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How it feels commenting on a mutuals post like a grandma and fumbling the interaction

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HIS HAIR HIS HAIR HIS HAIR HIS HAIR HIS HAIRRRRRRRRRRRR

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had to call out of my ONE shift this week because i woke up with one of those headaches where all i can do is lay in bed with an ice pack on my head for three hours. my june salary is gonna be pathetic 💀

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not to be controversial but i hope ur having a nice day and if u aren’t i hope it gets better

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HI BABYYYYY💖💖💖💖 for the the fake fic ask game: you're in the mood for a dance (and when you get the chance)

thank you my darling wife <3 naturally, i present to you vampire landoscar! i'm not happy with it, it feels a bit wonky, but i think if someone were to make this a full fic, it could be a fun concept. it's also too long for a summary, but we shall pay that no mind.

The young-looking man at the bar has been staring at Lando unabashedly all night. Lando has yet to make eye contact, instead allowing himself no more than occasional quick glances. The man — Oscar, Lando had overhead the bartender greet him — is leaning against the wooden bar counter, his posture a little stiff and one hand buried in his trouser pocket. Completely inconspicuous, almost. The other hand has been holding the same drink since his arrival; a liqueur, hazelnut and caramel, equally sweet and strong. Oscar hasn't had a single sip. Two, three hours must have passed by now. Lando is growing restless in his booth, excited buzz all throughout his body from the undivided attention. Oscar's heavy gaze seems to be burning through Lando's clothes, intense enough to nearly feel like a real touch. Lando imagines it for a moment. Dark eyes taking him in from up close, that pale, boyish face cradled in Lando's hands, sharp teeth against sharp teeth, Oscar's cold skin electric against his own. Then, a movement. Oscar turns to set down his drink on the bar counter. Lando jerks up, downs the rest of his daiquiri and starts to make his way across the crowded dance floor. The vibrant taste of frozen strawberry lingers on his tongue, the nutty aroma of Oscar's drink leads his way.

He wants to dance now, too.

from the fake fic ask game

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Sprint winner Oscar celebrates in parc ferme during the Sprint ahead of the F1 Grand Prix of Qatar at Lusail International Circuit on November 30, 2024 in Lusail City, Qatar. Photo by Bryn Lennon. [edited]

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Charles if you want to go cycling with Carlos you have to just ask him instead of getting Ferrari to post you with your bike on the corporate account

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wait other post cancelled. mutuals. when r ur birthdays.

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I honestly saw a bit too much of Alex, but he's so goddam pretty

He has this gentle, sweet beauty to him, smth artistic

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"i've never seen charles as down bad for carlos as carlos is for him"

OPEN your eyes then though

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i need chodium this weekend…. i need a chwin

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galex + txt posts = true 8.0

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— Fyodor Dostoevsky (via lunamonchtuna)

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They should make a content label for ai posts like they do for mature content so I dont ever have to fucking look at it

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im back, teehee🐝

even if this is the last pain he gives me and these the last verses I write for him

thank you laurie!! my mind immediately went to an artist/muse kind of scenario. i tried a few different things and landed on this toxic piarles situation. charles is a poet/writer and pierre his muse and technically also his incredibly unfaithful boyfriend?? idk. this got quite long so i shortened it a bit and now i'm not so sure if it makes any sense lol.

When Charles steps further into their flat, manuscript pressed to his chest, and realises, he feels no shock. The unfamiliar pair of shoes at the door, the two sets of dishes still on the dining table, the scent of a perfume he does not recognise lingering in the air, the muffled voices from behind the bedroom door — Charles feels no shock, not even mild surprise, because he knows this. Expected it, even. This is how it always goes with Pierre. As he makes his way back to the hallway, Charles tries to recall the last time things had been different. Then, the moment things between them had started being like this.

He pulls the flat door shut behind him. He cannot remember. - Charles is a writer. Pierre is his muse. Or was, maybe. It's complicated.

from the fake fic ask game