#scooter and/or bench

[gregdotorg]

I, for one, would like to know more about this solid timber scooter/bench in Frank Gehry's music room, next to the Kermit green Steinway [Michael Eisner thank you gift]. It was presumably designed by either Frank Gehry or his son Sam, who collaborated together on the house.

Since Architectural Digest published this photo in 2019, I can find no info on the scooter/bench.

image: detail from Jason Schmidt's 2019 photo of Frank & Sam Gehry's house, via archdigest

[bittsandpieces]

filing an ADA violation report is hottttt 🥵

listen we have a duty to take care of each other and god knows folks with disabilities of all kinds have it hard enough already without other people ignoring obvious obstacles

[skin-quilt]

TOOK A SCOOTER RIDE IN ATLANTA TO CHECK OUT THE GRAFFITI WALL

[lifeinspiringsolutions]

Top 6 Electric Wheelchairs for Comfort and Performance – Life Inspiring Solutions Looking for a foldable wheelchair or a durable power chair for daily use? Choose the best wheelchair to fit your lifestyle and mobility needs.

[wheelie-sick]

wheelchair accessibility I never see talked about

table height

aisle width

center vs side poles for tables

spots to sit in rooms/adutioriums/etc. that aren't blocking aisles

sink height and sink cabinets

toilet height

cash register height

the height of just so much, I could go on

benches/trash cans/scooters/bikes & bike racks/restaurant patios/etc. taking up sidewalk space

light poles placed in the center of the sidewalk

tilted sidewalks

lack of cross walks (jaywalking is not an option for me!)

overgrown brush over sidewalks

[miss-floral-thief]

Well

I guess it does look cloudier but not too rainy

[papayainsectorone]

ice baths

summary: Though young and still learning, Kimi’s natural stamina and desire to prove himself lead him to push boundaries

content: 18+! smutty smut smut smut (consider this a warning), nsfw descriptions, fingering, no protection

word count: 5,5k

pairing: kimi antonelli x fem!oc

a thought: I....I just don´t know what to say about this, i just finished writing this 30 seconds ago when Kimi came up on TV for a pre race interview in Miami on his fucking scooter and ... this feels illegal haha enjoy

The physio room was quiet, humming with low fluorescent lights and the soft, rhythmic hiss of massage oil being pumped from a dispenser. Kimi sat on the edge of the treatment table, shirtless, hair still damp from his earlier run, cheeks flushed from exertion—or maybe something else. Something he was trying not to make too obvious.

Sergi, his physio, tilted Kimi’s head carefully to the side, stretching his neck.

Kimi groaned.

"Can you already prepare the ice bath?" Sergi asked, glancing your way.

“Uh—yeah. Sure.” You blinked, caught off guard. Not by the task. By the sound Kimi had just made.

You turned away quickly, cheeks warm, pretending the ice machine required your full concentration.

Still, you felt his eyes on you again.

You smiled. Subtle. Just enough to let him know you noticed. Just enough to invite him to keep looking.

He blushed. Fully. Bright pink down to his collarbones.

God, he was a boy.

But a very, very pretty one.

“It’s done,” Sergi finally said, clapping Kimi lightly on the shoulder. “Ice bath. Four minutes.”

It wasn’t the first time you'd been in the same room like this. You’d been shadowing under Sergi all week, watching training sessions, prepping hydration, tracking recovery metrics. But this—this had been happening from day one.

Kimi had been looking.

And not the fleeting, dismissive glance most teenage boys gave when they saw someone cute. These were longer. Curious. Almost confused—like he couldn’t quite figure out how you ended up near him.

When you glanced over your shoulder, his eyes dropped instantly. Guilty. Caught. Adorable.

You stepped aside as he walked toward the tub. He looked at it, then at you. Then back at the tub.

“You staying?” he asked, voice low.

You raised an eyebrow. “Should I not?”

“No, I mean—yes. I mean… it’s cold,” he mumbled, reaching for the waistband of his training shorts.

You leaned back against the bench, arms crossed, watching with more interest than you meant to show. He hesitated, then slid the shorts down, revealing tight black boxer-briefs underneath.

Nothing left to the imagination.

He caught you looking.

His ears turned red.

But you didn’t look away.

Kimi exhaled and stepped into the tub, arms braced on either side. The water hit his thighs and his whole body jumped. “Shit,” he hissed, his fingers tightening around the edge of the plastic.

“You’re not going to die,” you teased, walking over and crouching beside the tub.

“Easy for you to say,” he muttered, trying and failing to play it cool. “You’re not sitting in ice water in your underwear.”

Your eyes drifted down to where the waterline just hit his collarbones. His abs were tight, trembling slightly, his legs visibly tensed beneath the surface. His jaw clenched and unclenched.

Then he said it. Quiet. Not even fully confident.

“Maybe you can… help me warm up again in a minute.”

He looked stunned the second the words left his mouth. Like he hadn’t even meant to say them out loud.

Your lips twitched. “Oh?”

His eyes flicked to yours, uncertain—but he didn’t take it back.

You tilted your head, crouched beside the tub, one hand resting lightly on the rim near his. “That’s a bold request, Antonelli.”

Kimi laughed—awkward and breathy. “Was it?”

“You tell me.”

He looked away for a second, eyes flicking toward the door like he was checking if Sergi might walk back in. But you both knew the physio wouldn’t return until the timer beeped.

“No one’s stopping you,” he muttered.

Your smile deepened, and your fingertips brushed the edge of his hand where it gripped the tub. Just the smallest touch—but he stilled under it.

“So you want help warming up,” you said softly, watching him squirm beneath the question. “That’s new. Weren’t you blushing two seconds ago because I looked at your legs?”

He didn’t say anything.

Just looked at you.

Really looked.

Like he didn’t know whether to make a joke or let something real crack open between you.

You leaned a little closer, enough for your voice to drop. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you stare, Kimi?”

His throat bobbed with a swallow. “It’s not just staring.”

“No?” you asked, voice sweet. “What else is it, then?”

He shook his head slightly. “I dunno. Just—whenever you’re around I forget what I’m meant to be doing.”

You bit your lip.

That earnestness. That teenage honesty that slipped past filters. He didn’t even realize how much he was giving away.

Your hand ghosted along his forearm now, the water droplets beading and running where your fingers traced. “You always this distracted in cold baths?”

“Only when you’re next to me in tight leggings.”

You laughed—he made it sound innocent, but your stomach flipped anyway. Your fingers trailed back to his hand, slipping just slightly beneath his wrist. The contact was featherlight, but it sent a visible shiver up his arm.

He sucked in a breath. “It’s only supposed to be four minutes.”

You looked at the timer. “Still got two and a half.”

Kimi’s eyes dropped to your mouth.

You moved your hand again—now along his bicep, where his skin was warmer under the water. Your knees brushed the side of the tub, your body leaning in just enough to crowd his space without touching anything essential.

“You really cold?” you whispered.

He nodded, very slowly. “Freezing.”

“Hm.” You leaned even closer now, lips near his ear. “Poor baby.”

He tensed under the teasing, like the words hit lower than they were meant to.

Then he turned his face slightly, and you realized just how close you were—barely an inch between your mouths.

His voice was quiet, rougher now. “You’re not helping.”

You smiled. “Aren’t I?”

You didn’t kiss him.

Not yet.

But your thumb traced a slow, lazy line across his inner forearm, feeling his pulse skip under your touch. His boxer-briefs were soaked and clinging, the outline of him obvious now, impossible to miss even in the cold water.

He let out the faintest, helpless sound.

And the timer beeped.

You smiled and stood. “Four minutes. You’re done.”

Kimi stared up at you, dumbfounded.

You grabbed a towel and tossed it toward him, eyes glinting. “Dry off, Antonelli. We’ll see if you still need warming up once you’re not half-frozen.”

He blinked, grabbing the towel with wet fingers, his mouth slightly open like he had words but couldn’t figure out what to say.

You didn’t wait.

You turned and walked toward the locker benches—slowly, hips swaying just a little too deliberately.

And Kimi?

You could feel his eyes on you the whole way.

You didn’t make it far.

You’d barely reached the corner of the locker room when you heard the soft thud of wet footsteps behind you.

Then: “Wait.”

You turned—and he was right there. Hair damp, towel half-wrapped around his waist, droplets trailing down his chest. His face was flushed, pupils blown wide. And he looked like he’d made up his mind in the last five seconds.

“Kimi—”

But he didn’t let you finish. Just like last time.

His mouth crashed into yours with the kind of force that only came from pure, boyish urgency. He kissed like he couldn’t stop himself—messy, too fast, breathless—but god, it made your knees go weak.

You caught the edge of the lockers behind you to steady yourself, his hands still wet as they slid to your waist. He kissed like he’d been holding back for days. Maybe weeks. Maybe since the first moment your hands brushed while you passed him the resistance bands and he blushed so hard he had to look away.

You gasped when his lips left yours to trail down your jaw. “Kimi—slow down—”

“I can’t.” He mumbled it into your neck, kissing, biting just enough to make you shiver. “I’ve been thinking about it too much. I can’t slow down.”

His towel slipped as he pressed closer, his cold and damp and very, very hard against you. There was nothing shy about him now—not in the way his hands gripped your hips or how his thigh slid between yours, grinding just enough to make you gasp.

You let your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging gently. “You’re really not holding back.”

He looked up at you then, flushed and wrecked already. “I don’t know how.”

There was something so hot about the honesty. No games. No pretenses. Just a beautiful, breathless boy who wanted you badly and didn’t know how to pretend otherwise.

You kissed him again, slower this time, tongue teasing the seam of his lips until he opened with a soft whine. He groaned when you sucked his bottom lip, his hips rocking against yours instinctively. He was desperate, but trying—trying to make it good, trying to do something right even through the haze.

“Touch me,” he said against your mouth, voice cracking just a little.

You smiled. “Where?”

“Anywhere. Please.”

That please made heat coil deep in your belly.

Your hand dropped between you, brushing the towel aside completely, reaching in his boxers and when you finally wrapped your fingers around him—hot, already leaking, twitching in your grip—his knees buckled.

“Fuck,” he choked, hips jerking forward. “Sorry—I’m—fuck—”

You laughed softly against his neck, stroking slow and deliberate.

“I haven’t—I didn’t even—fuck—” He was panting now, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “I swear, I can go again. I swear.”

That only made you hotter.

You squeezed just slightly, thumb tracing the tip, and that was it.

Kimi whimpered and came.

Fast. Hard. All over your hand, your waistband, his own stomach. His whole body shook with it, face buried against your neck like he couldn’t stand to see himself lose it that quickly.

You held him there, gentle, fingers still trailing over his sensitive skin while he caught his breath.

“Shit,” he whispered again. “I didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t mean to come like that.”

You cupped his jaw, made him look at you. “Kimi. You’re fine.”

He looked so embarrassed.

But also so wrecked. Eyes dark, mouth swollen from kissing, chest heaving.

“I can go again,” he repeated, almost pleading. “Give me like… two minutes. I swear. Just don’t—don’t leave.”

You grinned. “I’m counting on it.”

His breath was still ragged when he finally pulled back to look at you. His lashes were damp, cheeks still flushed, but his hands didn’t leave your waist. He held you like you might vanish if he let go.

“I didn’t mean for it to be that fast,” he said again, quieter this time. “You just… you’re so—”

You kissed him gently, interrupting whatever apology was about to come. “It’s okay, Kimi. Really.”

But he still looked like he had something else to say.

After a long pause, he asked, voice barely above a whisper, “Can I… touch you?”

Your heart thudded.

There was something about the way he said it—so shy, like the thought alone made his head spin, but he wanted to. Badly. And it wasn’t just lust. It was something tender in the way his fingers skimmed your hip, how he was looking at you like you were untouchable—but he still wanted to try.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. You can.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, searching. “You’ll tell me if I do it wrong?”

You smiled. “There’s no wrong. Just start slow.”

His hands moved tentatively, reverent almost, as he slid them beneath your shirt. The fabric rose inch by inch, baring your skin to the cool air. He kissed your shoulder, then your collarbone, lips soft, like he was still trying to prove he deserved to be this close.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

You helped him tug the shirt off, and when your bra followed, his breath caught. He stared like he couldn’t believe you were real, his hands hovering like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch.

So you took them, guided them to your chest.

And he groaned—actually groaned—when he felt you.

His thumbs brushed your nipples, watching your face as if every reaction you gave was a gift. And when you moaned softly, his eyes fluttered shut, like that sound alone could undo him all over again.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered.

You leaned in, nipped his jaw. “Only if you stop.”

He didn’t.

You could now understand why they called him the wonder child in Formula 1.

Because even now—barely out of breath, cheeks still pink, hands a little shaky—he was learning. Fast. Not confident, not exactly, but observant. Focused. Like he was reading you in real time and adapting with every tiny shift in your breath, every gasp that escaped your lips.

His fingers were unsure at first—slightly clumsy, like he didn’t know whether to squeeze or stroke—but he watched your face like it was the telemetry screen of a quali lap. Every whimper you gave him, every arch of your spine, he adjusted to it. Like he couldn’t not try to be better at this too.

When his mouth dipped to your chest, his lips were soft and hesitant. He kissed there like he was still convincing himself it was okay—that he was allowed to taste. But when he drew one nipple into his mouth and you let out a sharp gasp, his confidence grew. His tongue circled, tentative at first, then firmer, guided by your breathy “yes, just like that.”

He smiled against your skin.

That little bit of feedback clearly went straight to his ego.

Still, his hands drifted lower, down your stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of your leggings. He looked up at you again, flushed and slightly wild-eyed. “Is this okay?”

You nodded, and he took that permission like a green light.

He tugged them down slowly, revealing more of you, eyes flicking down and then back up like he was making sure he didn’t miss a thing. When his fingers slipped between your thighs, he sucked in a breath.

“God…” he murmured. “You’re—wow.”

You laughed, breathless. “Not much of a compliment, but I’ll take it.”

“No, I mean—” he looked up, lips parted, eyes dark, “I’ve never—this is... crazy.”

But still, he didn’t hesitate.

His fingers explored, tracing slowly, learning what made your legs shift, what made you grip the edge of the bench. At first, too soft, then a bit too fast, but every time you moaned or murmured something back—“slower,” “right there,” “don’t stop”—he adjusted. The way he focused on your reactions made your head spin.

And when he finally found just the right rhythm—just enough pressure, just the right spot—you swore under your breath, and his jaw clenched.

“I’m doing it right?” he whispered, breath catching.

You let out a soft, broken laugh. “Very right.”

His grin was a little crooked, a little boyish—and full of wonder. He kept going, fingers slick and steady now, one hand bracing on your thigh as the other worked you. The trembling in your legs only seemed to make him more determined.

“Tell me when,” he said, voice almost reverent.

And when your hips bucked and your back arched—when you came undone on his fingers—he looked like he’d just won a Grand Prix.

You were still catching your breath, your thighs trembling around his hand, when you felt him stiffen—really stiffen. Not just his fingers now, but all of him. He was still inside you, slow and gentle with his movements, but something about the way you clenched around him—reflexively, instinctively—sent a visible jolt up his spine.

His lips parted like he was about to say something, but then he exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes fluttering closed. "Merda…"

He shuddered.

Just a small squeeze, a shift in your hips, and you felt it—the unmistakable way he tensed and gasped, like someone had pulled the air from his lungs. His forehead dropped to your shoulder for a moment, and his fingers stilled inside you.

“Cazzo…” he muttered, voice tight and ragged. “I—I —”

You blinked, and then realized. His boxers were soaked at the front. Still tight around his hips, but dark and damp now where he’d just—

He looked up at you, horrified and flushed. “I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t even—shit.”

You bit back a grin. He looked devastated, like he’d just crashed into a wall at turn one.

“Kimi.” You touched his face, gently.

He looked up at you like you’d just handed him a lifeline. “It’s not okay. I didn’t even… I didn’t get to do anything for you.”

“You did,” you said with a soft smile, squeezing his wrist where his hand still rested between your thighs. “Very much.”

His mouth opened, then closed. He looked utterly lost.

You leaned closer. “Besides,” you whispered, brushing your lips over his cheek, “you’ve got stamina, right?”

His eyes lit up, like something in him clicked. His breath caught as you kissed just beneath his ear.

“I… I do,” he said, more to himself than to you. His voice cracked a little, but his eyes held fire now.

He sat up straighter, jaw tight. “I can go again. I want to go again.”

And this time, there was no hesitation in the way he reached for you.

His mouth crashed into yours, all teeth and heat and desperation. You barely registered being lifted and eased back until your shoulder blades hit the narrow locker room bench. It wobbled beneath you, squeaking faintly against the tile, but the way he gripped your hips left no room for second thoughts.

He shoved his boxers down just enough to free himself—already hard again, thick and flushed—and lined himself up with a breathless groan. One deep thrust and he was inside you again, filling you so suddenly you gasped.

The stretch made your eyes flutter, but there was no time to settle into it—he was already moving, fast and rough, hips snapping with a kind of urgency that bordered on frantic. The bench rocked under both of you, and his hands tightened on your thighs like he was holding on for dear life.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Too good, it’s—fuck, I’m not gonna last—”

You could feel it. He was right there on the edge again, the way his rhythm stuttered, how his thighs trembled against yours. But you weren’t there yet—your body straining for more, that tight coil inside you still winding, aching.

“Kimi,” you gasped, grabbing for his wrist. “Touch me.”

His eyes snapped to yours. Understanding hit in a rush, and he didn’t hesitate. One hand slid between your bodies, fingers slick with sweat and your arousal, and found your clit.

The moment he started rubbing—messy, desperate, but exactly what you needed—it hit you like a wave. You arched, cried out, everything tightening as the orgasm slammed into you, hard and sudden. Your body clenched around him, and that was it.

He came with a broken sound, hips jerking deep inside you as he spilled into you. Hot. Endless.

Neither of you moved for a moment. Just panting. Trembling.

Then reality hit him.

“Wait—fuck—” His voice cracked. “I didn’t use a condom. Shit. I didn’t even—”

You opened your eyes to see him staring at you, wide-eyed, breath shallow.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said quickly, his hands shaking. “I wasn’t thinking—I just—” He swallowed hard. “Are you on anything? I should’ve asked. Shit.”

You reached for him, found his face with both hands, and gently pulled him down until your foreheads touched.

“I’m on the pill,” you said softly, steadying your breath. “It’s okay.”

He blinked, stunned. Still braced above you, his chest heaving.

“I mean it,” you whispered. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His face twisted—relief, guilt, awe, all crashing into each other—but he nodded. “I just—fuck. I don’t usually lose control like that.”

You smiled faintly. “Maybe you needed to.”

A beat passed. Then, slowly, he pulled back.

And when he did—when he slipped out of you, both of you still so wet, so raw—his breath hitched.

He stared.

Your legs were still open, thighs trembling, and his cum was already starting to spill from your lips, slow and thick, slicking down to the bench.

“Dio mio,” he whispered. His voice dropped to something low, reverent.

His fingers ghosted over your thigh, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“You’re…” He shook his head once, lips parted, still breathless. “You’re so full of me.”

You watched his face, the stunned hunger there. He looked like a man who’d just witnessed something sacred.

[demie90s]

And The Crowd is…Concerned?

꒰ 🍒 ꒱ UConn!Team X READER ꒰ 🍒 ꒱ MASTERLIST

Part 1, Part 3

⭑ pairing: UConn!Team x reader (funny!fem!reader)

⭑ summary: Geno tries to do a safety meeting, but the team can’t focus after watching your unhinged late-night driving rant go viral. Again.

⭑ genre: comedy, hood wisdom, full delusion

⭑ warnings: chaotic energy, unfiltered language, Geno’s rising blood pressure

⭑ word count: ~

It’s the first week of preseason and Geno’s already fed up.

The whole team’s stuffed into the film room—hoodies up, edges sweated out, breakfast burritos halfway eaten. Nobody speaks. The screen up front says “2025 UConn Preseason Safety and Conduct Review.”

Azzi’s already whispering. “Watch, he gon’ bring up my milkshake in the cold tub again.”

Geno walks in. Silent. Clicks the remote.

“This year,” he says, slow and tired, “we’re doing it different.”

The projector blinks. First slide? “DO NOT DO THIS.”

Then: photos.

KK nearly busting her knee on a Bird scooter.

Aubrey in mid-air falling off the bench while TikToking in socks.

Paige with a Hot Cheeto bag balanced on her leg mid-stretch like a sorcerer of chaos.

Then it hits.

Your photo.

Full 4K, unholy clarity.

You. On Instagram Live. Driving. One hand on the wheel, the other out the window flipping someone off. Pinky up. Sunglasses on. Mouth mid-rant.

The room EXPLODES.

Nika drops her protein bar. Ayanna starts wheezing. KK screams “NO WAY.” Geno? Geno clicks again. It’s a video now. Volume up.

You on live:

“Y’all so today I’m going shopping—”

HONKKKK

“—and you just gotta be true to yourself cause—BITCH HIT MY CAR I DARE YOU. I DOUBLE DOG DARE YOU. I’MA BE ON YO ASS LIKE STANK ON SHIT.”

Another honk. Tires screech.

You: “Anyways y’all but yeah, no. Life’s really about gratitude.”

Geno doesn’t even speak this time—he just rubs his eyes and mutters, “Lord, give me strength.”

On the screen: a screenshot. YOU. Mid-sentence. Mid-swerve. Edges laid, lashes still on from yesterday, UConn hoodie zipped halfway and one AirPod in. You look beautiful, dangerous, and legally unfit to operate a vehicle.

The caption on your Instagram Live?

“driving 2 heal ❤️‍🩹”

The clip plays:

You: “So y’all I was at Target right, and this man—THIS MAN—gone reach across me like I was a damn display. I said sir… sir, don’t do that. I am not the lotion aisle. I will fold you like a fitted sheet—”

HONKKKKKKKKKKKKKK

You: “—BITCH HIT ME IF YOU WANT. I BEEN WANTIN’ SOMEBODY TO TRY ME TODAY. TRY ME SO I CAN PRAY IN HANDCUFFS. I’M READY TO MEDITATE IN THE HOLDING CELL. AIN’T NOBODY IN THERE BUT ME AND MY SPIRITUAL GROWTH.”

camera shakes violently

You: “Oh wait… Chick-fil-A on the left lemme—” tires screech “—LORD IF I HIT THIS CURB I’M STILL GONNA EAT GOOD.”

The team is absolutely done.

Paige is crying in her hoodie. Nika wheezes and grabs your leg. Azzi says “nahhh” so many times it starts to sound like a remix. KK’s on the floor. Ayanna is filming them filming you.

Geno? Geno’s standing in the front like he’s witnessing the fall of Rome.

He yells, “WHO IS HOLDING THE PHONE WHILE DRIVING? WHO?!”

You: “First of all… why am I under attack?”

“You were LIVE.”

“I was telling a story!”

“You hit a curb!”

“And I bounced back. That’s resilience.”

The video keeps rolling. You’re now mid-lane-switch with no signal.

You: “Sometimes y’all just gotta stop arguing with people and run them over with grace. Like—gracefully. Not petty, just powerful. There’s a difference. Be the bigger person but also make sure they know you’ll stomp they ass out behind a tinted window if needed.”

honks in the distance

“Anyway y’all, I’m healing.”

⸻

The comments under the clip are unhinged:

“She the MLK of hood wisdom.”

“Not ‘meditate in the holding cell’ 😭😭😭”

“If she’s not mic’d up for every game I don’t want it.”

“Geno bout to have a stroke fr.”

“This the female IamZoie but make it D1.”

“You were wearing UConn gear. Public Instagram. Driving like it’s Need For Speed: Hood Edition.”

“Freedom of expression,” you shrug.

Later that day, the UConn media team posts the clip with dramatic violin music under it. The caption reads:

“Preseason Conduct Review: Certified Hood Behavior ❌”

The comments are already insane:

“She said ‘life’s about gratitude’ while threatening to end a man’s bloodline.”

“No but she’s the main character fr.”

“UConn got the craziest athletes I fear.”

“WHERE’S THE FULL LIVE FOOTAGE 👀”

“Geno is gonna retire early cause of her.”

You repost it to your story with a halo emoji and “healing journey 2025💕.”

[luveline]

Hey Jade!!! I was just wondering if you could do a soulmate au with Spencer please? Maybe something along the lines of those cheesy ones like the first words are tattooed on or they have the same tattoo idk, whatever you u feel like 😊

—Spencer meets his soulmate. You’re as lovely as he’s always pictured. fem, 1.3k

Someone will love me one day.

Spencer must think it a thousand times. When he has to put his mom in the sanitarium and he feels more alone than he ever has in his life, he knows one day someone will love him anyways. When he gets called ugly, too skinny, nerd, dork, and a handful of words that are even worse, he knows one day someone will say the opposite. He won’t be alone forever.

He was two when they appeared, dark black cursive words tucked against his pulse. Spencer felt ugly nearly every day of his life, wrong and weird, but the words on his wrist have never changed, ‘You’re so handsome I can’t believe it’s you.’

One day someone’s gonna look at him and see handsome.

Today, he feels pretty good. He’s back home in Washington, D.C., the grocery store he loves is open again after a long reconstruction, and they had a bunch of fruit from South America that he’s never tried before. He carries a white plastic bag full of fruit, bread and cheese back to his apartment, each step in the sunshine, the kiss of it warming his cheeks. A busker plays music near the mouth of the subway station. Nobody has yet to scowl at him for being in the way.

He’s wondering what he forgot when he sees you. You’re smiling, the sun on your face and arms, which are strangely full. Books slide against your chest, but besides a little huff and a shift of your elbow, you don’t seem to notice the slim paperback working its way through the crowd in your arms. It drops down onto the sidewalk but you keep walking. You must be in a hurry.

Spencer darts forward to your dropped book, thumb under the title. Charlotte’s Web by E. B White. The spine is flaking and soft from use.

He should call out for you. You’re already getting too far away.

Spencer crosses the road and dives deeper into the city with you. Washington, D.C. isn’t without grandeur —it’s the capital of the USA— and so he finds himself surrounded by potted trees and stretches of well tended grass. School’s broken for the day, children weaving around on bikes and scooters or holding hands with their parents taking up altogether too much space. He loses you in the crowd.

Spencer stops in defeat.

Maybe if he puts the book back in your path you’ll see it on the way back.

He’s not sure why he doesn’t. Spencer keeps your book and starts to walk home. This isn’t how he’d usually get there, but he can manoeuvre around the park.

He keeps an eye out for you. Ridiculously, he’d thought about giving the book back to you and making you smile. He hasn’t talked to anyone who wasn’t a cashier in two days.

“Hi.”

Spencer looks down. “Hi,” he says, spooked by the little girl in front of him.

“Is that for the library?”

He shakes his head regretfully. “No, I– I found it. I’m trying to give it back.”

“Okie dokie. I never read that one before.”

“I’m sorry, it’s not my book to give away… Where’s your mom?”

The little girl points at a mom and a younger child playing on the grass near a circle of benches. There’s a huge dark cabinet with its doors skewed open in the middle, and when he squints he realises it’s full of books. “Oh, is that the library?” he asks.

“Yes!” the little girl insists.

“Okay, well, here’s what we’ll do,” he says, looking desperately for you, disappointed when he can’t see a sign of your nice blue shirt or your sunny smile, “let me go see if I can find the lady who dropped this book, and if she says it’s okay, I’ll keep it for you to have. But you can’t run off from your mom again. Deal?”

The girl grins, thick hair shiny in the sun. “Deal!” she says, running in a burst toward her mother, who startles when she realises she’d left in the first place.

Spencer creeps toward the library. He can’t leave the book here now, he’s promised he’ll try to find you.

You come around the back of the library cabinet with a smile. Free Library, the sign says. Take one if you want, leave one if you can.

You stop in your path when you see him. You smile again, you’re prettier for it, lovely with the sun on half your face, your slight squint. You open your mouth to speak.

Spencer beats you to it. “Hi, I’ve been trying to catch up to you,” he says, raising your copy of Charlotte’s Web to his chest. “You dropped one of your books.”

You take a half step back.

Spencer grimaces. “I promised a little girl I’d ask if she can have it, I’m so sorry. I get stuck and I don’t know how to say no.”

Your eyes flash down to your hands. “You’re so handsome,” you say, and Spencer’s heart stops dead in his chest, your lips shaping each word without measure and somehow the prettiest anyone’s ever looked as they move, “I can’t believe it’s you.”

His shoulders sag with a deep breath.

You raise your arm to show him the contrasting font laid against your pulse. Hi, I’ve been trying to catch up to you.

Spencer shows you his. You’re so handsome, I can’t believe it’s you.

“It’s you,” he says.

You press your hand to your mouth. “I was walking too fast, right? When I was a kid I thought if I made everybody chase me that eventually somebody would have to say it, but then it stuck, and I rush everywhere I go.” Your voice turns breathless. “But you’re the person who was supposed to catch up to me.”

He smiles softly. “I think so.”

“And I just told you you’re handsome. I’m sorry, I bet that was embarrassing to… carry around, all this time.”

“It’s the best gift anyone’s ever given me,” he says honestly.

“I didn’t think you’d be so pretty,” you explain.

“I knew you would be.”

You hold your hand out. He’s about to tell you he doesn’t shake but he finds he really wants to, and you’re not shaking his hand anyways, you’re holding it, looking at the cursive on his arm with a disbelief he echoes in his own smile. You rub the tip of your thumb over the word handsome.

“Do you like books?” he asks.

You nod distractedly. “I love them,” you murmur, looking up.

His entire arm is alive with tingles.

“Do you read much?” you ask.

Every word you trade with one another has this shy longing he’s never felt, like you’re desperate to know about one another but worried you aren’t allowed to ask. Spencer’s about to tell you all about it, how he’s always reading, how books have been with him through everything, but there’s a tug on his shirt that stops him.

“Hi,” the little girl says.

Spencer laughs. “Hi.”

“What did she say?” the little girl whispers.

Spencer looks to you for guidance.

“Of course you can have it. It’s an amazing book,” you say.

“Thank you!” she says, holding out her hands.

Spencer doesn’t mind handing it over. If she didn’t ask him for it earlier, he might’ve never had the courage to look for you. He could’ve left the book in the cabinet and turned around, but he didn’t. And now he’s met you.

You step into his side. “Did you�� do you want to get coffee?” You peer down at the bag now slipped from his elbow down to his wrist. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Do you want to have a picnic with me?” he asks.

You nod for so long he has to laugh. “I’d love to,” you say, offering your open hand.

Spencer threads your fingers together. That one day he always dreamed of seems a lot closer than it did before.

[orphicmeliora]

Secret identity au

You're what people call a walking disaster. You walk into a room, down a street, through a building, hell, even a park bench—anywhere at all—and it's almost guaranteed that someone, somehow, is getting hurt. Maybe a potted plant falls on a passerby. Maybe a toddler accidentally kicks you in the shin with a toy truck. Maybe a scooter mysteriously careens down a ramp and knocks over a vendor's hotdog stand. Either way, pain is usually involved, and statistically speaking, it’s either you or some other poor unfortunate soul caught in your gravitational field of chaos.

The worst part? Most of the time, it’s not even your fault. It’s like the universe itself has you on speed dial for comedic misfortune. Things just happen around you—doors swing open, drinks spill, ceiling tiles fall. Some say you’ve got a black cat’s luck. Others whisper it’s your evol to attract chaos like a lightning rod. Like some sort of cosmic magnet for near-death experiences.

Enter this Lumiere guy who shows up out of nowhere every time you need help. The masked man with a heroic streak and perfect timing. He always seems to be there the second you're dangling from a balcony, caught in a runaway shopping cart, or about to be squashed by a suspiciously fast-moving food delivery drone. He’s graceful, mysterious, and efficient—like if Batman had a Pinterest board full of soft lighting and silk capes. Naturally, you’re halfway in love. Because who doesn’t catch feelings for the guy who literally saves your life every 48 hours? The mask only makes it worse, honestly. What does he look like? Why won’t he take it off? Why does his voice sound like a lullaby dipped in espresso? It's all very stressful.

Anyway, fast forward. You're back from a long shift of not dying (you tripped, a ladder fell, long story), and you’re practically vibrating with excitement over your latest Lumiere sighting. So you do the most obvious thing: call your bestie to fangirl.

You're pacing in the hallway, phone pressed to your ear, animatedly relaying every detail ("I swear, his cape glowed when the sun hit it—no, I'm not exaggerating! And then he caught me—like, full-on princess-style caught me, I thought I was gonna die, but no, he just—ugh, the way he looked down at me, I swear—") when the elevator finally dings and the doors glide open.

That’s when you notice him.

You falter mid-sentence. “Hold on, I think my neighbor wants to murder me with his eyes.”

Xavier doesn’t even blink.

He’s standing a few feet away, waiting to get past you into the hallway, staring like you’ve personally offended his ancestors. As your words trail off, he levels you with the kind of look usually reserved for gum on expensive shoes.

You lower the phone slightly. “Uh…hi?”

Nothing. Just a sharp exhale through the nose and that judgmental, soul-piercing stink eye like you’re the human equivalent of elevator Muzak.

The man is wearing a plain white hoodie and sweatpants like he walked out of a moody fitness ad, and yet he exudes the same intensity as someone plotting world domination—or at the very least, filing a very strongly-worded HOA complaint.

You step aside as he brushes past, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “loud.” The nerve.

Okay then.

You resume your call, lowering your voice only slightly. “I don’t know what this guy’s deal is. I’m not that loud. Maybe he’s allergic to joy?” Okay, maybe your voice carries, but you’re excited! You could’ve died! Again! Some people journal. Some people drink. You cope with high-volume storytelling and minor public disturbances.

And you’re just about to get over it when something weird happens. Just for a second, Xavier's hoodie sleeve slips up as he adjusts the grocery bag in his hand.

There’s a flicker of something silver peeking out from under the fabric. Thin, intricate. Almost…mask-like?

Wait.

No.

It can’t be.

Can it?

[un-monstre]

Tbh, if we can’t convince abled people to make things accessible because disabled people deserve access, we should convince them to do it for selfish reasons. Public benches and bathrooms are good to have if you get pregnant and need to rest more and pee more. Paved, well-maintained paths will be great when you end up in a knee scooter after hurting yourself playing sports. Covered bus stops are great when it’s hot or rainy out. Robust public transportation is great when your car breaks down and you still have to get to work. Captions are great if you’re trying to watch something and your kids are noisy.

[sturnzsblog]

empty dreams and false promises 35

summary: y/n life changes and not for the best she is forced to move in with three people that she barely knows. She ends up falling for one of these strangers, but who will it be?

Warnings: mentions of death, stalking, drugs ( not actual use) and smut! this is for all parts of the story! please let me know if i missed any!

The second we crossed the bridge into the city, I felt it.

That ache in my chest. That swirl of grief and warmth. That thing that said home and pain in the same breath.

I pressed my forehead to the window of Jimmy’s car, watching the skyline unfold, the chaos of taxis and people and life rushing by. Chris glanced over from the front seat, but he didn’t say anything. He just reached back and let his hand rest on my knee.

God, I loved him for that.

“First stop,” I said quietly. “Best bagels in the whole city. Non-negotiable.”

Matt groaned dramatically. “Don’t start, Y/N. Last time you said that about tacos that you brought back from here, I had heartburn for two days.”

I smirked. “That’s because you can’t handle spice.”

Jimmy laughed from the driver’s seat. “She’s got a point.”

We pulled up to a tiny brick storefront tucked between a dry cleaner and a boarded-up vape shop. The paint on the awning was chipped. It was perfect.

“Okay,” I said, standing in the doorway like I was ten again. “Plain bagel, toasted, extra cream cheese for Matt. Chris wants everything with veggie. Jimmy, poppy seed with sausage and egg—right?”

Jimmy blinked. “How the hell do you know that?”

“I remember things,” I said, pushing the door open.

The smell hit me first. Warm dough. Burnt coffee. That old New York charm where the floors are sticky but the food is magic.

We sat on a bench outside to eat, and for ten minutes, we didn’t talk. Just chewed and groaned and threw bites at Matt when he stole from everyone’s bag.

After, I led them around the block.

“That was the bookstore I used to sneak into,” I said, nodding toward the narrow door barely wedged between buildings. “I’d sit in the poetry section pretending I was old enough to understand Bukowski.”

Chris smiled, walking close beside me. “Did you?”

“Not a damn word. But it felt cool.”

We passed the old laundromat where my dad would talk with the owner about baseball for hours, even when we didn’t need to wash anything.

I showed them the bodega where I had my first kiss behind the Snapple fridge with a boy whose name i didn’t want to bring up. The alley I used to hide in when things got loud at home. The corner where my dad would wait for me after school like clockwork.

And then… we were there.

The building hadn’t changed. The brownstone steps still cracked. The railing still bent where I once fell off my scooter and blamed a ghost.

I stopped at the gate.

“You okay?” Chris asked gently.

I nodded, but my feet didn’t move.

“Y/N?” Matt’s voice was softer than usual.

“I just…” I exhaled. “It’s weird. I haven’t been back since before he died.”

Chris placed a hand on the small of my back.

I finally walked in.

The inside was dim, cold somehow. Dust covered the windows. But it smelled the same—like old wood, cheap coffee, and the faintest hint of lemon cleaner.

“This was the living room,” I murmured, stepping through. “Dad’s chair was over there. He’d fall asleep watching old westerns.”

I walked through each room like I was dreaming. They listened quietly.

“This was my room. That dent in the wall? Curling iron. I panicked and threw it when I thought I saw a spider.” I laughed softly.

In the corner, I found it—his old hoodie. Faded navy. Yankees logo peeling.

I picked it up, and the weight of it was too much. I sank to the floor.

“It still smells like him,” I whispered.

The tears came so fast I didn’t have time to pretend I was okay.

Chris dropped down next to me instantly, pulling me into his chest. I didn’t care that I was sobbing. That I was shaking. I just buried myself in him, gripping that hoodie like it was the last thing tethering me to earth.

Matt sat on my other side, one arm resting around my back.

Jimmy didn’t speak. He just stood near the doorway, quiet, giving me space. Until he finally said, “Your dad was a good guy. Terrible taste in baseball, though. i always told him that”

I snorted through my tears.

We stayed there like that for a while. No rush. No pressure. Just… being.

Eventually, I stood up.

We drove in silence.

No music. No dumb banter. Just the sound of the city muffled behind the windows and the occasional honk like a heartbeat.

The cemetery was tucked at the edge of Queens, not far from the river. Small and quiet. The kind of place you didn’t notice until you needed to.

My hands were shaking as I stepped out of the car. Chris immediately walked over and grabbed them, lacing our fingers without a word. His thumb brushed the back of mine.

We walked together, the others trailing behind at a respectful distance.

I knew exactly where the headstone was — fourth row from the old oak tree, second to the left.

And there he was.

David Y/L/N

Beloved Father. Gentle Soul. Always in the Front Row.

I sank to my knees before I even realized my legs had given out. The world went quiet around me.

“Hey, Dad,” I said softly, running my fingers over the engraved letters. “I’m back.”

The others stayed behind, letting me have this. I think I needed it — to say what I hadn’t been able to say at the funeral, too frozen, too broken.

“I brought them with me,” I smiled weakly. “Chris, Matt, Jimmy. You’d like chris and matt.… or maybe you’d give them the shovel talk. Probably both.”

A gust of wind blew, brushing hair from my eyes.

“I miss you every day,” I whispered. “There’s so much I wish you could’ve seen. So much you should’ve been here for.”

I bit my lip. “Mom… she still blames everyone but herself. And I—I’m trying, you know? To stop looking back and start looking forward. But it’s hard without you.”

A hand touched my shoulder gently — Chris. He didn’t speak, just stood beside me as I cried, letting my grief fold itself into the wind.

When I quieted, Chris knelt beside me. He looked at the headstone, then at me.

“I didn’t know him,” he said softly. “But I know you. And if you’re even a fraction of who he was, then he must’ve been the best kind of person.”

My heart cracked open all over again, but in a good way this time.

I leaned into Chris and whispered, “He would’ve loved you. Would’ve made you help him fix the radiator and then grill you about your credit score.”

Chris laughed under his breath. “I’d have brought my bank statements.”

We stayed there for a long while, just breathing, remembering.

Eventually, Matt and Jimmy came over. Matt placed a small folded paper flower at the base of the stone — something he’d picked up at a corner store when I wasn’t looking.

“He deserved something beautiful,” Matt said, almost shyly.

Jimmy bent down, brushed some leaves off the stone, then gave it a firm pat. “You raised a good one, david. i miss you man”

When we walked back to the car, I turned around one last time and whispered, “Goodbye, Dad.”

But this time, it didn’t feel like losing him all over again.

It felt like finally letting go — and walking forward with him still inside me.

—

Later That Night, wesat on the fire escape of the hotel, hot dogs in hand, city lights glittering like stars fallen to earth.

Chris leaned his shoulder into mine. “You okay?”

“I think so,” I said, chewing slowly. “Actually… yeah. I think I am.”

Matt took a bite and groaned. “Okay, I admit it. These hot dogs are insane.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “Told you. New York’s built different.”

I laughed — really laughed. The kind that bubbled out from your chest and reached your eyes.

The city hadn’t changed. But I had.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt like maybe — just maybe — I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

one more chapter!

janae 💋

taglist 💋

@n00dl3zzz @pip4444chris @sturnzzlovee @bernardmatthews @xsturnkay @katiebae333 @dummyslut00 @eszt1 @kalel2005

[lifeinspiringsolutions]

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[aloof-cold-hands]

Angelo "Hitman" Ramsey (short story- Gene)

A short story from Gene's childhood in which a trip with his father becomes more difficult than expected

Just behind the house, during the summer, Gene had decided to fell the ponderosa pine tree that had developed wood rot. It once held up the hammock, but after the bark where the rope was tied turned from red to black, Gene decided to chop it down. 

With each thunk of Gene’s axe the tree would sway and needles would speckle the ground. Cicadas buzzed and the chug of a kid’s scooter echoed from the front of the house. Gene was sick with a fever, and had been since he woke up two hours ago.

The back of Gene’s neck was glossy with sweat. There was a pinch behind his temples that would sting briefly, then mellow, the sting again. He could feel it pressing against the back of his eyes and against the top of his skull. 

He breathed deep and heavy through his nose, pulling his axe back behind his head then sinking it into the bark again. He kept the axe head in the wood and let go of the handle. He then swayed, then placed his calloused palm against the tree to steady himself with a hand on his hip. He spit on the ground, grunted, then ran a hand through his hair.

And as he stood there, sick, he pictured his father sinking a chainsaw into the body of a spruce tree.

Sometime in the morning, during the early fall- if Gene remembered correctly- his father brought him into the garage to prepare for tree felling. The garage was always hot and thick, and smelt like corn chips. On one wall, the wooden bones of the house were exposed with black construction paper stabled between the planks. On another wall hung small framed newspapers in black and white. They read; “Angelo Hitman Ramsey” or “The Big Bull in Chicago”.

Cardboard boxes stacked atop one another crowded a corner, and dumbbells laid abandoned beside a bench. Below a hanging lightbulb was Ramsey’s work table which was powdered with wood shavings. 

The steps beneath Ramsey creaked as he stepped down to the concrete garage flooring. He breathed very slowly and heavily through his nose, and he grunted to clear his throat. 

He motioned to the garage door.

“Open,” he said.

Gene hopped down the steps and jogged to the front of the garage. Robin’s paws clicked against the ground as she followed him. Gene squatted, took hold of the metal knob attached to the garage door, and began to lift. It chugged as it began to raise, running on a track in the ceiling.

Gene paused halfway through, adjusted the heel of his palms against the knob, then pushed to send the rest of the door up. The outside air was cool against his face and the tall pine trees outside were swaying from a calm wind. Their dirt driveway was scattered with needles and pine cones.

Across the road Aiden was outside with his mom and brother pulling weeds. Aiden looked up and waved with a gloved hand, and Gene waved back. 

Robin trotted out from the garage to Ramsey’s light blue truck, which had rusted at each corners. She stared at the door, then looked back at Gene with round black eyes. Her tail began to wag.

“Can Robin come?” Gene asked.

Ramsey walked past Gene, holding two brown paper bags. Ramsey moved Robin aside with his boot, then opened the truck door to toss the bags into the front seat. 

“Dad,” Gene said.

“Mmh?”

“Can Robin come?”

Ramsey scratched his stubbled jaw and walked past Gene back into the garage. He knelt down and reached under his workbench, and when he stood he was holding the orange handle of a chainsaw.

“No,” Ramsey said.

“Alright,” Gene said, and followed Ramsey to the car.

While Ramsey loaded the chainsaw into the back, Gene scooped an arm under Robin’s white belly and lifted her. Her legs flailed while he maneuvered her to hold her in a cradle then looked down at her face. He blew a small puff at her, and she bit the air. He blew again, she bit again, then she sneezed.

“M’alright, cmon.” Ramsey said, and Gene put Robin down

“Inside,” Gene said to her, pointing to the house.

She stared at him and wagged her tail.

“Inside,” he said again.

Robin hesitated, then trotted away to the back of the house where the dog door was.

It was a forty minute drive from home to get to land available for lumberjacking. The trees grew dense and tall, and even when Gene leaned forward to look out of the front window he could not see their tops. Beside him, Ramsey was smoking a big cigar which made the hairs of his thick mustache bristle.

Ramsey slowed the truck and pulled it off the road, and the car wheels began to crackle over gravel and twigs. The car stopped, the hum of the engine shut off, and Ramsey pressed the grayed end of his cigar into the ashtray on the dashboard. Gene watched him.

“M’alright,” he said, cranking back the emergency break.

He opened his door, and so did Gene.

As they walked Ramsey held his chain saw in one hand with his other sunk into his back jean pocket. And when Ramsey looked up at the trees, so did Gene. 

Ramsey placed his palm against the wood of a thin but tall pine tree. Gene could fully wrap his arms around it if he wanted.

“M’okay,” Ramsey said, placing the chainsaw down. He knelt then looked at Gene. “We’re gonna cut here,” he motioned a horizontal chop across the wood, then raised his hand and angled it. “Then here.” And he motioned another chop. He then began to stand and his left knee popped. 

“Okay,” Gene said, but he didn’t understand.

Ramsey picked up the chainsaw and pinched the pull cord between his thumb and pointer knuckle. The cord chugged when he yanked it back once, then twice, and on the third pull the engine inside the chainsaw kicked and began to rumble. Ramsey motioned Gene to step back.

Gloveless, and without ear muffs, Ramsey turned the saw blade and sunk it into the tree. The razors began to catch and rip into the wood, and birds in the trees above them took flight. Gene reached up and plugged his ears. 

Shavings spewed from the base of the saw and dusted the forest floor in white. And after coming nearly to the center of the tree, Ramsey pulled the blade back.

Ramsey made three cuts into the tree, a horizontal, an angled, and another horizontal on the opposite end of the tree. This left uncut wood in the very middle, and when he pressed his palm into the bark the center began to snap. The tree came free, tipped, then hit the ground with a cloud of dust. 

“Alright,” Ramsey said, and rolled his shoulders back.

With the engine still humming, he held out the handle of the chainsaw for Gene.

Gene looked at his father, and his father looked back down at him. Ramsey shook the chainsaw once, then Gene reached for the handle with both hands. When Ramsey let go Gene’s arms dropped from the weight.

Ramsey moved Gene to another tree with a clear line to fall, then stood back and crossed his arms. Gene raised the chainsaw with a grunt and turned it sideways. He stood with his legs generously far apart and his knees bent. After turning the saw to see where the switch was, he clamped his hand on it and the blades began to race. He immediately unclamped.

“Hold it firm or it’ll kick back on the bark” Ramsey said. 

“Okay,” Gene said.

He pictured the chainsaw hitting the bark, rebounding off, then ripping into his stomach. His arms felt light under the skin, and his palms made a layer of sweat between the handle and his hands. But, like his father, he rolled his shoulders back and clamped the switch again.

The chainsaw sunk into the wood, stopped, sunk again, then stopped.

Ramsey said nothing.

Gene shimmied the blade out of the crack, then raised it with shaky arms for the next cut.

He followed the steps his father took, slicing three jagged cuts into the tree. When he finished and pressed his hand against the bark, it did not fall. He looked at Ramsey, who motioned to the wedge Gene sawed.

“Too shallow,” he said.

Gene had only cut the wedge a quarter into the tree rather than half way. Ramsey crossed his arms and stepped back, and Gene ran the blades again.

It took Gene twenty minutes to fell his tree, and even when it began to snap and fall, the base broke off and kicked back at Gene. Ramsey took him by the collar of his shirt and yanked him back.

Ramsey then placed a hand on the back of Gene’s head. Gene looked up at him.

“Good,” Ramsey said.

Ramsey cut down the last tree while Gene stood on a big flat-topped rock and watched. Ramsey then showed Gene how to run the saw across the tree to slice the branches off, then how to turn the tree, then slice again. After that, they stopped to sit down on the back of the truck and eat lunch, and neither of them said a word to one another.

After lunch, Ramsey began to slice the trunks into sections. Gene would pick up the thick round chunks and walk them back to the truck, then stack them in the back.

And on the very last tree- which still had its branches- Ramsey had begun to slow. Gene watched his flannel come off, his white wife beater go transparent around the collar from sweat, and his breathing become labored. Despite this, Ramsey continued to press the blade against the branches of the tree.

Gene watched how Ramsey held the saw and how he planted his feet. His arms had veins running from his biceps to his wrists. His knuckles were rounded and defined, and his fingers were thick. Gene pictured his father with a brown leather hat and a lasso, riding atop a stallion. He then looked down at his own arms which hung loose.

The razors on the blade glided across the tree as Ramsey sliced the branches off. The saw hooked and ripped the wood, outlining the tree with white shavings.

And when the saw hit a thick knot at the base of a branch, it kicked back and tapped against Ramsey’s right thigh.

Gene stilled. The blades of the saw stopped and Ramsey raised the machine to look down at his thigh. There was an open split in the fabric of his jeans, and it began to blossom with dark red. A weight dropped in Gene’s chest, and he looked up at his father’s face.

Ramsey wiped his glossy forehead with the back of his wrist. Then, the chainsaw started again, and Ramsey continued cutting the trunk into sections. Gene stood very still and watched him. He felt a balloon expanding in his chest, pressing against his heart and ribs, and welling up into his throat. He felt like he should cry, but he didn’t.

As Ramsey continued, so did Gene. He picked up the next round chunk of wood, then he walked back to the truck.

When he returned, Ramsey had finished sectioning the trunk and the continuous hum of the chainsaw’s engine finally died. The forest was very quiet. Without limping, Ramsey walked to a nearby rock and sat down, then began to undo his belt.

Gene bent over and wrapped his arms around the next piece of wood. He stared down at the forest floor as he adjusted his arms. It was scattered with thin twigs and yellowed pine needles, which were speckled with red dots. He looked up at Ramsey.

Ramsey’s jeans now pooled at his ankles, revealing a baggy pair of plaid boxers. From where Gene watched -with his chest resting atop the wood- he couldn’t see the top of Ramsey’s thigh. But as Ramsey studied it, a line of red slid down the side of his calf down to his ankle. Gene looked away.

Gene finished loading the truck, and Ramsey tossed the saw into the back before walking away to the treeline.

Gene opened the car door and stepped up into the cream colored seat. He leaned over to watch his dad through the driver’s seat window. Ramsey had one hand placed against a tree and each foot planted apart. His shoulders raised and lowered with big breaths, and beads of sweat dripped from his chin. He was taking a leak while Gene was in the car waiting, and the balloon in Gene’s chest swelled again. The stream was black.

Gene laid his head against the chilled window and watched the towering trees glide past the car. The sky had gone from amber to black, and the weather turned frigid. Gene watched a fog spread against the window each time he exhaled through his nose, forming a rounded shape.

Then, just as Gene laid his head back against the headrest, something outside popped. The truck jerked, and then swayed as it balanced itself. Gene looked at the road, then at his father, who stared straight ahead and rolled the truck to a stop at the side of the dirt road.

“What was that?” Gene asked.

Ramsey pulled the gear into park and opened the door, leaving the key in the ignition. Gene turned around in his seat and watched him walk behind the truck, then squat out of eyesight. Gene then looked down at Ramsey’s seat cushion where red blood had followed the cracks in the white leather.

Gene wondered if Ramsey had cried when he was a kid. Gene recalled that just a month ago Aiden fell off his bike and busted his cheekbone into the curb which split the skin open. When Gene’s mom took him to get stitches, he cried the entire time. He wondered if his father had ever gotten stitches, and if he cried.

Ramsey’s boots neared the car, and his long arm reached in to take the key. The headlights that stretched into the woods shut off.

“Nail on the road,” he said. “Popped tire.”

“Alright,” Gene said.

Ramsey leaned in and opened the glove box in front of Gene, and he blindly felt for a flashlight. 

Gene’s brows furrowed as he opened his own door, and he wondered if they were going to walk the rest of the way home. He then wondered when the last time was that he saw another car come down the road. 

“Get your coat,” Ramsey said to him.

“Don’t have it,” Gene said, walking to meet his dad in front of the car. “I didn’t bring it.”

“Alright,” Ramsey said, and he turned on the flashlight.

It shot down the road into the darkness with no defined circle.

Without limping, Ramsey began to walk down the side of the road. Gene followed behind him, and their boots crackled against gravel and twigs. Warm fog wafted from their noses, and after ten minutes Gene’s jaw began to shiver. His walking slowed.

Gene looked up at the moon that was only a curved slit, then looked at the back of his father’s head. Ramsey was breathing heavy, and he too had slowed. He did not shiver, and he did not roll the sleeves of his flannel down. Gene pictured a rotund bull with forward pointed horns pressing against a boulder. He imagined the boulder moving bit by bit, and the bull’s hooves digging into the ground.

Gene clenched his jaw and pretended that he wasn’t cold either.

After twenty minutes of walking, Ramsey stopped and dropped the arm holding the flashlight up. He placed his hand on his hip and let his head tip back. Gene saw in his father’s black silhouette that he was shaking. He stood there, panting, and Gene watched him. Then, Ramsey’s body swayed, he tipped back, and he caught himself then straightened again.

“Dad?” Gene said.

Ramsey did not reply. He stood, panting, and for a very long time Gene watched him. And then, two yellow headlights came around a curve in the road.

Both boys stood and stared as the two dim lights came closer. The wheels crackled as they slowed to a stop, and the drive cranked down the window. A thin older man with a fishing hat and sun spots on his cheeks smiled at them. He had white whiskers around his jaw, and smile lines beside the corners of his eyes.

“It's a real cold night for a walk, aint it?” he asked. Ramsey said nothing, and the old man leaned forward to look at Gene. “You fellas get lost?”

“Popped tired,” Ramsey said.

“Ah, that's too bad,”

Gene eyed the red truck the old man drove. In the trunk had a wooden dining table and three chairs. They were strapped down with rope.

“I’m about four miles from my place, we’ll have you phone someone,” said the old man.

“Alright,” said Ramsey.

Ramsey reached back and placed his hand on the back of Gene’s head, and they went around the front of the truck to the passengers side. 

Ramsey sat in the middle, and Gene sat beside him. Then, the man began to drive again, and trees glided past them in the opposite direction they had been going before.

The cream colored bench they sat on had no cracks or tears like Ramsey’s truck, and the ashtray on the dashboard was empty.

“You fellas out chopping wood?” he asked.

“Mhm,” Ramsey said, gripping his thigh.

“Yea, me and my boys used to come out here too. I’m Donald,” Donald said.

“I’m Angelo,” Ramsey said.

Donald looked at Ramsey, then at the road. Then, he reached up for the ceiling light and pressed it on. It flickered a dim yellow, and he leaned forward to look at Ramsey’s face. Gene watched them.

“Well shoot. Shoot, you’re Angelo Ramsey, aren't you.”

Ramsey said nothing.

“Hitman Ramsey, I used to watch you with my kids. Haha, what are the chances- You really have six fingers on your left hand?”

Ramsey raised his left hand, palm up, and showed Donald.

“Wow, look at that,” Donald said. “When you took that man out in the ring, I mean wow. I was sitting with my wife and uh, I think she was holding our youngest. Well, I woke the boys to bring em down so they could see it, and I mean, it's all we talked about the rest of that day. Hah, what else can you talk about?”

Gene’s brows raised, and he looked at his father’s face. Ramsey’s eyes were closed, and he was breathing deep through his nose.

“One hit, and wham- gone. Completely gone, that's a hell of an arm you’ve gotta have. Not even a chance. The hell are you doing in Twin Falls?” Donald asked.

“Retiring,” Ramsey replied.

Donald chuckled, then, for a while, no one said anything.

Gene looked back out of the front window.

“You like dogs?” Donald asked, leaning forward to look at Gene.

Gene nodded.

Donald’s home was a part of a small neighborhood in an open, flat, green field. The porch lights were lit and the front door was propped open with a chunk of wood. On the first step laid a very fat chocolate lab who’s stiff tail began to wag when the car drove into the driveway.

When they first came into the home, Ramsey asked for antiseptic. He soon sat at the kitchen table and tipped the bottle carefully over the split on his thigh. Gene did not watch, and instead scratched under the chin of the lab named Big Bertha. And as he watched her face, he heard sizzling, and a low grunt.

While Ramsey phoned Abigail in the kitchen, Gene sat on the living room couch and stared at the television, but he didn’t watch.

Instead, he pictured his father in red boxer shorts and round gloves. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead from the lights in the indoor stadium. He imagined an announcer’s voice crackling through speakers, booming over an audience. He saw a swing of his father’s left arm, then a man’s head turning from the hit. The man went completely still, tipped, and fell on the mat. His father stood tall- face sore- and he put a fist in the air.

Angelo hitman Ramsey. 

“How old were you when you started boxing?” Gene asked.

He and Ramsey drove back down the road in Ramsey’s blue rusted truck. Donald and Ramsey used a spare from Donalds garage to change the tire. Ramsey held the steering wheel tight with one hand, and gripped his thigh with the other. Gene sat curled up against the door with his forehead against the cold window.

“Huh?” Ramsey replied.

“When did you start boxing?”

“Don’t know,” Ramsey said. “Seventeen.”

Gene thought about that for a while, then he said;

“I wanna be a boxer.”

Ramsey said nothing. 

“Did you always win in one hit?” Gene asked.

“No,” Ramsey said.

“Oh. Did you knock that one man out with one hit?” he asked.

“I killed him,” Ramsey said.

Gene raised his head and stared at his father. Ramsey took a deep inhale of his cigar, and the glow of the butt lit his aged face with orange.

Gene pictured his father hitting the man, the man’s head turning, his body going still, then tipping and hitting the boxing cage floor. He pictured his father staring down at him.

He laid his head back against the window.

I put this story together a few months ago for my patron members! If you're interested in more writing, consider supporting me through patreon :)

[starfeedings]

The County Fair 

The day has finally arrived!! We were going to attend the County Fair!  You were so excited and couldn’t wait to get dressed after your giant breakfast. You started to get dressed and the first pair of jeans didn't fit.  The struggle got you winded and for a moment you really panicked because you thought you had gained again.  You then realized that they were the last pair you outgrew  .... Phew!!! You checked again and found a brand new pair of pants and a cute white top, and then came in the kitchen to help me pack some food for the trip.  It was going to be a 30 min drive, maybe 45 with traffic.  We packed some muffins, chips and cookies just in case.

We got in the SUV and headed down the road.  I loved watching your belly shake and wobble when we hit bumps and was so glad you had room to sit comfortably.  We sold our previous car about 6 months ago when you no longer fit.  With you gaining so fast, this one should work for a while.  About 10 min down the road you reached for the muffins and cookies and finished them all in a hurry.

Arriving at the fair, I dropped you off by the front entrance and then went to park.  A good thing since it took me about 15 min to walk from the truck back to the entrance.  You would need to save your steps as the fair grounds were big and your waddle was not geared for distances (or speed).  You were sitting on a bench when I returned eating some funnel cake with powdered sugar that was sold just outside the gate.  You were smiling, with some sugar around your lips ... so cute!

After buying tickets we walked in and started towards the main food area.  I had to walk very slow so that you could keep up.  You were doing pretty well.  After about 2 minutes you asked to stop to look at a map.  You were starting to sweat a little and wanted to catch your breath.  I told you I knew where we were going but you had me double check to make sure we went the shortest route.  After assuring you, we continued.  We stopping again a few minutes later so you could try some bacon dipped in chocolate. So yummy, but a little messy.  We sat down on a bench so you could eat it without it getting all over your white shirt.  You did pretty well, spilling only tiny bit of chocolate by your collar.

We got up again and continued toward the food.  It was so fun seeing all the people, hearing music, sounds from games and the popcorn machines.  There was also an unmistakable  aroma from all the foods, animals, hay and rides.  It was a lot to take in.  At first I really commended your willpower as we made it past the popcorn.  I'm guessing you didn't see it?

Arriving at the main food pavilion, we got in line for some of the celebrity chef dishes.  The lines were long, so I told you to find a seat and that I'd bring back the food.  "Make sure you get something good" you said as you waddled towards the picnic tables.  I watched you from a far navigating the picnic table and I was amazed how you figured it out.  My guess is that getting out will be a lot harder.

As I waited in line, I couldn't help but notice how many other fat girls and guys there were.  It seems like a perfect gathering place.  One woman was holding about 4 plates and looked to be about your size.  Another girl was much bigger,  and was riding a scooter.  Not a bad idea with all the walking needed.  Her belly was pressing into the steering wheel and her hips and side belly far surpassed the width of the scooter.  It was hot!

The first stand I got to had duck bacon wontons. The wontons were stuffed with duck bacon, grilled sweet corn, and cream cheese, and served with a creamy dipping sauce.  I knew you would love it, so I picked up 3 servings.

At the next stand I picked up bacon-wrapped pork belly and mashed potato croquettes served on a skewer, topped with either home-style gravy, Korean bulgogi barbecue sauce, or sweet chili sauce.  I got all 3 sauces in large cups so you could experiment.  I picked up 3 of these also and headed over to you.

You were so excited to try the food!  You were also a little upset I didn't get dessert.  I mentioned that I thought we could get some later, but seeing how upset you were I headed back and picked up some Bowl o' Dough. Basically cookie dough in 3 flavors -- brownie batter swirl, European cookie butter, lemon ricotta cheesecake with blueberries.  I got 3 of each.

You had already finished the wontons when I got back and were so excited about the cookie dough.  I wasn't quite hungry yet, but had fun watching you stuff yourself.  The pork belly was finished next and then you dove into the cookie dough.  About 15 minutes later you were done.  "Stuffed?" I asked.  "far from it." you said  as you tried to heave yourself up from the table.  Uh oh.  You your belly was stuck and wouldn't let your leg raise up enough to get out.  I had suspected this wouldn't be easy.  You tried again, leaning to side.  Better, but it was so hard tho raise your leg!  I let you regroup and then helped you by pulling your leg out and to the side.  It worked and you got up sweating and winded.  "Ugh. that was so tight!" you said.  Lets go see the animals

It was clear that you were  more full than you led onto, as your waddle was much slower and you were breathing heavier.  I hated to see you uncomfortable and suggested we sit for a break.  You happily obliged.  "Wow, it's really hot here" you said panting.  I agreed, but was  honestly glad I was wearing a long sleeve shirt.   65 degrees is not hot to me.

After you caught your breath, we made our way towards the animals.  On the way, I caught a stand in the distance and knew we had to stop. Fried Butter Balls.  I chuckled.  I had to see you eat those fat bombs.  You couldn't believe they had them and were so excited to give them a try.  I got you 3 servings and we sat down.  "OMG these are good!!!" you said in between bites.  "Get me more".  I did, 5 more.  You were eating like the pigs we were about to see.

After eating those you felt full.  Lets just sit hear and listen to the music.  The arena was close by and a band was playing.  I said we could go in, but knowing the size of arena seats, agreed we should just chill and relax.  There were picnic tables closer, but after the earlier fiasco the bench was a much safer bet.  I rubbed your distended belly and we leaned into each other.  So comfy.

About an hour or so later, we passed the heavy machinery section.  You joked about needing the forklift to carry you around. haha.  Getting tired from all the waddling today you were not happy.  You saw another fat girl waddling that looked to be in a similar place.  Who knew that you needed so much athleticism to attend the fair?  We passed a log flume ride, which looked fun, however it would require way too much energy.  It was also unclear if you would fit in the seat?

We arrived at another food court and you declared it time to feed.  You sat down on a bench and I picked up a bunch of treats.  Cheeseburgers with Fried Ice Cream, Deep-Fried Mashed Potatoes on a Stick, Krispy Kreme Hamburgers, Foot-long hot-dogs, Fried Oreos and Fried Twinkies.

You were pleased for sure with my choices and made your way through them without breaking stride.  You especially loved the deep fried potatoes and Krispy Kreme Hamburgers.  I went back and got you 3 more of each.

You were feeling very stuffed now and really just wanted to go home.  I said that we needed to see the animals.  You agreed and began the short slog waddle to the barn area.  I noticed you now had ketchup, mustard and sauce on your shirt now in addition to the earlier spilled chocolate.

We finally got to the animals and grabbed a seat fully winded.  You saw that there was Fried cheesecake and despite being stuffed just had had to try some.  You said to just get one.  I brought it and after the first bite you held up 2 fingers.  "2 more". wow.  this was sooo good.

I noticed your shirt was a lot tighter.  Your belly was so distended from all the calories during your multiple feedings.  You honestly looked like the pig who won the blue ribbon.  Both of you were super fat and glowing!

After seeing the animals and eating the fried cheesecake, we walked very very slowly over to the gondola. / aerial lift ride that carried fairgoers across the grounds. You were soooo relieved that you wouldn't have to walk back!!!  I was a little concerned about the weight limit in the car.  Anyway, it dropped us right by the front gate.  We got out, or should I say struggled out as the door was a bit of a squeeze for you.  

I left you at the gate and went to go pick up the truck.  I was hungry and grabbed some peanuts.  When I returned you had a bag.  "What's in the bag?" I asked.  "Oh, just some food for home" you said.  You had picked up deep-fried avocado, cream puffs, sweet corn ice cream and some Fried macaroni and cheese.  "Awesome" I said, knowing that you would likely polish them off tonight.

"What a fun day" I said.  "Yes, lets come back tomorrow" you replied before falling asleep on the short ride home.

[demie90s]

𝗡𝗶𝗸𝗮 𝗠ü𝗵𝗹 X 𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

“ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ʙᴜʏ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ”

MASTERLIST, ALL PARTS

Pairing: Nika Mühl x reader (spoiled!nika x rich!reader, fem!reader)

Summary: Nika keeps saying she doesn’t want anything. You keep not listening. This time? She finds a Vespa in her favorite color waiting for her outside the gym, with a bow on it and everything.

Genre: Spoiled love, humor, luxury fluff

Warnings: Reckless gift-giving, brat behavior, domestic soft moments

Word count: ~0.7k

Nika’s already annoyed when she walks out of the gym.

Not in a real way. Just in that bratty, half-muttering-under-her-breath kind of way where you know she’s tired, sore, and way too dramatic about walking a hundred feet back to the dorm.

She adjusts her hoodie, tosses her gym bag over one shoulder, and squints toward the parking lot.

Then she stops.

Like—physically stops.

There, parked right out front like it owns the damn sidewalk, is a Vespa.

Shiny. Creamy. Custom painted in the exact soft sage green she always says she’d pick if she “ever got one.”

There’s a glossy helmet hanging from one handlebar.

And a fat red bow slapped across the front.

She doesn’t have to ask. She already knows.

“No,” she says flatly, turning back toward the gym door like maybe if she re-enters the building it’ll disappear.

You lean against the rail, arms crossed, smiling like you didn’t just casually drop a few grand for no reason other than the fact that she complained two days ago.

“You said you were tired of walking.”

Nika turns slowly. Deadpan. Unamused.

“I said I was tired. Period. Not tired of walking. Not tired of existing without a motorized Italian accessory. I was just tired.”

You shrug. “Tomato, tomahto.”

She walks over, dead silent, until she’s standing toe-to-toe with you. She glares at the bow, then the Vespa, then you.

“I told you not to buy me shit.”

“And you tell me that every time,” you say sweetly, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her face. “And every time, you wear it. Ride it. Drink it. Eat it. Break it. Love it.”

She squints. “I don’t love it.”

You raise a brow. “You don’t?”

She stares at the Vespa again. Then down at the helmet. Then back at you.

“Is it insured?”

You blink. “What?”

“Because if I crash it, it’s not my fault.”

You grin. “So you’re getting on it.”

She snatches the helmet from the handlebar and slides it on with a dramatic sigh.

“You’re ridiculous,” she mumbles, strapping it under her chin.

“And yet, you still date me.”

“I’m rethinking that.”

“No, you’re not.”

She throws one leg over the seat and settles in like she’s done it a hundred times. You toss her the keys. She catches them without looking.

“You’re gonna spoil me into an attitude,” she calls over her shoulder.

“Too late.”

She starts the engine. It purrs like money well spent. As she drives off, she flips you off with one hand and blows you a kiss with the other.

You smile, watching her fade down the path, helmet slightly crooked, hoodie bunched up behind her.

She said don’t buy me that. And yet— She’s already texting you five minutes later:

“Okay but where’s the matching gloves?”

“Whose Vespa is that?”

KK’s the first to say it. She’s standing in the hallway, half-tied bun, iced coffee in hand, staring out the glass doors at the perfect pastel Vespa parked like it owns the damn sidewalk.

It’s got a leather seat. A shiny bow still stuck to the mirror. And Nika’s helmet—her helmet—dangling from the bar like a signature.

“She did not,” Paige says, stepping beside her. “Tell me she did not get a damn scooter.”

“She did,” Azzi confirms from the bench, lacing her shoes like this is old news. “And don’t ask who got it for her. You already know.”

“I swear to God,” Paige mutters, rubbing her face. “Your girl spoils her like she’s on royalty payroll.”

“She is,” Inês says from the corner. “At least, that’s what it looks like.”

Because when Nika strolls in—late, of course—she’s got sunglasses on and coffee in hand, hoodie off one shoulder, helmet swinging casually by her fingers. Not a care in the world.

KK looks at her amused. “You pulled up in a Vespa?”

Nika shrugs. “I was tired of walking.”

Paige blinks. “That’s not even the line you used yesterday—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Nika cuts in, already peeling off her outer layer like she didn’t just flex on all of them with a two-thousand dollar entrance. “I made it here, didn’t I?”

Azzi snorts. “You made it here wearing a Cartier ring she bought you.”

“She got you that too?” Paige gapes.

Nika smiles. “That one was because I made my free throws.”

KK whips around. “You got her a Cartier ring for making free throws?”

You stroll in just behind her, sipping something green and expensive-looking.

“I said I’d get her something small,” you say, casually sliding into your usual seat against the wall like you’re not the drama.

“That is not small,” Paige points.

“She only wears it on game days,” you reply, deadpan. “I’m reasonable.”

Azzi is trying so hard not to laugh. “And the bag?”

Nika glances at her shoulder. “Oh, the Dior? That was for remembering to eat lunch.”

You say nothing. You don’t have to.

Because you are spoiled, yeah—but not like her. You buy your own things. Wear your own fits. Pull up in your own car. But when it comes to Nika? You hand over your card and your heart like they come as a set.

“She gets more from you than you get for yourself,” Aubrey finally says.

You shrug. “I like seeing her happy.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m in love,” you correct.

Nika walks by, smacking your drink out of your hand just enough to annoy you.

“And I’m still thirsty,” she adds.

You’re already pulling a second one out of your bag before she even turns around.

“See?” she says, sipping. “I’m spoiled. But I’m worth it.”

The room groans. Paige actually throws a towel.

KK shakes her head. “I don’t know who’s worse.”

Azzi hums. “It’s both of them. Equally.”