#champagne bracket finals

[blond-jerk-tourney]

Champagne Bracket: Bracket Finals

Propaganda from submitters Under Cut

Sharpay Evans

Blonde, HSM antagonist but it was never that deep

vote for Sharpay right now she fought sasuke

Kristoph Gavin

tried to kill a 12 year old girl and her father, also killed some other guy because he lost to him at poker

Quick propaganda for kristoph because he fascinates me and i need to show off how insane he is: when a client choose another defense attorney over him he used an 8 yo to hand that attorney forged evidence. he then proceeded to use his prosecutor little brother to make sure the court knows the attorney used forged evidence, thus making him lose his career. he then proceeded to play 5d chess with said attorney for 7 years, all hidden under the label 'friends'. he tried killing the 12 yo who forged the evidence but ended up killing her dad 7 years later instead, but he had a plan b and still managed to almost kill the girl. when he met the client that i mentioned at the beginning again, he murdered him. he's manipulative as hell and wants to be the best with the most power and everything that he did said above was literally out of Pettiness for that one attorney, and also to cover himself up (not so successfully since he does end up caught)

[kechiwrites]

tepid

nanami kento x reader! kinktober countdown day 7 (b d s m)

synopsis: “I’m looking for someone to give me control.” He expects his statement to draw some sort of response out of you, but your face remains placid and cool, the only hint that he’s said anything, the gentle upcurve at the corner of your lips. Kento finds himself wanting to muss up your curated exterior, wants to crush that tepid facade under the rough surface of his fingers.

wc: 2.8k

cw: fem + afab!reader but no gendered language, bdsm + D/s dynamics, sex worker!reader, salary man!kento, angst, potentially unrequited love, mentions of unprotected sex, begging, oral sex (m!receiving), jealousy, bondage, brat-taming, toys, mdni.

author's note: FINALLY DONE. JESUS. writing/doing research for medic reader x ghost, then touched starved konig, really impressed on me how powerful saying a man’s name can be. they love that shit. thank you to kitten for proofing and to ketsl + kee for helping originate this story and giving me tiktoks as fuel.

The waitress places a teacup in front of you, plain white, with a matching saucer. The steam of which coils upwards and dissipates before it can graze your chin. Your posture is upright, but not rigid and Kento finds himself correcting his slouch to mirror you. Your ‘thank you’ to her is accompanied with a blindingly bright smile, visibly jarring the waitress, who must face the gruff, deep terseness of truckers all day. She smiles back, turning and retreating with a lighter step than when she came.

Your grin tapers down to a lukewarm smile when you face him again, and it makes Kento ache, though for what, he’s not quite sure. “I think we should start with what you’re looking for, Nanami.”

Your words from the week before ring in his mind;

He brought his champagne flute to yours, eyes twinkling under the ballroom’s low lighting. The blue of your dress is nearly black, and it wraps your figure perfectly, cresting over hip and thigh as though it was made for you. Hell, with the average tax bracket of the guests surrounding the two of you, it could’ve been. 

“And what is it you do?” his question seems to startle you for a moment, and your eyes swing to the side of him, looking for your date, he presumes. Quickly, however, you school your features into a warm kind of indifference. 

“There are people who need to cede their control, to relax. And people who want control ceded to them by someone. I’m that someone.” You bring your glass to your bottom lip, drinking deeply, to avoid further explanation, or to buy yourself time, Kento isn’t sure. Still, the realization of what you mean, what your career is, and potentially why you’re here, sends a tingle down his spine, curls warm and heavy in his stomach. Urges him to take your business card when it’s offered, and make the arrangements to meet with you a week later.

“I’m looking for someone to give me control.” He expects his statement to draw some sort of response out of you, but your face remains placid and cool, the only hint that he’s said anything, the gentle upcurve at the corner of your lips. Kento finds himself wanting to muss up your curated exterior, wants to crush that tepid facade under the rough surface of his fingers.

“I’m sure I can help you with that.”

He settles for tearing at the napkin under his coffee mug.

✧

When you meet again, it’s to discuss your terms. Time with you costs a pretty penny and if Kento was so dead set on what he had pitched in the diner, he was looking at a very extended payment plan. 

He drags his spoon across the bottom of his coffee cup, stirring at the remaining sugar, unmelted at the bottom. He’d added it too late. He hates that. 

“How long will you need me, Kento?” You ask. You keep saying his name, over and over. 

“Do you frequent this place often, Kento?”

“Have you done this before, Kento?” 

“Do you know what you want, Kento?”

It drives him crazy, gives him this frantic itch at the back of his knee so bad that it makes him jostle the limb, like he’s a dog, eager for a treat. For attention.

It’s that itch that keeps him from saying “forever”. From insisting on something he just knows you can’t give. 

“Three months. I want three months. Not everyday, just-”

“Regularly.“ you cut him off. “I understand, Kento.” Your smile is so sweet. Unmelted crystals of sugar, smeared between your nose and chin.

“No one else.” He mutters, chin tucked to his chest, gaze snagged on the candy red linoleum, where he rereads the same scratched in message. 

‘thee hotties were here.’

It forces an exhale out of his nose, and when he can finally bring himself to stare at you, he’s relieved to see the smile you gave the waitress. But this time, it’s for him.

“No one else.” You agree. And Kento feels like he’s breathing for the first time since he sat down.

✧

“So…” Kento tests one of the straps holding your limbs in place. It’s thick, dark, leather, the expensive kind you have to order from a specialty shop in Amsterdam. 

“So…” you respond, and you’re on your knees, nearly naked, at the foot of the lush, grand hotel bed (neutral ground, you’d said) and Kento is above you, standing, not naked. But you have the power here, you’re the one with experience, with stories, with the do’s and the don’t’s, and the not ever’s, not even once.

It’s not quite what he envisioned, and it’s nothing like the porn he watched. But you with that wide belt around your waist? With matching cuffs attached, cuffs that he helped you put your ankles into, that he secured the buckles for? It’s better. Better than the wet dreams and the research and the tight fist around the base of his cock the day after you first spoke in the diner. 

He crosses his arms and just stares, eating up the visual. 

“What?” You ask, wetting your bottom lip with your tongue. “You don’t like attitude?”

And he doesn’t know what he likes. But he knows he wants to learn. 

You start slow, taking him through the motions, explaining what exactly you have experience with, what both of your limits are, what his safe word should be, what he wants out of this.

And then, after all the discussion is said and done, he fucks your throat on and off for an hour.

After session one, you and Kento decide on twice a week.

✧

It turns out, Kento does not like “attitude”. But he does like reform. Likes for you to start sessions with a foul mouth, with rolling eyes and put upon sighs and ribs about him being an old man. Then he likes to fuck it out of you. Overwork your body until the only thing you can do is tremble underneath his palms. He likes to use his knee to press a wand to your clit until you soak the thigh of his dress pants, then he likes to up the setting from two to four and watch your chest cave in on itself. 

He likes to guide your limbs into a spreader bar and slide his tongue from the cleft of your ass to your clit. Adores watching you count the strokes of his dick inside you when your bent in half so he can fuck you in a mating press.

Kento likes the way your skin looks against shiny black leather and pristine white bed sheets. He likes how you look in lacey lilac lingerie with his favourite tie stuffed in your mouth. 

But above all, Kento loves how you look with his hands on you, on your throat, across your back, guiding your head down, or your hips up. His fingers inside you, his palm wrapped around your wrists, his forearms holding up your thighs. 

You make the dwindling amount in his savings worth it. 

You make his nights seem less lonely.

You give him something to look forward to.

✧

It’s nearly a month into your arrangement. Nine sessions, nine nights in the same hotel room, or one that looks exactly like it. Nine meetings in the lobby, nine instances of you looping your arm around Kento’s and walking together to the front desk, then to the elevators. Nine times Kento has peered over your shoulder and into the large leather purse you bring with you every time, eager to see what you’ve planned for him today. It’s always a surprise, unless he’s looked something up and texted it to you, or gotten something express shipped. 

But this time, the tenth time, things are different. This time he meets you at the station by his apartment, at 6 PM on the dot. This time when you walk arm in arm, he gets eight glorious minutes of it. This time, he doesn’t have to check in with the front desk receptionist with the icy eyes and disingenuous smile who always seems to be working when Kento rents a room. 

This time, you've both taken adequate measures, sharing clear bills of health and a firm set of boundaries, everything in place for Kento to forgo condoms for the first time. The hotel you regularly use for your sessions just didn’t seem concrete enough, felt hopelessly sterile, anonymous. And Kento likes to think you like him just a little bit more than your average hotel room client.

He has to think that way, or he’d never have the courage to see you again.

So at his behest, you’re in his space, in his drab beige and white apartment and he can hardly believe it. You drape your jacket over the back of one of his unremarkable dining chairs, and the sleek brown leather simultaneously blends in and stands out, he eyeballs it, while you look around, hears you comment on the amount of books he has everywhere, but he can’t respond, can’t part his gaze from the indelible foreignness of your things in his home. And when you catch him staring at the coat before he can casually look away, you fret aloud.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Kento. Should I have hung it up?” He watches you frown, your eyebrows coming together, separated by a miniscule wrinkle. He’s never seen that expression on you before.

He shakes his head, head already in a daze. You’re a worrier. You wring your hands. 

He hadn’t known that.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he gets closer, tears his eyes from your clothing and approaches. Instead of assuring you he doesn’t mind, could not care less, the salaryman puts his hands on you, watches you sink into familiar territory, watches your eyes darken and your lips part and Kento Nanami nearly preens when you shiver. 

“I’ll feed you.” He speaks softly, and he kisses you. Then quickly amends; “After.”

And it might be too much. Too intimate, to share a meal after you let him smack you across the face, and wrap his hand around your throat, and press his thumb over your tongue and fuck you unprotected.

But he doesn’t care.

And neither, it seems, do you.

“After.” You repeat. “Sounds good.” 

And you smile.

✧

Three days after his tenth session with you, he sees you, outside, in regular clothing, not a ball gown or lingerie or nothing at all, but in a black t-shirt and baggy, soft looking jeans, and you’re blinking and smiling and laughing with some man. You’re in a coffee shop across from his workplace, and he can see you from his office’s window. (They’re small time, only on the second floor of a mega-corporation building, and up until that very moment, he had liked being able to see other people from his cubicle).

The man gets up, and Kento hopes he stumbles into the street and gets hit by a car, not hard enough to kill him, but hard enough that he can’t leave the hospital for a few days. 

He returns shortly, with a drink for you, in a large white to-go cup. You don’t ask him anything. Don’t check the cup for details, you just take a sip and smile, slow and satisfied.

Kento blows out a large breath, turns to his desk and fishes out a small, amber pill bottle boasting the illegible, worn-down name of a medication ending in -loft or -pril or -pene. He tips it directly into his mouth, crunching down on two pills before he chucks the bottle across the room.

Kento doesn’t know how you take your coffee. If you even drink it at all. You had tea at the diner, and he was so busy with his own drink, with his own neurosis, he doesn’t remember what you added. 

He calls you. Watches you pick up the phone and excuse yourself to the street outside.

Now, you meet four times a week. He starts doing overtime again.

✧

“Say it.” All the lights are off in your bedroom, save a salt lamp glowing pink on your end table in the corner. It hadn’t stopped Kento from eating up every detail of how you lived with his eyes. He saw the few pieces of underwear you’d shoved under your bed. The one pot of soup? Pasta sauce? You’d left unwashed on your stovetop. The framed picture of you and your mother or aunt or older cousin on your overstuffed dresser.

It had to be one of those. The resemblance was undeniable. 

“Please.” You gasp, and wrench up off your bed, trying in vain to fight against the thick leather restraints keeping you spread eagle before him. The rabbit vibrator inside is blush pink and vibrating at full speed so deep inside you, twisted so it won’t touch your clit.

“You’re better than that, you beg better than that. Don’t make me drag it out of you. Beg. Me.” Kento can hear himself, can hear just how untethered, frayed he sounds. Every downward strike of his hand against your inner thighs is accompanied by a flash of you sipping from that godforsaken off-white coffee cup and smiling like the man from the coffee shop understands you, warm, comfortable. 

Does he know who the woman in the photo with you is? 

“Ken, Sir. Please, please let me come. I’m sorry for being a brat. Please.”

“Who gives you what you need?” He crouches down, sliding a finger along the straining line of your throat. Your lips are slick with your own spit, he’d enjoyed the gag for a bit, but your voice desperately warbling his name would always be better than the visual stimulation. Tear tracks have dried at the corners of your eyes, remnants of the first orgasm he’d ruined for you.

You are so goddamn pretty.

“You do.” You hiss, body arched and shaking, as if you could move the vibrator yourself if you fidgeted enough. He could hear how wet you were, could see beads of sweat pearl on your heated skin,

“Always?”

“Always.” 

✧

Meals after, sometimes before, become a regular occurrence. Usually Kento cooks for you. Sometimes you cook for him. Once, and never again, you got to his place before him, hefting a paper bag of groceries he insisted on compensating you for. When you called him, he had only a few minutes left at work, and the station was so close. So he told you where he kept his extra key. Told you to let yourself in. And you had. 

And when Kento got home, bone tired and overworked and wanting nothing more than to press his mouth to yours for hours, you welcomed him home. Eyes bright, smile hot and melting and so sincere.

And you had made dinner. For the both of you.

✧

“It was a pleasure serving you Kento.” You’re huddled in a winter coat, and briefly, Kento thinks about how fast the weather turned, how you chatted and teased and charmed a man that wasn’t him in a t-shirt two months ago, and now your arrangement with him is ending and you needed a scarf, and gloves. 

“Mm. I enjoyed our time together.” He feels like a liar, feels like the pills he took before this weren’t enough, He can hear his blood roar in his ears. Cold bites through his coat. His nose is probably red. He hates that, reminds him of being a child, small and out of control and sniffling with a fever, at home, missing school. 

Unmelted sugar in cooling barley tea.

“I…” You peter off, and frown. You stick your hands in your pocket and shrug. “Do you want to hug? I think we should…” You don’t finish that sentence either, you just open your arms at him and approach. Wrap your arms around him and squeeze. And Kento doesn’t like PDA, finds it uncomfortable and embarrassing, but he thinks if the two of you stayed on the sidewalk, hugging forever, that would be fine too. He wonders if the people sidestepping around you on the sidewalk think you’re a couple. Think you’re married. 

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

He can smell your hair. 

When you finally pull back, you stare at him, eyes wide, mouth tense. So he kisses your lips, and it’s obviously not the first time, he can kiss you whenever he wants, tilt your head back and slide his tongue into your eager, panting mouth when he fucking feels like it. Because he pays for it.

But he didn’t pay for this one. He drinks from your mouth again, once, twice, three times. Sucks and bites at the surface of your bottom lip and he would chew and swallow every bit of expensive Dutch leather you own to do it for the rest of his life.

✧

“Three more months,” he says, when you answer the phone two weeks later, and he can hear his own heartbeat when you don’t immediately respond. 

“I-if you’re sure.” You answer, and it’s the first time you’ve deferred to him outside of play. Gave him an out. No sugar crystal smile in tepid coffee. 

He wishes he could see your face.

“I’m sure.”

so...how are we holding up? :) find the rest of the masterlist here.

[butmakeitgayblog]

for the reverse trope writing: divorce of convenience (something new or an au of your choice, both sound fun!)

Her eyes watch as the ink bleeds slowly into the paper. They watch neat, slanted script combine in the fragmented loops and dashes that make up that achingly familiar signature. X marks the spot. On the dotted line. Not a single scribble out of place; right where the lawyer had highlighted it in garish neon yellow.

Forever and ever.

They were eleven, and it's promising to always be best friends. The kind that stick together through thick and thin. Like white on rice, as their teacher  often said. 

Forever and ever.

They were fifteen, and it's smiling with the awkwardness of young love. The kind that sets fire to racing hearts from a first kiss stolen behind their school's abandoned gymnasium. 

Forever and ever.

They were seventeen, and it's shaking hands that still can't believe they get to touch their best friends that way. The kind of way that makes them both let out hungry sounds and pretty moans in the backseat of her dad's station wagon.

Forever and ever.

They were nineteen, and it's stiff-jawed goodbyes through desperate kisses. The kind rotten with promises that this isn't the end. That it's just a ‘see you later’, but never goodbye. Not for them.

Forever and ever.

They were twenty-eight, and it's handwritten vows and white satin gowns with matching bridal bouquets. The kind that they picked out together to remind them that all this was worth it, that it's finally the day they'd been planning for since their junior year in college. The culmination of sleepless nights and teary phone calls from three states away.

Forever and ever.

They were thirty, and it's whispering in the nursery  of their freshly furnished house, standing wrapped in each other's arms at the edge of an adorably small bassinet. The kind decked out in purple frills with sunshine yellow along the trim, because they'd agreed from the first plus sign to not know the sex. It's fingers running through brown curls carefully enough not to wake their baby up, while watching lashes twitch in dreaming that hide those baby blue eyes. The exact shape and shade that'd had them both wrapped around a tiny pinky from the start. 

Forever and ever.

They are fifty-four, and it's an empty nest that's too quiet in the house that sometimes feels too big. The kind they'd joked about missing for years, but now that it's here, they don't entirely know what to do with it. 

It's medical bills, and denied claims for benefits, and meetings with stuffy lawyers who explain the finer points of income brackets. It's physical therapy visits and losing her job at the hospital and endless prescriptions that never seem to be covered by their insurance. It's everything, and all the time, because life refuses to slow down for even one damn second, despite a hip that simply will not work anymore. 

They are fifty-four, and Clarke never thought she'd be here. That they'd make this kind of choice. Never thought she'd feel quite this stuck. Quite this useless. Never thought she'd be in this situation at all.

But it's clean and it's neat, just the way they like it. A mutual agreement for them both. A fresh start after the accident, one that'll let them move on with their lives, instead of trying to hang on to this thing that only leaves them drowning. 

At least that's what they'd agreed. 

She watches her wife— her ex-wife, dot the i's of her name with an overly dramatic flourish. Watches her click the pen with her thumb and toss it aside with a sigh from deep in her bones.

She smiles and feels her chest squeeze with that familiar pang of deep friendship and love.

“Cheers,” Clarke says, holding up her flute of champagne. 

She'd had to hobble through four different specialty liquor stores just to find it, but it'd felt fitting to toast the signing of their divorce papers with the same bubbly they'd shared on their wedding day.

Lexa picks up her glass and clinks it soundly against hers, only managing the barest sip around a smile of her own. “Cheers, single lady.”

“Mm. This is good.”

“Even better than I remember from the first time,” Lexa agrees as her gaze makes a lazy rake over Clarke's body.

It's not lost on Clarke how ridiculous it is to be blushing over the signed stack of her divorce papers, but something about the way Lexa looks at her has always set her on fire. 

“So,” she tries, casually, setting aside her cane and leaning heavier against the kitchen table, “what are you going to do next?”

Lexa takes another sip of her champagne, watching her closely over the rim. She swallows with a flex of that elegant throat and shuffles closer, sets her glass down on Clarke's other side, effectively boxing her in. 

“Go to Disneyland.”

The sound of Clarke's snort rings through the kitchen. “Smartass.”

“What about you?” Lexa asks with a bite to her lips, hands still bracketing the sides of Clarke's waist and eyes twinkling with mischief. “Any big plans for the future, newly divorced Ms. Griffin?”

Clarke scoffs. “Nice try. But it's still ‘Ms. Griffin-Woods’ to you.”

“Oh? Is that right?”

“Uhuh,” Clarke nods and loops her arms around Lexa's shoulders. “Sorry not sorry, but I'm never giving that one back.”

Lexa hums and presses closer. Paints her body to Clarke's curves and breathes her in the same way she has for forty years. 

“Greedy, but I think I can live with that.”

“Such a hardship. I seem to remember you loving that about me.”

“Among so many things.”

Clarke moans when Lexa's lips find the hollow dip of her neck, relaxing into the wet warmth of a plump, suckling kiss. Champagne has always made Lexa brazenly affectionate. She tips head back to grant more room and sucks in a gasp at the nibble of teeth. Tangles her fingers in greying, brunette hair that only serves to make her bombshell of a wife look that much more distinguished. 

Well. Her ex-wife, that is…

Hands trail down Clarke's hips and wrap tight around her thighs and before she can yelp a single word she's lifted onto the table. 

Lexa lets out a half-laughed grunt when she gets Clarke settled in place, looking equally as amused as she does grateful that the little maneuver actually still worked after so many years.

“You good, baby?” Clarke chuckles along with her, mindlessly going to rub the shoulder that had started being a pain around birthday forty-seven. “Didn't pop anything, did you?”

“No, I'm good, I'm good,” Lexa says, smiling and shaking off her ill-coordinated prowess like the champ that she is. “That just used to be easier.”

“Is that a crack about my weight?”

“More like a crack about me being old.”

“Oh. Well then yeah.”

“Rude,” Lexa gasps, taking the hips in her hands and pulling them closer. Pressing Clarke firmly against her stomach. “There's still giddy up in this old girl, I'll have you know.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“My, my, Ms. Woods—”

“Griffin-Woods,” Lexa's quick to correct. Suddenly serious in how intensely she stares Clarke in the eyes. “You're not getting that back either.”

They share a look because things like this have never required words. Not for them. But with everything and all of it, with the ink still drying on the paper beside them, Clarke gives in to her last bit of worry. 

“You're still my girl,” she whispers. Swallows. Feels a stinging prickle along her eyes at the sudden need to feel this connection with her favorite person in the world. “Even with me, and having to do all this… You know we're still us, right? You're still my girl?”

Clarke melts into the kiss she knows is coming because she knows this woman better than anybody, and it feels more like a promise that nothing could ever break them than any piece of paper ever could. She wraps her good leg around Lexa's hip and deepens it, kisses back with every ounce of love her heart has to offer. Cherishes each massage of tongue and slide of lips that have met thousands of times before. 

Lexa kisses her once, twice more, and pulls back with a soothing smile.

“Always, love… Forever and ever.”

[sinkingteethinwhitenoise]

Carpe Noctem - Nick Folio

Pairing: Nick Folio x Celia (fem!OC)

Warnings: SMUT/NSFW 18+ ONLY, oral (fem!receiving), unprotected p in v, kissing, masks, gloves

Word Count: 3k

Carpe Noctem (Latin) ~ Seize the night; Enjoy the pleasures of the night

Celia’s heels clicked on the concrete as she walked up the packed driveway. Her golden hair flowed with the gentle, frigid breeze. A shiver went down her spine. She would blame it on the cold weather, but she knew that every time she approached the dark, castle-like mansion, she would get an eerie feeling. For a moment she thought she should have dressed warmer, feeling much too chilly in her formal wear: a floor length red dress with a high slit, a straight neckline and thin straps. The diamond necklace around her neck and the skinny chain bracket around her wrist felt like ice against her skin. However, she knew that due to the sheer amount of party goers that were bound to be inside would soon have her sweating beneath her red, bejeweled half mask. As she approached the front porch, she saw long, curly black hair being illuminated by the warm, dim light from the sconces on either side of the glossy black front door. A smile crept up onto her glossy red lips as she approached. “Hey Phoebe.”

Phoebe was Celia’s best friend since grade school. And her parents were loaded. Each year they held a masquerade ball on New Year’s Eve in their impressive gothic mansion. Each year, since Celia has been old enough, she attended. And each year the party always seemed to be more extravagant than the last. A happy squeal left Phoebe’s closed lips as she turned and hugged Celia. “Thank God, you finally made it!” She beamed. Celia returned the hug and once they pulled away from each other, Phoebe linked their arms. “Come on! I’ve been dying for a drink.”

The only word that could describe the inside of the mansion was ornate. The walls were painted black. Fine art lined the walls, each piece sat perfectly inside of gold antique frames. Gold sconces lined the walls between every other painting. Each seat was draped in dark red velvet. An elaborate, crystal chandelier hung from the middle of the tall ceiling, sparkling and filling the room with dim, warm light. It was a vampire’s dream estate. 

Celia’s hazel eyes scanned the room as Phoebe led her through crowds of people and to the bar. Men and women were dressed to the nines, all in their best suits and dresses, all in masks. Most wore half masks like herself, others opted for full masks. She knew most of the people in attendance, but she couldn’t pick anyone out of the crowd quite yet, not with the quick rushed glances she was able to take while being dragged to the bar. They finally stopped walking and Phoebe grabbed two crystal champagne flutes, her gloved hand carefully handing one to Celia. 

She brought the crystal to her lips as she scanned the room once more. Some guests were seated, listening to a story told by a tall man in a red suit, hanging onto his every word. Others were standing, chatting in small groups throughout the room. There were couples dancing to a beautiful Waltz, their steps perfectly in sync. And-

There was someone staring at her. 

From across the room she met a set of deep brown eyes behind an all black half mask, it seemed to be textured but from this distance she couldn’t make out the details of it. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. He wore a black dress shirt underneath, no tie in sight, as well as a shiny pair of black loafers. His hands were hidden inside of black leather gloves. His hair was neatly slicked back. The mask was small enough to notice that he had a square jaw and full lips. It was also small enough for her to know that she had never seen this man before. She reached for Phoebe, eyes still locked with the mysterious man’s. “Hey, who’s that?” She questioned. 

By the time Phoebe looked where Celia was looking, the man had turned his head. They both stared for a moment, Phoebe tilting her head before shrugging. “Not sure,” she hummed, turning back to look at Celia. “Maybe someone’s plus one? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before.” 

“And you’re not concerned about that?” Celia looked at her, confused expression hidden by her mask. 

Phoebe shrugged, “Not really. My parents invite more and more people every year.” Then she was waving at someone and rushing off in their direction. She must’ve recognized them even with their mask on. And vice versa. Quickly, Celia downed the rest of her champagne and grabbed a new glass. Then she followed after Phoebe. Odds were that she knew the person too. 

After about an hour of mingling, Celia’s feet were begging her to sit down. She walked around until she found an empty seat and sat down, crossing her legs. She ran her hands across the crushed red velvet she was seated on; it was soft under her fingers. Her mind drifted to the mysterious man that was staring at her earlier. She wondered how he looked under that mask. She wondered if he was actually looking at her. He couldn’t have been. Right? There were so many people around; he could’ve been staring at any one of them. Then why did it feel like they made eye contact?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice that came from right next to her. “Is this seat taken?” 

She looked over to the source of the voice, a man standing beside the chair next to her. Her eyes drifted to his masked face and she realized that it was him. Now that he was closer, she noticed that the texture to his mask were little gears. It reminded her of steampunk.

He stared at her expectantly. She shook her head and motioned at the seat with her hand. A small, closed mouth grin spread across his face as he sat down, not taking his eyes off of her. She felt somewhat…small under his gaze, but somehow…not uncomfortable. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” the man asked.

Celia nodded as she turned to face him completely. “I am. Are you?”

The man nodded. “It’s a nice party,” he murmured. “How come you’re over here by yourself?”

“Oh, I’ve been mingling for the last hour and my feet needed a break,” she said, giving him a soft smile. 

“Yeah? You know a lot of people here?”

“I do,” she nodded. “I’ve been coming to these parties since I was 16.” 

“How old are you now?”

“26.” 

He broke out into a big goofy smile. “Me too,” he beamed. “This is my first time here. My friend invited me. But I lost him pretty much as soon as we walked through the door.” 

“Lots of people, a big house, everyone in masks, it’s pretty easy to lose someone,” she said with a shrug. “So you only know one person here?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. Then he met her eyes. “Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll know two.”

She felt a blush creep onto her cheeks as she tried to suppress a giggle. “Maybe you won’t need luck.”

She watched as his eyes looked her up and down, “What’s your name?” he asked her. 

She could’ve told him. She wanted to. But her desire to be mysterious for a little bit longer was overriding her desire to tell him. Instead of responding with her name, she just smirked at him. “Would you like to dance?”

His eyes got noticeably wider, clearly not expecting the question. “I don’t know how to Waltz.” 

“I’ll show you, then.” She stood up and reached for his gloved hand. He gladly accepted. 

Celia was facing him, she grabbed her right hand with her left. “Place this hand between my shoulder blades.” Once he did, she placed her left hand on his right shoulder. Then she grabbed his left hand with her right. “Now, just follow after me.” She began the steps with a swiftness. It took him a few minutes of nearly tripping over his own feet, but eventually, he got it well enough to where neither of them were in danger of falling. “There you go,” she grinned. “You’re a natural.”

“Thanks,” he said, grinning back with that goofy smile of his. “You never told me your name, by the way.”

She chuckled softly, “You know the whole point of a masquerade ball is to conceal your identity, right?”

He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. Of course. Right,” he nodded. After a silent moment he spoke again. “What if I tell you my name first?”

“Depends,” she hummed. “If your name starts with a ‘J’, not only am I not telling you my name, I’m walking away,” she joked. 

He fully laughed at that. “Nick,” he said through laughter. “My name is Nick.”

She laughed along with him. “Oh thank goodness. Not a ‘J’ name,” she teased. “Nice to meet you Nick. I’m Celia.”

“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” he smiled, his laughter dying down. 

“You can’t even see my whole face, Nick,” Celia giggled. 

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “And I don’t need to. You’re beautiful.”

“So, you don’t want to see my face is what I’m hearing?” she joked, a mischievous glint in her eyes. 

“Need and want are two different things,” he grinned. “I don’t need to see your entire face to know that you’re absolutely gorgeous. But, I do want to see your entire face at some point.”

She felt like her face was burning up. She was absolutely flustered. But she didn’t want to let that show. “Maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll see my face around midnight,” she shot him a wink. “But I want to see yours too.” 

“What do I have to do to turn that maybe into a yes?” 

She smirked, “Make my night, Nick.” 

Several hours and glasses of champagne later, they’d learned a bit about each other. She learned that he loved to play drums, ride motorcycles, and fish, trout specifically. He’d grown up in the town over and pursued drumming right out of high school. He learned that she loved to dance, crochet, and read books, mysteries specifically. She worked as a dental hygienist at an office in town. They discovered that their senses of humor were similar. It seemed that there wasn’t a moment that they weren’t laughing at something the other said. 

Maybe it was the liquid courage, or maybe it was just the fact that they were so drawn to each other. But Celia found herself leading Nick to a room upstairs, and he followed her more than willingly. Once they entered the room and locked the door, he had her backed up against the wall. He leaned in to kiss her, but she lifted her hand and pressed her pointer finger to his lips. “You can’t kiss my lips until midnight,” she whispered. “Nor can you take off my mask. Or your own. Those are my only conditions.”

“Anything you wish, Celia,” Nick whispered back. He tilted his head and pressed his full lips to her neck. She moved her hair and stretched her neck to give him better access. He kissed up and down the expanse of her neck until he placed a kiss upon her pulse point. A shuddering sigh escaped her parted lips. “Right there?” he murmured against the skin. The soft whimper that followed was all the answer he needed. He began to nip gently at the skin above her pulse point. The crown of her head softly thudded against the wall behind her, quiet whimpers left her mouth. 

When he pulled away, the slightest hint of a mark was left. He groaned at the sight of it in the low light. He began to kiss down her chest until his lips hit the neckline of her dress. The next thing she knew, he was on his knees before her. He looked up at her through his mask, eyes wide, pupils blown. “May I taste you?”

She looked down at him, “Please.” 

He smiled at her, not a smirk, a genuine smile. He didn’t seem smug about the situation. He seemed happy, grateful even. He placed his gloved hands on the back of her calves before slowly sliding them up her legs until they met her panties. He began to slide them down her legs, noticing as her breathing picked up. “Are you okay, honey?” he breathed, pausing his actions to look up into her eyes. 

Her heart nearly burst at the action and sight before her. “Yeah,” she breathed, a small giggle prominent in her words. “Keep going, please.” 

Nick leaned forward to press a soft kiss to the skin of her thigh that was exposed by the slit in her dress as he pulled her panties down the rest of the way. Red lace pooled at her ankles. He looked up at her once more. “Can you hold your dress up for me?”

Celia nodded, her hands grasping her dress and pulling it up to expose herself to him. She watched as he looked directly at her center. He licked his lips before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her clit. While there wasn’t much pressure to it, she found herself moaning anyway. This encouraged him to slide his tongue through her folds and back up to her clit, flatting his tongue with a groan. Her hands gripped the fabric of her dress harder, her knuckles turning white. He continued to lick her until he knees began to shake and his face was covered in her slick. “Nick,” she whimpered. “I’m so close.”

With those words, he pulled away from her. “Do you want to…?” He trailed off, as if shy to ask for sex, even though he just had his face buried in her pussy. 

She nodded as she tried to catch her breath. “Please,” she whimpered. “I need you.” She let go of her dress, letting it fall to its normal length as she reached for his hand. He stood up and walked him to the bed in the middle of the room. She lay on the bed and he followed, hovering over her as her legs spread open for him. She heard the clink of his belt and the zipper of his pants. Then she felt the head of his warm cock tapping against her clit, drawing a mewl from her. He ran the head through her slick folds a few times before he began to push in, her back arching off the bed as he filled her. 

Once she adjusted to the delicious stretch, she grinded her hips into his, urging him to move. He started off with slow, deep thrusts. Each thrust resulted in a breathy moan from Celia and a deep grunt from Nick. “Go faster,” she whined after a while. It felt great, but she needed more. Nick was happy to oblige, quickening the pace of his hips, slamming into her at a mind breaking speed. She had to force her moans down; force herself to be quiet. 

Her walls began to pulse around him. Nick knew what that probably meant. He snaked his hand between their bodies and pressed his thumb to her clit, rubbing it in quick right circles. Celia’s back arched off the bed as she tried, and failed, to hold back a loud whine. “I-I’m close,” she whimpered for the second time of the night. 

“Come for me,” Nick breathed. His thrusts were getting sloppy as he got closer himself. Shortly after his demand, she pulsed around him uncontrollably, bringing a hand to her mouth to suppress the uncontrollable moans escaping her. He managed to keep himself under control through her entire orgasm. “Where do you want it?” he asked frantically once she had ridden through her orgasm. 

“Inside,” she breathed. “I’m on birth control.” That was all Nick needed to completely come undone. He buried himself deep inside of her as his cock twitched and unloaded all of his seed. 

He slowly pulled out after his orgasm, causing them both to groan from the loss. He laid next to her for a moment, both of them catching their breath. After a minute, Celia stood, put her panties back on, and adjusted her dress. She walked over to the mirror that was in the room and fixed her hair as well. Nick stood and fixed his pants before walking up and hugging her from behind. “Did you enjoy yourself,” he whispered in her ear. 

She turned to face him. “Of course I did,” she grinned. “Did you?”

“Absolutely.” 

She couldn’t help but giggle. “Do you have the time?”

Nick pulled his phone from his pocket, “11:45.” 

“Would you like to be my New Year’s kiss?” She asked, tilting her head. 

Nick nodded, “I would love to be your New Year’s kiss.”

She grabbed his hand, “Come on, then.”

30 seconds until midnight, everyone in attendance stood downstairs with a glass of champagne, waiting excitedly for the ten second countdown. Celia stood with Nick, arms linked. She looked up at him. “How about we take our masks off when the countdown starts?” 

Nick looked down at her with that amazing goofy smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

Before they knew it, the countdown was starting. 

“10!”

They made eye contact. 

“9!”

They pulled their masks off. 

“8! 7!”

“You’re so beautiful,” Nick whispered. 

“6! 5!”

“You’re so handsome,” Celia whispered back. 

“4! 3!”

They stared at each other, eyes wide. 

“2!”

They began to lean in. 

“1! Happy New Year!”

Their lips met in a passionate kiss. Both of their masks dropped to the floor so they could hold each other’s faces as their lips moved perfectly in sync. So perfectly in sync that any bystander would have figured they’d kissed hundreds, even thousands, of times before. And they both knew at that moment that this wouldn’t be the end of them.

[l-norris]

The summerbreak is over and the Dutch GP is underway!

Honestly, I can feel the years subtracted of my life already, heh.

DISCLAIMER: Remember that this is just for shits and giggles, I'm not trying to actually hate on any of the drivers cuz all (most) of them are very dear to me!

As always - numbers in brackets = lap numbers

- Formation lap is on

- Welcome back to F1, where your hairs grey in a matter of seconds

- Mom I'm scared

- it fuckem wimdy

- heart rate through the roof, anxiety growing

- Lando don't bottle the start please🙏🏻

- It's lights out and away we go!

- ... UGHHH

- death, taxes, Lando bottling the start

- (not actually him but more like the car)

- Didn't even make it to the first turn this time

- 'Red Bull aren't fast' MY ASS

- To be fair Oscar's start was also kinda meh

- so much wheelspin

- Kevin locks up on lap 1 too

- Max pulls away (8)

- "Lando who are we racing?" Uuuuuh... everyone??

- Some battling and overtaking from Lewis (10)

- Spicy battle between Carlos and Pierre (11)

- "We are on Plan A"

- FERRARI🤨

- Just a quick note that Lando actually keeps up with Max

- Alex pits (13)

- Lando in DRS window

- Lewis is on the chase (16)

- It's getting spicy up front

- Boys. Behave.

- "There are no smiles on the Red Bull pit wall. Only grimaces." Good!

- Lando overtakes Max! (18)

- Masterpiece of an overtake

- Guanyu pits (20)

- Lando pulls away (21)

- Wind is picking up

- Bro I was looking away for two minutes and Lando is 3 seconds ahead??

- Lewis pits (24)

- Charles pits (25)

- George pits (26)

- Ferrari got their shit together also?

- rare Ferrari W

- Max pits (28)

- makes me nervous

- Lando pits (28)

- left front issue😀

- But he overcuts Max!

- Sheer, dumb luck, McLaren. Sheer, dumb luck.

- We currently have a McLaren 1-2

- Lando fastest lap (32)

- Only three people left who haven't pitted yet

- Hello McLaren? Are you gonna pit Oscar anytime soon?

- Now's the time (34)

- Charles is third in THAT SHITBOX?!

- Pierre unsafe release

- Lando is now 8 seconds ahead of Max (36)

- Lance speeding in pitlane

- Lando is now 9 seconde ahead of Max (38)

- Pre-Miami me would have an aneurysm

- Lance 5-second-penalty

- Oscar is in George's rear

- GET HIM!

- Oscar is now fourth

- Lando is now 10 seconds ahead of Max (40)

-Kevin gets OBLITERATED by MULTIPLE cars

- Alex is almost in the points

- Why is Max gaining all of a sudden

- Nevermind just a moment of weakness I guess

- Lando is now 11 seconds ahead of Max (44)

- Sorry I'll stop lmao

- Oscar is chasing down Charles

- While Carlos is stuck behind Checo

- Why are McLaren so positive that a Safety Car will come out (47)

- There hasn't been a single yellow flag or retirement so far what are you lot planning

- Carlos finally passes Checo

- Lewis pits (49)

- I know I said I'd stop but 13 SECOND LEAD?? INSANE (51)

- Bro's gonna be a whole pitstop ahead at the end of this

- Very demure. Very mindful.

- A few pitstops happen (54)

- 15 laps to go

- Nothing is happening (59)

- Rare Lando footage on Live TV (62)

- Lewis P14 to P8 btw

- Ferrari flop era is no more

- Fernando passes Nico (64)

- The rookie is in the points now

- Quick update: 18 seconds gap between Lando and Max (66)

- You're doing amazing sweetie

- Nor Ver Lec Podium looking real nice rn (67)

- 5 laps to go!

- Dead silence in the McLaren garage

- 20 SECOND LEAD NOW HOLY SHIT

- 3 laps to go!

- LET'S GO LANDO!

- FINAL LAP!

- RAAAAAAAAAAAH

- 21 SECONDS NOW

- ANY SECOND NOW!

- HE WINS IT!

- SECOND WIN FOR LANDO NORRIS

- POLE, WIN, FASTEST LAP AND DRIVER OF THE DAY!

- GRAND. SLAM.

- He's very calm, very collected.

- Weekend saved, thanks Lando👍🏻

- Also Charles is back on the podium

- No more 'Terrible day for Tifosi'

- CHAMPAGNE POP!

What. A. Race.

Awesome way to start back into the second half of the season. I'm on an all-time high right now, hahaha. Really happy for Lando, and also happy for Charles to be back on the podium!

[justplainwhump]

"Match, set, and game" for the prompts!

This one sentence prompt has been in my ask box forever, and long before this AU was born. But now, it fits perfectly.

Part of the heartbreaking Dany/bad!Peyton-AU with @wildfae-afterdark ; Geoff and Peyton are their characters.

[Just A Fling Masterlist]

Content / warnings: vaguely implied past noncon (m/f), past noncon drugging, vibes of abusive relationship and date rape, survivor struggling to cope.

"Game, Set and Match."

Grinning, Dany drops her racket, and bumps Dennis' fists.

It's a beautiful day, the sun's shining over the lush grounds of the tennis club, filled with cheers and idle chatter, and both Dennis and her are in great shape.

"Langley/Hammond qualify for the quarter finals."

They do the obligatory handshakes with the losing team, and Dany fixes her ponytail before she grabs their water bottles.

"Watch the other match?" Dennis asks. "Check the competition? They're still at it. Not everyone can win to zero."

Dany takes a swig from the bottle and shrugs. "Sure, why not."

It's not really necessary in a tournament like the Fitzwilliam Memorial Trophy, that's more of a societal summer event than a sports challenge- their only true challenge are Sita and Sanjay and they've been drawn into another bracket entirely.

"Who is it?"

"Kim/Carter vs Cortlandt/Cortlandt."

"Cortlandt?" The water tastes foul somehow, and Dany sets down the bottle. Her stomach feels queasy.

"Yeah." Dennis looks at the names on the draw and then down at the other court with a shrug. "Geoff and Liza. Cousins. They're not horrible, I guess. Not a threat, either."

"I, uh." Dany looks at the players and trails off. Geoff Cortlandt moves with long, measured strides, his game not focused on speed, but rather on a precise strength. It makes her shiver.

She reaches out to steady herself on the railing.

"Dany?"

She doesn't look at Dennis, can't, when Geoff picks up the ball to serve and bounces it once. For a moment, his gaze flits over the audience and settles on her.

His lips twitch into a slim grin, and then he turns back to the court, tosses the ball into the air and slams it over the net with impossible force, unreachable for Stevie Kim.

"Dany?" Dennis repeats. "What was that? You're having history with Cortlandt?"

She forces herself to breathe, slowly shakes her head. "Just an acquaintance. Met him a handful of times. I, uh. I just don't like him."

Dennis chuckles. "Yea, nobody really does. Only ones who can stand him are that weird little cult around him and Peyt-" He trails off and clicks his tongue. "Oh. That's how you know him, huh? You still seeing Montgomery?"

"No." Dany exhales softly, not bothering up to ask him how he knows. Rumours travel fast, in their circles. "It's over." It's over. They haven't seen each other since that gala. Peyton had left the very same night, set off to Georgia.

With Geoff.

Seems they're back.

"But you're good?"

"Sure am." She chuckles darkly, almost in reflex. "I won't let a fling affect my mood."

If she'd look, she knows she'd see that Dennis doesn't believe her. But she doesn't look.

She can't take her eyes off of Geoff. There's something about him, something deeply unsettling, something that makes her sure if she looks away just once he'll show up right in front of her, and he'll grab her head and-

She shakes her head. Ghosts. He's getting into her head, she needs to focus on the tournament, nothing else.

Like Dennis, who's mumbling into her ear about their techniques and weaknesses, about tactics and strategy.

She can't listen. She's trapped.

And she knows that he knows. If anything, it makes him play better. They make the next point, too, and the next.

"Match, set and game."

"Cortlandt/Cortlandt qualify for the quarterfinal."

Before even congratulating his partner, Geoff's gaze locks with Dany's again. He moves his hand, a slow gesture, as if he's holding a champagne glass.

"Showoff," Dennis next to her groans. "He's not even half your level."

Geoff raises his imaginary glass to a toast, and Dany's legs give in.

It's only Dennis' quick reaction that keeps her from falling. Dennis' arm around her waist. Like Peyton's, when Geoff had toasted to her at the gala. Like Peyton's, later, when her mind was foggy and they were somewhere darker, more private.

But not alone.

They hadn't been alone.

Geoff Cortlandt had been there.

"Withdraw." She staggers back to her feet and shoves Dennis' hand off her. "We withdraw. I... No. No. I can't. Not that."

"What?" Dennis steps back to stare at her in disbelief. Behind him, the players leave the court and walk up the stairs.

She spins on her heel and flees towards the bathrooms.

*

She's thrown up twice. It helps, to deal with her body, not her mind. It helps to think about what's real. She cleans up her face, straightens her hair in front of the mirror, trying not to think too much about the other time she's tried to fixed herself up from a messed up state.

At least the shadows have a face now.

I'm sorry, she texts Dennis.

We need to talk, she texts Peyton.

Then, she throws in a breath mint and goes find Geoff Cortlandt.

*

He's seated in the player's lounge at a corner table, scrolling through his phone, his face still a little flushed from the game. His eyebrows shoot up when he sees her, but the short hint of surprise shifts into an easy smirk. "Ms Hammond. Too sick to play, I heard? Still hungover from that gala, where we've run into each other?"

Dany's jaw tightens. "What did you do?"

He laughs a little, leans closer like they're best friends. "What did we do? Nothing you didn't beg for, princess. You still can't remember? I guess the tabloids were right about your partying reputation."

She should've sat down as well. Her knees threaten to give in again. And somehow it's not the pet name, not the insinuation, not the humiliation that hurts her most.

It's the 'we'.

"I had a tox screen made." Her voice is slow, but firm. She's a negotiatior, after all. She can keep her voice steady, even when everything is pulled away from underneath her. "I'm sure you know how it came back. It was you, wasn't it? It was you, who spiked my drink."

He looks at her, hooded eyes flat and suddenly unamused. "Whatever you took that night is none of my business. I had enough to do keeping my friend out of your clutches."

She feels dizzy, and yet, weirdly relieved. The ghosts, the nightmares, the faceless void they've manifested into something real. She's still lost at sea, but she's been drowning before, and now she's broken through the surface, she can breathe again. Breathe, and fight.

"That's why?" She stares at him. "You drugged me and you fucked me and you left me like trash, because you felt threatened?" A wild giggle escapes her throat. "Oh. Wow. What a pathetic little man you are. Go fuck yourself, Mr Cortlandt. Or go fuck Peyton, for all I care. But guess what? I fucked him better."

Anger flares up in his gaze, his muscles tense, his weight shifts to the edge of his seat - but instead of attacking her, his lips bend into a fake, calm smile.

"Who we fuck isn't your business any more, Ms Hammond. My game is up. Gotta win a tournament." He gets up and brushes over the front of his pristinely white shirt. "Have a good day."

Dany stares past him as he leaves, counts her breaths to twenty to calm her racing heartbeat.

Then she calls her driver.

She needs to know.

She needs to see Peyton.

[boxboxlewis]

Everybody wants to touch George after he wins his first Grand Prix. Hands clasping him, lifting him up, hands on his back and his shoulders and his arse: he gets more physically intimate with the guys in the Mercedes garage, in those heady post-race moments, than some of the people he’s dated. Half of the guys he only has their names memorised because he’s watched Lewis, how Lewis remembers everybody and how many kids they have and what their hobbies are. Now he knows them in a more animal way, body to body. Victor to acolyte.

The one person George most wants to touch doesn’t hang around, obviously, for the interviews and the podium celebration and the big Mercedes team picture. George sends a text when he’s finally leaving the paddock, champagne-sticky and wrung-out and tired and buzzing, but tells himself it’s fine if he doesn’t get an answer. Alex is probably already asleep.

You up, mate?

The flutter he feels in his chest when he sees Alex is typing a reply doesn’t bear thinking about. Why mr russell, is this a booty call lol Alex writes. Also yes, obviously. At the hotel. A second later he adds Thrilled for you mate well done, followed by an array of trophy and champagne emojis. George stares at the messages for a moment; doesn’t let himself screenshot them, but wants to.

Lewis told him once that the secret to sexting is not to hesitate, which was extremely embarrassing at the time (George had been texting Alex, and yes maybe he was staring at his phone as if the perfect reply might appear there for him if he only gave it long enough, but he wasn’t sexting—“I can tell you’re sexting, man, you’re blushing,” Lewis had said) but is perhaps useful advice for the current circumstances. George and Alex hook up sometimes, and it’s not really an established thing yet, but “is this a booty call lol” is surely an invitation of a kind, right? It’s a door propped open, a light left on. Plus neither of their girlfriends is in São Paulo, and George just won a fucking Grand Prix, so.

Cheers mate, he writes, and then, with more confidence than he feels, Absolutely a booty call, yeah. You want to come to mine?

The time before Alex replies is agony. George forces himself not to text again, not to apologise and turn the whole thing into a joke.

Lol fine but you’d better shower I bet you’re disgusting rn Alex says, eventually. George feels lightheaded, feels ebullient. He writes back Haha no worries def getting in the shower as soon as I get to the hotel 🤪, adds the hotel name and his room number, and shoves his phone into his pocket. When the taxi gets to the hotel he sees Alex has replied Genuinely I’m confiscating your emoji keyboard, and then, Be there in thirty.

The sex is—

It’s always good, with Alex. Better than George thought sex could be, honestly. It’s as if his body and Alex’s body know each other and know exactly what to do, so George can relax and enjoy things instead of overthinking them: Alex braced over him, how good the taut muscles of his arms look, how he brackets George into a small safe space that’s somehow its own entire world. The feel of him inside George, huge and electric. The way his face looks when he’s trying not to come; the stuttering gasp he lets out when he finally does. 

Yes, the sex being so good is what fucks it, probably: what makes it seem like George can just say what he's thinking, without trying to refine it or make it palatable first. Alex is petting his hair, and George has had maybe the best orgasm of his life, and he’s a Grand Prix winner, now. He says, “It won’t change anything, you know.”

Alex’s hand goes still for a moment and then resumes. “What won’t change anything, Georgie?”

“My—you know,” George says, feeling oddly embarrassed. “Because I. Winning, I mean.”

“Mmm, well. Why would it.” Alex sounds amused, but amused in the way George hates: amused at George. “Worried you’re too good for me, now you’re Mr Sunday?”

“No, that’s not—”

“Sorry, I only take dick from guys who score points, is that the vibe?”

“Alex, stop it,” George says. Alex doesn’t.

“It doesn’t actually bother me, that you’re on a top team and I’m with fucking Williams,” he says, “obviously winning races is going to be part of that, I don’t—you’re very immature, sometimes, Russell, did you know that?”

“I wasn’t,” George says. “I didn’t—Alex, please—”

“You’ve always been a bit like this, though, haven’t you?” Alex says. “Even when we were in karting, you always—you’re not better, just because you win. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.”

George’s chest feels as if it’s been hollowed out and filled with acid, which isn’t a simile: that is simply the only way to describe it. If he put a hand to his own sternum, he wouldn’t be surprised if it came away burned. “Look,” he says, trying to sound reasonable and calm and like someone Alex will want to continue having sex with. “Let’s just—let’s just forget I said anything, ok?”

“All right, George,” Alex says, and if he sounds sceptical and aloof, well. At least he’s still stroking George’s hair.

ty to @janinaduszejko for looking this over! we reckon george and alex probably don't make it in the short term in this universe, but maybe get back together in ten years' time after geroge's tragic divorce and resultant Slut Era

[walker-extended-universe]

Walker Episode Bracket

2x16 came out on top and goes up against the next competitor, 2x17 "Torn"!

After the lighthearted episode of "Champagne Problems", "Torn" offers a little more angst. Cordell and Twyla are starting to pursue their feelings for each other but there are plenty of roadblocks in the way. First, Denise interrupts their apartment hunting with a new case they need Twyla's help on. Then, Twyla's first day at her new job gets derailed by false accusations from her boss. Then, Liam and Geri both have issues with Cordell pursuing a relationship with Twyla specifically due to her close ties to the Rodeo Kings and everything associated with Hoyt's death. Cordell tries to brush all of this off, but perhaps the biggest obstacle in their way is that his and Twyla's relationship works best when he's "Duke", not Cordell. Twyla recognizes this and decides to leave Austin altogether, leaving Cordell more than a little heartbroken. In the background, Stella finally makes a decision between Todd and Colton during Senior Week, but not before accidentally causing a confrontation between the boys.

taglist: @ihavepointysticks

[ineffablyendless]

Hot Girl Summer

Inspired by many horny ramblings with @nualaofthefaerie, the one who introduced Nuala to me as an absolutely unappreciated QUEEN in the Sandman and enabled my ImmortalSandflower imaginings. This one's for you, bestie.

Rating: M, bordering E for non-explicit masturbation

Ship: Nuala/Hob Gadling/Morpheus|Dream of the Endless

Tags: Pervy!Morpheus, Masturbation, he's being a real creep about it, pathetic Morpheus, lingerie, CROCHETED lingerie, Hob posts on Instagram like a millennial, please point out typos to me, human!AU, Writer!Morpheus, small business owner Nuala, she goes by Lily, Hob goes by Robbie, Hot Slut Summer, bisexual Morpheus

This time, when he receives the Instagram notification, he is in public.

Specifically, a corner of the party he attends, allegedly, for the anniversary of the joint sister company of the editorial that he frequents for his own published works. His attendance, Lucienne has emphasized throughout the week, had been non-negotiable, if he would choose to continue their services. She can only cover for his absences in the pre-requisite networking companies so much, and as the handler of his routine and appointment, knows he has no excuse nor any other pressing concerns.

The pop-up appears with a discreet buzz. He takes a single glance, shoves it hurriedly back into his blazer pockets and downs the single glass of champagne he has been nursing to himself all night. His heart, which has been ping-ponging between the inadvisable rabbit-foot-paced of anxiety and the sluggishness of utter boredom, jacks up once more in what he recognises-a distinction born from sheer rarity-anticipation. Excitement

It does not take more than a couple of seconds to excuse himself to the men's. He has been detached from the heart of the party on the verge of an hour, and he has gained himself the reputation of an unnapproachable, anti-socialist such so that it is no difficulty to allow him to tear himself away. Internally, he promises Lucienne no more than 2 more hours of this wretched mingling, for when the clock strikes 12, as he locks the stall of the lavishly appointed hall's bathroom behind him.

He takes a few seconds to return his heart rate into something manageable, listening carefully for any other footsteps, before he turns the phone back on and clicks the single-almost deceptively innocent popup.

The image that greets him makes him glad he had the foresight for privacy, and has him muffling his a groan into his fist.

It is a series of 5 images, and in the first was the girl-Lily, he is reliably told to be the pseudonym she answers to online, sat demurely on her knees upon a picnic blanket, in a green glade studded by wildflowers. Her smile is wide and gleeful, arms stretched into the clear summer sky that begs doubt she is indeed in England at all. She shows off, unashamed, the crocheted three-piece set she designed and knits herself, that she sells; a babydoll-styled double strapped bralette with two white strips of lace tied into ribbons, each upon the tops of her breasts (sweet and cute and a perfect mouthful). Lily is a small woman, and her waist-emphasized by the stretch of her thighs are bracketed by some a garter of the same shade of pink, edged with white, and cute-slightly messy-heart rings for the straps clasped to her legs mid-thigh. The final piece- a high-laced thong tied to each side of her adonis belt- is a simple affair, crocheted with a single, tiny tasteful barbie-pink ribbon pinned just beneath her navel.

The first image, Morpheus knows, is the less risque of the rest, and she is only the one of the two constant models of her knitwear. And already, Morpheus is hard enough to pound roofing nails.

When he swipes for the second image, Morpheus groans aloud.

A man, this time; discernible by the handsome cleft upon his stubbled chin goes by Robbie in internet circles-and which may or may not be his real name, never shows his whole face in the photos. In this one, the top half of it has been carefully cropped out yet angled to capture the stream of sunlight east-wise of a quaint kitchen, sat cross-legged upon a wooden chair by a small checkered-top dining table. A white dress shirt is left wholly unbuttoned to show the gold and black two-piece, the colour of honeybees, and his smart trousers unzipped to peek the striped crocheted underwear beneath. It is an aesthetically complicated piece, one of the more complex ones Lily has done by his memory. The bralette is a gold that cups the bottom and top halves of the breast, leaving a small slit in between that might gape wider for a more generous bosom, yet sufficiently tempting as is, and more strings trailing down akin to liquid gold upon each rung of his ribs.

In the third photo is Lily once more, lying in the sun reading an indiscernible book with a large straw hat blocking the back of her head from the sun and the camera, and a predominantly white and green cardigan rucked up from both ends to her middle to show the back of the bralette with its lacey ribbon on its top-centre. The red sun-blush upon her freckled shoulder attests that she has been in the sun for quite some time, and his teeth yearns to bite into the bird bones of her shoulders, and sooth the glare of the sun with his tongue. The back of her underwear can too be clearly inspected, pink and white, the back of her thigh garters each dotted with a single white bow, complimenting her fair skin.

The fourth image is Hob, also showcasing the back view of his two-piece set. He is posed staring out the kitchen window, hands on the counter, sunlight streaming to capture the brown tan of his skin, hairy and broad-shouldered and the perfect ideal of Adonis himself to showcase the full scale of the bralette, and underwear. The former is tied back with a piece of string tied sweetly upon his nape, and another piece that hugs just beneath the wings of his scapula. From the back, the aforementioned golden strings work to emphasize the sharp curve of his waist where it meets the highest of his underwear strings, of which there are four; the second upon his adonis belt, and two more hugging muscular thighs.

(He imagines licking down the trail of each wayward string, cupping his hands as lovingly upon his ass as the crocheted underwear, burying his face between his horseman thighs he brings him to the height of pleasure, imagines the eager trembles and rapturous cries of ecstasy-)

In the fifth and last photo, predictably, both of them, by the side of a private pool. They are each wearing nothing but the marketed crochet lingerie sets, save for Hob who now adorns the wide-brimmed straw hat previously worn by Lily, and hides his face in its shadows. He is half reclined upon a sun lounger, barefoot and arms tucked beneath the back of his head-conveniently angling the shadows of his hat further downwards and hiding all features but the smile and recognizable chin cleft-and showcasing the musculature of his biceps and the curve of his unshaven underarms. His thighs are pressed together and knees brought high to tease the bulge of his groin, lovingly cupped by the stretch of the knitted fabric, and Morpheus thinks, in a fit of violent lust, that he would kill for the privilege of pressing his nose into the welcoming space made beneath his seat.

Lily is bent, only slightly, into the shade of pool canopy above, candy pink sweet lips pursed around a tall straw for a lemonade by Robbie's side. She is damp, perhaps freshly emerged from the pool, and tucking a string of auburn hair-glowing copper-behind her ear. Her face is covered in freckles-angel kisses-as red as the ones upon her shoulder, and her poise is almost candid, far more relaxed to Robbie's clear showmanship. From the pool she has foregone the garters, and her crochet pieces are heavy with moisture, nearly tugged down.

New Hot Girl (gender neutral) Summer pieces! the caption reads. Only two of each piece made, $250 for each set (negotiable). Early bird gets the worm!

HappySummer #Hotgirlsummer #lingerie #crochet #smallbusiness #designsold

I'm going to come in my pants, Morpheus realizes, belatedly, pressing his heel against the obscene bulge of his trousers. It is a distant thought even as he swipes between each of the photosets, savoring each detail; the crease of Lily's thigh, where it meets her generous ass; the veins upon the backs of Robbie's hands, where they grip the edge of the counter; the peek of Lily's nipples as the bralette gets weighed down by the pool water; the large bulge of Robbie's groin, framed by his legs crossed in the kitchen chair. He has the screen of his phone pressed into his temple, the tip of his nose upon the last image as he imagines tasting the sunlight, sweat and chlorine upon their damp skins, the coy flutter of Lily's lashes as he would press adoring kisses down to her sternum, Robbie's deep groan as he would find completion between the press of his horseman's thighs…and with a single, muffled groan from clenched teeth, his pleasure crests, peaks, and his underwear grows warm and damp from orgasm.

As he pants in still, industrial-chemical-scented air of unforgiving reality, he wonders at the patheticness of yearning for two people who don't even know he exists, and would definitely be perturbed by his behaviour for their Instagram modelling photos. It is, nevertheless, he acknowledges bemusedly, an efficient marketing tactic.

He misses the final speeches of the celebration itinerary, but the clock strikes 12 just as he steps into the cab he has called for himself. So, he reasons, he is not QUITE breaking his promise to Lucienne.

It begins to rain. In the backseat of the car, he longs for the summer sun.

[corpocyborg]

Secure Your Soul: A Cyberpunk 2077 Fanfiction

This fic was previously published under the title "Before the Event Horizon."

Summary: Six months ago, V's boss at Arasaka ordered her to assassinate his rival. Instead, with the reluctant but invaluable help of her old friend Jackie Welles, she pushed them both off their thrones and claimed one for herself. Now the new Director of Arasaka Counter Intel has a problem. She's uncovered information that indicates that Yorinobu Arasaka, the heir apparent to the Arasaka dynasty, is a traitor. But without solid proof, she's forced to take matters into her own hands.

An AU in which Corpo!V never leaves Arasaka.

CHAPTER THREE: ALL THE RIGHT MOVES

[read on ao3]

Whenever V finally managed to climb to a higher income bracket, she'd have to buy herself one of these. The AV was incredible. She gave it her destination, and watched from out the window as it took off into the air. As usual, the view was much better from above.

She grabbed a champagne flute from the built-in bar and crossed her legs. Normally, she wouldn't drink while she was still working, but tonight, she felt like celebrating. In fact, she decided she would. She called Jackie.

"Hey, V. How's things in the viper pit?" he asked.

"Beautiful," V responded. "If you happen to be a snake charmer."

"Snake charmer, huh?" She caught the skepticism in his voice. "Sounds like you fixed your problem."

"And a few others since then. I'm headed to Lizzie’s. Do you want to meet me there?" 

"Lizzie's, really? What's gotten into you, chica? Normally, you're all biz before pleasure."

“Well, to be honest, I do have some biz to take care of there. But you know I’m not opposed to mixing the two.”

“Uh-huh.” Jackie’s skepticism was back. “All right, then. See you there.”

“See you.” V ended the call, and sat back to enjoy the rest of the ride.

—

She made it to Lizzie's with plenty of time to spare. Of course, the bar didn't have a designated landing pad, but V instructed the AI driver to find a suitable spot as close to the bar as possible. It ended up choosing a nearby basketball court. After it touched down, she stepped outside.

Someone threw a basketball at her head, but she caught it before it hit her. The source was obviously one of the three irritable-looking men off to the side of the court. “Fuck’s your problem, psychosuit?” he yelled at her. “This look like a landing pad to you? Coulda fucking crushed us.”

V tossed the ball back, putting the full force of her cyberware-enhanced strength behind it. He caught it, but it staggered him slightly. 

“You seem fast enough to me,” she commented. “You’ll be fine.”

“Corpos.” He said the word as if it were an insult. “Fucking do whatever. Think the world’s yours.”

“What is it you want? An apology for landing my AV near you? Or maybe you just want to pick a fight? Work off some of that rage? You have… let’s see…” She looked him up and down, analyzing his chrome with her Kiroshi. “A Kerenzikov. Useful tool. Unfortunately not as useful when facing an opponent who can also boost their reflexes. Gorilla arms too, I see. Older version, but not too shabby. I work for the company that manufactures them, actually. They gave us the latest model as a holiday bonus last season. Quite the upgrade from previous versions. I’d love to show you what they can do.”

With satisfaction, she noticed the uncertainty brewing in his eyes. He looked away from her. “Whatever.”  

“Good. Then we’re done here.”

As she walked away, V felt the gratitude she’d felt many times before at getting to live in the age of cyberware. If it’d been a few centuries ago, she could never have dreamed of successfully intimidating a man twice her size. He’d have a permanent advantage against her just because of the body each of them had been born into. But in 2077, the hard work and dedication she’d put in to earn her superior cyberware was all that mattered.    

She was reminded of an old slogan from the 1800s she’d learned in her History of Firearms class at Arasaka Academy. A clever turn of phrase by the man who’d first made the mass production of revolvers commercially viable. God created men, but Colt made them equal. She made a mental note to herself to suggest a reworded variant to Arasaka’s advertising department. 

“Couldn’t use the front door like everyone else?” the bouncer asked her when she tried to enter the club.

"I'm in a hurry," V answered. "Can you keep an eye on the AV for me? I don't trust those three."

"That's not my job." 

V motioned with her hand, transferring a sizeable sum of eddies to the bouncer. "It is now."

"Fine. But I'm keeping an eye on you too." 

She moved aside to let V pass. 

—

Jackie had claimed them a corner booth on the lower floor of the bar. When he spotted her, he greeted her with open arms. “Don’t come here often, do you? It’s good to see you, chica. Now sit down and tell me what’s got you and that stick up your ass out celebrating.”

V grinned and sat down beside him. “It’s good to see you too, Jack. How’ve you been?”

“Got sparks flying between the Valentino boys and Maelstrom. Eddies there for the taking. Long as you don’t get flatlined.”

V didn’t doubt it. She’d often been impressed by Jackie’s keen nose for profit. It rivaled many of her coworkers’. If she didn’t know him so well, she’d try to recruit him.

“You know how it is,” he continued. “Can’t complain. What about you, hermana? Sounded pretty damn cheerful on the phone.”

V launched into her story about outsmarting Jenkins, in as many details as she could without treading into overly confidential territory. But Jackie didn’t seem to find it as amusing as she did. 

When she finished, all he said was, “This job and all the rest of that corpo bullshit? You know what it is? Un pacto con el diablo. You may have gotten out clean this time, V, but how many times do you think that tactic’s gonna work? You sell out enough of your allies and soon you’ll find you don’t have any left.”

Wow. And he said she was the one with the stick up her ass. 

The first of the two entrees V had ordered arrived then, and she was momentarily distracted. She dug in immediately. When she’d had enough to tide her over for a bit, she was able to focus on Jackie’s words again. “Been saying it all along. Sold your soul to those Arasaka fuckers.”

She was starting to wish she’d gone out with someone whose mindset better matched her own. “Those are the rules, Jack. You wanna be top, you gotta have some skin in the game.”

“Yeah, but you’re not on top. Saburo Arasaka is. And you’re the pendeja who keeps him there.”

V resisted the urge to roll her eyes at Jackie’s fundamental misunderstanding of her opinion on hierarchy. “It’s all right not to be at the very top. As long as those above you deserve their place.”

“And do they?” Jackie asked.

“Not all of them,” she amended, thinking of Jenkins. “But the ones that don’t deserve it don’t last very long anyway.”

She turned back to her spaghetti and synthballs, but Jackie wasn’t ready to let go of the topic. “Work for yourself, live for yourself. That’s the only way.”

V smiled. Now that was the kinda talk that reminded her why they were friends in the first place. “I’d love to. Someday. But for now, I’ll take the best deal I can get.”

“That kinda deal? There’s always a cost.”

V didn’t respond. She’d just noticed a group of Arasaka agents dressed in HQ’s uniform moving curtly through the dancefloor. She hadn’t expected Abernathy to send more than one operative. 

“Hey, you lost?” Jackie yelled at them. “Got a problem?”

Luckily, they all ignored him. The apparent leader was focused on her. “Valerie Locke?”

“That’s me,” she confirmed. “You must be here for this.” She moved to pull out the datashard, but he grabbed her by the hair and slammed her face into her plate. 

“Not another move,” he warned her.

“What the fuck is your problem?” she asked, spitting out bits of soy paste. 

“You’re under arrest for the attempted framing of Arthur Jenkins.” He tugged her head back up. “Stand up. You’re coming with us.”

“Whoa. Hold on.” Jackie interjected. He squared off with one of the other guards. “I think you might’ve forgotten just how far from home you are. Not sure this barrio’s your style. Let alone a healthy option.”

“Is that a threat?” the guard asked. 

“Jackie, don’t,” V interrupted him. Even if he could scare the guards off, it wouldn’t be over. They’d just come for her again. “It’s all right. Let them take me.”

Jackie stared at her in concern. “You sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ll settle this misunderstanding properly.” She moved to stand up, so the guard let go of her hair. He’d ruined her updo, not to mention gotten food stains all over her face and suit. That was a tactic, she was sure. To make her look undignified if she had to prove her honor in front of an investigator. 

The guard deactivated the offensive capabilities of her cyberware. With her gorilla arms unpowered, she felt uncomfortably vulnerable. But at least they couldn’t take her mind. She had even more experience thinking her way out of a problem than she did fighting.

“It’ll be alright,” she assured Jackie one last time. He watched silently as they dragged her out of the bar.   

[blond-jerk-tourney]

Champagne Bracket: Round 1, Poll 8

Propaganda from submitters Under Cut

Sharpay Evans

Blonde, HSM antagonist but it was never that deep

Zenos yae Galvus

Main villain for the Stormblood expansion. Kills an entire city full of people. Directed fucked up experiments. Died, but then came back due to the fucked up experiments, and killed his dad.

[wtd28]

a thought occurred to me the other day. i would like to recount it to maintain the memory.

when my grandmother passed at the stunning age of 95, it both did and did not catch me by surprise. my dad, her son and youngest, and my mom, being the POAs and the only ones to give a shit outside of her church group and one of my aunts - my dad's sister - for several years prior, saw it coming. at 5:14am on a thursday my dad called me, and being that i am an insomniac, i answered. he said, "i guess you know why i'm calling."

"yeah. what's the next step?"

"we will let you know later today."

i went to work and did my thing. i didn't feel much outside of a vague sense of sorrow that she passed, but she had been in bad shape anyway so it was to be expected. all my coworkers were very kind and offered sympathy, which i felt i did not deserve because i felt no grief, just a sense of duty. they all asked if i needed to leave early, to which i declined and said there was no need because the overlap of my days off worked out just fine. later that day, i bought a handle of gin for when i was in the hotel room and drove the four hours there. memama, which is how we called her, desired a funeral where we all wore a champagne pink, rosé wine, blush colored piece at the event because it was her favorite color. the last time i saw her at the old folks' home she was still wearing pink. i own exactly one thing in pink so i wore it and my parents definitely appreciated it. we ordered pizza the night before.

day of. good aunt and uncle and my family hung out in memama's house. it was built by hand by my granddad in the early 60s. it still has that style to this day. an electric piano with nicotine yellow stained keys and a dusty 8-track stereo sat adjacent to a low television with carpeting on the speakers. as a kid, i would watch tv on it and watch the static lift the hair on my arms whenever i would touch the screen. if it worked and didn't weigh a metric ton i would have asked to keep it. instead, i got her collection of 8-tracks and cassettes.

the funeral was held in the same church where my parents got married over 30 years ago. from her house, it is down a steep hill, up another steep hill, toward the end of the address where a piss yellow painted brick mechanic / oil shop sits on the right and a log and tarp store of secondhand items lies to the left. go straight on past shoebox stucco houses older than me and no larger than an apartment living room bracket the road on both sides until you reach the church. it's typical baptist fare - brick build, rectangular with a small outcropping and a basketball court that my dad went and played on to mitigate his horrible cloying grief after his own dad died not a month before he and my mom got married, and that's where my memama had her final service in this life.

it is cosmically funny that the only people to sob and sniffle were the ones who barely gave a shit while she was alive, if not made her life harder. she was very kind and naive, and people around her took advantage of that like razor-teethed river fish against the pond cleaner.

it was closed casket, thank goodness. the spray of flowers were majority sent by my dad's work associates. there were at least twelve, and ten, maybe eleven, were sent by them, all in various shades of pink, purple, and yellow, with fresh and lively green stems and leaves. they stood in stark contrast to the almost burnt colored oak of all the bland furnishings and pews.

i have a shit extended family, but i will give one of my stupid cousins credit. one of my aunts, for some ungodly reason, lifted the casket open to peer at her mother in death, probably for sympathy points. she is... a character. well, she did that and turned to my cousin, her daughter, and said, "she looks so peaceful now," and my cousin guffawed and went, "mom, she looks like a corpse." which was true. i think her final weight at the end was in the eighty pound range. what fucking else is a wasted away elderly dead woman supposed to look like?

my dad and i did not cry, my sister and mother got sniffles and wept. people who did not matter or have any say about anything or have any attachment to us were sobbing like they had any leverage for anything. fuck em. holed up in the rusting sky blue trailer on the hill where i remember playing with a raccoon named rusty when i was a kid. they mean jack shit to me.

pre-service, i took a bible and read translation notes. the cousin who made a comment on my grandma's corpse nudged me and said it looked like i was studying. in a way, i was. i was studiously avoiding eye contact by skimming the segments in the old testament. jeremiah. matthew. segments of kindness toward your fellow man, followed up in quick succession by how your fellow man will be put upon the holy block and judged. i hate all religion, but i am simultaneously soothed by it because i know even back when people walked barefoot in the deserts and mountains, kindness still existed.

noon: service starts. my mom scolds me with her teeth showing to put the bible away, and that i can't draw during service. i wasn't planning on drawing, but because i had a pen in hand, that is the assumption. whatever, what fucking ever.

for two hours the service proceeds. the pastor has to be younger than i am. he recounts visiting my grandma during her final week, where she says for him to read a bible verse about kindness towards one another, about care and love, and being surrounded by people. my dad helped facilitate this. he knows the pastor well. people are crying around me. i stare at my left foot, crossed over the ankle with the right, clad in old tights, one flat shoe dangling. i don't cry.

the piano player fucking sucks, or maybe the piano itself sucks, because i hate the music. electric organ bullshit. i don't cry for the entire service. people send me condolences and ask for hugs. i don't know you fucking people, but i hug them and thank them anyway. i'm sweating in this knit pink sweater, black pencil skirt and wool tights. the spray of flowers atop my grandmother's glittering blush pink casket, like it'll explode to life in a shower of sparkles, sits between us all. i hate everyone here, even though i don't know the half of them.

the meeting after is so much more fucking bearable. everyone peeled out as best as they could. it was weird hugging my sobbing extended family members while i basically gave a "yeah yeah" and tried not to shoo them off. do not touch me. the saving grace of it all was hanging out alongside my dad and his friend since elementary school. it is entirely possible to laugh after a funeral. watching my dad and his friend try desperately not to curse inside a church sanctuary as they recounted boyhood stories made me have to choke back laughter behind my plastic cup of water. i really am his kid. nobody else was smiling. but i understand him and his friend. many things are beyond our control. so we must appreciate the experiences we have been given.

we shake hands with the pastor. the service was lovely, it really was, so i thank him with a double-clasped handshake. we pile into the truck, me being the shortest having to jump up and use the side rails.

my sister and i barter with my parents to go to a bar to cap it off. we eat pizza and mozzarella sticks. my dad and i enjoy the ambience of ozzy and metallica. my sister and i sleep in silence and wake up at 6am to go back home. we stop at a bp station for gas and coffee and then by the local liquor store.

she goes home. i go home. life has continued. my dad, upon going down the hill from the cove after the funeral, he commented, "i'm glad i'll never be obligated to go back to this fucking place again."

[lewisyellowhelmet]

omg the wedding has me feeling some sort of way 😩 post-proposal smut? 👀

wedding!lewis is truly... something else. can just imagine him being so Proud and Excited to marry you, feels so honoured you chose him, that you found each other, that you're a team. i just. yeah. anyway!! proposal on jungle island!! thank u for ur prompt bestie!

see wedding s*x here!

submit ur own freaky friday prompt here!

You swim in the sea, after, paranoid you’ll lose the ring in the expanse of the Pacific Ocean, but Lewis has done his homework, its the perfect size on your finger, no danger of it slipping off. 

It had only felt right to get in the water, after you’d cried and laughed and cried more on the sand with Lewis on one knee, dizzy with happiness, the sun setting over the beach.

The current moving past the island this time of year is warm, so you float for a long time, letting Lewis kiss the salt out of your mouth. Pressed up against him in the slow ocean, legs around him, watching the water drip down his chest.

Eventually, when you start to shiver, and it’s almost dark, he tells you he’s booked a private dinner, drags you back to the villa. You want to get in the shower with him, distract him enough that he'll forget about the booking and take you to bed, but he’s resolute in his insistence that you go. 

Your feelings are almost hurt, until he leads you into the beautiful private dining room, open on one side to the warm evening breeze, a fan turning lazily above the huge table, and your entire families are seated there, secretly flown out. You have to turn and cry into Lewis’ shoulder for a second, overwhelmed with love, with admiration, for being taken care of so for well, for him knowing you so deeply, that they would be the first people you want to see after such a big experience. 

So you eat and drink and laugh, Lewis’ hand on your leg (can't stop touching you, can't let go), his ring on your finger. Your families spread around you, eager to be made into one, linked by you and Lewis, linked by the oath you’ve made to each other. 

It’s late when you walk back down the winding wooden pathways through the jungle, leading you back to the villa. Tucked into the side of Lewis, your body lazy with champagne, keep stopping him in dark corners to push him up against the railing and kiss him until you can feel him against your belly. 

Then, finally, the peace of the villa, white curtains blowing in the night air, the big bed set into the wood headboard, four posters. The light of the moon falls through the open windows to paint Lewis’ skin, so he almost glows, as you unbutton his shirt, can hear him breathing, trying to steady himself. 

He almost shakes, under your fingers, as you undress him, revealing more and more of a familiar body. He’s impatient, his big hand pushing into your loose hair, holding your head, I wanna see you, too, he says, waits for you to smile and nod, breathless with wanting. 

His hands skimming over your body, slipping you out of your dress. It feels strangely vulnerable, stood with him at the end of the bed, naked under the moonlight. He looks at you like you’re a Goddess, a Deity, come down to Earth just for him. 

Lewis takes his time, lays you all out on the bed, kisses everywhere his mouth can get, stays between your legs for a long time, his fingers, his tongue, working you open, until you’re restless and panting, and two orgasms ahead. 

When he finally, finally, gets inside you, he groans like he’s feeling you for the first time all over again, you bracketed under him, fingers dug into his shoulders. 

You feel amazing, he breathes, the scrape of his beard on your jaw, you always do, so perfect for me. Wanna fuck you til you cry.

You choke over a gasp, the heat of his words in your belly, his hands all over you, your breasts, your tummy, your face.

Pushing the hair out of your face so he can watch when you come again, tears leaking out down your cheeks, flushed and in oblivion. 

That’s it, baby, that’s it, no one can make you feel like I can, he tells you, his movements getting sloppy as he loses control, says your name like a prayer, reverent and instinctual. 

You don’t sleep for a long time, despite the deep night. Just lie wrapped up in him and the sheets, feeling his fingers run over your body, like he can’t get enough, never will. 

Gonna be my wife, he whispers, soft smile, kisses your forehead, gonna keep you forever. 

[aboardthescheherazade]

Mini-Essay: How Old IS Tintin?

Tintin’s “real” age comes up a lot in fandom discourse for one reason or another, usually out of concern for his safety. Nothing has really been set in stone aside from some brief mentions by Hergé himself...he has said Tintin is “around” 15-19, likely keeping it open so more people could put themselves into Tintin as they read the comics. (The series’s original tagline was “For ages 7 to 77″, after all.) For archival reasons, I’d like to do an analysis of what age bracket Tintin is likely in, based on historical reference from the earliest possible point in the franchise.

There are two important things to note when examining Tintin on his earlier journeys (specifically Soviets and Congo). 1. Hergé was 22 when he created Tintin in 1929. He was young at the time, so when tasked with making a character for a children’s magazine (Le Petit Vingtieme), of course he would envision a person younger than himself at the time. This is a pretty average thing for character creators...when he was younger, he came up with younger characters, but as he got older, he primarily created adult characters for an adult-filled world. 2. Tintin was at least partially inspired by real life teenage journalist (and boy scout) Palle Huld. Hergé has specifically said Tintin was around the age of 15 when he first created him, the same age as Huld, so that’s the youngest Tintin can possibly be.

It’s important, though, not to take these first two books seriously, because both of them are inherently silly (aside from the blistering racism of Congo) and any serious situation in these stories is immediately avoided by Tintin using Troll Physics. However, what really stands out for me in Soviets is when Tintin flies a plane. He’s confident doing so, but is not an actual pilot; historically, people in Belgium can begin flight training at age 15. Meanwhile, a person must be at least 17 to begin training for an automobile driver’s license, and 18 in order to drive. Historically in Russia, a person could start driving when they were 17 years old. Later in the story, Tintin buys a car, so again, this pushes him up to age 17-18.

Later on in Soviets, Tintin is given champagne at the German Aerodrome after landing his plane. In Germany, an individual must be at least 16 years old to consume wine (and sparkling wine) without a parent or guardian being present. I highlight this also because Hergé and his surroundings at the time were staunchly Catholic, and Catholics are traditionally advised against excesses, be it food, pleasures, or alcohol. Again, it would be uncharacteristic of a Catholic to portray underage drinking, let alone in a comedic manner.

Now, let’s jump ahead in the timeline. We begin to see Tintin living in his own apartment, and driving motorcycles and mopeds. People in Belgium can start driving mopeds at age 16, and historically, it was stupidly easy to rent an apartment from an early age. It was just as stupidly cheap; here’s New York City’s rent prices over the decades as an example. Basically, if Tintin were being paid enough as a reporter, he could easily make his two-digit rent costs. (Yes I’m slightly envious.)

In Cigars of the Pharaoh, Tintin flies a plane again. This implies he could have gotten his final Practical Check, which grants him a pilot certificate; a Belgian citizen must be at least 17 in order to get this. He’s also now notably better at flying the plane, too, and only crashes when it runs out of fuel.

Jumping ahead to The Black Island, we see Tintin going into a pub in Scotland...this is where things get complicated because he is given a mug of beer, and then orders food. Historically in Scotland, you must be at least 18 to buy alcohol at a licensed establishment. However, some places allow 16-17 year olds to buy alcohol with food or a meal. Tintin is given the mug of beer before he starts ordering food, though, so I’m going to place him at least 18 by The Black Island.

The TL;DR on this one is that Tintin is about 17 at the very, very start of the series. By approximately the 7th book, he is for sure 18 at least; any further indications to his age are left vague, likely by Hergé’s intention in order to keep Tintin as accessible a character as possible. What is the passage of time like in this universe? We don’t quite know, since it’s a floating timeline, but I doubt Hergé ever intended to put anything 100% in stone.

Finally, shout-out to the American distributors of the 1960s Belvision animated series for the most insane read I’ve seen on Tintin’s age:

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

(Because - as has rightfully been pointed out - the angel needs his cuddles, too.)

--

“Crowley?”

“Nnnnh?” The sprawl of limbs dozing on the sofa shifted, resolving into six feet of lazy demon.

“Can you help me with this?” Rising up on his toes, Aziraphale gestured with the book in his hand. “I can’t quite reach the top shelf.”

“Don’t you have a stool or something?”

“It’s on the other side of the shop, and you’re right here.”

With another groan, Crowley rolled off the sofa in a strange, almost fluid motion, and sauntered across the room. “Where does it go?”

“Just there.” He pointed again as Crowley took the book, glaring at the top shelf. It was, in reality, slightly too high for either of them to reach.

Crowley stretched, standing on his own toes, one hand resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder for balance, until he could just barely get the corner of the book into the gap between two others, and shoved it hard into place.

“There. If that broke the thing, s’not my fault.”

“No, I wouldn’t dream of…thank you, my dear.”

“Mmmh.” Crowley gave Aziraphale a half-grin before wandering back towards his favorite resting spot.

Behind his back, Aziraphale pressed his own hand to where his shoulder still burned with lovely heat.

--

“Crowley? I think I could use a hand again.”

“Are you serious?” he groaned. “You going to tell me you can’t reach your own mugs now?”

Aziraphale glanced at the cupboard again. It did look too low for that, didn’t it? “Of course not. I…I think I should reorganize my wine. I need you to hold some bottles for me.”

“Why?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Some of those wine bottles haven’t moved in over a century. Why would you need to do this now?”

“That…” He felt a flash of embarrassment, quickly turned it into indignation. “That’s hardly any of your concern, now is it? You come to my shop, day after day, just to lounge about. This isn’t one of your – your ancient temples, you can’t just laze around while the human worshippers fan you and feed you peeled grapes…”

A shadow fell across Aziraphale, and he turned to see Crowley, leaning against the doorway to the little kitchen, lopsided grin on his face. “That’s a very elaborate fantasy you’ve concocted.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together and turned back to the wine, grabbing a few bottles at random. “It’s not a – a fantasy. I know what you used to get up to in Egypt. And Greece. And a dozen other snake-worshipping cultures.”

“I was hardly—oof.” He grabbed the bottle of red that Aziraphale had all but thrust into his stomach, long fingers dragging across the back of Aziraphale’s hand, leaving behind a trail of fireworks.

“Good. That.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, staring at a row of champagne bottles. “That should go in the, er, Italian section. Tuscany.”

“You going to arrange them geographically now?”

“Of course! Region, then year, then type of grape. Perfectly logical. These are from, um, Piedmont.” He held out two more bottles.

Shrugging, Crowley put the first on the table and reached out. Aziraphale stood perfectly still, so that he couldn’t miss Crowley’s smallest finger brushing against his thumb in passing.

--

“Now what are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m – I’m sweeping under the sofa. Kindly move those – those pipe cleaners you call legs.”

“You never sweep.”

“That’s entirely untrue.” Aziraphale reached as far as his arm would go, vaguely sliding the brush from side to side. Shuffled a little to the left, until his shoulder bumped up against Crowley’s calf, fire bursting through him again.

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbled, and in an instant the legs were gone, neatly folded up beneath him.

Blast. Aziraphale glanced up with feigned concern. “You better not be putting your boots on…ah.” Crowley wiggled his toes, covered in a black snakeskin sock that was a little too skin-tight and convincing. With a grin and a shrug, the demon curled in on himself again, neatly out of the way, and turned his attention back to his mobile phone.

“Right. Well. Good.” Aziraphale ducked his head, and scrubbed hard at the floor.

--

“Crowley, help me move this chair.”

“Crowley, hold this ladder while I climb.”

“Crowley, hand me that cloth, I dropped it again.”

“Crowley…”

“Crowley…”

“Crowley…”

--

“Crowley, come over here, I need your hands again.”

“Are you going to pay me for all this work?”

“Nonsense. I’m exploiting you, like any good capitalist.” He pressed his hands down on the cover of the book, sharp scent of glue filling the air. “Come along, I can’t actually go over there to get you.”

Another string of garbled syllables, and once again Crowley stood at his shoulder. “What are you doing this time?”

“I’m rebinding this book. The glue sets overnight, so I need you to hold it while I get something heavy to put on top.”

“Um.” A long pause. “I can get something heavy for you.”

“No, I need you to hold this.”

Another pause, this time the silence tinged with suspicion. “Don’t you have a – a press or something?”

Aziraphale kept his eyes firmly forward, away from Crowley. “Will you just…stop asking foolish questions and do as you’re asked?”

Two hands slapped down onto the cover, perfectly between Aziraphale’s without touching either of them. He could feel the warmth of Crowley’s shoulder, so tantalizingly close.

“Well?” Crowley finally prompted. “Aren’t you going to move?”

“No.” He swallowed. “Not when you’re holding it wrong. Look. You need to be here, in front of the book.”

“Yeah. Where you’re standing.” Aziraphale could feel the look Crowley shot through his glasses.

“Oh, fine.” Removing his hands, Aziraphale stepped back and to the side, letting the demon take his place. “No, not like that! Honestly, my dear fellow, you need to pay more attention.”

“Wha—?”

Before he could think better of it, Aziraphale’s hands shot out, carefully encircling Crowley’s waist, just above the hips. “Center yourself,” he said, nudging to the left as his arms soaked in wave after wave of heat. Not enough. “And a little closer.” An infinitesimal push, enough to bring his chest almost, almost against Crowley’s back. He ached for it, that last bit of space.

Well. There was one option.

“Good. Now. Just need to position your hands correctly.”

Leaning forward, Aziraphale placed his hands on the backs of Crowley’s, pressing against his back. His feet shifted, and now his chin rested on that black-clad shoulder, and his legs bracketed Crowley’s, his arms rested against Crowley’s…

Every part of them, together.

With his eyes closed, everything else fell away, except for Crowley, his presence fluttering under Aziraphale’s skin like a second heartbeat. He drank it in, more and more, trying to fill every empty space inside himself, but it wasn’t enough, it would never be enough—

“Angel?”

In an instant, he was back in the shop, stumbling away. “Yes. That. That should…I’ll…”

Aziraphale spun and hurried away, closing his ears to the worry in Crowley’s voice.

--

“Crowley? Can you—”

“Nope.”

“I…” Aziraphale tried to muster up his indignation again, but after the bookbinding fiasco, it was impossible. “Of course. I’ll just…”

“Nope, I need your help.”

He turned, slowly, to where the long shape of his companion sprawled across the sofa, one foot over the arm, the other dangling off the side, hands folded behind his head.

“What…what do you need.”

Crowley lifted one hand and pointed to a shelf behind the sofa. “That one.”

“I…” Aziraphale moved closer, trying to see what he was pointing at. “You want a book?”

“Mmmh. Right there.”

Frowning, he took a few more steps. “Isn’t that a dictionary?”

“Nnh? No, not that one, that one.” The finger didn’t move.

“Why…why can’t you…?”

With a snort, Crowley dropped his hand, tucked it behind his head again. “Sprained my back doing all your chores. I’m out of commission. I need a book to entertain me during my long convalescence.”

“And what happened to your clever little telephone?”

“Finished it.”

“You…you finished it?”

“Yup. Browsed the whole internet. Found the end. Lousy twist in the last chapter.”

From the tilt of his head, Aziraphale could tell that Crowley’s eyes were shut, lost in the perverse joy of his silly claims. That should have made this easier, but he still hesitated as he leaned across the sofa, rested his hand on the back. His arms passed over the top of Crowley’s head by several centimeters.

“Did you mean…this one?” His fingers hovered over a likely tome.

“Hmm. Nope. Further down.”

A step to the side, knees coming close to where Crowley’s leg carelessly hung, as if it were too much work to pull it onto the sofa with the rest of him. “This one?”

“One shelf down.”

He bent even lower, until his stomach hovered, just above—

Crowley struck, fast as a serpent, his lazy sprawl suddenly a flurry of motion as arms and legs grappled Aziraphale, constricted, twisted around to slam him into the sofa cushions, to lie there with Crowley straddling his middle, hands pressing down on his shoulders.

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered so that he could hardly breathe.

“Good. Now. What do you want?”

“I…” Aziraphale shook his head. “I don’t…”

“Yes. You do.” One hand shot up and ripped his glasses off, tossing them aside, then pressed down again on the angel’s chest. Golden eyes bore into him. “Bless it, Aziraphale, all day you’ve asked me to do everything except for – whatever it is you need! Just tell me!”

“I…” He pressed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the way his skin burned, electrified, alive. “I can’t. It’s…it’s foolish. It’s too much…”

“Angel.” Softer now, so soft it could break his heart. “Nothing will ever be too much. Just ask.”

“No…”

“I can’t help you if you don’t ask.”

With an effort, Aziraphale managed to press one trembling hand against his eyes. Tried hard to steady himself. “Crowley. I…I don’t know how to explain it. I feel…cold. Empty. Alone, even with you here. Like something inside me just…died, and left me hollow…”

The weight shifted, easing off his shoulders, and when he looked, Crowley was sitting up. Further away.

“Do you…did Heaven do something to you? When you left?”

“No.” How his voice shook! “No, I – I thought that at first, but…in truth…it’s been coming on…for simply ages.” The shop grew misty, and Aziraphale closed his eyes again. “A little worse every time I – I felt my superiors’ disappointment. Every time I failed at a task. Every…every time I visited Heaven and realized…I didn’t belong.” He tried to rub his eyes again and found they were wet. “No…no this isn’t anything but…my own…inadequacy.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true! I’m not…not strong they way you are.” His hand reached out, grasping, and found Crowley’s, wrapping gently around his fingers. It surged through him again, warmth, strength, solidity. Everything Aziraphale lacked. “I can feel it in you. It’s beautiful. And I want – want to drink it in, fill myself, but I’m bottomless, I just take, and take, and it’s not enough. It will never be enough!” He pulled his hand away, ready to flee from the sofa, to hide from his shame. Ready for his only friend to pull away in disgust at his selfishness, his greed.

Instead, Crowley lowered himself, stretching his long body across Aziraphale, head tucked under his chin, hands resting on his arms. “Is this better?”

It swept through him again and again, with every beat of Crowley’s heart. Not just heat. Something that Aziraphale had been lacking, craving, for more centuries than the Earth had existed.

Love.

A sob escaped him, pitiful, even as he drank it all in, greedily, more than he ever deserved, possessive arms twisting around Crowley as if to pull him into Aziraphale’s chest.

“S’alright,” Crowley murmured, and his hand pressed against the curve of Aziraphale’s cheek, brilliant as starlight. “How’s this? Any different?”

“Yes, it’s…” There was no hope he’d ever be able to control his voice again. “It’s stronger when…ah…when we touch…directly.”

“Got it.”

And just like that, the weight on his chest vanished, leaving him empty and cold again.

Of course.

Aziraphale sat up, trying to wipe his eyes dry, humiliated by the loss of composure. “If you want to leave,” he managed, blinking them clear, “I won’t…”

Crowley stood before him, jacket and tie discarded, fingers flicking down the buttons of his black shirt.

“What on Earth are you doing?”

“You said touching directly, right? Skin to skin?”

“You…you can’t be serious.” A different sort of heat began to race into his cheeks.

“Nrg.” Crowley shrugged, rolling the shirt off his shoulders as he did. “If it helps you…”

“No, my dear – you don’t understand. I want more than – than you could ever give me. I’d – I’d drain you entirely if I could.”

“I’d like to see you try.” He pulled off the last layer, a blac vest, then bent forward, resting a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Besides. Everything I have is yours. Our side, remember?”

Aziraphale bowed his head, fists clenched in his lap. “You…can’t mean that…”

“Angel.” He felt the warm press of Crowley’s forehead against his own. “I’ve never meant anything more in my life.”

Slowly, slowly, Aziraphale tugged at his bowtie, trying to remember how to loosen it.

--

Moonlight filtered in through the bookshop windows.

Crowley lay on the floor, Aziraphale curled up against his bare chest, arms around his shoulders, one leg hooked over his knees – clinging to him like a lifeline even in sleep. Some of the strain was finally starting to leak out of his furrowed brow, though he was still a long way from looking like himself.

The fingers of one hand ran through Aziraphale’s curls, carefully, rhythmically. Crowley had never seen the angel sleep before, but as soon as he’d started carefully scratching at his scalp, those blue eyes had begun to drift shut. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but if there was even a chance that this was helping him rest, Crowley would be damned, blessed, and cast into the void before he’d even consider stopping.

Everywhere they touched – which was just about everywhere – Crowley could feel something, an energy buzzing off Aziraphale’s skin. He’d felt it before, many times, but never this distinctly; it curled into him, whether he wanted it or not, flowing through his veins, keeping his heart beating.

“Y’know,” he whispered, slightly worried that the motion of the air would be enough to waken the angel. “You really shouldn’t have worried. Steal my strength? Ridiculous.”

Aziraphale shifted, just a little, pulling himself closer.

“I don’t have a blessed ounce of strength of my own. Or warmth. Solidity? Give me a break.”

A cloud must have moved out of the way; the moonlight suddenly grew brighter, and the pale angel seemed almost to glow in the silver light. Ethereal beauty.

“No. Whatever I’ve got, whatever’s kept me going, for thousands of years – it all comes from you.”

His angel shivered, just faintly, and Crowley quickly miracled up a thick blanket, wrapping it around both of them. Aziraphale sighed, fingers kneading and relaxing across Crowley’s skin.

“So you see, s’not a problem if you need it all. It’s already yours. Everything I have. Everything I am. Yours.”

--

Crowley was wrong for two reasons.

First, the warmth they felt hadn’t begun in Aziraphale, any more than it had in Crowley. It was a different kind of force, generated by their proximity to each other, and flowing constantly from one to the other, an eternal cycle. The strength belonged to both of them, and neither of them.

Second, of course, it would never run out. After all, love is increased – never diminished – by being shared.

[l-norris]

Spanish GP 2024 Recap

Part 3 of this strangely therapeutic thing I call content!

Forgot to write out stuff that happened pre-race cuz I was busy stressing over final exams tomorrow and realised it only as the formation lap was complete lmao.

('Tis the reason I'm posting it today already as well, brother I am SUFFERING I HATE FINAL EXAMS)

Anyways, enjoy.

And, as always, numbers in brackets are lap numbers.

(Disclaimer: Remember that this is just for shits and giggles, I'm not trying to actually hate on anyone here cuz all the drivers are very dear to me)

- IT'S LIGHTS OUT AND AWAY WE GO!

- Lando looses P1 almost immediately

- and drops down to P3 in the first corner

- That was horrible my man

- But DAMN where did George come from tho??

- No crashes so far

- Oop Ferraris touched actually, nevermind

- Max in the lead (3)

- Is it even worth it to keep watching

- Like we all know how this is gonna end

- Fuck it, never say never

- Lando is back in George's DRS window (7)

- Somehow Fernando dropped down to P14

- Lando is slowly creeping up on George

- First pitstops happening already (Guanyu and Yuki) (10)

- Oscar is literally up Pierre's rear

- Haas fucking up yet another pitstop

- Oh brother I can see the negative points in my F1 Fantasy already

- Kevin apparently did a false start (this seems familiar)

- Max binned it in turn 7 (13)

- Which we never got to see btw

- Alpine fucked up Pierre's pitstop

- Kevin gets a 5-Second-Penalty (now hold on...)

- George in Pit (16)

- Mercedes also fucked up George's pitstop

- What's in Barcelona's air today lmao

- Lando is 8 tenths faster than Max

- Max comes in (17)

- 1,9 second pitstop😵

- Rejoins in fourth

- Carlos is complaining a lot today

- Stop yapping bro, DRIVE

- I'm scared of McLaren's strategy

- I need to go to the restroom but if I've learnt anything it is that something crucial happens if I do.

- Oscar in pit (22)

- Oscar flying past Nico (23)

- Lando pitstop (23)

- Rejoins in sixth

- Lando fastest lap (26)

- Lando closing in on Carlos

- Aaaand he's gone!

- Oscar overtakes Checo easily (28)

- "Tires are very inconsistent" - Max (30)

- OH?

- Lando is getting ready to overtake Lewis

- Gets by easily (32)

- Oscar flies through the field

- Lando is up in P2!

- But George ain't giving up without a fight

- Fight! (36)

- They're side by side for like half the lap

- Lando wins the squabble (37)

-George fastest lap (39)

- Checo is in P10 btw (38)

- I give up, I need to use the restroom

- Nothing happened, nice.

- Lapping starts (42)

- Max pitstop (44)

- Lando is speeding away

- Mom I'm scared

- Lando boxes (47)

- Rejoins P2!!!

- Nico gets a penalty for speeding in the pitlane

- 7 second gap to Max

- Is it too soon to say I can hear the Dutch anthem playing already?

- Wait hold on Lando is actually gaining

- Yuki also gets a penalty for speeding in the pitlane

- 15 laps to go!

- Lewis in P3!

- Max is pulling away again😮‍💨

- Alex bins it (60)

- My hopes are dead

- Max won

- silently fuming

- Not only because Lando didn't win but because somehow Oscar was kinda forgotten again? Correct me if I'm wrong here tho

- At least Lando got DotD

- AND LEWIS PODIUM!

- Everyone actually finished🤯

- This race was... meh.

- Not a single yellow flag, no safety car, no carnage.

- Only plenty of overtakes and battles

- Some of them were GODLIKE but still...

- Turned off the broadcast as soon as the podium celebrations started

- I do NOT want to hear the Dutch anthem rn

- I cannot physically handle hearing it I will cry

- Lando didn't do his signature champagne celebration apparently - very understandable.

- But at least he's second in the WDC now🥹

- inhaling the copium

- ... feel free to add on!

... Yeah. A rollercoaster of emotions, this one.

But hey! My homerace is next! YIPPEE! See ya in Spielberg!