#and i'm maybe very scared to post it but it is what it is and now I got to bed

[kajibunny]

⟡˖ ࣪ ren kaji as your boyfriend ₊˚⊹⋆

✿ summary: relationship headcanons (ren kaji x reader) ✿ warnings: awkward silliness, some parts are a lil suggestive ✿ a/n: i love this man so much you don’t understand pls ;__; hi i'm new here and ofc my first post is abt my love, ren kaji hihi pls be nice!! ✿ wc: 960

ꕤ kaji is more than just your bf, he’s also your bff, partner-in-crime, and sometimes guard dog (lol).

ꕤ he’s a little mean, but he means well. 

ꕤ everyone in town refers to you both as each other’s “other half”, as he relies on you quite a lot. not because he wants to boss you around (well, well, iykyk second year grade captain ren kaji mode on) but because he immensely trusts you.

ꕤ you also rely on him a lot, and he is a very protective boyfriend. he won’t let anyone harm a single hair on your head if he can help it.

ꕤ lots of people thought you two were already together way before you two actually got together, since you two were always…well, together. to the point that you adapted each other’s habits and vocabulary. (you catch yourself picking up kaji's direct tone of speaking and occassional "damnit!") no one was at all surprised when he introduced you as his lover. to everyone, you two were practically married already.

ꕤ it’s either both of you are bantering or play fighting one second, then all over each other the next. if ever you two have serious arguments, he’s usually the first one to apologize and ask how he can make it up to you. kaji is very mature that way, and is scared of hurting you, as he treasures you with all his heart (and body lol).

ꕤ has this habit of putting his lollipop in your mouth - just to see what you would do. loves the faces you make when you least expect it. thinks you’re so cute like that, but of course, will never admit it out loud. 

ꕤ when agitated, he calms down when you give him head pats and tell him that he’s a good boy. (double meaning i’m telling you)

ꕤ his love language is definitely quality time! he loves hanging around with you, walking home together, having deep talks in high places like a grassy hill or rooftop until the sun rises, listening to music together while you lean on his shoulder absorbing the sound from his headphones.

ꕤ your pet names for each other are lowkey insults like “idiot, dumbass, stupid” but affectionately. it became kind of like an inside joke between the two of you. he’d say the sweetest things, then pair it with a completely opposite word, like “it’s because i love you…you fool.” and you can't tell whether he wants to fight you or if he wants to kiss you. 

ꕤ kaji likes having collaborative playlists with you. doesn’t matter if you two don’t have the same music taste, since he’s always curious about what you’re listening to. sometimes sneaks in a few hidden messages using song titles in his playlists, for your eyes only.

ꕤ during the cold season, he lets you slip your hands in his hoodie pockets, embracing him from behind, like he’s your natural heat pack.

ꕤ when sleeping together, he’s a (literal) freak in the sheets. a blanket and pillow hogger, takes up more than half of the bed, ends up in the strangest sleeping positions, and at times accidentally pushes you until you end up on the floor. 

he definitely does not mean it though, if you hug him or hold him tightly while sleeping, there’s a higher chance he’ll stay still.

ꕤ when not on the bed, kaji likes to take naps on your lap or your shoulder, because according to him “it’s comfy and soft. like a pillow”

ꕤ lets you hold his valuables - lets you wear his hoodies, lets you hold his headphones, lets you drink from his bottled water, and even lets you suck on his lollipop (the one in his mouth okay but maybe also sometimes the one in his pants asdjbjdjcnd;;) but only you are allowed, because you’re special.

ꕤ you had to learn basic first aid because kaji always ends up with many injuries after fights, and gets angry at anyone who tries to touch him or disinfect his wounds, except for you. (soft!kaji *sighs* the effect you have on him aaaa) 

ꕤ makes a barrier with you in his arms whenever you’re passing with him in a crowded or busy street, to make sure no one bumps you or gets too close to you, to keep you safe.

ꕤ kaji is naturally such a good kisser, but claims he doesn’t really know what he’s doing. he tells you it’s just because he’s eaten a lot of lollipops, so he probably practiced unknowingly with his mouth and tongue. (help this is so funny)

ꕤ so many awkward and cute moments, that makes you love your little idiot ren kaji more and more each day (if that’s even possible) 

accidentally bit your hand when you fed him food. (from that day on, woke up to the realization that he might have a little bit of a biting kink)

once tried to do a kabedon on you like you two saw in one film you watched together but ended up tripping a bit, landing on top of you and squishing you.

there was a time he asked for love advice from hiragi when you two started dating, and umemiya ended up eavesdropping on them, and kaji ran away so fast as if he saw a ghost (ref: ch 58 kaji-senpai lol)

forgot he was wearing his headphones with music on full blast and broadcasted a little too loudly about how much he missed you because “you were gone on your trip for so long” and he “wanted to kiss your annoying face” all in front of his giggly vice captains, who of course heard every single thing he said. you made sure to tease him a lot about it afterwards.

© kajibunny 2024 / do not repost

[vickiee-mcmuffin]

The wedding day

Word count: 2k

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Female Reader

Trope: Fluff

Summary: The day has arrived for you to marry the love of your life after your presence at Kamar Taj had changed him for the better.

A/N: Hi all, I'm here to maybe post some more of my favourite old fics (If you want me to). I haven't tagged anyone as I've lost my tag list. Sorry.

It was hard not to think about everything the two of you had been through on such a day. Your heart was racing in the best way possible, and your tummy was filled with an endless supply of butterflies. The buzz in the air was electric, and it just made you want to fast forward time, made you want to skip ahead so you could just stand before him already and be his. Be his wife.

But you had to wait. And that was okay, because you knew by the end of the day, you would be his wife. You would be Mrs Strange. And that would absolutely be worth the wait.

You were alone in your dressing room, far too jittery to have a conversation with anyone at that point. You had always been like that. Shy, reserved, and mostly innocent. Sometimes you considered it to be a flaw, but you grew to realise that some just found it endearing.

Stephen didn’t at first. At least he pretended like he didn’t.

You smiled at the thought of him, eyeing the twinkle in your gaze in the mirror. He was going to be all yours soon. And you were going to be all his. You truly couldn’t wait, and you wondered what he was up to, if he was just as nervous as you were.

Staring at your reflection in the mirror, you couldn’t help but reminisce. Your first kiss, your first date, your first time. There was so much to think about. One thing that really stuck out at that point was the first time he had ever laid eyes on you…

To say you were a nervous wreck was an understatement. There was so much that could go wrong, and all you wanted to do was impress and do a good job. But the look on his face was far too menacing for you to calm down.

Stephen looked at you with what you could only describe as a glare. Was he mad at you? If so, you weren’t quite sure what you had done to garner that reaction. You couldn’t deny that he was handsome. He was older, and had a sophisticated edge to him that guys your age just didn’t have.

“Are you sure you’re meant to be here?” he asked you, right in the middle of your first day of training – after a blunt, hasty introduction.

You stared at him, not saying anything at first. Was he talking to you?

“Well?” he snapped. “Are you sure you’re meant to be here?”

“Oh, um, yes,” you nodded, feeling your face grow hot. “I’m meant to be here.”

“You don’t seem like you’ll be prepared for what’s supposed to happen today.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you frowned.

“You’re all wide eyes,” he shrugged casually. “Like a deer caught in headlights. You seem scared.”

“I’m not,” you tried not to pout. You were scared, but you didn’t want him to know that. “You don’t even know me. You’re being really rude to someone you just met, you know?”

Stephen didn’t even hide his scoff. “Just stay out of my way while I’m here, okay?”

With that, he spun on his heels and walked away from you with quick, confident strides. You stood there, mouth open, trying to comprehend what had just happened. All you knew was that you were going to listen to him, because you very much intended to stay away from him.

You couldn’t help but laugh as the memory filled up your mind. Stephen had been rude. There was no denying it. But he had surprisingly warmed up to you quickly after that…

Sometimes you liked nothing more than sitting on your own – especially after training. It was a good chance to think about how it had gone: what you were happy with, what you needed to improve on.

And just as you were about to get lost in your thoughts, you heard someone clear their throat behind you. You looked over your shoulder and spotted Stephen staring down at you.

“Hi,” you said softly, your voice a little shy. You still weren’t all that used to Stephen. And his presence was especially intimidating to someone as shy and quiet as you.

“You were good today,” he said lowly.

You blushed instantly. You had known Stephen for just over a month now, and that was the first time he had ever given you a compliment.

“Really?” you asked.

“Really,” he nodded slowly. “Nice job.”

“You were really good too. You should be proud. I’ve honestly been learning a lot by just looking at you.”

Stephen stared at you for a moment. Like he wasn’t quite sure how to react to that. He mumbled something to himself – something you couldn’t hear. And with that, he walked away. It was a simple conversation. But it was enough to make you let out a happy sigh.

As you came back to reality you bit into your bottom lip. Stephen had been so cold towards you at first, but when he had softened just slightly, just for a moment, you knew there was a whole different side to him… And that was something you discovered not too long after that moment…

You were just about to head off to dinner when you saw him.

Stephen was leaning up against a wall, his eyes all dark. Until they landed on you. You could have sworn you saw a hint of light in them as he looked at you. You blushed and found the courage to give him a wave, and that was when he sent you a nod. And a smile.

A small gesture to some, but to you, it meant Stephen was changing.

It was the next morning when you saw the biggest change, though. It was once again a small gesture, but it was a gesture that made your heart flutter. You and Stephen were both headed towards the same door, and you wondered who would go first. For a second you considered slowing down and letting Stephen just go. And he did get to the door before you.

But then he waited.

Waited for you to approach him.

And then he held open the door for you, allowing you to enter first.

“After you,” he murmured, his eyes stuck on yours.

“Thank you,” you squeaked, brushing past him with a racing heart. Your skin was bright red and you prayed he couldn’t tell. “You’re so polite.”

He chuckled lowly at your compliment.

You didn’t get to see him for the rest of the day. It wasn’t until later, when you were sitting by yourself, lost in your thoughts, that you met his gaze. He sat next to you without asking, but you didn’t mind. Despite how you two first met and how he had treated you, you had still grown to like him more than you should have.

“You seem to be getting better and better every day with your training,” he told you.

“I like to think so,” you smiled at him.

He just stared at you for a while, his eyes never leaving your smile, like he saw something only he could see. Butterflies filled your tummy and you cleared your throat. The noise seemed to bring Stephen out of his daze.

“I was wondering if I could ask you something, Y/N,” he said a little seriously.

You nodded enthusiastically. “Of course!”

He smiled at you before looking down at his lap for a second. Like he was nervous. That was odd, because he almost always seemed so confident, so sure of himself.

“I was wondering… I was wondering if you would like to go out to dinner with me,” he finally said.

“Dinner?” you repeated, tilting your head at him. “Do you mean like…”

“A date? Yes… Yes, I do mean a date.”

It took you just a second to nod at him, the smile on your face quickly growing. You weren’t expecting that at all, but it was something you had fantasised about. You were over the moon that Stephen looked at you in that way.

“I’d love that. Really,” you whispered.

Stephen seemed to let out a shaky breath at that, like he was anticipating a negative response from you. “Is tonight okay? Maybe around seven.”

“Tonight is perfect.”

Coming back to reality, you thought about how sweet Stephen was when he was nervous. And he wasn’t nervous very often. But around you? Around you he changed. He could talk to anybody else and be outspoken and confident. But that encounter showed you a different side of Stephen. A softer side. One you wanted to see more of, and you had that night…

“You look beautiful,” was the first thing Stephen said to you.

You tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and blushed. “Thanks. You too.”

“Are you ready for tonight? I’ve been looking forward to it.”

“I’m ready. And I’ve been excited about it too. I’m honestly a little shocked that you asked me… I thought you didn’t like me,” you told him with a soft laugh.

“I admit I judged you the first time I saw you. I suppose I didn’t know how to react to you. But… But you’re so kind. So welcoming. So sweet. I see that all so clearly now. I’m just sad I didn’t see it sooner, because I think being around you has certainly changed me,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving yours as he spoke.

And you couldn’t help yourself when you leaned forward; giving him a soft, slow, sweet kiss. You were just aching for him, and he was right there, looking so handsome all dressed up. It was a dream come true to feel him up against you, his hands on your waist as he kissed you back.

“Don’t be sad,” you murmured against his lips. “I’m here now with you. And you’re here with me. That’s all that matters.”

You could have cried thinking about that moment. But there was no time. There was a knock on the door, and you spotted a bridesmaid waving at you. It was time to go.

You sucked in a sharp breath, nerves taking over as you made your way to the main part of the church. It was a big rush there with people chattering away, but soon, the double doors to the ceremony room opened up. Your bridesmaids moved in first, and then it was your turn.

With one last deep breath, you took your first step towards him. Stephen stood at the end of the aisle with his hands clasped together and his eyes stuck on you. Even from where you were standing you could see him let out a shaky breath. You moved slowly, the pink bouquet in your hands, not stopping until you stood before him. The second you handed your flowers to your maid of honour you felt Stephen’s hands on yours. He held them tight, his thumbs rubbing at your skin as he looked on at you with tear filled eyes. The sight of him made your own eyes water.

“I love you,” he whispered so lowly that only you could hear. “And I promise that I will love you for the rest of my life.”

Your world stopped at that moment, but in the best way possible. Everything seemed to freeze as you captured the scene before you: the smile on Stephen’s face, his kind eyes, the way his cheeks flushed that little bit of red. Your heart skipped a beat and you fought the urge to kiss him.

He had changed so much for you, and you knew it was for the better. Because he was yours and you were his, and it was the most special thing in the world to you.

“And I love you,” you said with a teary smile. Despite the large crowd, Stephen was the only one you could focus on, and he would be all you would focus on for the rest of your life.

You were more than happy with that fact.

[liianliann]

I am scared.

Oh what a time to be alive, I think, as I look at the results of the EU election in my home coutry, Germany.

The second-strongest group in my home country (AfD) is far-right, supports Putin (even had Russian spies in their midst), wants to literally DESTROY the EU, wants to revoke women's and LGBTQ+ people's rights, -

and that's just the beginning. And I can tell you where it'll end. And we had that same situation about a hundred years ago. Back then, Germany lost its constitution and started a genocide. And yes I'm talking about the Nazis.

I am scared. Not just of this political climate. I am scared because a lot of the people I know and am lucky to call my friends and acquaintances don't have a German passport, and because this party will want to get rid of them, or do anything they can, at least.

I am scared, because I am a trans man undergoing hormone therapy. It is, regrettably, a very vulnerable situation to be in in this political climate, because all they need to do is ban one type of medicine and claim it to be harmful-

or perhaps they will just revoke my rights to exist peacefully completely.

I am scared, because all this literal danger to the German constitution needed to do was speak a few pretty words for the camera, post it on Tiktok, and the people believed them blindly. So many haven't read the election program, so many don't know what these people want to do-

but they hate the other parties. So why not elect the one party that actively threatens the freedom and equal rights of our country?

I am scared. Maybe I won't be first in line to be shot, but I am standing in the queue.

And what scares me even more is that I can't understand HOW this situation could even happen. Were our voices not loud enough? Didn't we cry out and warned them often enough? Why did so many people choose to ignore the riots, the pleas, the thousands and thousands of voices?

Just "to make a statement"? Is voting against peace and against freedom and against equality a protest now? Is humanity so easily influenceable that they tune out all the voices on the streets? Or was I just optimistic, am I really just living in a country where we want war and supression and censors and dictators-

because that's what this is going to boil down to. And I am scared.

Scared of this country. Scared of the people in it. Scared of the future. Scared of what this predicts for the next election in 2025. Scared of the visibly easy manipulation of the masses.

Scared, because I KNOW that history repeats again and again and again and again and we claim to learn from it;

and yet, we don't.

[floccinaucinihilipilificationa]

Hello may 31th anon! Look at that, another year behind us and a new one to come. Have a nice day! ₍՞◌′ᵕ‵ू◌₎♡

[nico-di-genova]

A Lesson in Braking

AKA: Strollonso College AU, this time with a name! Warnings: Smut, at the very end, so if you don't want to read that bit it's literally the very end bit, just skip that altogether.

Chapter 1

The problem with street racing, Lance thinks, is that it is entirely reliant on the people around you being aware of their surroundings. Which, in a state full of retirees who can barely see past their steering wheels, much less their side mirrors, is an impossibility. So Lance shouldn’t be surprised that he’s almost sideswiped when he’s doing 130 in a 65 by a white Honda Civic with a geriatric behind the wheel. He shouldn’t be, and yet when he swerves back over into the far side of the left lane to avoid being flattened, the bike still nearly goes out from under him anyway.

He fights every instinct not to brake and lock up, to lose it and go sliding across the pavement with only his padded jacket and jeans to protect him.

"Jesus Christ!” comes the panicked, staticky voice through his helmet from the Bluetooth connected to his phone, along with the worried yells of everyone else inside the car.

The red Dodge Charger that was chasing Lance seconds before slows in the lane behind him, gives him enough space that if he does fall he won’t be run over like road kill – he can hear the tires of the muscle car screeching on the pavement, the horns from the traffic behind them. Pato, thankfully, is not an eighty year old with failing eyesight. He is, however, the reason that Lance had been swerving through traffic in the first place.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Pato laughs, deliriously.

Lance’s fingers are shaking around the handlebars of the bike, leather-gloved hands so tight around them that he can feel the tension in his body. He tries to breathe out, and an equally insane laugh escapes him.

“Are you okay?”

“Fuck,” Lance sighs, laughs again, thinks his heart might be beating so fast it’s on the verge of failing, “Y-yeah. I think so.”

“What the fuck?” Pato repeats again.

Welcome to Florida, Lance thinks, flashes a shaky thumbs up to Pato behind him just to ensure the man, and his car full of people, know he’s okay – even if he doesn’t quite feel it yet. He didn’t lose the bike, which he figures counts for something.

“That was insane,” Pato continues.

“That was stupid!” Esteban corrects.

Lance eases the bike back up to speed in response, shoots past the Honda Civic that nearly killed him, and flicks the old man hunched behind the wheel off as he goes.

----------

Fort Myers, Lance quickly learns within his first semester at school, is fucking boring. FGCU, pitched to him as an idyllic campus set along the Gulf Coast, is actually in a swamp. And technically, he’s not even in the city of Fort Myers at all, but Estero – a town no one’s heard of but has somehow managed to house some of the wealthiest people Lance has ever encountered, himself included. He feels he can hardly be blamed for racing his motorcycle through the streets during rush hour traffic just to feel something other than the monotony of flat land and the oppressive heat he’s been stuck in for the majority of the past three years, and getting pulled over in the process. His father, who pays for each ticket with a sigh and a roll of his eyes, does not seem to agree.

Which is exactly why he has no plans of telling the man about his near-death experience. Lawrence didn’t even want him to get the bike in the first place, still threatens to seize it with the steady growing pile of tickets. Lance endures the lectures over the phone with the patience bestowed upon him by being a good son, and then hangs up to do burnouts with Pato in the parking lot of their apartment complex. He’s unbothered by near-death at the hands of the old man, but Esteban, when he climbs out the backseat of Pato’s cramped charger, is not.

“You’re insane,” he says, thwacking Lance on the side of his helmet.

Lance, working the strap through the clasp so he can ease the thing off his head, winces, “Ow.”

“Idiot!”

“I was in my lane!” Lance justifies, even if he was nearing 160 km/h in that lane and was definitely exceeding a safe level of speeding. He hates to lose though, especially to Pato, who would hold it over his head at the next mixer. Lance has endured enough ridicule from his frat brothers for all the races he’s lost, he doesn’t want to add Pato’s fraternity to the mix.

Esteban wouldn’t get it, he’s not in a frat at all.

“You were barely in the lane!”

“Close enough.”

“You shouldn’t have a license,” Esteban grumbles, eyes Lance’s bike like it is a sentient being that willfully chose to do twice the speed limit, and not Lance himself that controlled it. Lance can still smell the burning rubber coming off the tires, feel the heat from the engine. It’s familiar to him in the way the sweaty leather smell from his hands when he slides the gloves off is.

He shrugs, “Neither should half the people in this state.”

“It’s true,” Pato chimes in, coming up behind Lance to pat him on the back. His hand thunks against the padding of Lance’s jacket, sends him rocking forward against the bike. “Glad you’re okay, güero.”

“You two especially though,” Esteban grumbles. Lance just thinks he’s still upset he doesn’t have a car of his own to race, despite the fact that Lance has offered his own on multiple occasions. It hardly gets used, because he hates sitting in traffic, and Esteban would probably be doing him a favor by taking it. But money has been a thing between them since freshman year, since it was established that Lance had a lot of it, and Esteban little, and the dorm room they shared became a space where discussions of finances were forbidden – a sentiment that soon reached through their entire friendship. Esteban still lives in the apartment style dorms on campus, Lance now has a luxury one-bedroom in the newest off-campus unit. His car sits in the parking lot more often than it runs and Esteban walks to class.

“If dumbass here keeps getting tickets he might not have to worry about a license at all,” Pato teases, smirks at Lance as Lance runs a hand through his hair to try to dissuade the helmet hair from setting in and pointedly ignores him. He busies himself with unzipping his jacket, rolling his shoulders and stretching enough to ease the lingering tension from his joints. His shirt rides up with the movement.

Esteban looks away, Pato stares, and the freshman he’s let tag along, David, stands awkwardly beside them because he isn’t sure what else to do. Lance smiles at him, tight, forced, equally as unsure. The kid’s lanky, blonde, curly hair nearly gold in the sunset. One of the new pledges, or someone Pato is trying to recruit, because in their small circle Pato is the only one social enough to actually want the job of recruitment chairman.

“Sorry for almost dying in front of you,” he apologizes to the kid.

David shrugs, “It’s cool. You’re not hot in that thing?” He points at Lance’s jacket with a cast wrapped wrist, the black fabric with grey and white accents.

It’s late August now, summer still working its way into fall. Lance was not raised in the heat, returns to Canada during the break between semesters so he doesn’t have to bear the worst of it, so he is distinctly uncomfortable. His shirt is sticking to his skin with sweat, and he can feel tendrils of it working in steady drops down his spine, soaking into the waistband of his jeans, but he’d rather wear the heavy jacket than have to cart it around for the entire time they’re standing ogling at cars. Or rather, Pato ogling, he and Esteban hanging back to talk about dinner plans. He likes cars in that they can get him from one destination to the next, doesn’t care to talk about them outside of that.

“It’s manageable,” he shrugs, tucks his helmet under one arm and starts walking toward the closed off section of the outlets, where cars are already parked and lined-up.

Pato doesn’t suggest Lance leave the gear in his car, despite it being an easy solution, he knows Lance likes the looks it draws. Lance had drunkenly admitted as much one night, when Pato was straddling his lap and kiss his neck because there were no other options. They had grown accustom with becoming each other’s last resort, hooking up in bedrooms of stranger’s houses or in the back of Pato’s car because the number of girls at parties they frequented far outweighed the available, and interested, men. He smirks at Lance over the top of David’s head as they walk toward the row of cars with popped open hoods – a glint of knowing in his far too mischievous eyes.

They’ll probably hook-up later. Unless Esteban finally feels like kissing him, or the freshman stops being a freshman, both of which are likely to happen when hell freezes over.

“Looks heavy,” David says.

“It is.”

Pato’s smirk widens, “He’s used to it.”

“Go look at your stupid cars, man,” Lance rolls his eyes, shoots Pato a warning look.

It’s the Aston Martin that draws Pato’s attention first. Silver, brown leather interior, the type of car Lance’s dad would own – if he doesn’t already. Lance lost track of the collection long ago, lost interest too, much to his dad’s disappointment. Lawrence wanted him to get into racing professionally, which Lance entertained for all of two seconds before he realized just how far his dad wanted him to go. Then it all felt like too much too fast, and Lance realized he was maybe more content hiding in the Florida swamp land for four years instead. Time he is rapidly running out of.

“You didn’t want to race on a track, but you’ll do it in the street,” he can hear his father’s voice chiding. Lance doesn’t know how to explain there’s more freedom in the street racing, less control, and substantially more danger but a higher reward. No one knows him under the helmet either, not in the way they would if his name was tied to a team and a car and all the responsibility that came with it.

David goes with Pato, both of them studying the engine of the car. The owner, thankfully, isn’t around. Lance doubts they’d like the way Pato goes to duck his head in through the driver’s side door.

Lance shoots Esteban a look, “I feel like you should be more into this,” he says, leans over enough to poke the man in the side with an elbow. Esteban is one of the few people in his friend group who is the same height as him. Which was the first thing they’d bonded over, the second was the fact that they both spoke French. Esteban more fluently, but Lance enough that most their conversations were shared in the language.

“Why?” Esteban asks, eyeing the Aston the same way he had Lance’s bike, like it is likely to reach out and bite him. “Do not say because of the engineering.”

“A little because of the engineering?”

“No.” Esteban is the smartest of them, which Lance has known since he first met him and Esteban introduced himself with a handshake which was quickly followed by, ‘majoring in mechanical engineering.’ His golf management major had sounded silly in comparison, had seemed even sillier once Esteban pulled all-nighters to complete homework for math classes that far exceeded Lance’s skill level while Lance was learning the best techniques for watering grass.

Lance failed a class his freshman year, Esteban passed all of his with what appeared to be ease. Then they both got shitfaced on their last night together and snuck onto the trail that ran from the freshman housing to the upperclassman apartments to share a joint. It had been close to midnight, and every sound that came from the surrounding wilderness had them jumping, but it was maybe the thing that had cemented their friendship.

“You know what you want to do with that yet?” Lance asks, because they’re starting their junior year now. Because the future is becoming something tangible, and so discussing what the fuck they’re supposed to do next seems like the correct thing. Lance still has no idea what he wants to do and thinking of it makes the sweat on the back of his neck run cold, makes the jacket he’s sweltering in seem even hotter.

"Not a clue,” Esteban says, which makes Lance feel a little better, “You?”

“Golf, I guess.” Not much else he can do with his degree, and his business minor had only been something added on at his dad’s request. Lance isn’t passionate about either of those things, isn’t sure he’s passionate about anything. He likes racing, likes his bike, likes spending lazy Saturday mornings on the course, or weekday mornings practicing tennis with his coach, and he’s decently good at all of those things but none of them really seem like a passion.

He is becoming increasingly aware that he is running out of time.

“Professional golfer, Lance Stroll,” Esteban says, draws out Lance’s name to really test the sound of it against PGA pro.

Both of them grimace.           

“Maybe not,” Lance amends.

“Could work, maybe.”

“Probably wouldn’t,” Lance isn’t good enough, not for going pro, and he doesn’t plan on putting in the effort to get there for something he cares so little about. “Maybe I’ll just wait for you to secure your fancy engineering job, marry you and live off your paycheck.”

Esteban shoots him a look that reads ‘fuck no’ clear as day.

----------

The sun sets fully somewhere around eight, Lance starts cooling off at the nine p.m. marker. At some point they lose Pato and David, and then Esteban runs into a group from his major, and then it’s just Lance standing in a sea of American sports cars wondering if he should maybe just go home. He’s feigning interest in a Camaro, lime green with black racing stripes, ugly and gaudy, when someone behind him clears their throat.

“You ride?” the person asks, accented and deep and Lance turns to come face to face with a man who looks right at home amidst the crowd of mid-forties dads showing off their hardly impressive rides. Polo, cargo shorts, and a cap sporting some car brand, Lance thinks he looks a lot like the tourists he’d spotted on his brief visit to Orlando last year. He doesn’t look like the sort of guy who would know anything about motorcycles.

“Uh, yeah.” Lance says, shifts the helmet in his hands so he’s got a tighter grip on it. The guy follows the movement, watches Lance’s hand flex, follows the line of his vein up his arm until he reaches Lance’s eyes again.

“What bike?”

Lance swallows, feels a bit like he’s being interrogated with how the guys brown eyes are staring into his.

“Suzuki 650.”

“Your first?”

“Yeah,” the same one he’s had since his freshman year, stored in storage while he’s gone for the summer and then taken back out when he comes back down. It’s reliable, and Lance has other bikes back home, but he likes this one, likes that it feels like he’s worn it in. “It’s custom,” he adds, defensively, can feel this guy sizing him up.

“Yes?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a moment where Lance thinks that might be the end, the guy will decide there’s no further conversation to be had and then be on his way. He isn’t sure if that would be a bad thing or not, is still trying to maintain eye contact and try not to step back any further against the Camaro behind him.

When the guy offers his hand to shake Lance is afraid to take it, knows his free palm is clammy, doesn’t want to give himself away.    

“I’m Fernando.”

“Lance,” he shakes, hopes the guy will assume it’s the heat, not the nerves setting Lance on edge. This is the most eye contact he’s had to maintain since his plane landed back in Florida two weeks ago. It’s unyielding too, like the guy is trying to win a contest Lance hadn’t realized he’d entered.

“Lance,” Fernando says, testing it, “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too. Do you- do you ride?” Fernando seems to have some understanding, looked decently impressed when Lance mentioned his custom ride. And he wasn’t asking about the cars on display, but instead the bike that Lance wasn’t even near.

Finally he looks away, back to the helmet, back to the way Lance is gripping it with a tightening hold. His mouth, which had before been slanted upward into something close to a smile slips a little. Lance watches the movement, categorizes it the way he does every micro expression, because he’s gotten good at reading people over the years and knows hurt when he sees it.

“I used to.”

“Not anymore?”

“Bad knee,” Fernando explains, motions at his right leg. Lance looks down at where the shorts stop just above the joint, can see the faint white lines of scarring amongst leg hair. Surgical incisions, clean and even.

“Oh.”

Fernando doesn’t look that old, not old enough for knee surgery. There’s lines on his face and grey in his beard, but still plenty of color left alongside it. Dark brown stubble and brown hair curling in the humidity beneath his cap. Lance wouldn’t place him above fifty.

“I’m sorry,” he says, for lack of anything better, and because Fernando keeps glancing at Lance’s helmet with something like envy.

“Is okay,” Fernando says with a shrug, smiles sadly.

And maybe it’s because Lance is feeling lonely, abandoned by his friends, or maybe it’s because something in Fernando’s expression is familiar, he offers, “Do you- do you want to see it? My bike?”

----------

“What happened here?” Fernando asks, pointing at the scuffed paint along the right side of the gas tank, finger tracing the slightly dented spot where matte black has given way to exposed metal.

Lance could have gotten it fixed, but he liked that the bike had character, liked that it was a little imperfect. At least he thought he did, now he just feels like a teenager with their first beat-up car driven off the used car lot.

He laughs, embarrassed, palms at the back of his neck as his cheeks warm, “I, uh, I dumped it freshman year.”

Fernando looks up at him, arches an eyebrow, smiles like he knows the feeling. And then he waits for Lance to continue.

“Yeah, it, uh, it was stupid. Or I was stupid. I was driving around the loop on campus, at school, hit a patch of dirt, it just slid out from under me.” It was his first time falling off the bike, only a week after he had gotten it. And because he’d only been going from the main campus to his dorm he hadn’t bothered to wear gloves, or his jacket, ended up with road burn and an arm ran raw and bloody for his stupidity. He still had some scarring, faint, but there.

"Ouch,” Fernando says, still tracing the damaged spot with an index finger.

Lance watches him, swallows, takes the moment where Fernando isn’t looking at him to study the muscles of his arms straining against the cuff of his polo. And then Fernando shoots him a quick glance and he’s darting to look away like he’s been caught. He maybe has been, if the way Fernando smirks is any indication.

Lance blames Pato, the empty spot in the parking lot where his car was a few hours ago, taking the promise of a blowjob in the backseat with him. And leaving Lance standing in the shadows cast by the street lamps and palm trees dotting the lot, beside a man whose name he knows and little else. When Fernando shifts closer, until his weight is pressing against the side of Lance’s right arm, Lance doesn’t pull away. Instead, he lets Fernando get close enough that the smell of him is almost overwhelming, sharp cologne invading his senses.

“So what’s custom?” Fernando asks, snapping Lance back enough that he can focus on the asphalt beneath him and the bike in front of him, enough that he remembers they’re two doors down from a still open Best Buy.

In his mind he is drafting a strongly worded text to Pato, outwardly, he is pointing at all the pieces of the bike that his father had spent a small fortune on and watching Fernando’s impressed expression grow. Fernando doesn’t pull away, Lance doesn’t make space, and when Fernando mentions the Aston Pato had been ogling earlier in the night is his, Lance follows him to it with blatant interest. He pretends to care about the car, up until Fernando asks him if he wants to go for a ride, and he knows he can drop the act.

----------

They end up on the other side of the outlets, tucked beside a dumpster near the Barnes and Noble and an abandoned Asian restaurant. Lance isn’t picky, doesn’t need to be wined and dined, is perfectly okay with grinding against a guy in the backseat of his Aston Martin and letting his sweat soak into the leather. His jacket and helmet have been dumped in the passenger’s seat, his t-shirt pulled over his head and lost somewhere on the floorboard.

Lance is straddling Fernando’s lap, his head bent against the roof of the car, his neck angled just enough that Fernando can get better access to the junction where his jaw meets his carotid. In terms of hook-ups, it’s not his craziest, though Fernando may be the oldest. He didn’t ask for an age, was content enough with Fernando still having color in his hair. And it didn’t much matter once the man got a hand around his cock.

“Fuck,” he pants, grinding down on Fernando’s growing length beneath him before thrusting back up into the warm grip of his hand. His head thunks against the roof with the movement, causing Fernando to laugh, breathy and warm against his neck.

“Come here,” He instructs, pulls down Lance until he’s resting his head against Fernando’s shoulder and curled over. The position severely limits his ability to grind against Fernando, makes it so that he’s the only one deriving any real pleasure from this scenario.

“Is okay,” Fernando says when he tries to voice that, continues to stroke the length of his cock without pause.

Lance bites his bottom lip to muffle a whine. His jeans are the only thing still on him, and just barely, pulled down and pooled around one ankle. Fernando is still fully clothed, obvious bulge in his shorts. Lance feels exposed, raw, so close that he can feel the orgasm building in his stomach.

“I’m close,” he pants, cries almost. It is better than he and Pato’s backseat escapades, better because Fernando smells likes sharp clean cologne and there’s no exercise equipment digging into his back from being pressed into the seats. Better because Fernando twists his wrist a certain way and Lance can’t stop the cry from escaping him.

“Please,” he begs, leans back enough that he can look at Fernando, only to be pulled back in by the nape of his neck – into a bruising kiss that makes him realize he’s maybe never been really kissed before. Fernando tastes how he smells, sharp. When Lance opens his mouth to pant Fernando’s name, it’s the man’s tongue that silences him, licks behind his teeth and explores him like he’s trying to learn the shape of his mouth. Lance lets him, finds he is eager to do so.

Pato doesn’t kiss him, it’s a rule they have, a fragile divide that maintains their friendship. Lance didn’t realize how much he had been missing.

When Fernando pulls away a trail a spit connects them, until it breaks and lands cool and wet against his chin. Lance doesn’t wipe it away, lets it stay there as his eyes flutter open and he’s staring into steady brown, turned dark in the shadows.

“You’re beautiful,” Fernando praises, lips slick with spit and eyes shining with praise, and Lance cums like that. His spine arching, his body tensing, Fernando coaxing him through it until he goes boneless and slack, cum streaked across his stomach and trailing down Fernando’s hand, his arm, dripping onto the leather seats beneath them.

“’m sorry,” he pants, eyes darting to the pearly mess dotting the brown leather, “Your seat.”

Fernando glances at it, uncaring, quickly looks back at Lance and trails a hand down the front of his chest, tracing along the skin as Lance’s chest heaves with the breath he’s trying to regain.  

“Don’t worry,” he says, smiles, the same smile he’d shot Lance’s way back by his bike, the smile that told Lance this would be where they ended up. He trails a hand back up Lance’s chest, his neck, settles against his jaw and traces a thumb along his cheekbone. Lance leans into the touch, finds he doesn’t mind it, finds he maybe wants it to stay for longer than a backseat hookup should. Fernando indulges him, lets him catch his breath before he suggests moving.

Lance slides off of him, falls back onto the seat, tries to maneuver in the cramped space to slide his boxers and jeans back on. Fernando passes him his shirt, pulled from the depths of the floorboard, rumpled and dirty from their shoes catching on the fabric. There’s still cum on his stomach, drying cool, he glances at it, at Fernando.

He’s about to ask if Fernando has a napkin, an old receipt, anything, but all words quickly leave him when Fernando leans down and licks the mess away. His tongue, warm and wet against Lance’s stomach.

“Oh,” Lance chokes, feels Fernando laugh against him.

“Better?” he asks when he’s done, sits up and eyes Lance like he’s asking for a five star review on an uber ride.

Lance nods, mouth slightly agape, eyes wider than he means for them to be. Like a shocked cow, he can hear Pato teasing in his head, his big brown eyes and dumbfounded expression matching that of the creature. He swallows, tries to regain some composure.

“Do you- do you want me to-“ he motions at Fernando’s cock, the bulge still there.

Fernando shakes his head, “No, you will get me next time, yes?”

Lance chokes again, “Next time?”

“Unless no?”

Back propped against the door, handle digging into his back, legs spread out before him like he’s forgotten how to make them work, Lance shakes his head.

“No! No, I mean, yes. Yes. Yes to next time,” his hands fumble for his phone in his pocket, and then he’s holding it out to Fernando like a demand. Fuck Pato. Fuck his backseat. Fuck shitty blowjobs when they’re both too drunk to swallow properly. He’s beginning to see the appeal of this Aston Martin now.

Fernando laughs again, warm, endeared. It’s slow and drawn out and all the things that Lance isn’t. It’s easy in all the ways Lance isn’t.  

Lance kisses him when Fernando drops him back off at his bike, leaned over the console, and tastes himself on Fernando’s tongue.

“Drive safe,” Fernando says.

Lance does the speed limit the whole way home.

[seaweedstarshine]

Hi! Long time no yap but I've been really bothered by this thing and I know you're just the person I can go to with this (even if we don't always end up agreeing at times).

I got into a tiff with someone in a comments section of a post that was about Amy (Which character do you think deserved to become a villain? or something similar). They brought up Amy's abuse of her boyfriend. I may have tried to defend Amy (key word is tried. I am officially rubbish at debating) but then I may have said something? Because they said that I (and apparently a lot of other fans) was excusing Amy's abuse because of her trauma. It got me stumped because isn't young Amy's treatment of Rory rooted in her trauma? Did I miss the memo where we separate trauma and abuse? Am I missing something?

That statement bothered me a lot because if there's one thing I never want to do it's defend an abuser. So here I am, humbly asking and hoping to clear the muddy waters.

Your really confused and disturbed moot, Tia 💌

TIA!!!!! Thanks for the ask 💌 , and I send you all the hugs.

Discussion of abuse, trauma, ableism, infidelity, and unhealthy relationship dynamics beneath the cut.

(First off… while I really appreciate your faith in my explaining skills <3 <3 <3 my passion for traumatized characters and mentally ill+neurodivergent rights doesn't make me especially qualified to fully clear muddy waters especially not knowing the full context, but I feel you, and what follows is my informed perspective!)

Speaking generally first, harm done in media is best examined by the impact on the audience, with a different lens than harm done to real people. While relatable experiences in media can be useful and validating and incredibly important, you can’t be “defending an abuser” when the abuse is fictional. It's actually normal for traumatized/ND/mentally ill people to project onto mentally ill villains, when villains are the only significant representation for those stigmatized symptoms in a media landscape that excludes and demonizes us simply for existing. RTD can't stop people who hallucinate from reclaiming the Master's Drums and projecting onto the Master, for example — 90% of the best Doctor Who psychosis fic by psychotic authors is about the Master, whether RTD likes it or not. It's not true crime.

(This is speaking generally. Amy Pond is very much not the Master.)

Abuse is a behavior, and there can be many reasons for it, but reasons based in trauma don’t make it not abuse (some forms of generational trauma can propagate abusive parenting styles, when the parent thinks abusive parenting is normal, or lives entirely vicariously through their child). This absolutely should not be taken to mean trauma correlates with abusive behavior; rather that abusive behaviors from traumatized people are more likely to present in specific ways.

Abuse is also a targeted behavior, based in control — not consistently displayed C-PTSD symptoms as seen in Season 5 Amy Pond through many aspects of her life. Mental health symptoms don't become abuse just because they hinder one partner from meeting the other partner's needs. Any life event can do that.

Without knowing the context of the arguments, this is the aspect of their relationship I've seen you talk about before (which I also feel strongly about), and what I assume is what you were debating? So, here I will talk specifically in regard to Season 5.

We all know Amy — she's never attached to Leadworth because she never wanted to leave Scotland, no steady therapist because none of them stick up for her, can't stick with one job yet her first choice is a job that simulates intimacy because her avoidant behavior (a known trauma response) isn't sustainable to her wellbeing. Rory knows her fears of commitment stem from her repeated abandonments, it’s why he’ll always wait for her, and it's why he blames the Doctor “You make it so they don't want to let you down.”, who apart from having caused a lot of her trauma, has actively taken advantage of her being the “Scottish girl in the English village” who's “still got that accent,” because he wants to feel important, so yeah, I think interpreting Amy's issues (and how Amy and Rory transverse them) as Amy abusing Rory indicates a fundamental misunderstanding of their relationship, as well as a misunderstanding of the (raggedy) Doctor’s role in Amy’s formative self-image (which of course she works through in Season 6, but I am sticking to Season 5).

Abuse is always based in control. That just doesn’t fit here. While Amy's detachment from her real life includes things like calling Rory her “kind of boyfriend” (which she is upfront about to his face; differing commitment levels isn't abuse, though it can be a relationship red flag for both parties IRL) — her Season 5 disregard of Rory’s feelings occurs only in response to the fairytale embodiment of her trauma. It's never a response to Rory; it's a response to the Doctor, who stole her childhood and led her by the hand to her death. She cheats on Rory with the Doctor in her bedroom full of Doctor toys, drawings, models, she made from childhood to early adulthood.

(And yes, like many repeatedly-traumatized people, Amy is prone to being sensitive and reactive. Take her “Well, shut up then!” line in The Big Bang; but given Rory responds to this by hugging her, clearly he doesn’t take it as her actually dismissing him. He knows her better than that.)

And by no means do I meant to imply this is fair to young Rory, poor Rory, who's left struggling with the feeling that his role in her life is in competition with the role of her trauma (aka the Doctor). But not every unhealthy relationship dynamic is unhealthy because of abuse. Labelling Amy's treatment of Rory in Season 5 more accurately isn't the same as excusing her harmful choices — but making mistakes is part of being human, Amy's mistakes are certainly understandable, and she works through them out of love for Rory.

If there's one thing to say about Moffat women, it's that Moffat allows his female characters the same grace that the male characters *coughTENcough* have always had, to hurt and struggle and make realistic mistakes and overcome those mistakes and to heal without being demonized.

Amy isn't perfect, but she is a fully realized character, and her story gives us a resonant depiction of childhood trauma.

[reuptakeinhibitor]

i love stobin working retail jobs and sharing a resume so much but consider this. steve follows robin to bloomington, indianapolis, west lafayette, wherever she decides to go and they get a little apartment. maybe they decide to go out of state but i think they stay in the midwest. then st takes a page from buffy and steve works construction while robin goes to school.

[tls123]

i know wei wuxian is first pick as god/personification of death etc. etc. (duh, perfect choice, so sexy) but i would like to propose jiang cheng for the part. in the same way elizabeth swann is death from that one post about her kisses damning the men she loves

in the way everything he touches and everything he loves seems to be doomed (sect, parents, sister, brother)

wei wuxian as life!!! as god of life!!! coming back, unkillable. life giving (core transfer, wen ning, etc.)*

jin ling doesn't die because at the end of the story, at the guanyin temple, wei wuxian is there too. to protect him the same way he protected jiang cheng

and this is why he (wei wuxian) has to go back to being yunmeng jiang's head disciple, in this essay i will—

*i'm not saying he lives well, but he lives! he fucking claws and crawls and fights his way out of the burial mounds, he just doesn't fucking quit** you know what i mean

**until he does, but that's a choice he makes.

[buttercup-barf]

Under the cut are mostly self-insert doodles of decreasing quality. Again, not much directly tied to Team Fortress 2. Might as well toss these out while I have no access to my puter. Much yapping under the cut and in the tags incoming.

Another self-insert, this time less of a "here's me as a tenth class" and more of a "here's my game experiences translated into the class I would take the place of". The Cleaner. Although I guess they could still be wearing either suit. It doesn't matter that much.

That one Convict's Case taunt with Backup would be extremely funny, because the man would be on the verge of a breakdown (he does not want to go to jail so bad you have no idea). The second image- I owe no explanation. You know what I am. You see the pattern with my favourites.

The duality of the man. Resting face versus "just heard you express interest in religion/Russian folklore" face. He's not that hard to make friends with, when you pull him away from all the explosions.

Some doodles of trying to figure his face out. Unfortunately, the more I stare at him, the more I worry that he looks like A Certain Guy With The Last Name "Kazarin", and the fear of never being original in my life caught up to me.

Don't look at me, don't perceive me, I refuse to explain any of my actions to you.

[empressofthewind]

something that i've found really surprising about the death note fandom is how much discussion there is surrounding characters' religious affiliations & the religious imagery throughout the text, but how little the shinigami seem to be brought up in those conversations. in 20 years of fandom i would imagine that's something that's come up before, and maybe there have been recent discussions that i've just happened to miss, but it's not something i've personally come across in posts around the topic of religion in death note and it seems like a pretty significant thing to leave out

[wellhalesbells]

I would read your Meg 2 fic

So far it's you, me, my bestie, and a frog - ngl, seems like a damn good group 🤙🏻

[thethingything]

I keep noticing our brain being a little iffy about a couple of things today that I think we'd been repressing a lot lately and that's not ideal because it means we'll probably unrepress it more and be upset about it later, but at the same time it's like, oh hello there, I know this particular sadness. I've spent a lot of time with it and I recognise it whenever it comes back and I'm less surprised to see it again and more surprised it went away for this long. time to spend another evening with it and be gentle with ourselves and just let our brain feel whatever it needs to

[driftpng]

it feels kind of weird being an artist that mainly draws animal people n anthros & that being the main kind of thing people usually come to my page for, but not being able to relate to like most of the furry community in general (specifically when it comes to art + kind of characters i draw)

[some-teeth-in-a-trench-coat]

Do you ever consider doing something nice, going out of your way to help out or just brighten the day of someone you know, but then you remember you never do that, and suddenly you feel awkward, what if they ask why you're suddenly doing such a thing, what's the occasion, are you trying to bribe them, and then you just don't do it, continuing to establish a patterns where you never do that thing so that every time you consider it, you feel they would see it as some grand gesture, something out of the ordinary that gets more attention than you feel you deserve? A cycle of inaction and fear of being seen leaving the apathetic role you built for yourself back when you were someone who wanted play it. You want to be someone else, you want to grow past the expectations you've given others for yourself, but you don't want anyone to notice the change. Why do you recoil at the mere thought of contradicting someone's expectation, even in a positive way? What are you afraid of?

[yourfourthparent]

something interesting about dick riordan is how he never compares white characters to food in physical descriptions but when a character of colour is white passing he still finds a way to compare them to food. it won't be about their skin but it'll be about their hair or their eyes. and yet he doesn't do it with white folks. huh. i wonder why that is (sarcastic).