballerina?”

Lando groaned. “Can we not do this?”

Pietra grinned. “Oh no, you don’t get to sulk and keep secrets. Spill.”

Lando exhaled. Looked out at the water.

And started talking. He told them everything.

By the time he was done, the sun had dipped lower, and no one was smiling anymore.

“She sounds… special” Alexandra began.

“She was,” Lando said quietly. “Is.”

Max leaned forward. “So why the hell did you come?”

“I had to,” Lando said. “It was booked. Everyone expected me. It’s for 2 weeks. It’s nothing.”

Pietra gave him a look. “It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

He looked down.

“I thought maybe it’d be easier,” he admitted. “To leave now. Before it got deeper. Before the goodbye got worse.”

Rebecca crossed her arms. “You already sound like someone who didn’t want to say goodbye.”

“I didn’t.”

“So why not say something?” Max asked. “You could’ve asked her. To be with you. To wait. To try.”

Lando’s voice was hollow. “Because what if she said no?”

That silenced them all.

He looked up at them, eyes raw.

“I didn’t know what we were. We didn’t label anything. I didn’t ask her to be my girlfriend. And I wanted to. God, I almost did. But I kept thinking—what if this was just a moment? Just a beautiful accident?”

He rubbed his hands together.

“She’s going back to Paris. I go back to Monaco. Her life is studios and stages. Mine is planes and paddocks. We had a few weeks. Maybe that’s all it was ever supposed to be.”

The group was quiet again.

Then Pietra said softly, “And maybe you’re just scared it could’ve been more.”

That hit like a punch. He didn’t respond.

Just reached for the beer he hadn’t touched and finally took a sip, eyes fixed on the horizon.

The night went on. The others drifted back into their noise, their dance, their joy.

But Lando stayed on the wall, staring into the dark waves.

The sound of her voice still echoed in his mind.

He could still feel her hands on him, still remember the way she’d said, You’re more than that.

But tonight, he wasn’t sure what he was anymore.

All he knew was that the seat beside him was empty.

And that her absence made everything else feel just a little too loud.

@landonorris 📍 Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

@maxfewtrell: bro we came to party and you’re out here filming an indie movie 😭

@carlossainz55: someone give him an acoustic guitar immediately

@kikacgomes: ok but aesthetic sad is still a serve

@sadgirlformula: Lando out here starting his “Sad Boy Summer” tour in Brazil 😭

@monetmclaren: since when does lando norris do sad sunsets??? what did we miss 😭

@f1daydreamz: HE LOOKS SO SAD WTF I’M GONNA CRY

@sunkissedmclaren: ok but like… who hurt him 🧍‍♀️

@paddockfairytale: i miss chaotic gremlin lando, who is THIS sad poet man omg

@lanternlovers: not to be dramatic but this is giving “i left my whole heart behind”

@drivertales: his friends are literally right there but my man is fighting for his life emotionally 😭

@paintedcircuits: first he’s at museums, now he’s posting sad sunsets… WHO IS SHE

@pietra Somewhere sunny and a little bit perfect ✨

@maxfewtrell: My whole world in one post 🥹🖤

@landonorris: you guys are disgustingly cute. send help.

@alexandra_stmleux: you’re glowing 🥹✨

@carlossainz55: best looking couple here and i’m not even mad about it

@kikacgomes: the way you both just radiate summer love 🏝️🫶🏼

@rebecca_dns golden hour? more like golden couple 😍

@beachbumf1: not pietra and max winning at life rn 🏖️✨

@softforpietra: she’s so pretty it’s actually insane omg

@saltyhairdreams: THEY'RE GLOWING ??? i want what they have pls 😭

@maxsupremacy: max you lucky man fr 😭🖤

@lantern.boy: not to be rude but lando is 100% third wheeling this trip 😭😭😭

@sunsetgrid: lando tagging along to couple trips >>> peak youngest sibling energy 🫶🏼

@f1shenanigans: somebody go hug lando pls he’s looking like the human version of 🥲

@f1gossipdaily

#LandoNorris seen soaking up the sun in Brazil with his usual crew… except this time, he’s the only single one.

Max Fewtrell & Pietra Pilão, Charles Leclerc & Alexandra Saint Mleux, Pierre Gasly & Kika Gomes, Carlos Sainz & Rebecca Donaldson are all loved-up while Lando seems… well, third-wheeling a little 👀

Sources say he’s been keeping it lowkey, but fans are buzzing: if the ballerina girl rumors were true, why isn't she here? 🤔 Is Lando back to solo vacations and his partyboy era? 🍾

No clear signs of a new girl on this trip — but the speculation is louder than ever.

@speedytea: okay but if that ballerina thing was real she would be here ?? feels fake now

@ferrarifever: single handly third-wheeling four couples at once... iconic behavior

@wornoutsofts: lando back in his playboy era after ONE soft girl, it didn't fix him i fear 😩

@turn1drama: the way i checked that girl’s insta and she’s like... soft aesthetic??? book girl??? YEAH NO WAY he’s into that lmao

@drsactivated: y’all really thought he was gonna change bc of one date 💀💀💀 pls

@silverstonegossip: it’s giving “i'm so single it hurts” energy 😭😭

@curblover44: i love lando but dude’s soul LEFT his body on that trip

@oversteerangel: someone said he’s on a couples retreat against his will and i haven’t stopped laughing since 😭

@f1mess: girl was a phase. he needs someone with a little spice not a ballet dancer posting flowers and poetry 💀

@wornouttires: not to be mean but i never bought the lando x ballerina thing... she’s sweet but boring af for him

@fanbehaviorf1: this trip alone proves it. he’s not changing for anybody lmao 😭😭

@softlandon: ok but?? did y’all even LOOK at his latest post?? bro looks like he’s missing someone fr 😭

@racinghearts4u: his whole vibe is “sad and lost at sunset” like HELLO he’s in his feelings

@sunlightdreamers: he’s literally surrounded by friends and still looks miserable... it’s not giving playboy energy it’s giving i miss her energy 😭🫶

@arianariverria

Only two weeks left in the Royal Opera House of London, I pass an increadible year here, I make friends for life and learn so more about me, as a person, as a dancer. Only two shows left nex week and preparations are intense but worse it. Then I will be back at home in Paris though a part of me will always be here.🌸🩰

@petalsandpirouettes you are literal poetry in motion 😭🕊️ this year was so magical to watch from afar

@stageleftdarling watching your growth this season has been breathtaking. you deserve the world and more

@ballerinabloom can’t believe it’s almost over 😢 but can’t wait to see what’s next for you!!

@balletbygrace Paris is lucky to have you back — but London will miss you dearly 🥺

@dancealive crying. don’t look at me. I’m emotional and proud. and also booking front row to Paris ASAP

@f1updatesfan so uh. does this mean we’ll see her and Lando in Paris again soon 👀

@carbonfiberballet someone check on @landonorris he’s probably counting the days until she’s leaving 💔

@landoforeverrr She always posts when Lando post. Like she wants people to remember she used to matter 😭

@f1gridgossip rumor has it he already moved on 👀 been partying non-stop in Brazil and someone said he left with a girl last night 👋

@landoisa she’s way too sensitive for him anyway. he needs someone fun, not someone who makes him mope and cry over ballet

@f1paparazzix people say she left the UK because he dumped her… not the other way around. she’s just spinning it cute now lol

@gridgirlshade Why does she act like she’s some big celeb 😭 girl you’re a side character in someone else’s plot

@f1dramaunfiltered y’all saw him at that party in São Paulo?? she’s out here journaling and he’s living his best life 😂

@landospeedqueen why is she pretending everything’s fine when he clearly dumped her 💀

@landobacktolife This is what happens when you date out of your league… no hate but she was never it

@alonsoverse can she just stop using ballet aesthetics to distract us from the fact that her "bf" is probably hooking up with someone else rn 😭

@stageleftdarling People really out here hating on a literal artist who’s just saying goodbye to a stage?? Be serious.

@kika.girard you’re pure grace. let the noise be noise.

@gridgirldiaries they’re mad because you’re soft and strong and Lando’s clearly in love. keep shining.

@arianafansupport sending all the love to Ari. block buttons exist for a reason 💗

@arianariveraupdates can we just talk about the caption… the way she’s been so open this season. proud of our girl 💖

⚠️ Several comments have been removed for violating Instagram’s guidelines

Text Conversation:

Ariana: hey. sorry if this is weird. just wanted to ask something.

Lando: not weird. ask anything.

Ariana: i saw some things online. comments under my last post. people saying stuff about you. about… someone else. i know it’s stupid. but i just— i needed to ask. is there someone else?

…typing

Lando: Ari. no. god, no. there’s no one. there hasn’t been anyone. you don’t have to ask that. i hate that people made you feel like you do.

Ariana: i didn’t want to believe it. but it’s been quiet between us. since you left. it felt like… like maybe you were done.

Lando: i’m not done. i could never be done. the truth is, i didn’t know how to talk to you. leaving felt wrong and weird and too final, and i hated it but i didn’t know how to say that without sounding needy or selfish

Ariana: it didn’t sound selfish. it sounded like goodbye. and i think… maybe that’s what hurt the most.

Lando: i’m sorry. i thought space would be kinder than clinging. i thought you needed focus. your last two shows. the closing of a chapter. i didn’t want to distract you. but it looks like i made things worse instead

Ariana: you didn’t mean to. i know that. i’m just… tired. it’s been a lot. pressures from the company, the final choreography, the stress, the hours… i haven’t really been sleeping.

Lando: wait, what do you mean? how long haven’t you been sleeping?

Ariana: it’s not serious. just the usual pre-show spiral. the perfectionism. the rehearsals. the what-ifs.

Lando: Ari. you can’t burn yourself out. not for this.

Ariana: i have to. it’s what i do.

Lando: i hate that answer.

Ariana: i know. but it’s honest.

Lando: can i help somehow? anything? do you want me to come back?

Ariana: no. you shouldn’t.

Lando: why not?

Ariana: because it’s your break. you haven’t had real time off in months. you should rest. be with your friends. live a little.

Lando: how can i rest knowing you’re not okay?

Ariana: i’ll be okay. it’s just… hard. i think i didn’t realise how much it would hurt to have you gone. and now i don’t even know when we’ll see each other again. and i hate not knowing.

Lando: me too. i miss you. so much.

Ariana: i miss you too. but you deserve to enjoy this part of your life too. without worrying about the girl who stayed behind.

Lando: you're not just the girl who stayed behind. you're the girl I’m waiting for. no matter how far, how long it gets. that hasn’t changed.

seen 12:02 AM

Lando: okay, i know you said you’re “fine” but just in case you forget: you need to eat something real today. not just coffee

Ariana: you set an alarm for this, didn’t you

Lando: 😇 london time, 2pm. daily. “text the beautiful ballerina and ask if she’s had protein yet”

Ariana: you’re a menace

Lando: i’m a concerned menace who knows you forget meals when you get in your head

Ariana: …i did forget lunch. but i’m making a smoothie now don’t yell

Lando: that’s not food

Ariana: it has banana AND peanut butter protein ✔️

Lando: i’m setting another alarm. 9pm. “remind Ariana to sleep before she convinces herself to stretch ‘just one more time’ until 2am”

Ariana: rude. and accurate.

Lando: i know you.

Ariana: you really do.

Lando: and i’m worried, Ari

Ariana: you don’t have to worry but it means a lot that you do i’m trying. really. it’s just a hard week

Lando: i know and if i can’t be there then i’ll be here. texting. reminding. annoying. whatever it takes

Ariana: thank you for remembering for setting alarms in another time zone for not forgetting me when you could have

Lando: never and just in case it gets hard again tonight here’s your official 2am emergency message in advance:

Lando: you’re doing better than you think you’re allowed to rest you don’t have to be perfect you’re already enough

Ariana: you’re going to make me cry in the dressing room

Lando: then cry. and when you’re done, eat something with carbs. and text me when you’re home tonight, yeah?

Ariana: okay i will and… thank you, Lando really

Lando: no thanks needed i’m with you even from 5,000 miles away

Ariana: just got home rehearsal ran late again 🙃

Lando: ari what time is it over there

Ariana: ...1:36am

Lando: 🤦‍♂️ do you ever listen to me

Ariana: you’re the one who told me to text when i got home i’m being responsible actually 😇

Lando: you’re being a gremlin who survives on nerves and chamomile tea

Ariana: accurate also i might have forgotten the tea

Lando: ariana.

Ariana: don’t full-name me i’m fragile rn

Lando: you said you’d go to sleep before midnight tonight i set my alarm and everything

Ariana: i was going to but we had to run the pas de deux three more times then spacing got messed up then my right foot cramped

Lando: have you eaten anything since your banana smoothie at 2pm

Ariana: 🥲 there was a granola bar in my bag

Lando: that’s not a meal that’s a cry for help

Ariana: you’re so dramatic

Lando: says the girl standing in her kitchen at 2am with a sore ankle and a granola wrapper for dinner

Ariana: i’m sitting actually and wrapped in a blanket aria is judging me

Lando: good. at least someone is

Ariana: i miss you even your scolding

Lando: i miss you too but i’m not gonna pretend this doesn’t worry me you can’t keep running on empty like this

Ariana: i just want it to be perfect it’s my last show here i want them to remember me for the right reasons

Lando: they already will you’re unforgettable, Ari not because you run yourself into the ground but because you make everything you do feel like art

Ariana: stop that made me emotional and sleepy but mostly emotional

Lando: good now drink water brush your teeth and sleep i swear if i have to hire a ninja to break into your place and force melatonin into your tea, i will

Ariana: terrifying and oddly sweet okay going now promise

Lando: good you’re doing amazing and i’m so proud of you

Ariana: you always say the right thing

Lando: if you’re not asleep in the next 20 minutes i’m setting another alarm and calling you in a terrible french accent until you hang up

Ariana: ...sleeping now goodnight, Lando

Lando: bonne nuit, ballerine 💛 dream something soft

seen 1:47 AM

Taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @esw1012, @lilyofthevalley-09, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @knivesdoingcartwheels, @henna006

Let me know if you wanted to be added to the taglist !

292 notes · View notes