#SORRY IF THIS FEELS LIKE I'M MANSPLAINING

[oldbutchdanielcraig]

do u have any other movies (or other media) you'd recommend to ppl who loved queer?

OH ABSOLUTELY.

as for books:

Dancers from the Dance by Andrew Holleran: set in New York, centers around one character and largely his platonic friendship with an older queen. it's also about queer identity and the seeming near-impossibility of finding love especially while queer. really beautiful character work and really devastating.

I'd also recommend reading Queer if you haven't because it's super short and an easy/engaging read. I personally think the movie enhances the book in a lot of ways but there's really great stuff missing from the final cut of the movie that I adore and it's fun to make those comparisons.

You could also go full-out and read other Burroughs (I haven't yet so take me with a grain of salt) and if you do I'd start with Junky and Naked Lunch which I believe are the most Queer-adjacent works — both tackle similar topics and feature William Lee as the protagonist, though it's not like. a series y'know.

as for movies:

works of David Cronenberg: start with Naked Lunch, obv, because it's a great adaptation and Queer takes direct inspiration from a lot of it! next go for Dead Ringers for identity + codependency and The Fly for more identity exploration. (bonus points if after THAT Dead Ringers you watch the series where Rachel Weisz stars. I love my bi4bi toxic gay media couple)

works of David Lynch: also a direct inspiration for Luca's Queer! he's where a lot of the surrealism comes in which I think is awesome. above anything I'd recommend Lost Highway and Mulholland Drive which are both movies that Also tackle earth-shattering crises of identity and blending into the other etc. both really good.

The Talented Mr. Ripley: not quite the same, but toxic and gay and about how queerness shapes identity. really good. if you haven't seen it you should.

other works of Luca's: I just love this guy. for the most similar vibes I'd go for Bones and All and Suspiria which have elements of codependency and identity and all that good stuff. controversially I would also say to watch Call Me By Your Name if you haven't (and maybe even read the book 😬)? I could say thousands of words about the nuances of choosing to recommend that and it's like. they will tell you that Queer is not CMBYN 2 and they will be right in basically every way. except for the thinking man who knows that Luca read Queer at 18 and it profoundly shaped him and is precisely what makes CMBYN a good movie in the first place. TO ME.

[anarkhebringer]

I Forgot She Said This.........

[fazcinatingblog]

My boss has the flu and wanted me to transfer the call to a colleague and she's like "wait let me blow my nose first" so it was like that episode of new girl when Cece blew her nose with Nick right next to her, it was as bad as that and

[hamilton-here]

Hello, I finally found someone who writes about Lewis and it's so hard to find on this app

I can't get this idea out of my head,Lewis married A teacher From a university that is super smart and teaches engineering

It's very difficult to put a profession other than models and singers and actresses, I love when they put the reader's profession as a more normal profession, you know?

Sorry if any words come out wrong, my first language is not English.

Beijos from Brazil🇧🇷

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐹𝑜𝓇𝓂𝓊𝓁𝒶 𝑜𝒻 𝒰𝓈

Authors Note: Hey lovelies! Not to worry, I hope this meets your expections Beijos🙂. I'm still hella unwell but I wanted to post something today since I didn't yesterday. I apologise if it’s bad... Lots of love xx

Summary: The reader is a university engineering lecturer, sharp and respected in her field and married to Lewis Hamilton.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes @piston-cup

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

In the sprawling lecture hall of one of London’s most prestigious engineering universities, your name carries a kind of reverence.

Not because of celebrity. Not because of scandal. But because you make thermodynamics feel like poetry.

Officially, you’re the youngest tenured professor in the mechanical engineering department. Unofficially, you’re the one students trust the most - the professor who inspires careers, not just degrees. You bring biscuits during finals week. You stay behind after class for an hour to answer questions you’re not paid to. You make lectures feel like dialogue, your feedback like mentorship, and your presence like safety.

Your classroom runs on curiosity. Respect. The occasional scent of vanilla from your hand cream.

You have that quiet charm - intelligent, warm, a little whimsical. Most days, your hair is tucked into a messy bun or a loose braid that begins to unravel by the afternoon. You wear flowy blouses and trousers with pockets deep enough for chalk and flash drives, and there’s always some hint of white dust clinging to your hands or sleeves by midday.

Students compare you to Miss Honey well if Miss Honey held a PhD in Applied Fluid Dynamics and could dismantle mansplaining with a single raised brow.

The Hamilton surname doesn’t raise many eyebrows. It’s a common name, and besides you don’t seem the type. Your shoes are scuffed from the lab, your canvas bag permanently ink-stained, your watch reliable but worn. There’s no trace of flash, no hint of ostentation. Just you.

You don’t bring up your personal life not out of secrecy, but because it doesn’t seem to belong between lectures and lab reports.

Thursday Morning—Regenerative Braking Systems

Halfway through an electrifying lecture on energy recovery in hybrid drivetrains, a third-year student raises their hand.

“Professor Hamilton,” they ask, hesitant but eager, “are you related to…y’know, the F1 driver?”

A pause. A smile.

“Which one?” you reply, eyes twinkling.

The room erupts into laughter, and just like that, the moment drifts away.

As the lecture ends, students scatter, footsteps echoing down the corridor. You gather your notes, tuck a chalk-dusted flash drive into your pocket and glance at your phone as it vibrates twice on the edge of your desk.

You don’t need to check the name.

Lewis 📩 12:37 PM — Just finished media. Nearly fell asleep on Toto again 😵‍💫

📩 12:39 PM — Miss you already.

Your lips curve in amusement, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

You 📩 12:42 PM — Poor Toto. Miss you too. Teach the tires a lesson today 🖤

Sliding the phone into your coat, you push your glasses up just as Dr. Patel strolls past your door with a coffee in hand.

“You’re always smiling at that phone, huh?” he muses.

You nod, polite but unruffled. “My husband’s traveling. We keep in touch.”

His eyebrows lift just slightly. Most people don’t know you’re married. You’re not exactly secretive. Just private. A polite nod passes between you as he moves on.

Later, as you sit at your desk combing through final proposals with a red pen, Dr. Martin leans casually against your doorway for the third time this month.

“Y/N,” he says, too familiar, “Some of us are heading to that STEM in Schools seminar this weekend. Could be good exposure. You coming?”

Without looking up, you reply, “I’ve committed to judging student prototypes. I try not to overbook weekends.”

“Oh, right. Well…if you change your mind, I’ll save you a seat. Maybe we could catch up about it and I could swing by with coffee, maybe—”

“I’ll be with my husband,” you say, gently but firmly.

A beat. He falters.

“Of course. Well…see you around.”

Only once he’s gone do you let yourself exhale, thoughts already drifting to Lewis.

Not the global icon. Not the record-breaker.

Just your Lewis.

The one who texts you memes of Roscoe mid-snore. The one who brings you tea when your voice is hoarse from lectures. The one who looks at you like the world slows down.

By the time you arrive home the flat is warm with low lamplight and the scent of roasted vanilla. London hums outside, winding down as traffic grows sparse and streetlights flicker gold against puddles from earlier rain.

Inside, a quiet jazz playlist hums in the kitchen. Roscoe lies curled at the end of the couch, belly rising and falling in slow rhythm, paws twitching in some kind of dog-dream race.

You sit with one leg tucked beneath you, red pen in hand, glasses sliding down your nose. You’re deep in grading, thoughts darting between student projects and what scraps might make a decent dinner.

You don’t hear the door.

But you feel him.

That familiar presence. The scent of cologne, travel, and maybe the faintest trace of engine oil. Then arms warm and solid slip around you from behind, and lips press to your temple.

“Hey, brainiac,” Lewis whispers against your skin, voice rough from travel but softened by affection.

You lean back into him. “Hey yourself. You’re home early.”

“Flight landed ahead of schedule,” he murmurs, nuzzling your neck. “Didn’t want to miss your toast dinner.”

You smirk. “I was thinking about it.”

“That’s not dinner. That’s edible depression,” he replies, mock horror in his voice. “Sit tight. I’m cooking.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

So, you do. You stay right there, pen in hand, while he pads into the kitchen with all the gentle confidence of someone who knows his way around a saucepan and your spice rack.

Twenty-five minutes later, you’re seated together at your small kitchen table knees bumping, minestrone soup steaming, wine uncorked but untouched. It’s simple. Perfect.

He tells you about his media day mimicking Toto’s unimpressed face when Lewis nearly fell asleep beside him. You tell him about the student who accidentally set off the fire alarm with a badly rigged capacitor.

He throws his head back in laughter. You reach across the table and squeeze his hand.

“You make everything feel lighter,” you say.

“And you make everything feel like home,” he answers, sincere as ever.

Soon after, in the dim quiet of your bedroom, you lie pressed to his chest with one of his arms looped around your back, his fingertips tracing lazy shapes you can’t quite place.

Roscoe’s soft snores fill the silence like a lullaby.

“No one ever connects us,” Lewis murmurs, low and drowsy. “I think it’s kinda sexy.”

You smile, eyes already heavy with sleep. “You’re not a secret.”

“I know,” he whispers. “But I like being in your quiet world. I like being just your guy.”

You lift your head slightly, brushing your lips against his collarbone.

“You’re not just anything, Lewis.”

He kisses your forehead, arms wrapping around you like a promise.

“You’re the impressive one, Dr. Hamilton.”

“And you,” you murmur, sinking into his warmth, “are hopelessly biased.”

“Madly.”

And the last thing you feel before sleep takes you is his hand tightening ever so slightly around yours like even in his dreams, he’s holding on.

The next morning, sunlight spills into the bedroom in soft, golden ribbons, painting lazy stripes across the sheets. Your alarm buzzes faintly on the nightstand, a quiet, persistent reminder that reality is creeping in.

You groan and reach out from under the duvet, your hand smacking around until it finds the phone and silences the sound. The warmth of the bed is too inviting. The stillness too perfect.

You blink once. Twice. And then you register the steady weight across your waist, the gentle rise and fall of breath behind you, and the soft pressure of lips against your shoulder.

“Lewis,” you murmur, voice raspy and full of sleep. “I have a 9AM.”

“Mmm,” he answers, barely more than a breath against your skin. His face is still pressed into the curve of your neck; his arm curled tighter around your waist. “Don’t go.”

You try to wiggle free, but he only sighs, groaning like the act of keeping you here is a full-time job he’s too dedicated to quit. His leg slides over yours like a lock, pulling you back into him.

“Lewis,” you laugh softly, the sound muffled in the pillow. “Seriously. I have to shower.”

“No, you don’t,” he mumbles, not budging. “You smell perfect. Stay. Cancel class. Let me be the one you teach today.”

You twist slightly, just enough to glance back at him. His eyes are still half-lidded, his curls a tousled mess, his expression smug in that sleepy, endearing way of his.

“You can barely spell ‘viscosity’ before 10AM.”

“I could learn,” he offers, brushing his lips against your cheek. “But I’d probably just stare at your handwriting on the whiteboard and think about how much I miss you.”

You roll your eyes, even as your chest tightens with something tender. You press a quick kiss to the tip of his nose before finally prying yourself from his grip with the kind of determination only coffee and a packed lecture hall can summon.

Ten minutes later, the flat is a scene of controlled chaos. You're sprinting from room to room in a damp towel, muttering under your breath as you dig through your wardrobe for something professional yet forgiving, your wet braid flopping over your shoulder.

In the bedroom, Lewis lounges against the headboard, shirtless and entirely unbothered, Roscoe snuggled up at his feet like they both have nothing but time.

“You’re chaos,” he says, clearly amused as he watches you wrestle with the buttons of your blouse.

“You’re in the way of my shoes,” you shoot back, hopping into one heel and scanning the floor for its match. “Also, remind me to order more oat milk.”

He stands finally, pulling on a hoodie over his sweatpants. “Noted. Breakfast of champions today, I see?” he teases as you toss two cereal bars into your satchel and cap your travel mug.

“I’m a walking health icon,” you mutter.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” You turn to him, leaning in for a quick goodbye, lips brushing his.

But Lewis doesn’t let it end there.

His hands catch your waist, pulling you in for a firm and effortless kiss before you can fully process it, his mouth finds yours again, deeper this time. The kiss is unhurried but demanding, like he’s trying to make up for the hours you’ll be apart.

You melt for a beat, your fingers curling into his hoodie, your breath catching against his. He tastes like sleep and warmth and something just slightly minty annoyingly perfect, even at 8:30 in the morning.

When you pull back slightly, breathless, he tilts his head and murmurs against your lips, “You sure you don’t want to stay?”

You laugh; forehead pressed to his. “You’re dangerous.”

“You love it,” he says smugly.

You manage to escape with one final kiss and a quiet, “Lock up after you take Roscoe, yeah?”

“Yes, Professor,” he replies with a grin, giving you a cheeky salute.

You catch Roscoe wagging his tail at the sound of your voice and nearly double back just to hug them both again.

By the time you reach campus, the clouds have thinned to a hazy blue, and London’s rhythm hums in the background of honking cars, soft chatter, the rush of students moving between buildings. Your braid drips occasionally onto your shoulder, but there’s no time to worry.

Inside the lecture hall, your first years are already gathering some still yawning, others furiously typing notes from a pre-lecture scramble. The air smells like espresso, pens, and worn paper.

“Morning, Dr. H!” someone calls from the back row, a little too cheerfully for 8:55 AM.

“Morning,” you reply, setting your laptop on the desk and plugging in the HDMI cable. “Let’s dive straight in before your caffeine runs out and someone tries to convince me that DRS is unfair again.”

A few of them groan. One girl clutches her iced coffee like it’s her entire reason for existing. You smile fond, but unrelenting.

“Hey, I’m running on four hours of sleep and granola bars. You don’t see me whining.”

Someone near the front chuckles. “Yeah, but you probably had a good reason. Like solving equations. Or I don’t know maybe you’re related to a hot F1 husband?”

You pause for just half a second. Smooth your blouse like it’s a reset button. “Today’s lecture,” you say coolly, “is on the thermodynamics of hybrid power units. If you’re lucky, I’ll let you rant about Red Bull at the end.”

They settle in quickly. The projector lights up. Your fingers move across the remote as you guide them through slides that are complex, but clear.

You pace gently in front of the room, weaving between rows, voice steady.

“Let’s start with the basics MGU-K. Think of it like a tiny, obsessed goblin living in the car. Every time you slow down, it panics. ‘No! Not wasted energy!’ So, it scoops it up, stores it, and tosses it back at you when you accelerate.”

Laughter trickles in, but more importantly, heads nod. They’re listening. Engaged.

You walk to the board and draw a quick diagram, your handwriting looping elegantly across the white surface. You see their eyes follow you some scribbling notes, others watching intently.

When a girl in the front raises her hand and asks about energy scaling in relation to battery mass, you light up not just because she’s asking a smart question, but because she wants to understand.

“Great question,” you say, walking toward her. “Let’s think about the cost-benefit curve here. What happens when we increase battery mass?”

Hands start to rise. One boy talks about kinetic output: another mentions heat loss. You gently correct a misunderstanding, but never once make them feel small. That’s never been your style. You build confidence like it’s a second language patient, structured and subtle.

The conversation evolves. A few students even start debating hybrid regulation loopholes like it’s a sport. And you?

You thrive in it. Not just the content, but the fire in their eyes. You live for the moment they get it.

When the lecture ends, most students scatter off to their next class, but as always, a few linger. A girl asks about internships. You promise to email a contact. Another asks if you’d mind giving feedback on a research proposal. You nod, writing your office hours on the back of a sticky note.

One boy stays longer than the rest, shifting his weight nervously as he clutches a notebook to his chest. He’s quiet, always has been.

You offer him a gentle smile. “Need something?”

“I um. I just wanted to say thank you. I didn’t think I’d like engineering. I was going to switch majors. But…you make it make sense.”

The honesty of it hits you square in the chest.

You blink, touched. “Thank you,” you say quietly, sincerely. “That means a lot to hear.”

He nods, shyly, and hurries out, the notebook still clutched like a lifeline.

You lean back against your desk, exhaling as the silence settles around you. It’s quiet now just the soft hum of the building, a high window cracked open to let in fresh air, the faint thrum of the city far below.

You glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes until your next lecture.

Plenty of time to check your phone.

Lewis 📩 10:23 AM: Roscoe and I both miss you. Send equations to distract us. 📩 10:25 AM: …Or a selfie. That works too 😌

You shake your head, smiling down at the screen, warmth spreading across your chest.

You 📩 10:27 AM: You first. 📩 10:28 AM: Make it cute. You’re distracting a professor at work.

You tuck your phone back into your bag, still smiling as you gather your notes and start setting up for your second class.

They don’t know it, your students. Not fully.

But here surrounded by questions and wonder and learning, you are wholly yourself.

And when the day ends, when your voice is hoarse and your whiteboard filled with diagrams and ideas, you’ll go home to someone who sees that version of you and kisses her breathless at the door.

You belong in both places.

And today, they’re both waiting.

The next day.

The scent of warm cookies wafts through the lecture hall, mingling with the usual cocktail of espresso, highlighters, and the faint hum of overworked laptop fans. You carefully set a large Tupperware container on the desk with a proud little smile, snapping off the lid like a magician unveiling her trick. Your students immediately perk up.

“You baked for us?” one of them gasps, as if you’ve just offered them salvation in the form of chocolate chips.

You tilt your head with mock solemnity. “I baked for me,” you say, tapping the edge of the container. “But I’m feeling generous. Thermodynamic modelling deserves a little sugar on the side.”

They erupt into grateful chaos, like puppies let off-leash. Hands shoot out, voices overlap with "thank you, Dr. H!" and "you're actually the best." You wave them off with a dismissive but affectionate shake of your head, already grabbing the remote as the last slide flickers to life behind you.

You resume pacing gently at the front of the room, cookie-crumbling fingers typing notes and shoving pieces into mouths.

“Okay,” you say, brushing invisible crumbs from your blazer. “Before I let you escape in a cookie coma, here’s your homework task for next week: pick any component of the hybrid system that isn’t the MGU-K because I know half of you were already halfway through a paragraph about regenerative braking. One-page minimum, diagrams encouraged. You can—”

The door at the side of the lecture hall creaks open.

You glance up mid-sentence, expecting maybe a late student or a confused TA.

But no.

Oh no.

Standing there leaning casually against the doorframe like this is a rom-com and he’s here to ruin your academic credibility is Lewis. Dressed down in a black hoodie and grey joggers, curls messy under a cap, a brown paper lunch bag in one hand, his phone in the other. Roscoe sits just behind him, tail thumping happily against the floor.

You forget how to breathe.

He raises the bag with an innocent shrug. “You left this,” he says. “Didn’t want you to starve during your lecture marathon.”

Time freezes.

You’re frozen. Your students are frozen. Roscoe may be the only creature in the room still blinking.

Because Lewis Hamilton - the Lewis Hamilton just walked into an engineering lecture hall like he’s dropping off forgotten gym clothes.

One student blinks dramatically and whispers, “Wait I thought it was just a coincidence her last name is Hamilton.”

“No way. No way that’s her actual husband,” another mutters, slowly lowering their cookie like it’s sacrilegious to eat during this moment.

You blink back into reality, your mouth parting slightly. You hadn’t checked your phone since the last class. You had absolutely no idea he was coming. And now he’s here, just existing. In your lecture.

He grins, fully aware of the small academic earthquake he’s just triggered. “Sorry,” he offers casually, scanning the rows of stunned students. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Hi.”

Your throat catches. “That’s my husband,” you say, finally, like it’s the most bewildered confession of your life.

And with that, the room explodes.

“WHAT?!”

“DR. HAMILTON!!”

“YOU’RE MARRIED TO LEWIS HAMILTON?!”

“NO. FREAKING. WAY.”

You drag a hand down your face, trying not to laugh. “Okay, okay. Please. Focus. Breathe.”

It’s a lost cause. One girl has both hands clasped over her heart. Another is already whispering furiously to a friend, undoubtedly calculating how long you’ve been married, checking Instagram for clues. Someone very confidently says, “This is giving ‘hot professor with secret F1 husband’ energy. I knew it.”

Lewis strolls over like this is perfectly normal, Roscoe trotting behind and sitting politely next to your desk as if he, too, has tenure. He places the paper bag next to your laptop, then leans in and presses a soft kiss to your cheek fully cementing your status as married to a legend.

“I’m still not convinced you didn’t plan this,” you mutter, cheeks burning.

He grins. “Just being a supportive husband. Delivering lunch. Kissing professors.”

A student near the front raises a hand. “Can he teach next week?”

Another chimes in, “Wait, can we all get lunch delivered by world champions if we forget ours?”

Someone else blurts, “Okay, but like you’re beautiful and you bake? And married Lewis Hamilton? Dr. H, respectfully, how is that fair?”

You sigh dramatically. “We’re moving on.”

Lewis holds up a hand, eyes glinting with mischief. “Wait, wait. Sorry, just a quick poll.”

You already know you’re going to hate this.

He turns to the students. “Be honest, who actually wants this homework assignment?”

Groans. Boos. Even Roscoe lets out a small yawn for effect.

Lewis grins, turns to you with wide, innocent eyes. “Babe. They’re suffering. Surely you can’t do this to them?”

You shoot him the look. The look that says don’t test me in my own lecture hall, Hamilton.

A tense silence. The class holds its breath.

Then, with the world's most resigned sigh, you mutter, “Fine. You get an extension.”

The crowd goes wild.

Cheers. Whoops. Someone slaps the desk like it’s a drum set. You swear one girl actually starts chanting “Lewis! Lewis!” and Roscoe barks in perfect rhythm.

Lewis gives you a smug little smile. “You’re the best, Professor.”

“You’re banned from this building,” you reply flatly, even as you smile like an idiot.

He kisses your cheek again, showoff - then turns to leave with a casual, “See you at home. Roscoe says thanks for the cookie.”

You glance down and realise he’s already stolen one from the Tupperware.

“Hey!” you call after him, but he’s already backing out the door, hoodie up, dog trotting loyally behind him. “No more freebies!”

“Too late!” he calls over his shoulder. “Star pupils deserve snacks!”

The door swings shut with a soft click.

Silence.

Then your most dramatic student raises her hand and says, voice reverent and absolutely deadpan, “Dr. H…respectfully your life is literally my dream.”

You turn slowly, face in your hands. “I’m giving you all extra readings just for that.”

More laughter. You pretend to scowl, even as your heart is absolutely full.

Cookies, equations, a classroom full of chaos, and your ridiculously charming husband making a surprise cameo.

Just another Thursday.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

One Week Later…

You should’ve known something was up.

The department secretary had waved at you that morning with the kind of grin usually reserved for lottery winners or people who were about to witness some good, old-fashioned chaos. Then there were the students. Whispering. Glancing at the door too often. Snickering every time, you walked past.

And yet, like the dangerously overworked academic you were, you chalked it up to mid-semester burnout and ignored it. You had cookies. You had lecture notes. You had a paper-cut from opening a box of lab manuals. Things were normal.

Or so you thought.

The lecture hall buzzes as usual. A few late arrivals shuffle in, tripping over backpacks. The usual suspects sit in their usual seats. You boot up the projector, sipping from your coffee like the last line of defence between sanity and another midterm season.

There’s a light laugh when you remind them that their ERS system analysis assignment is due next week an extension, you emphasise, that was entirely the fault of your husband, not your mercy. Lewis had interrupted your last lecture with a lunch delivery and a face so charming it derailed the entire session.

“I expect detailed breakdowns,” you warn, pacing across the front of the room with your clicker in hand. “And no one is allowed to pick the MGU-K just because it’s easier to pronounce. Challenge yourselves.”

A few groans. Some muttered curses. You smirk.

You’re halfway through drawing a block diagram of the hybrid power unit when—

The door creaks open.

You pause.

Every head turns.

There he is.

Lewis Hamilton. In a tailored navy blazer, black shirt underneath, sleeves rolled just enough to show a glint of tattoos and that braided bracelet you gave him for your anniversary. And next to him?

Roscoe. Wearing a little service vest. Tail wagging like it’s his lecture now.

You drop your whiteboard marker.

It hits the floor with a dull clack.

The room goes dead silent.

One student whispers, horrified: “He brought the dog again.”

Lewis lifts a takeaway coffee cup in a peace offering. “Am I late?” he asks innocently. “You said you were covering hybrid systems.”

You stare at him.

He grins - that grin, the one with the dimple and the sparkle that always, always spells trouble.

“I thought you were kidding,” you say slowly, eyes narrowed, “when you said, ‘What if I came in and taught your lecture next time.’”

“I lied,” he says cheerfully, walking down the tiered stairs like it’s a red carpet. Roscoe trots beside him like he’s done this a hundred times.

“I hate you,” you mutter under your breath.

Lewis reaches the bottom, kisses your cheek in front of sixty gasping students, and sets the coffee next to your laptop. “She says that when she’s flustered,” he tells them like it’s a private joke. “I brought visual aids.”

From his pocket, he pulls out a folded sheet of notes and a pen. Someone in the back audibly chokes.

“Do you want the HDMI cable, Mr. Hamilton?” one student shouts gleefully.

“Absolutely not,” you say, glaring at Lewis. “This is my classroom.”

“She makes me flashcards,” Lewis tells them, completely undeterred. “She even colour-codes them.”

“Against my will!” you shout, scandalised.

“Best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he replies, completely sincere.

You stare at your husband, unsure whether to throw him out or throw him a gold star. Your class is already spiralling.

“Okay,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Fine. Guest lecture rules. Be nice, ask questions. And if he gets anything wrong, I swear to God, do not put it on TikTok.”

“I’m right here,” Lewis says, pretending to be offended.

“You’re everywhere and that’s the problem.”

Ten Minutes In…

Honestly? He’s good.

Too good.

He talks about real-time feedback in the car, how the MGU-H lag feels at high-speed straights, how data on throttle mapping can change race strategy in seconds. He references your lecture slides like he memorised them. (He did. You caught him last night reading your notes while Roscoe snored on his lap.)

And when he says, “Of course, I get to test all of this first-hand but none of it makes sense without her. She’s the brains behind my speed,”

You bury your face in your hands as the students absolutely combust.

“Oh my GOD,” someone says breathlessly. “They’re in love and also engineers??”

“Do they do equations together? Is that a thing?”

“I’m gonna cry. This is like academic royalty.”

You glare at Lewis, who only shrugs, basking in their adoration. “Don’t look at me like that,” he says with a smug smile. “You married this.”

After Class…

They swarm him.

Not about racing. About you.

“Is it true she organises the bookshelf by journal impact factor?”

“Do you really own matching safety goggles?”

“Did she really correct your spelling on the whiteboard that one time on Sky Sports?”

Lewis answers everything. Roscoe gets more head scratches than the last three therapy dogs combined. One girl even kneels down to whisper, “You’re the real star, aren’t you?” to him, like it’s sacred knowledge.

Eventually, the crowd clears, leaving behind crumpled paper, laughter and one sticky note on your desk:

Best. Lecture. Ever. Please bring your husband again. Or at least the dog.

The door clicks shut. You exhale dramatically and toss your notes onto the desk.

Lewis is already spinning lazily in your chair like a smug cat. Roscoe curls up by the door like he owns tenure.

“Well?” Lewis asks, eyes twinkling. “How’d I do?”

“You ambushed me,” you deadpan.

“You loved it.”

You narrow your eyes. “You interrupted my lecture, wore my oversized blazer—”

“It’s mine now.”

“—and then made my students love you more than cookies.”

“That’s unfair. Cookies are unbeatable.”

You sigh, walking toward him. Without hesitation, you drop into his lap, knees bracketing his hips. His hands find your waist immediately, like they always do.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you mutter, brushing his hair back gently.

“I’m devastatingly cute,” he whispers.

You kiss him just a quick press of lips that tastes like coffee and warmth and annoyance you don’t really feel.

“Next time,” you murmur, “I’m crashing your press conference.”

He grins. “That’d go viral in five minutes.”

“Exactly.”

“And what will you bring?”

You smirk. “Cookies. Flashcards. A live demonstration of your inability to remember acronyms.”

He laughs into your shoulder, pulling you closer. “Deal. But if you show up in that little lab coat again…”

“You’ll forget your lines?”

“I’ll forget my name.”

You roll your eyes, resting your forehead against his. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“Good thing you married me.”

Later that evening.

The house smells like basil and garlic when you step inside not the distant kind from a candle, but the real, lived-in kind. The kind that wraps around you like a hug and makes your shoulders drop before your brain catches up. Your tote hits the floor with a tired thump, coat following in a heap. You toe off your shoes, already half grumbling to yourself.

You’d had full intentions of coming home and sulking on the couch maybe watching trash TV, definitely drinking tea, ideally being spoon-fed sympathy.

You didn’t expect candlelight and a half-set table.

“You’re joking,” you mumble under your breath.

“Hey, baby,” Lewis calls out from the kitchen, and he says it like he didn’t walk into your university classroom like it was his stage this afternoon. Like he didn’t completely upend your very controlled, very professional day by turning your lecture hall into an impromptu press room.

You step toward the kitchen and pause in the doorway.

He’s barefoot, sleeves rolled up, curls soft around his face. Holding two plates of what looks like homemade pasta as if he’s the romantic lead in a movie and you’re just catching the third act.

“You cooked or did you order food to make it seem like you did?” you ask, arching a brow. “After hijacking my class?”

Lewis doesn’t even flinch. He just grins, that dimple-deep smile full of shameless charm. “Seemed like the least I could do.”

You narrow your eyes, stepping closer, hands on your hips. “You mean after showing up uninvited, pretending to be a guest lecturer, and making all my students fall in love with you and Roscoe again?”

“Hey, I was invited,” he says, cool as ever, tapping a spoon against the edge of the pot. “You told me I could crash sometime.”

“‘Sometime’ did not mean today, Lewis.”

He shrugs. “You didn’t hate it.”

You open your mouth to retort, hesitate, then close it again with a sigh. “…You were kind of brilliant.”

He smirks, cocky as ever. “Knew you’d come around.”

With a small kiss, he brushes past you to set the plates on the table, casually turning on the soft jazz that now fills the background like a movie score. And you despite yourself, despite everything let it happen. You settle at the table, your foot brushing against Roscoe’s warm, sleepy body as he curls beneath your chair.

Dinner’s perfect. Of course it is. He’s irritatingly good at everything - cooking, teaching, loving you without trying.

You twirl a bite of pasta, shaking your head. “They’re never going to stop talking about it. Pretty sure one kid asked if we could adopt him.”

Lewis coughs into his water. “Wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious. Another asked if you’d guest lecture for the rest of term.”

He grins, chin in his palm, like he’s never been more pleased. “Would you let me?”

You shoot him a look. “Absolutely not.”

“Even if I brought more coffee?”

“…Tempting. Still no.”

“What if I let Roscoe sit in the front row and you pretended not to know him until the end of the semester?”

“Lewis.”

He laughs, eyes softening as he reaches across the table and laces his fingers with yours. “Okay, okay. I’ll behave. Promise.”

You arch a brow. “You’ve literally never behaved.”

“Fair,” he murmurs, leaning in.

The warmth between you simmers something steady and golden in the candlelight, something that smells like tomato sauce and affection and home.

“Hey,” he says after a pause. “You were amazing today.”

You scoff, poking at a tomato with your fork. “I was flustered. I dropped a marker.”

“You were funny. Sharp. Confident. That classroom didn’t know what hit ‘em.”

You smile behind another bite of pasta, cheeks warm. “You’re biased.”

“I’m obsessed,” he corrects softly, “That’s different.”

You pretend your heart doesn’t stumble at the word. You pretend he didn’t just say it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He sees right through it, of course. Leaning in, nose brushing yours, voice a whisper.

“Next time,” you murmur, “Just remember this, crashing your job.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Oh?”

“Press conference. Full audience. Me and a laser pointer.”

Lewis hums low in his throat, all teasing. “Bring the cookies. I’ll make room on the podium.”

You kiss him before he can say anything else - a soft, slow press of lips that says thank you and I hate how much I love you and maybe you were right to crash my class. Roscoe lets out a long sigh beneath the table, like even he knows this is overdue.

When Lewis pulls back, he’s grinning. “So, was today your best lecture ever?”

You squint. “It was alright.”

“‘Alright’? Babe.”

“Well,” you say, gently brushing a dab of sauce from the corner of his mouth with your thumb, “the guest speaker was decent.”

He laughs again full-bodied, delighted and pulls you gently into his lap like it’s routine. Like this is how every dinner ends.

And maybe it is.

After dinner, you groan and start to collect your things. “Okay. I really need to get through these submissions. If I leave them until morning—”

“Nope,” Lewis interrupts, standing up and stretching like a smug cat. “Denied.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you like you’re a challenge and a gift wrapped in one. “What if I offered a counterproposal?”

You shoot him a look. “What kind of counterproposal?”

He steps forward, slowly. “You. Me. Cozy bed. Cuddles. Optional foot massage.”

“I have three student emails to answer and—”

Without warning, he ducks down and scoops you into his arms, bridal style, lifting you like you weigh nothing at all.

“Lewis!”

“Shh,” he says dramatically. “You’ve been kidnapped. For your own good.”

You smack his chest, laughing, legs kicking in protest. “Put me down!”

“Never. You work too hard and sleep too little.”

You huff. “You don’t even know my schedule.”

He leans in and kisses your nose. “Baby, I’ve memorised your calendar.”

You roll your eyes but let him carry you up the stairs, arms looping around his neck. He kicks open the bedroom door and sets you gently on the mattress like you’re something precious.

(You are.) ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Three Days Later

You're mid-coffee, half-dressed and muttering about a broken printer when Lewis walks in with his phone and a huge grin.

“Hey, babe?”

“Don’t ‘hey babe’ me unless you’ve fixed the—”

“I got fan mail.”

You frown. “What?”

He turns the screen toward you.

Subject: Quick Follow-Up to the Lecture!! (Also Tell Roscoe I Love Him)

From: [malik]@university.edu

To: lewishamilton@something.com

Hi Mr. Hamilton!!! Just wanted to say thanks again for speaking in class last week!

1. Could you recommend any beginner-level telemetry books?

2. What kind of treats does Roscoe like? I’m trying to win over a bulldog.

3. Do you have your own podcast or something?? Because we NEED it.

PS: Please tell your wife she’s really cool. But like you’re cooler 😅

You read it. Once. Twice.

Then you let out an actual scream.

Lewis is already laughing.

“They emailed YOU?”

He shrugs. “I told them they could if they had follow-ups!”

“They are my students!”

“I’m just answering as a supportive co-educator.”

“Supportive co-educator?!” You’re nearly shrieking now. “They’re asking YOU about telemetry and calling you cooler than me—”

“I mean, babe,” he says with a shrug and a wink, “they’re not wrong.”

You throw a pillow at him. Roscoe, entirely unbothered, lets out a snore on the couch.

His inbox pings.

Another email.

You glance at your phone.

Subject: Mr. Hamilton pls do a guest series? Weekly?? We’ll bring snacks

You scream again.

Lewis disappears upstairs, cackling, phone in hand.

You’re going to have to start docking his appearances from your syllabus.

Or file for divorce.

(Probably both.)

But later when you're curled up in bed, grading beside him, and Roscoe is snoring between your legs you’ll admit, very quietly, that it was kind of nice.

Even if your students love your husband more than they love you. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The last week of term arrives like a freight train and you’re standing directly in its path with no intention of moving.

Final projects are flying in like shrapnel, some pristine, others barely held together with duct tape and desperation. Resits are stacked like Jenga towers, threatening to collapse at the slightest nudge. Office hours have morphed into emotional triage sessions. You’ve hugged two students, cried with one, and given another a five-minute pep talk in the hallway that somehow spiralled into a debate about philosophy and the thermodynamics of burnout.

The printers on campus have declared war three of them jamming, beeping, or outright lying about being “out of paper.” You’re running on sour worms, vending machine coffee, and a four-hour Spotify loop labeled “Academic Combat Mode.”

Your desk is a battlefield. Loose pages drift across the surface like surrender flags. Coffee rings mark the passage of time. There’s a half-eaten protein bar lodged beneath your grading rubric and sticky notes that simply read: BREATHE and DO NOT CRY HERE AGAIN.

Your students are running on caffeine, chaos, and increasingly deranged group chat memes.

You?

You’re running on spite, love, and the memory of Lewis wrapping his arms around you last night, his breath warm against your neck, whispering, “They’ll do great. You’re the reason they even believe they can.”

You didn’t believe him.

But then…

They do.

They pass.

Every single one.

You double-check the spreadsheet. Then again. Then stare at the results like they’ve betrayed physics.

A few just scraped through barely crossing the threshold with the kind of messy brilliance that makes your heart ache.

A few soared sharp, elegant, precise.

But all of them made it. All of them.

You sit back in your chair, stunned. Your eyes burn. Your throat clenches. And then you laugh a loud, trembling, relief-soaked laugh that turns into hiccuping sobs halfway through.

You don’t even hear the front door until Lewis appears in the doorway, already out of his post-training gear, curls damp, wearing that hoodie you always steal.

“Hey…” His voice is careful, low. “What’s wrong?”

You spin in your chair, blinking back tears with zero success. “They passed.”

He frowns. “Wait who?”

“My students. All of them. All of them, Lewis.”

He crosses the room in three steps, crouching beside you, his hand firm and warm on your knee. “Are you serious?”

You nod, laughing through your tears. “I double-checked everything. Even the ones who were struggling they pushed through.”

Lewis stares at you like you just won Monaco in a go-kart. He doesn’t say anything for a long second just brushes a knuckle down your cheek. “You did that.”

“They did that.”

“But they had you.”

You don’t know how to explain what’s lodged in your throat the combination of exhaustion, joy, and the deep, giddy sense of oh my god, I actually made a difference.

So instead, you collapse into him and let yourself feel it.

That night, curled up together on the couch, you send off the final marks, pour yourself a victory glass of wine, and open a new email thread.

Subject: SURPRISE ENGINEERING TRIP – Permission Forms + NDAs

Lewis glances over at you when your typing hits a rapid-fire rhythm.

“You look suspiciously productive,” he says, rubbing at his shoulder.

You grin. “Everyone passed. So I’m rewarding them.”

He raises an eyebrow. “With…?”

You spin the laptop toward him. The email subject stares back in bold.

He stares at it. Then at you. “You’re bringing them where?”

“To see real engineering,” you say, practically glowing. “To show them that everything they just learned doesn’t live in a textbook. It lives here. In this.”

He lets out a low whistle. “You want to show me off?”

You roll your eyes. “I want to show them what you do. And what’s possible. I want them to feel it.”

He leans down and kisses your forehead. “You’re incredible.”

You nudge his side. “Start prepping that smoothie-blender metaphor.” ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Surprise Day – Trackside

The sun is just beginning to rise when you meet your students outside the paddock gate, all of them wearing bright university lanyards and the exact expression of people who thought they were going on a boring lab excursion.

They’re fidgeting. Whispering. Clutching clipboards and wondering why there are security checkpoints.

“This is kind of a lot for a factory tour,” someone murmurs.

“Are we even allowed to be here?” another whispers.

You beam. “You’re allowed. Just don’t touch anything with a red sticker.”

Then the gates open and the world as they know it tilts.

The paddock is alive.

Team haulers gleam like spacecraft. Engineers rush past with headsets and carts full of parts. Mechanics joke over laptops displaying real-time data.

The students freeze.

Then, slowly, they realise where they are.

This isn’t a museum.

This is the frontline.

And then Lewis walks into the garage.

He’s mid-discussion with a race engineer, sleeves of his race suit knotted around his waist, fireproof top clinging to his chest, curls still damp. His smile drops the moment he sees the crowd of wide-eyed students.

He stops in his tracks.

Then looks at you.

You wave cheerfully.

“Professor,” a student breathes, clutching your arm. “Thats him. That’s Lewis Hamilton your husband.��

You nod. “Yes. That’s my husband. Welcome to practical applications of everything you’ve ever cried over.”

Lewis walks over slowly, a baffled look on his face. “You said ten.”

You shrug. “Ten-ish.”

He counts. “There are thirty-five.”

“Plus, me.”

He leans close, barely containing his laughter. “You ambushed me with an engineering cult.”

“They’re future legends. Consider it networking.”

He exhales sharply, eyes flicking over their faces. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

He grins. Then turns to the students. “Alright, class. Let’s talk aerodynamics and heartbreak.”

First up was the garage tour -

The moment he starts speaking, it’s over.

Your students descend on him with the fervour of people who’ve spent their lives dreaming of this exact moment.

“Mr. Hamilton, how do you factor side wind into the suspension load distribution?”

“Can we see the CFD simulations?”

“What’s your real opinion on porpoising?”

“Can you feel the difference when they shave two millimetres off the floor edge?”

Lewis takes it in stride answering every question with patience, humour, and the kind of depth that leaves half your students scribbling frantically and the other half open-mouthed in awe.

He pulls up data on a nearby monitor. Demonstrates how telemetry reflects energy recovery curves. Explains corner balancing with an analogy about dancing in wet shoes.

They are eating. it. up.

One student nearly cries when he explains the front wing adjustments in Barcelona last year.

Another practically proposes when he walks them through his feedback loop with his race engineer.

At one point, someone leans over to you, breathless. “I didn’t know real engineering could be this…cool.”

You grin, heart fit to burst.

Later.

Eventually, the group begins to disperse still buzzing, still asking questions. Some exchange social handles. Others ask for internship tips.

One of your quietest students lingers back. Malik. They walk over, hesitant, still absorbing everything.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” they murmur. “I’ve never…I’ve never felt this close to what I want to do before. It always felt like something other people did. People I could never be.”

You squeeze their shoulder. “You can be. You will be. You belong here.”

Their eyes shine. “Because of you.”

And then they’re gone swallowed by the group.

The garage is almost quiet when Lewis walks over and wraps his arms around you from behind. His chin rests on your shoulder, and you melt into him.

“That was insane,” he says softly.

“Good insane?”

He kisses your cheek. “The best kind.”

You lean your head back against his. “You were amazing with them.”

“I think I got asked more technical questions in two hours than I have all year.”

You laugh. “That’s what you get for dating a lecturer.”

“I should’ve known what I was signing up for.”

He spins you gently to face him, eyes still warm. “I meant what I said earlier, you know.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Which part?”

“I’ve never been more in love with you than I am right now.”

You blink, stunned for a second then smile so big it hurts. “Even after I hijacked your garage and brought thirty-five chaotic nerds into your workspace?”

He laughs. “Especially because of that.”

Then Lewis’s phone pings.

A student’s name appears on the screen.

Subject: Follow-up on the CFD airflow demo –

You groan. “They love you more than me now.”

He leans in, forehead against yours. “You love me enough for all of them.”

You roll your eyes. “Ugh. Cheesy.”

He kisses you again soft, slow and grateful.

And in the space between his breath and yours, you realise:

This is what every hard night was for. Every breakdown. Every fight to make them believe.

This is your love. For them. For him.

For everything you’ve built together. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Two Weeks Later.

Your office is a mess again this time not from grading, but from possibility.

Blueprints spill off the desk. There’s a half-eaten croissant sitting atop a textbook on thermal systems, and your whiteboard is covered in equations and mock telemetry graphs. You’ve been working through design exercises with Malik your brightest, most determined student every afternoon since the Mercedes garage visit.

He hasn’t stopped talking about it since.

“I didn’t think someone like me could belong in a place like that,” he told you, voice cracking slightly.

So, you told him the truth: You do. And we’re going to prove it.

When Mercedes posted a summer internship for engineering students limited slots, hundreds of applicants you knew Malik had to apply.

So, he did.

And now you’re waiting.

He’s been pacing outside your office, chewing his hoodie strings and muttering torque ratios under his breath like a prayer. You’ve refreshed your email fifteen times in the last hour. Just in case.

Then your phone vibrated.

Subject: Mercedes-AMG F1 Internship Offer – Malik A.

Your hand flies to your mouth. You don’t breathe. You read it twice, three times.

And then you sprint.

“Malik!” you shout, flinging open the door.

He turns, eyes wild. “Did they—?”

You don’t even say it. Just hold up your phone.

He reads the subject line. Once. And then everything crumbles.

He gasps and covers his mouth, knees buckling slightly as he sits hard on the bench. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

You crouch in front of him, your hands on his shaking shoulders. “You did it. You earned this.”

His eyes are wide, wet. “You believed in me before I did.”

You laugh, heart thudding in your chest. “And now Mercedes does, too.”

He hugs you tight, breath hitching. “I’ll make you proud.”

“You already have.”

That Night...

You walk in the front door, still glowing, still not quite believing the day you just had.

Lewis looks up from the kitchen, dressed down in a hoodie and sweats, Roscoe curled up nearby.

He takes one look at you and smiles. “You look like you just won a race.”

“Better,” you say, dropping your bag and walking straight into his arms. “Malik got it. He got the internship.”

Lewis pauses. “Wait Malik - Malik? The one who asked about the ERS recovery map and almost cried when I showed him the pit wall software?”

You laugh into his chest. “That’s the one.”

Lewis holds you tighter. “He’s brilliant. That’s incredible.”

“I think I screamed,” you admit. “I definitely startled at least three undergrads in the hallway.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes soft. “You’re changing lives.”

You shake your head. “They’re doing the work. I’m just I don’t know. Holding the door open.”

Lewis smiles not just proud, but awed. “You kicked the door off its hinges.”

You exhale, leaning your forehead against his. “This is why I do it. Not the admin emails. Not the late nights. This. That moment when they see themselves somewhere big and believe it.”

He kisses you, slow and sweet, as if he knows that for all your pride in them he’s proud of you.

[thatdeadaquarius]

About your language brainrot. I see your "Reader's writing can't match tyvat's long and flowery writing" and bring you "Tyvat isn't used to books over 50 pages long so a short story to the Reader is a whole dictionary to tyvat readers".

Seriously, have you seen how thin the books are? They don't wrote novels, they write short chapters formatted in the way really old stories are. As in, summarizing all the events down into one smooth story then adding a few quotes. Fanfiction writers are insane. They will willingly sit down and write hundreds of words at a time. To them, a proper modern day story of maybe, oh 10k words or so, would probably be like the Oddessy itself.

If we were to combine the two headcanons. It would end up as many historians being intimidated by this insanely long written scripture in the language of the forgotten.

I'm going to take this a step further and say that if the creator asked some people to proofread their things, it would establish a hiarchy of who is able to actually finish the book the creator read and who isn't.

NOW THIS, THIS IS MY FUCKING JAMMMM

I'm so sorry this is so old!! u probably all know this by this point that I've really slowed down as the year has gone on, but I graduated university and then got my first job so its been pretty crazy!

Sun: Reader (you/they/them)

Orbit: Headcanons-ish

Stars: dash of all the book/nerds of Genshin, heavy on Sumeru?

Comets & Meteors: Content Warnings: Cussing, 16+ Mature Audiences, Spoliers for Sumeru Archon Quests/Scaramouche, & Trigger Warnings: mention of shipping/characters shipping themselves with you.

Comment if any missed, please.

☆

FULL STOP.

THE AKADEMIYA, FONTAINE RESEARCH INSTITUTE, HAVE BEEN WAITTTINNGGGG ON YOUR ASS LMAO

You fall from the fucking sky like a 5 star, or pop out of the Irminsul or whatever

and immediately are mobbed by scholars. LMAO jkjk (not really, bc that's what it’d feel like)

can you even imagine the dread older stories(”the classics” to them), that was instilled in the poor students around Teyvat??

id like to think ur works are the most preserved over the thousands of years of Teyvat archeologists excavating them, in comparison to other authors (teyvat just likes you more, suck it William Shakespeare)

also, bc I cant resist language differences/world building I'm sorryyyy 😭 😭

the vocab of Genshin lang vs. ours, has significantly less vocabulary like their actual dictionary is 1/3 the size of ours type of energy

(Omfg all ur fanfics being considered like insanely long realistic romantic classics or tragedies like Jane Austen-level, and only the richest and biggest play companies put on plays about ur stories bc the script goes on for hours)

(ur plays only get put on for rlly big events bc of this, like Lantern Rite or like a Summer/Winter festival/your birthday, which is, yes, an international holiday)

dude the sheer power move of anything you’ve written being essentially “Journey of the West” to them, like Damnnn.

endless like adaptations, plays, Teyvat-short stories condensing it, (THEIR OWN FANFICTION ABOUT UR STORIES)

the power is, in fact, going to your head every time another scholar both deflates at how long ur stuff is, but also lights up bc they get to read it

speaking of scholars… you know who snatched you up first. you know. you don’t even need to read the next line.

Alhaitham.

sneaky bastard he is, absolutely manipulated, mansplained (and manwhored bc he knows he’s handsome, cheeky little shit) his way into getting you to sit down with him and interview you about both translating other classics, your own, giving your own analysis of others works and ur own, and picking ur brain apart of how/why you wrote urs, etc. its fucking endless,

Kaveh had to come rescue you bc u were starving to death after getting stuck with the Haravatat scholar in his office for nearly 7 hours of interrogation discussion about literature

and Alhaitham wasn't even nearly done, he’d informed you as you left that he already had another appointment for later conversation scheduled (how?? you don't even know ur own schedule??? you have a schedule???) and was looking forward to more of your “creative and enlightening input” :)))

(you’re never going to escape him, not even Nahida herself can save you from his stubborn ass)

On another note, Xingqiu is quaking when you agree to autograph his copy of your stories (of which he has all hard covers of the first edition translations)

Zhongli/Rex Lapis is known for having a near-lifelong passion for searching for your works specifically, and learning how to translate them better into Teyvatian vernacular

like the same way he can absolutely speak on Rex Lapis facts/rocks/adepti info, is the same confidence he speaks about knowing ur work lol

(yes he did also ask for several autographs and another sit-down talk about the works, tho a lot more sneaky then Alhaitham bc he just casually gets u guys into it during dinner)

Barbatos/Venti has written some of the most famous songs based on your stuff, he has his favorites too,

but he always claims the best songs are any that have been written in the story, like either when a character sings something, or there are like quotes from songs ur fanfics are based on lol

(he also demanded to hear what they actually sound like from you, yes, you have to sing them for him lol)

Venti also can surprisingly drunkenly ramble the entirety of at least one of ur stories, like, word for word lmao

(Diluc gave in and did give him a drink on the house for that one, just once, Venti doesn’t remember it lol)

(I forgot to mention, u guys still speak the same language, just like, different versions of it)

ur works being one of the few things all the Archons can freely talk about with each other, like it’s neutral ground bc they’re all fangirling about it lmao

Furina and Neuvillette have had like,, fierce debates over the decades about character dynamics and the general drama of ur stories, they’ve gotten into it enough they’ve stopped talking to each other for a couple days a few times lol

Albedo, Sucrose, Kokomi, Yae Miko, Ei, Raiden, have read every single work they’re gotten their hands on in Teyvat (it took them like a literal year or longer)

Albedo drew you fanart for every single story, bc he’s hyperfixated on everything related to you ngl,

Kokomi had commissioned smaller pocket versions of ur works (which later got popular thanks to Yae Miko) both the OG and the Teyvat shortened versions

THE HARBINGERS ARE THE MOST DOWN BAD LMAO

Childe has literally tried to recreate battle scenes from ur works lmao

and gets especially riled up about fighting someone who resembles any characters from them (esp villains, what a cutie)

You cannot fathom the amount of research throughout Teyvat that has been secretly or indirectly funded by Pantalone/Tsaritsa

from the experts to analyze them, to funding play companies to act them out, to actually excavating places to get more of ur stuff unearthed

(the Harbingers absolutely are the first group of people that got to read several of ur stories first bc of this, like the world’s most exclusive secret book club lol)

Scaramouche used to clown on Childe all the time about how he was too impatient to even “sit down and read the King’s classics”, and he was downright insufferable when he found out about Tartaglia’s habit of recreating battle scenes/that being what motivated him to fight sometimes lol

that being said, Wanderer surprisingly never forgot ur stories.

Even when his memories were wiped for a bit, he found comfort in these fantastical epics still sticking around, even when his old names did not

(he mayyyy or mayyy nottt have secretly namedhimselfafteroneofthetragicprotagonistsherelatesto- )

oh btw, Nahida also found joy and comfort in ur stories when she was trapped, they also helped her literally grow as a person bc she had ur stories to help her sort of process the world/what life was like outside of her dreaming prison 🥺💔❤️‍🩹

◇

OMFG

ANYWAY FULL TONE SHIFT LMFAO-

the ABSOLUTE SPIRAL-RED-STRING-CONSPIRACY-THEORY-BOARD ENERGY IF THIS WAS A BLUNT LANGUAGE AU LMAOOOO

like specifically how Teyvatians like to give all the context ever thru their words, but older deities/beings like you just do simple phrases that can have deeper meanings (whereas teyvat just explains all the meanings behind their words)

STOP there’s like an official display at the Akademiya and Fontaine Institute of red string theory boards 😭😭 (look what you’ve done to themmm LMAO)

for like every story of urs, INCLUDING THE FANFICS STOP

IMAGINE THE SHIPPING WARS IF U EVER WROTE ONE THAT WASNT EXPLICIT OR LIKE ONE OF THE MAIN ROMANTIC INTERESTS HAD CHEMISTRY WITH OTHER CHARACTERS HAHAHAHAA

that's actually what Akademiya scholars argue about the most viciously, it’s like politics you can’t just bring up ships from ur stories casually in regular convos 💀

(poor Cyno has to deal with a shipping war once a year bc someone always makes the mistake of reading ur work for the first time (without being told to not talk to others abt ships lol) and it starts an all out brawl in the cafeteria every time LMAO)

Also yes.

Cyno is a fanboy.

(he has read Creator x Reader-insert fanfiction.)

(As have most of the characters mentioned, and those not lol)

…

(I'm gonna make a whole Creator x reader fanfic post one day i stg lmao)

☆

an iced coffee? for me?? :0

ok but real talk…

wtf do you guys wanna see for new years!!

i didn't do a inktober/october days thingy bc i felt too unprepared (and bc id wanted to post that 1000+ followers eldritch au for Halloween)

but now i kinda wanna, at least for a few days :o

ill post a poll in a minute, so check it out!! but still, please feel free to comment some ideas here! :)

Safe Travels Deafening Dreamer,

💀♒

If you wanna join a taglist, DM me what for! "Pspspsss, please tag me for [All SAGAU posts, Only SAGAU Language AUs, diff fandom, etc.]!"

(If you ever wanna drop, just DM me! "No more taglists/[specifically this AU/fandom] please!")

♡the beloveds♡

@karmawonders / @0rah-s / @randomnatics / @glxssynarvi / @nexylaza / @genshin-impacts-me / @wholesomey-artist / @thedevioussmirk / @the-dumber-scaramouche / @chocogi / @fallen-starr / @areaderofbooks / @devilangel657 / @esthelily

[royalarchivist]

Tubbo: I don't know my left and right!

Bad: What do you mean you don't know your left and right?!

Tubbo: I'M DYSLEXIC!!!

Bad: That's got nothing to do with left and right!!!

Tubbo: Oh my god, it literally does! That's not even a bit, it's like the main thing of dyslexia! [Laughs]

Bad: I thought it was just like, mixing up the letters! You're saying you actually mix left and right difficult?

Tubbo: MATE– EVERYTHING'S MIXED UP!

Foolish: You know what, we'll see you on Twitter, Bad.

Bad: I– didn't know that, ok? I feel like– that's not a real thing!

Tubbo: WHAT?!? I'm sat right here!

Fit: Hmm... That's a little problematic, isn't it? It's a little problematic. 🤨

Tubbo: This is just like the chairs! He hates everything about me as a person!

[ Full Transcript ↓ ]

—

TRANSCRIPT

Bad: Go to the left, go to the left and–

Tubbo: I don't know my left and right! This way?

Bad: Left. Left left left!

Tubbo: [Shouting over him] SORRY!

Bad: What do you mean you don't know your left and right?!

Bad: You got it!

Tubbo: Thank you.

Bad: Yippee!

Foolish: [Laughs as he imitates Tubbo] "I don't know my left and right!"

Tubbo: I'M DYSLEXIC!!!

Foolish: [Chuckling] That was awesome.

Bad: That's got nothing to do with left and right!!! I think you're just dumb!

Tubbo: Oh my god, it literally does! It literally does.

Bad: No it doesn't!

Tubbo: I feel– Dude, I– [Puts his head in his hands] Mate.

Bad: [Sounding a little less-certain] ...Does it?

Tubbo: Yeah, it does!

Bad: Does it actually?

Tubbo: Yeah, it does!

Bad: Wait, really???

Tubbo: YEAH!

Foolish: Way to go Bad, now you're just an asshole.

Bad: Aw... :(

Tubbo: That's not even a bit, it's like the main thing of dyslexia! [Laughs]

Bad: I thought it was just like, mixing up the letters! You're saying you actually mix left and right difficult?

Tubbo: MATE– EVERYTHING'S MIXED UP!

Foolish: You know what, we'll see you on Twitter, Bad.

Bad: I– didn't know that, ok? I feel like– that's not a real thing!

Tubbo: WHAT?!? I'm sat right here!

Foolish: [Laughs]

Fit: [Sarcastic] Yeah, it's not real guys, it's not real.

Bad: No, I feel like he's making this part up!

Foolish: You see how he was mansplaining it to you? He was kinda mansplaining it too...

Tubbo: [Rubbing his temples] Just mansplaining to me dyslexia.

Fit: Hmm... That's a little problematic, isn't it?

Bad: No! I'm just asking if he's being serious or not!

Fit: It's a little problematic. 🤨

Bad: So it really isn't obvious, like your words?

Tubbo: This is just like the chairs! He hates everything about me as a person!

[yanderenightmare]

As someone who writes horror core smut (or tries to) I'm having trouble with the "Yandre" perspective. When I try and write it out it seems cringe to me, like less of an amateur novel and more of middle school AO3. Do you have any advice on how to make it seem more realistic and less "middle school fan person"?

On Realistic Yandere

Excellent question and something I’ve also battled with!

♡ Empathy vs sympathy

You've already pinpointed the problem!

It's unrealistic.

Not everyone will agree with this, since when you take the unlikeliness out of a yandere character, it doesn’t always feel like a yandere anymore. But I think this "cringe" you're talking about stems from that—the unlikeliness of the yandere archetype in and of itself.

And by unlikeliness, I mean the whole never-ending, unexplained utter craziness of the yandere character. 

The fact is that “utter asylum craziness” doesn’t feel very realistic, firstly because it’s a personality that we never come across in real life, and secondly, because it doesn’t work in the long run. And by that, I mean it’s unlikely that an utter-asylum-crazy yandere would be able to pull off a long-term kidnapping, as he wouldn't be able to plan it and would probably get caught by the police before even touching a hair on the victim's head.

I’ve spoken about the Power of Persuasion before, but this is essentially what it’s all about. That feeling of fear you want to inspire in your readers doesn’t take root because the utter-asylum-crazy yandere, though scary, seems rather easy to trick or rather seems prone to fuck up and get caught all on his own. And other than that, the bigger issue is that the utter-asylum-crazy yandere doesn't seem real. 

Not only is he not a very convincing villain, he's not even a convincing character.

And so, don’t make him utter-asylum-crazy. Make him normal, with a fucked up view of life.

Write him as normally as you can. A crazy person doesn't do things just because he's crazy. He does things because it's natural for him to do them. Meaning, he has his reasons. Those reasons might seem unnatural to us, but they're normal to him. In other words, a crazy person doesn't acknowledge that he's crazy. He might understand that everyone else disagrees with him, but he'll argue that they just don't understand.

And so, normalize his fucked up point of view as much as you can. Even better, make your reader understand where he's coming from. Make him empathy-compatible.

By empathy-compatible, I don’t mean that your readers should have sympathy for him, but that they’re able to put themselves in his shoes and see things from his perspective, no matter how warped that perspective is. This is something authors get told a lot. Even when you have a villain—unless the villain is some distant foe we never see head-on—you have to make the villain somewhat relatable to the reader.

Again, we don’t have to feel sorry for the villain, but we should understand where he’s coming from. Empathy, not sympathy. Understanding, not compassion.

That’s the fault with the utter-asylum-crazy yandere—he has zero empathic value. No one gets his motives or his way of thinking. No one even knows what he wants or why he wants it. He’s the equivalent of an inanimate object doing something it’s not supposed to—as in, yes, it has a surprise factor, but mostly it’s just confusing and leaves your readers with questions you have no better answer than simply saying “no reason, he’s just utter-asylum-crazy”.

That’s why, and it’s fucked up to say, but the best way to make your character believable is to take notes from real life.

Real men aren’t exactly yandere, but they are way scarier in how they’re narcissistic, prideful egomaniacs who manipulate, mansplain, control, and patronize us by treating us all like needy and naive pussies-on-legs. Like, real men are so scary it’s ridiculous. We don’t need to make the yandere character utter-asylum-crazy, real-ass men are already terrifying.

So, I’d say just take inspiration from every time you’ve been in the club and feared getting gangraped by that shady group in the corner who bought you a drink, or all the stories your girlfriends have told you about their boyfriends strange and uncomfortable behaviour, or any other horror story you hear where a woman has been too scared to leave her husband even when that husband has isolated her from all her friends and family, forced her to quit her job, baby-trapped her, and treats her like his own personal slave. 

Like, you don’t need to make up any of the crazy, because believable crazy is way scarier.

♡ NIGHTMARE'S HELPDESK

[capesch-arts]

A priest and a cultist cannot have beef seriously. They need to do shit like this ‼️‼️‼️

Father Elijah Shannon belongs to @beentobeetle

RAHHH I simply adore your art of them and had to draw Elijah myself hehehehee

I'm sorry if my man is annoying, he sees someone who has moral turmoil and feels the need to manipulate, mansplain, manwhore his way to recruit them 😔

[dramagodesss]

eighteen : new love

playin' the players

a/n : this is for my jj girlies and for my angst lovers. (i'm sorry b, prolly gonna make you cry with this one...)

jj's phone

johnb's phone

josie laughs — too loud, too quick — as mason skates backward, arms outstretched like a dare.

"you’re gonna have to trust me," he grins, coasting effortlessly while she wobbles forward, her hands clutching his. "i got you."

"you said that last time," josie huffs, trying not to stumble, "and i nearly cracked my tailbone."

"that was character development."

he smirks. "c’mon, you’re doing fine."

behind the camera, you're laughing too — but it’s tight, stretched at the edges. you’re tired.

no one knows why. no one knows that three years ago this week, your little brother’s body rested in the pavement of the road while you tried — and failed — to save him. no one knows you’ve been waking up at 3 a.m. again. no one knows that your laughter’s just muscle memory.

but jj notices.

even now, as he lets josie crash clumsily into mason’s chest — as he catches her, grinning like a fool — there’s a split second where he looks at you, past the camera. and you’re not all there.

the next scene’s warmer. inside the rented house, string lights glow in the background. josie stands barefoot, a towel tossed over her shoulder, flicking mason with water from rinsed vegetables.

"those are for dinner!" he protests, voice full of mock indignation.

"you’re not cooking, you’re mansplaining," she says with a smirk, pointing a wooden spoon at him.

they’re surrounded by soft clutter — cutting boards, open bags of pasta, too many bowls. it’s messy, lived-in. real.

and when mason grabs her by the waist and pulls her into a ridiculous, swaying dance — you catch yourself smiling.

jj’s laugh echoes under the fake kitchen lights. his hand settles naturally at your hip, warm even through the fabric.

"you okay?" he whispers, low enough that the boom mic won’t catch it.

you blink, just once, and nod. "yeah. just tired."

he watches you like he doesn’t believe you. but he doesn’t push.

on the final scene is in the living room. the couch is a nest of blankets and pillows. the glow of the tv flickers soft across josie’s cheek. mason’s arm is around her shoulders, his hand resting at her elbow.

you’ve curled into jj without thinking. not as josie. not really.

and somewhere in the middle of a rom-com, your body finally relaxes. jj looks down once — sees your face slackened in sleep — and doesn’t say a word. just shifts slightly so your head fits better in the curve of his neck.

the cameras keep rolling.

in the silence, he thinks about telling you everything.

but not yet. not tonight.

“sushi timeee,” jj grins, swinging the plastic takeout bag as he meets you at the corner of your street. his truck’s still humming behind him, parked crooked like always. “you better not have eaten already or i’m returning the spicy tuna.”

“you’d never,” you say, smiling despite the heaviness in your chest.

you walk side by side up to the apartment, but you stop short at the door.

“you okay?” he asks, pausing when you don’t dig out your keys.

you nod, then shake your head. “i just… don’t wanna go in yet.”

jj raises an eyebrow. doesn’t push. just follows your gaze to the rusted fire escape stairs by your bedroom window.

“fresh air,” you say quietly. “just for a sec.”

“say less.”

you both climb up — slow, careful — settling on the top step with your backs against the metal railing, the streets humming below.

jj sets the takeout between you, popping open the containers. you each grab a pair of chopsticks. he pretends to steal your nigiri, and you slap his hand away.

for a moment, it’s easy. normal. the kind of quiet where you don’t feel like you have to fill the silence.

but jj’s watching you.

like really watching.

you’re still in your filming clothes — hoodie too big, eyeliner smudged, hair a little messy from the couch nap earlier. but your smile’s softer now, a little more real. and he’s never wanted to kiss you more than in this dumb moment surrounded by soy sauce packets and the glow from your window.

you pick at your food.

jj doesn’t say anything at first — just chews, slow, eyes flicking between the skyline and you. he doesn’t want to ruin the quiet. but it’s been eating at him all day.

finally, he sets his chopsticks down on the lid of a container.

“you okay?” he asks, voice low. careful.

you don’t look at him right away. “yeah.”

jj shifts a little, angling toward you. “no, like. actually.”

you pause. shrug. “just tired.”

he doesn’t buy it. “you’ve been tired before, and this isn’t that.”

you let out a weak laugh. it dies quick. “you really paying that much attention to me?”

“always,” he says, so plainly it stuns you quiet for a second.

your mouth opens — then closes again. the knot in your throat tightens.

you don’t want to say it. don’t want to make it real again. but the words are bubbling up before you can stop them.

“my little brother died,” you say softly. “three years ago. this week.”

jj freezes. doesn’t speak. doesn’t move.

you keep going, voice quieter now. “car crash. i was with him. he was in the passenger seat, and i—”

you swallow, hard. “i tried. i really fucking tried. i pulled him out, i called— i did everything, but he just...”

you blink fast. stare at the railing. “his favorite song was playing. we were laughing like ten minutes before it happened.”

jj’s heart twists in his chest. you’re still not looking at him.

“no one knows,” you add. “not sarah, not kie. not even my parents talk about it anymore.” a tear flows from your eyes down to your chin. “my mom was the one driving. I always sat on the passenger seat and he always begged me to let him sit there- that day I let him. If I hadn’t maybe he wouldn’t — i can't— i keep seeing his face. he was so scared jay he— he'd never looked at me like that before. he knew— he fucking knew he was dying and he...” a sob scapes your throat. “the last thing he said was 'it's okay sissy, i love you'. he was twelve years old. twelve. and he was dying, and he still made the efford to say that, and i couldn't save him.”

jj doesn’t say a word. not right away.

he just moves — slow, deliberate — setting the takeout aside, pulling you into him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

his arms wrap around your shoulders, one hand smoothing over your back in careful, steady lines, the other curling gently at the base of your skull. grounding you. shielding you.

you crumble into him.

his hoodie smells like laundry detergent and campfire smoke. familiar. safe. you grip the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered.

he lowers his head to yours, mouth brushing your temple, voice a rasp against your skin.

“it’s okay, baby,” he whispers. “i’m here. i’ve got you.”

and he means it.

you’re crying now — quiet, wrecked sobs that you don’t even try to swallow. your fists tighten in his hoodie, and jj just holds you through it, his palm moving in slow circles along your spine.

“he was so little,” you choke out. “and i was right there.”

jj nods, presses a kiss to your hair. “i know, i know.”

“i still dream about it. sometimes i hear him say it. that last part. over and over.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, both hands cradling your face now, thumbs wiping under your eyes.

“you did everything you could,” he says, firm, fierce, like he needs you to believe it. “you were just a kid too. and he knew you loved him. he said it to you because he meant it.”

you sniff, still trembling, but you nod. a little.

jj presses your forehead to his, his breath warm on your cheek.

“it wasn't your fault, angel— you don’t have to carry this by yourself anymore, okay?” he murmurs. “not with me.”

and somehow, for the first time in a long time — you believe that might be true.

the silence after that hangs gentle between you — not heavy like before, but softer now, something cracked open and slowly starting to breathe.

you look at him.

jj’s now holding your face, eyes scanning yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. like he wants to keep you here, in this exact moment, where none of it hurts quite as much.

“want me to stay with you tonight?.” he mutters, a soft plea.

and you kiss him.

like you've done so many times.

but somehow, it feels different.

quiet. grateful. something about it says thank you.

he smiles into it, barely pulling back to whisper, “i’ll take that as a yes.”

you let out a shaky laugh, nodding as your fingers tug lightly at the hem of his hoodie.

“stay,” you say, softer this time. “please.”

“yeah,” jj breathes. “of course.”

later, inside your room, the winow clicks shut behind you both. everything is quiet but the rustle of fabric as you trade your jeans for sweats, his hoodie for your own.

you toss him an extra pillow.

he doesn’t use it. just slides into bed beside you and waits — doesn’t touch, doesn’t speak — until you shift closer, settling into the curve of his side. a familiar feeling invades your body, like you’d done it a hundred times.

jj tugs the blanket up around you and presses a kiss to your forehead, strong arms wrapped around your frame.

you fall asleep like that.

and for the first time in weeks, maybe months or years, your dreams are still.

taglist : @beewritess @davinashifts333 @lanasangelsz @littlefreak-liz @drewstarkeyswife0 @lalaloopsieparty @ethanthequeefqueen @wtfisastiles @angelicameron @moth-feeet @drewstarkeyswife-7 @hiphopstar @cokewithcameron @cameronsbabydoll @chillgal135 @ayy1234567 @pogueprincesa @isinpfortvdmen @iheartrosalia @luvrclub @yesshewrites1 @sideboobrry11 @espressh0e @mysticbby2009 @arianagreenblattfanxx10 @hwaaholic @aves05 @thecolorpearl05 @dreamybabbyy @wintercrows @lesbiana2 @chillgal135 @verycherryblossomhideout @daddyrafeslittleslut @pillowprincess4him @xoxobellamy @dylsdaily @at-todds-heart @nonbeliever1@rafes-honey @lilithblackkk @isktfguhn @rafecamssfavgirl @mirellef2001 @jennieonline @coriiiiiiioiii

[mdsbabygirl]

Being in a poly relationship w these two..

An imagine+ Headcanons

Pairing: Otoya Eita x FEM! reader x Karasu Tabito

Genre: fluff+smut

Wc: 2k

Cw: threesome, use of pet names, vulgar language, jealousy, a lot of flirting, double penetration, oral, a bit of exhibitionism if you squint reaaaaly hard.. idk..

NOT PROOFREAD

Otoya is a master of flirtation, always surprising you with his unexpected and playful advances. Whenever you're at a party or in public, he'll casually do ninja moves with his hands, which would end in him holding your hand, or pulling you closer, or simply tickling your side. His flirting is so refined yet silly that it always leaves you giggling while a soft flush paints your cheeks.

In contrast, Karasu is more straightforward, often acting like a know-it-all. He has a habit of explaining complex topics to you, sometimes even mansplaining shit even when you don't wanna hear it. Despite his condescending nature, you can tell that Karasu deeply cares for you. He still insists that everyone is a moron and an idiot, but he makes sure to reassure you that he doesn't think you're clueless.

Together, the three of you make for a dynamic couple. The two men always make you feel both adored and secure in the relationship. When Karasu is at his exasperating best, Otoya is there to lighten the mood with his flirting, and vice versa.

You really feel privileged to be in the company of these two remarkable men, each bringing their unique strengths to the table.

Now that we've got that settled, let's see what kind of boyfriends they'd be like?

I think Otoya would be that kind of overly flirtatious bf, the kind to make you flustered at any moment, just to see how cute you look with your face all flushed. Also I reckon he'd like seeing you get jealous over him. He'd think it's such a turn on seeing your lovely face with a slight scowl on it, or a cute pout whenever you see him get a little too chatty with some girls.. I mean Otoya's got the charms ok, so it's inevitable he gets bitches. So whenever girls come around him just to "chat" he would talk to them, flashing his hot smirk and flatter them w compliments, like any womanizer would do.. HOWEVER, when he sees you get too mad he smugly looks at the bitches he was taking to and goes like "sorry ladies, I'm taken! My pretty gf is literally shooting daggers at me with her eyes, can't make the love of my life mad now can't I?!" And mind you, he says this with the hottest, most heart throbbing, pussy clenching, hot asf tone before looking at you and winking.

Eita loves you, he really does, you're the only woman he ever thinks about, the only person he has in his heart, and if you'd ever asked him to give you his heart he'd literally give it to you, but still he can't deny himself the satisfaction from seeing you get so mad.. it gives him such an ego boost.

As for Karasu, I don't think he'd be much on making you get jealous. I think he'd be kinda cold in the relationship, maybe not too much of a talkative unlike Eita. This doesn't mean he can't make you a flustering mess with just one gesture. I think he's the type to just randomly wrap an arm around you and pull you closer. This time, like Otoya, Karasu enjoys having you in his proximity, feeling your body's warmth on his makes him feel good, and happy to have you as his gf. (Maybe that's why he's always touching you whenever he's pounding you, but we'll get to that later lol) when you'd look up at him to ask him why he did that all of the sudden, he'd smirk, looking down at you telling you "you're mine sweetie, I can have you around as much as I want!" He'd say that with his charming voice, making you melt inside, blushing like an idiot schoolgirl. Of course he'd chuckle, pointing out how much of a flushing mess you are, which once again makes you even more flustered.

Now.. remember when I told you Otoya would get you jealous on purpose? Yeah, imagine he's doing that during a party, and of course you're pissed. Like you were supposed to enjoy your time together, but he decided it was a good time to bitch around(lol). So now you're like third.. no maybe fourth or even fifth wheeling, while some girls are flirting w your Otoya, so now you're sipping on your drink all alone.. Then, smug bitchy Karasu comes up to you from behind, and whispers something in your ear. He was shitting on Otoya's Rizz, which made you giggle. When he turned to see what you were chuckling at, Karasu was quick to wrap his arm around your waist, tilting your chin up, "he's such a moron! I don't know how he could let such a gorgeous girl like you go!" He affirmed, looking pettily at Eita before pressing a tender kiss to your lips. "You're my only one!" He confessed to you, but mostly it was to piss off Otoya.

Oh yes, these two are highly competitive when it comes to you. Every situation is a good opportunity for them to show how much of a good bf they can be and how they can be better than the other. It has always been like this, ever since the first moment they laid eyes on you. The first time they saw you, you were so gorgeous (you still are btw ❤️), looking ever so confident, your pretty hair swayed gracefully as you walked, and your angelic face really did a number on them. They bantered endlessly, arguing who would be the most suitable bf for you, until they both said fuck It, and they confessed to you at the same time.. you were so fluttered, your cheeks tinting a pink color, as you told them you liked them both and wanted to date them at the same time. They were a bit surprised at first but then they were fine with it, it could be interesting.. and sexy.

Back to our little scenario, otoya seeing the scene before him, just left the girls and walked up to you, and with a smirk said "my my ... What's happening here?" As he too wrapped an arm around your frame. He looked intensely in Karasu's eyes, another one of their stupid male contest shit. You knew that you had to intervene otherwise this would've led to them bantering. "Ok, what if we just stop with this childishness?!" You asked, putting yourself between the two men, "what childishness princess? I don't see anything childish in showing my love for you" said Eita, who hugged you from behind, resting his head on your shoulder, still looking smugly at Karasu. "Ha, weren't you flirting w some other girls just a few seconds ago?!" Chuckled Tabito.

Oh fuck.. not only were you now sandwiched between your two overly egoistic and competitive bfs, but they were also in the middle of their stupid bickering. "That is none of your business, plus, my sweet y/n knows I didn't mean any of that!" He said in a more deeper voice, his face nuzzling in the crook of your neck, before plastering a wet kiss on your very hot skin. "She knows I only have eyes for her, right y/n?" He asked, his sultry voice succefully seducing you, making you feel tingles of excitement. Your breath started to become slightly heavier, as  you now felt Karasu's presence even closer than before, his face now low enough to face you, "well you're not the only one who has eyes for her dumbass" he spoke to his friend, his hand caressing your cheek as his body pressed flush on yours, his hardening bulge pressing on your lower abdomen... Oh shit, things are starting to heat up pretty quickly..

Otoya seeing this, pressed his hard-on on your butt too... Your face was now a deep shade of red, your mind too fogged by a forming lust to even find words. The men seeing your state, smirked, deciding it was best to continue this at home..

The night of passion begins with Otoya tenderly kissing your neck and shoulders, his fingers trailing down your body. Meanwhile, Karasu, is making out with you, his plush lips dancing in unison with yours as his tongues explores your mouth. His hands are on your breasts, massaging the soft mounds and teasing your hardened nipples.

Your arousal builds as the two men take turns worshiping your body. Their mouths and hands work in perfect unison, leaving you begging for them.

Now there's a few possibilities to what comes next, it's either they take turns eating you out, or it's just one of them who does that while the other gets a handjob..

When they're needy for your pussy, they'd take turns devouring your cute cunt. When Otoya's eating you out, his style can be best described as fluid, creative, and fun. He likes to tease, starting by licking around the outer lips of your vagina, tasting your sweet nectar. As he works his way in, his tongue undulates around your clit, occasionally sucking gently on it.

He varies his approach, sometimes using the flat of his tongue to tease the length of your slit or flicking it across your sensitive clit with a playful lightness. Eita's skilled at using his fingers, too, often rubbing your G-spot as he laps at your folds.

Karasu's oral sex style is a bit rougher, more determined. He wastes no time in getting to the heart of the matter. Once he positions himself between your legs, he applies pressure with his tongue, pressing firmly against your clit. The sensation is intense, and it always leaves you gasping for breath. Unlike otoya, Tabito is not one for teasing. He knows the spots to hit and focuses his efforts there. This direct approach, combined with his strong tongue, makes your body go soft like putty.

That's why, Otoya's behind you, holding you tightly as he kisses you intensely and whispers endless praises in your ear. These two men might be competitive sometimes, but just like in soccer those two make a great team, especially if it's for the purpose of pleasing you.

As for the second possiblity it depends, when one of them is devouring your puffy cunny, and the other is way too horny, I think they just take your hand and wrap it around their painfully hard cock, making you move your hand until you get what they want, so u start pumping their shaft, which elicits a moan from them ..

Now for penetration... It's inevitable the two of them would wanna fill your holes at the same time.. so each of them picks a hole to fuck for the night.. Easy🫠..

As they finally sink into you, you're enveloped by the warmth of their bodies and the euphoria of being desired by such exceptional men.

Otoya, known for his fluidity, starts with slow, deliberate thrusts, he fills you completely, drawing you in with each inward motion. And Karasu enters you with precision, his cock gliding inside, stretching you and filling you with his girth.

Your moans meld with the sounds of skin slapping against skin. The two men in perfect sync, their rhythms intertwining. The feeling of fullness is both overwhelming and exhilarating, making you cum so quickly, therefore making you clench so hard around them. The constant fluttering of your holes from the continuous stimulation drives the two men over the edge, spilling their seed deep inside your abused holes; or making them pull out and cumming on different part of your bodies, sometimes your face, your stomach, mouth.. it depends from their mood.

As the intensity of your lovemaking subsides, you find solace in the warmth of your two loving boyfriends. They tenderly cradle you, basking in the afterglow, and gently stroke your hair. The air is thick with the heady scent of sex and shared intimacy.

In this post-coital repose, you all revel in the vulnerability that comes with exposure. Y'all share whispers of love, appreciation, and tenderness. Eita, known for his charm and wit, might quip a joke, eliciting a soft giggle from you.

Karasu, ever the logical one, takes the opportunity to check in with you. He inquires about any needs or concerns, showing his thoughtful side.

In the end your trio, entwined, revels in the sweet calm that follows the storm of passion.

© mdsbabygirl do not copy or translate my work without my permission

[cro-fiishy]

pkciv dash simulator

⭐ my-friend mutuals

I love my IRL friend to death, but I don't think he knows my real name. He just calls me "His Friend".

⭐ my-friend mutuals

I asked him about it and he looked at me funny and said "I mean you are my friend, right?" and I didn't have the heart to press further.

⭐ my-friend mutuals

Beginning to develop a Pavlovian response to the word "friend".

⭐ my-friend mutuals

New username :/

👴🏽 oldchamp-deactivated mutuals

I Cant Feel My Legs

🔄 vineboomsound

are u ok,????? what hapened :(

👴🏽 oldchamp-deactivated mutuals

DMs

🔄 vineboomsound

about to jump into the bottomless void. if i dont post again in like 5 minutes then dont let anyone take the temple decor down

🔄 vineboomsound

i just got jumped?,????

🔄 vineboomsound

THEY R HUNTING ME FOR SPORT :(

🔄 vineboomsound

nvm actaully that was fire. no one here knows how to do three-sixties i got htis

🐢 chain-male follow

hey

🔄 vineboomsound

oh God get me Out of here

🐢 chain-male follow

the "male" in my name is short for mansplain manipulate malewife

🥀 guard1 follow

this job is soooo boooring. at least i get to hang out with the bestie later :D

🔄 vineboomsound

thats great man haha

🔄 vineboomsound

🐢 chain-male follow

@ vineboomsound hurry up bro the level will freeze over before you get back

🔄 vineboomsound

ok asshole you try parkouring on ice and literal glass shards while also evading local authorities.

🐢 chain-male follow

what, you want me to kiss it better??? whiny ass

🔄 vineboomsound

i want you to starve in that sand house

🐢 chain-male follow

you wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid

🥀 guard1 follow

i just don't know what to do now that he's gone.

🖤 allyyyyy follow

sorry for your loss. do you want to hunt the champion and plan our revenge together

🥀 guard1 follow

yeah

🔄 vineboomsound

has anyone heard from @ my-friend lately :(

📕 dustypage-deactivated following

I just remembered my password! :-)

🔄 vineboomsound

well this is gonna be an awkward one to explain

🐢 chain-male follow

i'm so hungry like it's not even funny

🔄 vineboomsound

skill issue im still not giving you my boots

🐢 chain-male follow

i'd rather you just call me a homophobic slur at this point

🖤 allyyyyy follow

questioning my duties

🖤 allyyyyy follow

stalking that guy

🖤 allyyyyy follow

questioning my duties again

🖤 allyyyyy follow

fuck it i'm sending the ask

🔄 vineboomsound

anonymous asked: hey . just wanted to let you know that you're following someone really problematic. check your dms

ummm What !

🔄 vineboomsound

ok what hte fuck !

🔄 vineboomsound

actually this isnt surprising at all what am i saying lmao

🐢 chain-male follow

call me a wife the way i'm pining for a man's long-awaited return

🐢 chain-male follow

and also the way i'm plotting and conspiring

🐢 chain-male follow

call me a wife the way i'm scheming in the kitchen

🔄 vineboomsound

??? HUH

🐢 chain-male follow

dont worry about it <3

🔄 vineboomsound

no yeah his ass is definitely evil

🔄 vineboomsound

his ass........

⭐ my-friend mutuals

Evbo,. send hel p

🔄 vineboomsound

MY FRIEND??????

🐢 chain-male follow

about to make twink death literal in more ways than one <3

end of simulation

[gabrielsbubblegumbitch]

I’m sorry but can you write more stuff about Vox being a gaslighter? I’m actually obsessed with your analysis

Thaaanks I'm obsessed about them too~ 🩵❤️

So, Vox is like the ultimate gaslighter. Manipulation and brainwashing? That's his whole freaking business plan. I mean, come on, the Voxtek slogan is "Trust Us," and somehow, people actually do.

Oh, let's talk about Voxtek - he's the worst, most manipulative boss ever. He's always pulling stuff like withholding essential information for a task someone's supposed to do, then publicly blaming them for screwing up. And he's sneaky about it too, acting all concerned and disappointed instead of just yelling. It makes people feel useless and insecure, so they bust their butts trying to please him and win back their colleagues' respect, never daring to stand up for themselves. Plus, he's a pro at keeping relationships between higher-up managers tense and distrustful by spreading rumors and creating a competitive vibe. And don't get me started on how he's a total hypocrite - Voxtek, like every other company, preaches its values and missions to create this fake sense of safety and purpose, but then he goes and acts against them or lets someone else do so. It leaves people feeling confused and helpless because they can't play the game when the rules keep changing. Let me tell you, Satan might work hard, but Voxtek's HR department works even harder.

And manipulating people on a personal level? Way too easy for him. People who don't know him well enough think he's some kind of genius (bless their hearts), so they give him way too much credibility. It's crucial for him to be seen as competent because that's how he stays in control. That's why he loves to question the competence of his business partners (Not to be that guy, but those numbers don't look great. Are you sure you can handle this? I don't want to waste my money.) or Valentino (Babe, I've got this. We both know you're not great with financial planning.). Thought hardly ever works on Velvette because she's got zero bullshit tolerance.

Now, when it comes to Valentino, Vox has zero remorse about gaslighting him. To him, gaslighting isn't even violence; it's just a way of handling things, all neat and effective. Why bother yelling and arguing when he can just manipulate Val into agreeing with him? It's like what we saw in episode 2. And even when Val has every right to be angry because Vox acted like a jerk, Vox tends to devaluate his emotions (I don't have time to deal with another temper tantrum, Val; You're always so pissy, why can't you just chill?) or tries to make him doubt his own reality (Maybe you'd remember it better if you weren't high all the time.). He hates arguing with Val, but also is unable to admit that he's wrong, so in his mind, undermining Val's ability to call him out on his bad behavior is a way of keeping their relationship healthy. But it's risky because sometimes Val sees through his manipulations, especially when they're about his feelings, and then things get even messier.

I like to think they trust each other when it comes to serious stuff, like protecting each other from outside dangers, but at the same time, it's like Mr. Gaslight Gatekeep Girlboss is married to Mr. Manipulate Mansplain Manwhore - you never know if he's being genuinely nice or if he's trying to get you to do something.

[sometimesanalice]

oooo okay i have a prompt 💁🏼‍♀️ for the au version of bradley and sweet girl (and the little nugget!):

❝  well,  i do feel a little better now that you’re here.  ❞

Jordan! You know how soft I am about them! (in every universe, but especially that one!) I hope you like this! 🫶���

You will never not be happy to see Bradley Bradshaw, but seeing him walk though the open door of the in-progress nursery might be the best thing that's happened to you all day.

It's not even the large styrofoam cup you spy in his hand from your favorite milkshake spot, it's just him.

"You look nice," you sniffle from where you're seated on the floor, screws scattered around you like confetti.

"And you look stuck," he says gently, giving you a soft smile. Setting the cup on top of the dresser he'd built for you a few weeks ago. "Need a hand, kid?"

You nod, sure that you look more than a little pitiful right now.

Bradley has to press his lips together to keep from chuckling at just how adorably dejected you look, sitting there with your large bump and splayed legs.

All you'd wanted was to get the crib you'd ordered put together. You were in your third trimester and feeling more than a little useless in your own body. You'd just wanted to prove to yourself that you were still capable of doing things on your own.

And it had been going fine, until you'd accidentally dropped the open bag of screws on the floor. Too many to squat and pick up, you'd carefully lowered yourself down, only to realize you couldn't get yourself back up on your own.

You'd given up after your fifth attempt, teary and frustrated, and called Rooster.

He reaches down with his strong, sure hands to help you up off the ground. Pulling you up so easily, like it's nothing, that you're reminded all over again just how pathetic you've been feeling lately.

"You smell nice too," you say glumly, realizing you haven't showered yet today, as he helps steady you back on your own two feet.

"Stop you're going to make me blush."

"I thought the morning sickness was supposed to go away," you sigh. "But that guy from accounting dropped by my office earlier today, the one I told you about with the bad cologne, and I was nauseous the rest of the day."

His warm, brown eyes remind you of home. And as tough as it had been to uproot your life, it had been worth it to be closer to your best friend and favorite person. You've only been here for a few months, but you already loved San Diego.

Rooster makes a sympathetic sound. "He's the worst."

"He really is. He's also a mansplainer, so that's two strikes against him." You look at Bradley, looking very handsome in the knit polo he was wearing, and feel even more like a wreck in your very oversized tshirt, the hem of your stretchy shorts just barely peeking out from underneath it. "But you didn’t answer, why are you all gussied up?"

He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes darting away from you. "I was, uh, on a date with someone Nat knows from her kickboxing classes."

"Oh. Oh no, Rooster. I'm so sorry." More tears flooding your eyes at the guilt of ruining his night. You thought you'd already cried them all out before he'd got there, but apparently you still had more left in you.

Bradley's stomach twists at the sight of your lower lip wobbling, kicking himself for not bending the truth because the last thing he wanted to do was make you feel bad.

"Hey now, woah," he says, cupping your face. "None of that, kid. You rescued me from an awkward date with a woman who was still very clearly hung up on her ex."

"Still, I really am sorry. I don't want my mess to become yours."

He gives you a look you don't know what to make of. "Why didn't you wait for me, kid. I told you I'd swing by this weekend to help with all of this."

Bradley had kept his weekend free for you, not that you'd asked him too. He knew you were stressed about wanting to get the nursery in order, one less thing for you to think about. He was excited to see it come together, was looking forward to hanging up that little felt seagull mobile he'd bought for you as a baby shower gift.

At that godawful dinner, he'd nearly shot out of his chair at the watery warble of your voice, concerned that something had happened to you or the baby. He was more than happy to help, he wanted you to lean on him for these things. You chose to have the baby on your own, without your shitty ex, but that didn't mean you were going to be doing it alone.

"I thought I could handle it. It's just some prefab wood and shit," you huff with agitation. "I wanted to feel useful. But then I dropped the bag of screws and well..." You trial off and just gesture to the spot he'd found you, you'd left the screws on the floor out of spite.

You're just so tired. All the time. Tired and overwhelmed.

The tears fall on their own again, a mix of hormones and emotions. "Bradley, what was I thinking? I'm going to be a mom. This little person is going to depend on me and I couldn't even get off the floor." You're embarrassed when your voice cracks.

"Come here," Bradley murmurs, tugging you to his chest. He holds you as tight as he thinks he can without squishing the baby. The firm, rounded swell of your stomach pressing against his flat one.

You tuck your face into the space at the base of his neck. His woodsy smell more soothing than lavender could ever be.

Rooster runs his hand up and down your back. "You're growing a whole person in there. You need to yourself some slack. You aren't a mess. And that little peanut is going to be so lucky to have you."

You squeeze your eyes tight and nod. Trying to remind yourself that it's ok to be scared, because you also were excited. Excited to meet her, excited to be able to finally hold her, excited to introduce her to your best friend.

You feel your little girl shift and move inside of you. You pull away taking Bradley's hand in yours and setting it over where she's pressing against you, "I think she's happy you're here."

It's something that he doesn't think he'll ever get use to.

"'Course she is," he rasps thickly. "I'm going to be her favorite." He's still holding your hand, not ready to let go. "And you? How do you feel, kid?"

"Well, I do feel a little better now that you’re here too," you tell him, before giving him the first real smile that he's seen from you all night. "Especially since you brought me a milkshake."

He laughs and kisses the side of your head before letting you.

"Who knew you were such an easy girl to please."

You flip him off without heat, as he thumbs off the remainders of the wet tear tracks on your cheeks.

"Thank you, Rooster."

"You know I'm alway here for you," he says, squeezing your shoulder as he goes to fetch your treat.

Once he gets you set up in the oversized chair with your milkshake, he tosses you his phone and puts you on DJ duty while he works on assembling the deep brown wood spindle crib that you'd picked out.

You watch as Bradley double checks each step in the instruction booklet before he moves on to the next one. It's the most studious you've ever seen him, his tongue peeking out every now in then in concentration. The way he takes his time building the crib for your little girl, makes your chest feel warm.

You're both so lucky to have him.

Every now and then he looks over at you as he fits the pieces together. It makes his heart twinge in an unexpected way when he sees you running your hand over your belly, looking down at it with the softest of smiles on your face.

You're going to be such a good mom, he thinks to himself. And he'll be there right by your side. The best Uncle Rooster he can be.

For her, for you.

After all, you've always been his family.

[two-white-butterflies]

tolerate it | c16

Description: After a month of breaking up with Charles. You release a song that finally speaks about your experience.

Pairing: charles leclerc/singer!reader

waitingroomcouple2: according to insiders, y/n and longtime boyfriend charles leclerc are headed towards breakupville.

liked by ynupdates and 12,129 others

comments

asianbutnotjapanese: EXCUSE ME? First Sofia and Joe, Taylor and Joe and now Charles and Y/N?

yakisobaramens2: give me time. i need to process things.

>view 421 comments

"Hey, Charles." you cleared your throat - pretending that you didn't just spend the past hours crying about him.

"I know that I told you that we needed space to think things through, but I don't think that we're happening anymore. I-I somehow, the breakup got leaked and I don't really know how we'll build up from that. I hope that you understand."

Charles finished listening to the voicemail that you sent him 30 minutes ago. He couldn't believe that it finally happened. Sure, you spent half a month fighting with him - but he thought that things would get better after that.

"Are you alright?" Pierre sits beside him with a bowl of ramen. "Ah, yeah." Charles replied - completely out of his zone. He always believed that his life was cut up in two sections: before you, and during you - but he never assumed that there would be an after you.

Jesus, when you've reached heaven - there's only one way left to go: down, and he descended awfully.

"You've been very hush hush about your 'break' with Y/N. Are you back together?" Pierre inquired, concerned about his childhood friend. "That's impossible," Charles mumbled while his friend stuffed his face with more noodles.

"Shit, I'm so sorry." Pierre patted his back.

"- It'll get better." he adds.

Charles_Leclerc: Feeling pretty good in Suzuka.

liked by yourusername, pierreGASLY and 1,291,023 others

comments

maybeletslovern2: Y/N and Charles aren't over. She's still in the likes guys 🙈 - charlosworld55: and Joe Alwyn still follows Taylor? Ur point is?

lovingthiseasy8: pole for leclerc?

pierreGASLY: Forza! 🇲🇨

>view 912 comments

yourusername: You're so much older and wiser and I. Announcing my newest single "Tolerate It" for the newest 'Barbie' movie that comes in three versions: She Version and He Version and They Version. Basically just diff pronouns. Hope u guys like it. 💙

liked by Charles_Leclerc, billieeilish and 1,928,100 likes

comments

Charles_Leclerc: Another amazing song! 🔥

ynandcharles: he commented, checkmate guys.

taylorswift: Tears in my eyes, Y/N. ��

>view 1920 comments

yourusername: there's many different ways that you can kill the one you love. the slowest way is never loving them enough. (wise words from my friend @taylorswift)

liked by landonorris and 2,391,209 others

comments

lucindaleong2: Lando is stirring the pot by liking this post HAHA

Charles_Leclerc: Reply to my messages please.

taylorswift: You deserve someone who will love you enough. I'm proud of you sister. - yourusername: thank u sm taylor 💙

>view 920 comments

Charles_Leclerc: And if I ever did something wrong, let me make it right. P3 in Spa, but left the circuit feeling like something was missing.

liked by landonorris, yourusername and 1,290,821 others

comments

yourusername: Congratulations Charles! You definitely deserved this podium, I've seen you work soo hard to get this spot. 💙 - Charles_Leclerc: 💙

(SIX MONTHS LATER)

yourusername: an hour of mansplaining with this dude...still, i luv u.

tagged: maxverstappen1

liked by landonorris, Charles_Leclerc and 1,290,192 others

comments

maxverstappen1: Is there another pic more blurry that this? 🤣 - yourusername: doesn't matter cuz my love for u is clear 😉

landonorris: The hand 💀 chill mate, she isn't going anywhere.

greeaat99: Charles was Ken (Barbie 2023) but Max is Ken (Barbie Life in the Dreamhouse.)

gigihadid: Rocking that black hair mother ❤️ - yourusername: No, YOU are mother. 😜😍

>view 1029 comments

yourusername posted to her story!

replies maxverstappen1: Am I legally allowed to call you mommy now? yourusername: RIP to ur social media manager who has to look at this message 😭

yourusername: i take this magnetic force of a man to be my. ✨LOVER✨ will be out midnight EST. Happy 4th month babe! tho u always tell me that it feels like we've known each other for forever. Hoping to have an album out before baby jellybean comes out. Which will be ... 7 months from now, though ya'll are nasty telling me that my stomach looks like I'm in the 5th month 😡.

liked by Charles_Leclerc, and 2,192,190 others.

comments

maxverstappen1: Happy 4th ❤️

Charles_Leclerc: Congrats on the baby! - yourusername: thank u

loverboy9: the way that this could've been charles' baby if they just stayed together 😭

>view 39239 comments

maxverstappen1: I found the love of my life this year, I hope that everyone finds theirs too! My girlfriend's new song 'Lover' will be out on midnight and it would mean the world to us if you listened to it.

liked by yourusername, and 1,299,012 others

comments

yourusername: OK we'll just adjust our heads to look at this picture - maxverstappen1: and?

yourusername: listen to me pls so max can afford some internet money in his little game

landonorris: I don't listen to underground artists, sorry. - yourusername: LISTEN TO ME. u broke his trophy this is the least that u can do? - - landonorris: ever heard of kintsugi? - - - yourusername: the lana del rey song?

>view 991 comments

yourusername: posting this version because the one on @maxverstappen1's profile is 🤮.

liked by landonorris and 2,191,100 others

comments

taylorswift: You are GLOWING. - yourusername: I can still make the whole place shimmer.

landonorris: when is baby jellybean coming out? - maxverstappen1: ❤️

charlesandynuniverse: The real ones know that the baby is fathered by Charles. - yourusername: stop this bs, don't wait until i slap the paternity test on ur face 🤣

teachermee91: THE WAY THAT Y/N IS STILL A FIGHTER. I LOVE HER. WAHHAHAHAHA.

[iceclew]

SO IN CASE ANYBODY WONDERED..

here is my take on Jesper and Keith without mask/helmet.

AND SOME DOODLES

shit I fell HARD for them...

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters, neither is this by any means canon, it's just my take on what I feel I would like them to look like. Characters belong to Skyrim Tales, entirely.

*phew* it was only when I chatted with fellow simp/mutual that I realized, it would have made MUCH more sense for them to have long hair... it would fit way better in the skyrim law .........But, BEFORE I thought about that, those faces came to my mind.. Keith should have ..more northern-like traits, but ended up...weirdly roman? I have not lived down men with goatees just yet....

And Jesper is said to be not North, so i kinda played around a bit and ... yeah, whatever it is that came up to me, at this point, why am I trying to justify this, I felt locks and freckles and let's be real here I bottomed him hard in this.. like.. is there anything I forgot that would scream even more "Bottom" to you?

*silence*

...

OK so because this post IS NOT LONG ENOUGH YET DOWN BELOW ARE SOME OF MY HEADCANONS:

(Sorry for horrible spelling and grammar)

Jesper is actually a quite anxious person and copes with not taking off his helmet. Even when off-duty, or singing. Almost no one in Whiterun saw his face so far.

He is so used to wear the guard's uniform ever since childhood, everything else let's him feel right out exposed to the world. Like all of his flaws and weaknesses are presented on the plate to be played with and take advantage of by everybody around him. His face is totally fine btw, nothing unuasual but a few freckles spread across it (cause i love freckles).

The uniform and helmet is a huge confidence boost for him, and he himself is feeling much more authorical with it. Not like - gettin' into macho mansplaining mode, but rather like feeling like a normal decent human. And by now he kinda takes it to an extreme, meaning, if he was ever about to take it off in front of others, he'd just be super nervous about it, and can't keep eye contact, so he heavily tries to avoid those situations.

He believes exposing his face in conversation would make him extra vulnerable, since he is a rather touchy soul, constantly wearing his emotions on his face and he's aware of that..(can you describe it like that? idk) He got bullied a lot from young age, and with helmet on, people cannot respond to his expression and will not confront him about it as much. He is still kinda expressive and easy to read even WITH helmet on - voice and postur giving away a lot - but still mot that obvious. He still gets bullied by his collegues, but feels like it could be worse).

He loves singing, but it's like - the prime example of his problem - so he's not daring to quit being a guard, take of his helmet and become a professional singer. There are some bard festivals around, he would love to visit, but never dared to, because he would only get sad from not being able to join the singers for good.

Keith is not fond of showing his face around either. But this solemly because of his profession. But he has a rather distinctive birthmark, where people would recognize him immediatelly if seen, so mask it is.

I feel Keith would be around 5 years older or smth? And since he is kind of a night owl by profession, plus up at daytime as well, he must have the most horrible eye bags of doom, one can imagine.

yeah, that's all I got for now... I know.. I'm a lot here already....

I have so many ideas, I hope I find more time and inspiration for stuff here, I'd love to draw them together, plus the whole crew as well, I really loved today's 3am vid. <3

[sweetybaty]

I low key feel like Flippy and Lammy have an adversarial relationship most of the time, but when it comes to Flaky it becomes "the enemy of my enemy is my friend". Basically ain't NO ONE that isn't pre-approved by both getting anywhere near her, sorry Flaky.

Flippy: look Flaky, he specifically asked for YOU rather than accepting I answered the door. I don't trust that! Why did he need you specifically?

Lammy: Exactly, you know how men can be! I barely accepted Flippy, I think I want some random approaching you, especially if he asked for you BY NAME without asking me or Flippy if he may do so?!

Flaky:

Flaky: He was the mailman. The letter was addressed to me, and he was told to hand it directly to me because it's a letter label "hand to recipient only"-

MWAJSJSJJSAJHJ THE ENDING OMAGA??? I LOVED IT, IT SO THEEEEEMMM ! ! ! I DED. Love the little scenario for real.

Pretty on point! And none of their filters are good to go throught

When I imagine them interacting, like 99.99% of the time they are being enemies I can assure you, even in that tiny percentage left they refuse to call themselves even "allies" tho, every chance they have they might throw a little poison.

Flaky really is delusional tho, would have hopes of them getting along thanks to those brief alliances.

It is unconfy , afterall they are fighting bcuz of her,

Personally I think it's better for her they dont get along, the mansplaining, girlsplaining, gaslighting would be out of this world JHSAJHAS

I imagine them like this lots, I swear bebe looks away for a mili second and then sees that (there wasnt a scream or word uttered)

For me it's fun, I'm not the one living it JSAHJAHASJHASJHAS