#expect to see that on your dashboards every once in a while

[makerofmadness]

Hey guys. Bird up.

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Bleed my aching heart

Written for @steddiesmuttyseptember, week 3 Prompts: Backseat & Bruise Words: 1,359 Rated: E Tags: Mafia AU; Mob boss Dick Harrington; Hitman Eddie Munson; Car sex; Rough sex; Possessive sex; Humiliation; Dirty talk; Knifeplay; Mild painplay; Top Eddie; Bratty bottom Steve

Notes: "Kiss that ring" verse, Steve POV? You bet! Can't give me those prompts and expect me to not think of these two unhinged little fuckers. This continues right where "Heaven's in the backseat" leaves off.

When Steve was twelve, his father took him on a trip to Sicily. He said Steve was old enough to learn about the family business he was supposed to inherit. And so Steve spent a dreadfully boring two weeks being paraded around in expensive suits, locked away in stuffy meeting rooms, listening to negotiations he didn’t understand, while the sun sparkled on the sea outside.

On the second-to-last day, he used an unsupervised minute to sneak away. The water always held a weird fascination for him, even then. He wanted to feel it on his skin at least once while he was here. 

On his way back, his feet slipped on the cliffs and he plummeted nine feet. They found him stumbling around by the shoreline hours later, disoriented and heavily concussed. His father took one look at him and slapped him hard across his bleeding face. 

“What part of stay at the house didn't you understand? Do you have a death wish or are you honestly too dumb to listen?” 

Steve thought about that question a lot over the past six years.

He's not ashamed to admit that he isn't smart - a lot less smart than Richard Harrington expected his son and heir to be. Still, he doesn't think it's the reason why he keeps going against his father's orders at every opportunity.

The pain felt good. He suspected even then that he must be a little fucked in the head, but that didn't change the fact that, nauseated and bleeding and dizzy, he felt more alive than he had in weeks. 

Maybe that's why he is the way he is. Why he keeps chasing the risk, the danger, the pain. 

Maybe that's why, when he noticed Eddie Munson lurking in the flower bushes by his father's pool, he didn't shy away but beckoned him closer. Maybe that's why the hungry look in those dark eyes makes him shiver in pleasure rather than fear. Why he can't stop provoking the man, why the thought of making that mask of indifference crack fills him with a perverse sense of anticipation. 

Maybe that's why, when Eddie hits the brakes and pulls the car over to the side of the road, Steve is fully hard before he even finds himself pinned into the backseat. Why, when Eddie pulls out his knife and trails the tip of the blade over his skin and talks about claiming him, about stuffing him full of his cock, about cutting his initials into his flesh, he can't help the needy little whimper that falls from his lips. 

“Do it then,” he breathes, hips bucking to chase the tantalizing weight of Eddie’s leg between his thighs, wrists straining in Eddie’s grip. “Make me yours.” 

For a second, Eddie actually pauses, eyes going round with surprise. Then, his pupils blow fuzzy and large. His lips peel back, and Steve catches a glimpse of sharp canines glinting in the blue light of the dashboard. And then all he knows is that he's being kissed with a force that is unlike anything he's ever experienced before, a force that punches the breath right out of him and makes the needy little thing low in his abdomen thrum and quiver. 

He struggles, clenching his jaw shut and trying to jerk out of Eddie’s hold, because what can he say? It's fun, playing hard to get, seeing just how much of a rise he can get out of him. Eddie growls against his lips and presses his thumb into the bruised flesh of his lip, just where his father hit him earlier. Steve gasps in pain and surprise, and Eddie uses the opportunity to lick right past his teeth and into the warmth of his mouth. His hand never lets go of the knife, and when Steve tries to twist out of the kiss, the blade tickles his cheek like a dangerous promise. He goes very still, Eddie’s teeth grazing his lip as he grins and deepens the kiss. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes before Eddie allows them to part for air. His head is dizzy and all of his sensations have narrowed down to the tingly needlepoint feeling in his limbs, the delicious pain where Eddie’s fingers are still pressing down on the bruise. 

“Make you mine?” Eddie repeats, and his voice is a husky whisper. His eyes look black in the dark car, like two bottomless pits, ready to swallow him whole. His lips gleam with their mingled spit. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking for, little nymph. I don’t think you know what that means.” “Show me then,” Steve hisses. It’s only when his nails dig into Eddie’s shoulders, drawing a sharp intake of breath from those sinfully plump lips, that he realizes Eddie no longer has his wrists pinned. Instead, his hand has traveled down, undoing both of their belts and flies with quick, deft fingers. 

Steve’s cock springs free, hitting Eddie’s thigh with an obscene little slap. Eddie coos, almost tenderly, but there is nothing tender to his touch as he takes him in hand. His fingers are long and warm and calloused, the edges of his rings deliciously sharp against Steve’s sensitive tip. Eddie squeezes, tight, and the zap of pain sizzles all the way up his spine, like tiny, bright sparks in the dark. He moans, low and wrecked, and Eddie laughs against his pulse. 

“Why, sweetheart, are you enjoying this? If I had known what a fucked-up little slut you are, I would've done this sooner.” 

“Don't call me-” Steve starts to say. Eddie pinches him, just where his aching balls connect to his cock, and the words trail off into a hoarse wheeze. 

“Don't call you what?” Eddie asks. “Sweetheart? Or my little slut? Well, I've got news for you, baby.” 

He slips the knife back into the holster under his suit jacket in one swift motion, then shoves three fingers into Steve’s mouth, so hard and fast he nearly chokes on them. 

“I'm gonna call you whatever I want,” Eddie purrs, one hand fucking into his mouth, the other pumping his throbbing cock. “I'm gonna call you whatever the fuck I want, and you're gonna be glad for it. Everything I give you, you're gonna take, and when I'm done, you're gonna thank me for it. Do you know why that is?” 

He slides his fingers out, patting Steve's cheek encouragingly. They leave a thin, cool sheen of spit, just next to the bruise. 

“Because I'm yours,” Steve rasps. 

“That's right honey.” Eddie’s smile is sharp and pretty and hurts in all the best ways. “Go ahead now, give me what's mine.” 

Steve's climax hits him with a violence that forces the air from his lungs in a startled scream. Eddie licks the sound from his lips like it's the sweetest nectar while Steve spills all over his hand and his own stomach, staining both of their expensive suits. It feels like being consumed whole. It feels like being pulled apart at the seams, like being shattered into a million tiny pieces. 

Eddie keeps kissing him until his lips feel puffy and swollen, keeps stroking him until his spent cock is sensitive and raw, until all that falls from his lips are high-pitched whines and a nonsensical string of Eddie, Eddie, please, so good, thank you, Eddie. 

“Aw, baby,” Eddie murmurs, sharp teeth nipping at the edge of his jaw. “Don't thank me just yet. You don't think I'm done with you already, do you?”

If coming undone under Eddie’s hands was like shattering apart, the feeling of Eddie opening him up on come-slicked fingers feels like being put together again. The burn of Eddie replacing those fingers with his cock, fucking him hard and fast into the backseat, feels like a rebirth. 

The pain when he comes for a second time, dry and untouched, and with Eddie’s name on his lips, feels like the beginning of a new life. 

He's made into a new kind of person that night in the car, one that belongs to Eddie Munson, heart, body and soul. He never once looks back. 

More Smutty September

[jojo-oliver]

How to tumblr for artists… my own version

A collection of things that have been working for me, but may not work for everyone

~~~ your posts ~~~

!!!reblog your own stuff!!! you need to reblog your own stuff, there is nothing morally wrong with reblogging your own stuff regularly. in fact, it is morally right to allow the chance for more people to see your artwork.

~~~ queue it!! ~~~ my queue is 500 posts strong. maybe don't try to make your queue hundreds of posts strong in the same day omg but like… once every month or two i'll go through my whole blog and just scroll and "add to drafts" to every one of my own posts i have. then i'll use the "mass post editor" to add content warning tags. and add to queue, and shuffle. and then I write down what the date was for when I last added my posts to be reblogged on queue. this is helped by turning on timestamps for posts in tumblr "dashboard preferences" settings.

queueing is necessary and life saving for me. It takes out so much work with decision fatigue and the anxiety around posting. It also guarantees that even if I suddenly need time off or away from my phone, I don't just disappear and lose all traction. It also breaks the instant-gratification cycle that you expect when you finish an artwork. It's hard to keep creating when you post something and, when you're expecting to get that gratification, you get none... If you queue your new artwork to come out at a later time, you've separated that expectation - with time. It hurts less and contributes to a more consistent gratification thing instead of peaks and troughs.

~~~ tag ya stuff ~~~ when you're making a new post, the first 20 tags are what gets put into the searchable tags. do not feel shame for using lots of tags. shame is the mind-killer. tags are hard. hard to know what to tag a post with. hard to remember the tags. so I found some ways to help myself. maybe they'll help you too. dedicate some time towards just figuring out what tags you want to use. i have a list in my phone notes that i add tags to and reference whenever i'm making a new post. i have the phone right beside the laptop while i'm tagging so that i can just look at it and scroll. tags are the only way for people to find your artwork, other than people manually coming to your blog because they saw you somewhere. there is no algorithm. posting without tags, until you have an established fanbase, is throwing something into the void.

When I'm doing tag research, I look at what people seem to use - when you put something in the search bar, tumblr recommends you some that have a higher following, typically. Looks like this on desktop:

if you like one tag, look at what other people who use that tag also tag their posts with. Observe and learn how this tag is used. search through a bunch of them and write them down.

here's what i got in my notes, for the specific kind of art I post and look for:

these tags are sort of specific to me and the kind of art I make. You'll want to research your own tags, but this is an example of how I keep them organized to make posting more effective. I generally only write down a tag when it's got more than 2k followers. You might be tempted to use the tags with millions of followers, but I've actually found those a lot less functional for small artists. If your stuff doesn't immediately get a bunch of notifications, you're drowned out and pushed to the bottom much faster. But the bigger tags are better than no tags, so I keep them if I can't think of anything else to tag something with.

~~~ post at the right times….? ~~~

fridays and saturdays is when I post fresh new things... usually. every website has it's own peak hours, and you can find those hours in many different online articles that try to sell you social media growth services. tumblr is unique in having later hours.

here's some random graph from google images:

please don't over think this. please don't let this consume the idea of when to post, preventing you from posting at all. it doesn't mean too much - if you post during very active hours, maybe your art would just be pushed down the feed faster. if you post at the end of hours, maybe everyone's going to sleep… if you post at inactive hours, maybe there's less 'competition'… if you post at the beginning of active hours, maybe that's just more time for your post to circulate for the day, if you have enough people reblogging it once it drops....

this also is in EST. So fuck the other time zones, I guess. I'm over here in europe knowing that the "best" time to post would be like 2-3am or something. It's like this for most english-speaking majority sites - higher traffic in north american time zones.

it's also worth mentioning that this is scattered as heck, compared to other social media sites. and it's not like, the activity times of your followers. it's not the best time to post for your niche. this is just tumblr, broadly. all of tumblr.

~~~ Plan ahead for annual dates ~~~

Your artwork will get more circulation if it's posted on a celebratory day. You could just put them on your calendar and if you're wondering what to make, look on the calendar for what's coming soon. For example, asexual awareness day, trans day of visibility, location-specific holidays, etc. Here's my phone notes thing with my own recorded annuals:

I got these dates from googling and reading different articles, but I find that I still miss dates, and then I add them for next year. If you know of some I missed, tell me and I'll add them please <3

~~~ reblog other people's stuff ~~~

tumblr is sorta about ecosystems. things get passed around within groups of people that are all following eachother. to enter this ecosystem, you must engage and reblog other people's stuff too.

if you reblog other artists' stuff, sometimes they'll come over and reblog your stuff too. sometimes they'll follow you back. this is called becoming a mutual. I'll search specific tags for the kinds of people I want to follow and the kind of art I like - those are listed in the screenshot of my tag note under "Tags for finding new people".

I see a lot of blogs out there that are very clean, posts are tagless, and are only for the artists' content. like scrolling through a portfolio. I imagine this is good for people who are migrating to tumblr but already have their own established fanbase from elsewhere.

you don't need to do reblog other people's stuff on your art blog, you can do this on a separate blog. but if the two don't look very closely correlated, it's hard to tell who you are when you're interacting. and hard to make sure people know that you are the same person as your art blog. and you gotta remember to promote yourself on your personal blog.

~~~ have an art tag ~~~

make your blog easy to search!

if i go to your blog, and you've written 'artist' or 'sometimes art' in your bio, i wanna see it… it make me so sad when i don't get to see it. i want to reblog it. please let me reblog it :(

to make a tag on your own blog searchable, you don't need to repost it to add a tag. you don't even need to reblog it. you can actually just go back to the original post and edit it to add your tag. I've seen post people just have their art tag be something like #(blogname)art . you can see my own in my tags image above. if it's very unique, then it'll work tumblr-wide. I think that's good, since the tumblr search function is really weird. Otherwise it should still work if it's not entirely unique, people just have to make sure they're searching specifically your blog to see only your stuff.

I like to have a link in my pinned post where people can click to have immediately searched for my art tag. Convenience is king. Keep in mind that most people are on mobile, and if something isn't immediately clickable, they often won't find it.

~~~ be consistent and be patient ~~~

!!!this time will pass anyway!!! how many notes you have is not correlated with how good you are as an artist. wanting to earn something from your art means you essentially have two jobs. two potentially full time jobs. this shit's difficult. most of the job is promoting yourself. don't undersell how hard it is to do… don't feel bad for not immediately succeeding. I would write about how hard it's been to promote myself, but it would just be long and sad I think.

This isn't a full guide, please feel free to add more!!

I'm sure in another year I'll disagree with a lot of this, it will become irrelevant with time, and I'll have a lot of different opinions. Chip in and share what you've been doing? Teach me? This is very overwhelming. Don't do it all at once, just like, try one thing at a time, and see how it works for you. Your niche might be different. One size does not fit all. If you're confused about some of the things I talk about in here, you might be on mobile. I do most of my queueing and posting from the desktop browser version.

I will update this with more as things change, but I think you'll have to click through to see the updated post

[dangerousduckcloud]

Flowerbeds make up for a nice eternal rest

Read it also on AO3

Dick jumped from the car, walking until he was consumed by the darkness that surrounded you. Seconds passed and nothing happened, no movement, no sound, nothing. It’s now or never. The door opened without a problem, barely making a sound, but one that could be misinterpreted by the hooting of owls nearby. You stood there for a full second, waiting to see if Nightwing would come back, but he didn’t. Taking a few steps backwards, you hastily turned in your place, ready to run away as fast as you could.

Chapter 3 < > Chapter 5

taglist: @kurai-hono-blog

Ever since you were a child, your parents would engrave the phrase ‘do not get into a car with strangers’ into your mind every single day. And you listened, feeling uneasy as a teen every time you had to get into a taxi by yourself, the sentiment not quite leaving you even now that you were a young adult.

But when the stranger had a real life Batmobile which could go up to 500km/h? Well, that’s something worth risking your life for. After all, how many people could say they had the opportunity to ride in an exact replica of the legendary car?

Besides, did that sentence applied when you were already staying with the stranger?

“All these buttons work?”

“Yeah.”

“What does this one do?”

“That’s the comms.”

“What about this one?”

“GPS.”

“And this one?”

“Emergency eject.”

If Dick didn’t had plans to kill you, he likely did now. The moment your eyes spotted the car, you ran straight towards it, throwing yourself inside when Dick unlocked it, your parents’ precaution all but forgotten.

The interior was everything you expected. Black leather seats with dark red detailing, more gauges than a normal car should have that you didn’t even know what they were measuring, the dashboard packed with dark gray buttons, some labeled with numbers, others with letters, you only stopped trying to press them when Dick almost swerved off the road at seeing you were about to push the auto-destruction button.

But that didn’t stop you from asking.

“This one?”

“That’s the GCPD radio.”

“And what about—FUCK!” Stepping on the pedal, the car reached a speed at which no normal human should be able to drive. “Stop! STOP!”

Just seconds before you would hit a car waiting for the red light to change —even though it was way past midnight, and the streets were empty— the Batmobile stopped, the force of movement sending you forward, an ‘ooph’ leaving your mouth once your chest hit the dashboard.

Dick’s shoulders were shaking with mirth.

“If you wanted me to shut up, you could’ve said so.” You complained while rubbing your shoulder, sure that the seatbelt would leave a mark.

“I’m sorry.” He pursed his lips, stepping on the pedal once more, this time at a normal speed. “Are you alright?”

“I guess I’ll survive.” Reclining on the seat, you took a second to take a deep breath, calming your body before it decided to return your meal. “So, how far is Mr. Wayne’s house?”

“On the other side of the city, all the way to the outskirts.”

You’re certain he was lying, that his plan involved driving you around to get ‘lost’ and not realize you’d gone back to the same place, something that totally would’ve work if you didn’t know the truth, whatever the truth was.

“Can we at least turn on the radio?” You asked, hoping it would help you learn where were you, because no matter how far he’d drive, you couldn’t recognize any part of the city. Had they moved you to a whole different town? “This car has a normal radio, right?”

He hummed, thoughtlessly hitting a button, and bringing to life the voice of whatever talk show host was on at this hour.

“… Top-up security if so many prisoners keep escaping.” The woman in the radio said. “But I guess once can get complacent when you have grown men in tights running around beating up these criminals and bringing them back. That’s Gotham for you, folks. Time’s fifteen past two am. Temperature’s…”

Great, so the radio was of no use as well. Just how many people did they have on this scheme? Was this something pre-recorded?

Your feelings were a weird mix of danger, curiosity, anxiousness, and hopelessness. Nothing made sense, what did they want with you? Why you? Were you simply on the wrong place, at the wrong time?

This wouldn’t be happening if only you’d remember to charge your earphones and— That’s it! Your phone!

Chiding yourself for forgetting it, you moved on your seat pretending to soothe a cramping leg, but in reality, you were patting your right leg for the hidden pocket on your pant, something you had to sew in most of your clothes after getting mugged the first time you moved to the city.

The rectangular bulge your fingers brushed over your thigh brought some peace of mind, meaning they hadn’t done anything to you, not even pat you down to make sure you wouldn’t call the police.

Were they amateur kidnappers?

Song after song was the only thing filling the space inside the car, some random add here and there on the radio.

“Won’t Mr. Wayne be mad we’ll wake him up at two in the morning?” You decided to break the silence.

“Nah, it’s a Friday, he’ll most likely be just returning from some party. We’re almost there.”

‘There’ was pretty vague, tall buildings had transformed into a beautiful field, moonshine reflecting on the early morning dew on the grass. ‘There’ was nothing here, just a road that continued behind a hill.

The car came to a stop, all kind of alarms flaring at full volume inside your head. There was no one here, there was nothing here. They could kill you or brainwash your brain and people would be none the wiser, no one would be able to help you.

“Wait here.”

Dick jumped from the car, walking until he was consumed by the darkness that surrounded you. Seconds passed and nothing happened, no movement, no sound, nothing.

It’s now or never.

The door opened without a problem, barely making a sound, but one that could be misinterpreted by the hooting of owls nearby. You stood there for a full second, waiting to see if Nightwing would come back, but he didn’t. Taking a few steps backwards, you hastily turned in your place, ready to run away as fast as you could.

That is, if a body hadn’t impeded your escape. A ‘humph’ escaped you for the second time that night, followed by a scream that you hoped would alert someone and come help you.

“Safe.” The body —a girl? — said, hands raised. “You’re safe.”

Hurried steps resonated on the concrete, getting closer and closer until they came to a halt.

“Jane?” Dick asked, worried. “What happened?”

“I… I…” Words elude you, what could you say? ‘Yeah, my bad, I was trying to escape’? “I just… You didn’t come back and…”

“I see you met Cass” A different voice spoke this time, older and blithely, the voice of someone you would see on those air-headed reality shows. “She’s my daughter, nice to meet you, I’m Bruce Wayne.” The man extended a hand towards you, and your brain short-circuited, looking from his hand to his face, wasn’t he supposed to be ‘missing in another universe’? "Are you alright?"

Coming out of your stupor, you shook his hand, closing your gaping mouth with a click.

“Nice to meet you, sir. Thank you for, uh… For taking me in. I’m… Jane.” You settled on telling him the name Tim had given you, you weren’t sure if they knew your real name, but didn’t want to tell them in case they didn’t. “I’m sorry to be an inconvenience, specially at this hour.”

Now that he was closer and the moon shone on his face, you could appreciate how handsome he was, sure that he was someone who had all kinds of men and women throwing themselves at him.

“You’re not an inconvenience, when Nightwing called I was more than happy to give you a room in my home. And my daughter and I were just getting home after a charity gala, in case you were worried you woke us up.”

“Oh.” His story checked out, as he was dressed in a luxurious tuxedo that probably costed more than your rent, drenched in what looked like wine. And the girl, Cass, was wearing a beautiful but simple black cocktail dress. “Why wait here?”

“You see…” The man, Bruce, or whatever his real name was, cleared his throat, rubbing a hand behind his back, and a coy smile on his face. “I’m trying to avoid certain gossip that has been coming up more with the years.”

Nightwing did his best to not laugh, instead covering it with a couple of coughs, eliciting a heated glance from Bruce.

“As much as I would love to hear the story, I gotta go.” Dick said. “The Scarecrow escaped again and we’re getting close to capture him. Jane?”

He led you a few meters away from Bruce and Cass.

“I know how hard this all must be, but I promise you, you’re safe, there’s no safer place on Gotham than Wayne Manor. But if you ever feel threatened…” He pulled out a rectangular metal plate, barely longer than your hand, with only a red button in the middle. “This is a signal emitter, if you press the button, both Red Robin and I will receive the signal, and we’ll immediately come and get you, wherever you are, okay?”

“Okay.” The gift warmed your heart, tears welling in your eyes. “Thank you.”

He hugged you and led you back again with the Waynes. You watched the Batmobile drive off into the city, the spot getting tinier and tinier until it disappeared.

“Ready to go?” Bruce asked.

“Yeah, sure.” You cleaned a stray tear with your sleeve, clearing your throat and followed both to a costly car hidden behind a tree. Sitting on the back seat, with Cass on the passenger seat, and Bruce driving.

The car screamed luxury everywhere you looked, there was even a mini fridge inside, and TV screens on the seat’s backrest. However, it didn’t look like a car that was used too much, maybe only to show off when going to parties, not to do menial tasks, like groceries or errands.

“So, Jane.” Bruce spoke. “How old are you?”

“22.”

“Ah, that’s great! Cass is 23, I’m sure you two will get along just fine!” From the mirror, Cass smiled sweetly at you, which you felt forced to give back. “I have more kids, but they’re not home most of the time, only Cass and Tim are full time living in the manor right now, although Dick has been spending more time there lately.”

“Tim is nice. But he is tired.”

Bruce chuckled, pressing a button on the screen in the dashboard. “Yeah, he loves staying up until late with his silly videogames, don’t feel offended if he doesn’t talk to you, most of the time he won’t recognize people until he’s had his third cup of coffee.”

“Is that… Healthy?”

“No.” Cass replied with a flat tone.

Silence befell the car, moving your sight from the side window to the front when the sound of old gates moving reached your ears, mouth agape and a gasp of awe broke the silence.

At the end of the driveway, a mansion—no, a castle loomed over you, just two windows had their lights on, the rest of them as dark as the night. After getting off the car, you had to crane your neck and a bit more to see the full house.

“We can give you a tour tomorrow, I’m sure you’re tired.” Bruce mentioned, getting back inside the car. “I’ll go park the car in the garage. We prepared a room for you; Cass can show it to you in the meantime. We’ll talk tomorrow morning.”

“Alright. Thank you, Mr. Wayne. Goodnight.”

With a smiled, he closed the door, the gravel under the tires the only thing heard. A small, slender but calloused hand took hold of yours.

“Come.” Most lights were off, only a couple of lamps on helping you to not bump onto the furniture. Paintings adorned the walls you walked alongside, but most faces weren’t visible at this late night. “This is your room. This is mine.” Her’s is directly in front of yours, and you didn’t know whether to feel safe at having another girl nearby, or wary to feel monitored at all times.

“Thank you, Cass. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Turning the knob, you entered the room and made a beeline towards the bed, throwing yourself on top of it. A groan of pleasure escaped your lips once your back touched the softest bed you’d ever slept on.  

With a sigh, you force your eyes open, trying to make sense of everything that’d happened so far.

How had they all managed to get coaxed into this? Who was the mastermind behind it all? What did they want with you?

Was there a miniscule chance that this all was… Real?

[rosegasly]

snow on the beach | i | max v.

⇢ summary: crashing into him in the middle of nowhere a day before christmas wasn’t part of your plan, but then again, spending the night with him in a car wasn’t either.

alternatively; max is the knight in shining armour no-one expected him to be. 

⇢ genre: fluff, eventual smut, sprinkles of angst along the way maybe?

⇢ pairing: max verstappen x female reader

Chapter one || masterlist ⇢ word count: 3k ⇢ a/n: let me know what you thought ♡ i write on tumblr. to no ones surprise my inspiration relies heavily on validation.

You curse for the umpteenth time, restraining yourself from swerving to avoid a particularly slippery-looking spot on the road and praying to every god and guardian angel to keep you from skidding right off the road and into the dense forest beside. Your mothers berating rings in your ear as she reams you through the phone for delaying getting the train ticket till the very last second and then failing to find any.

“Mom, I love you, but please, can we hold off this conversation until I get back?”

“You wouldn’t be driving through this terrible weather and giving your poor mother a heart attack if you had just listened when I told you to book the tickets now, would you?”

You sigh, and it’s equal parts fond and exasperated. She is right and you know you have fucked up by not buying the tickets when you should have, but being a university student, a medical one, to make matters worse, December was a busy month for you. Amidst the stress of finals, burning the midnight oil and the buzz of caffeine, there wasn’t much registered in your cognisance besides your coursework. While you recall your mother talking about the busy festive season and buying said tickets early on, much of it came in through one ear and left through the other.

Humming, you glance at the time displayed on your dashboard and cut the conversation short. Soon it would be dark and you have no desire to drive through the winter weather a day before Christmas eve and arrive back home in a body bag.

“Yes, momma, you’re right, but I really need to concentrate on driving now. I love you and I’ll call you once I am close, kay?”

She sighs through the phone and your heart melts a little inside the hollow of your chest. For all the loud and impatient she is, you know her worry comes from a place of love for you and you make a mental note to make her breakfast tomorrow to make up for it.

“Alright, I am hanging up but drive carefully and stay safe. I love you. See you soon.”

“Love you loads, see you very soon.” You end the call with an audible mwah, knowing she’ll shake her head, muttering a brat not so quietly under her breath.

Blowing through your nose, you grip the steering wheel tight, letting whatever the radio is playing fill the silence. Conscious of your driving skills, the one thing you did not want to do to close off the year is driving your ratty old car through terrible weather. Snow blanketed your surroundings, thick and white, covering the green around you into a shimmering white and if it wasn’t you driving a car that already had less drivability than most would be comfortable with, you might even have enjoyed going through the countryside, but as it stood, it took all of your concentration and a healthy dose of luck to make your way through the long stretch of slippery tarmac.

It comes out of nowhere, one moment, you are straight and the other, the grip of your rear tyres is lost and you are slipping, skidding to the other side and banging into incoming traffic. The impact isn’t as bad as it could have been since you were careful to drive slow but the sudden change of inertia still throws you off your seat, head banging against the rearview mirror before the seatbelt pulls you back into place, stinging the flesh of your chest with the force with which it sends you back, biting into the skin for hold.

A scream is caught somewhere in your chest as your vision swims, panic and shock bringing white spots ahead of you as your body grows stiff in self-defence and you wait for the world to stop moving.

The screeching of the tires is replaced by the ringing in your ears, the only thing audible through it the harsh breaths you exhale. Hands shaking you move to take them off the steering wheel and push open the door. Nausea claws at your throat, begging for a release and it’s a second too late that you realise that you still can’t control the feeling in your lower extremity as you fall onto your knees beside the opened gate of your car and heave.

Tears blur your vision, as painful retches wrack your frame but nothing comes out. You heave until your throat starts to sting, until your chest and abdomen hurt with the weight of a thousand bricks and you struggle to breathe, lack of oxygen making your head spin and suddenly you are being turned around, warmth enveloping your forearms and through hazy eyes, you see the outline of someone’s figure on their knees facing you. It takes you a moment to register the hand that is rubbing your back, and slowly things start to come back. The feeling in your arms, the cold stinging your naked skin, the burning in your abdomen, the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins slowly abating as you try to ground yourself to reality.

“Are you okay?” It takes you a few tries to understand the words, and you nod, not yet trusting your voice. You aren’t sure if you are hurt, but you don’t see blood anywhere and while you do feel a little sore, whether from the receding adrenaline or the cold and shock, it’s nothing you can’t bear.

Fingers appear in front of your steadily clearing vision and you hiss, jerking back as pain erupts across your forehead.

“You’re hurt.”

You realise it’s a man before you see him by the deep baritone of his voice, picking up the fine gravel in his voice even through the howling winds. It’s his hand floating in your vision and when the pain stings and recedes yet again that you realise it’s his doing too. There is a furrow in his brows, thick and arched now creased in concern for you and had you not nearly died, you would have marvelled at the sea of cerulean that his eyes are.

Clearing your throat, you move to lean back, getting tired of him poking your forehead and making it sting more, “I’m fine.”

The hand on your back, unbeknownst to you, had sneaked up at some point and it’s the tug that brings you two close again and helps register its presence. The nape of your neck feels hot and you aren’t sure if it’s because of the accident or the warmth of his hand.

Or a noticeable blush.

You quickly squash that particular thought, throwing the remains in the furthest reaches of your mind.

“You’re bleeding.” His response is slow, almost condescending. As though you are stupid for thinking anything otherwise, and you bristle. Shrugging off his hold, this time with more force, you say, “I am fine.”

The effort of leaning back is a little too quick for your still recuperating body and your vision swims, your knees nearly slipping from under you until an arm snakes around your waist, holding you up.

The man sighs and his warm breath tickles the hollow of your neck, making you shiver. “Don’t be stubborn and sit still for a minute.”

You still bristle but having learned your lesson, you stay put and let him assess you. As much as it hurts your pride to have a man, a gorgeous one, treat you like an idiot, you are in no position to be harbouring any arrogance after the quite literal stunt you have pulled.

“Look at me,” he commands. Squashing the petulant urge to argue, you do, feeling slightly bashful at the blue of frozen ocean that stares back at you. Thin, warm fingers grip your chin, turning your face side to side as he inspects you and a vain and idiotic part of you curses internally for forgetting to apply anything on your lips. They are horribly chapped from the poor self-care routine (or lack thereof) finals month had forced them into.  

You take the time to inspect him back too. The beginning wisps of jealousy simmer in the pit of your stomach at how full and pink his are. A small tiny mole sits sunk under the deep of his skin on the top left edge of his upper lip and for some inane reason, you decide to focus on it instead of his nose or eyes or forehead like any other average person would.

You don’t know if it’s seconds or minutes later that he finally shifts away from you, breaking your silent staring contest with his lips, moving to stand. His one hand still grips your forearm, maybe not trusting you to topple over and off the road into the under bushes like a pinball knocked over by the slightest breeze.

“Can you stand?”

Blinking, you look up, seeing an outline of his silhouette against the backdrop of the setting sun and nod at how broad his shoulders are. Nice.

“Can you?” he repeats, and there is a hint of impatience in his voice this time.

“I don’t know; you’re the one who asked me to sit still.” You know you are being snarky while he is just being helpful in his own jackass way, but it’s still embarrassing and you don’t want to move, talk or do anything more to make your present any more real than it already is. Maybe if you continue to sit still, the sun will rise again and you can have a do-over. Pretend none of today happened and get back home with your still ratty but in one-piece car.

He doesn’t respond to your sarcasm verbally, just tilts his head and somehow, that makes you feel even more stupid.

“Stand then.”

You can’t help the distinct feeling of resemblance to that of a dog as you follow his command, bound by your own previous words and stand on shaky legs. The ends of your feet sting like a million pins and needles are being pierced through them and you stumble right back into his arms.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you.” He breathes against the shell of your ear and the warmth travels from your neck, flushing your cheeks—it’s entirely too cold for how warm your face feels.

You hum, nodding to indicate you have heard him, not trusting your voice to pitch and give you away.

“Hold on to me.”

Wordlessly gripping his denim-clad forearms, you follow him to the parked car beside yours. Observing the damage to its front, it doesn’t take long to add two & two and you feel a little guilty for being snarky to the man you ultimately crashed into.

“Are you hurt?” This time it’s you asking the question you would have asked much earlier had you realised who he actually was.

You feel the movement of his head and know that he’s looking at you, but don’t turn your gaze to catch his. Partly out of guilt, partway because you realise the pull his eyes have and you don’t want to be seen gazing again.

“I am fine.” He says and you nod, accepting his answer.

Opening the passenger side door of his dark SUV, he gently pushes you forward, “Sit and face this side. You are bleeding. Wait here while I get the first aid kit.”

With another nod, you climb in, sitting sideways and pulling your feet closer to ward off some of the cold the open door was letting in. You could hear your gorgeous self-appointed nurse rummaging through the trunk and you take the time to rest your head against the head support, finally breathing a sigh of relief. The realisation that this very well could have been a fatal crash for you is starting to sink in slowly and you clench your fists, wrapping your arms protectively against your middle as the sharp of your nails dig into your skin, the pain almost cathartic, a pulsing, bleeding reminder of how alive you are.

If he had been a second later on the breaks, maybe if you were an inch off more, you wouldn’t be sitting here in a stranger’s car, and perhaps you would never be able to see your mom and listen to her berate you again for getting into yet another mess. It’s morbid and disturbing, but you are glad your mother won’t have to bury you on Christmas eve.  

Coming back around, the man passes you a bottle of what you are guessing is water, “Drink.”

“Thank you,” the soft mumble could have easily been lost in the screeching winds, but nonetheless, you extend your hand to grab the offered vessel, fingers brushing the ends of his. Uncapping, you take a gulp, and two and three until you are properly chugging the water down, glad for the way it cools your dry, scratchy throat. The abating flight or fight response having left you parched.

“Easy, you don’t want to choke right now.”

“I am studying to be a doctor,” you don’t know why you say that. You know what you sound like out loud, and you won’t blame the man for thinking you are a bitch, but you can’t help the way defensiveness cloaks you like a too tight jacket and makes you lash out lest you seem vulnerable—guilty.

“And you’re a patient right now, so play nice.” There’s a smirk dancing at the seams of his lips. Contrary to your belief and guilt of him finding you troublesome, he is amused. The shadows of the setting sun caressed his skin and brought out his features. You still haven’t been able to look at him without focusing on one focal point of his face and with every passing minute, you are discovering something new about the way he looks and you wonder if it's just purely flesh and bones or if the way he acts is influencing your view.

Rolling your eyes, you keep the facade of indifference clutched close to your heart. Unwilling to slip and let this handsome stranger in, that you had apparently almost killed, to see you at your weakest.

“Alright then doc, go ahead,” you say and the smirk teasing the edges stretches into a tiny grin.

Stepping close, he grips your chin again and you note it’s gentler this time. Wetting a swab of cotton in an antiseptic, he swipes it over your wounds, methodical, small circular movements from the inside out before discarding the cotton and starting afresh with another swab. His hands are sure, the method more precise than most people who aren’t trained to give people first-aid would know, and you wonder if he is a health professional. Your earlier admission swims to the forefront and you beg anyone up there who is listening to you for it to not be true. You won’t be able to live through that embarrassment.

He blows on your skin, the exhale soft and leaving a barely there whisper of a touch but it’s still enough to make you want to jerk back—which you would have succeeded had he not been holding onto your chin again.

“Tsk,” he is looking at you, annoyed again, and you reign in the urge to kick him in the shin.

Instead of apologising, you stay still and let him finish. He is surprisingly, unbelievably gentle with you and you struggle to figure out why. Maybe he is just scared of accidentally hurting you worse?

“This might hurt so let me know if its too much,”

“Okay,”

He is quick but meticulous as he applies some disinfectant cream that you can’t read the label of with the growing shadows, but by now, you have grown a sense of respect for the man, albeit grudgingly and trust him to not screw it up.

Coughing into your fist to clear your throat, you finally introduce yourself. The water helped soothe the dryness and your voice no longer feels like a nail against the chalkboard to your ears.

It’s a bit too late for introductions, but you two haven’t met in the most normal of circumstances, so you let yourself off the hook. If he is surprised by your willingness to be civil for maybe the first time since your ill-fated encounter, he doesn’t show it.

You catch his gaze and to none of your wonder, it pins you right where you sit, twin pools of ocean under a night sky, blue speckled with the richest of green, as he replies, “Max.”

i wrote this whole thing in one sitting and my hands fkn hurt. its also 8 flipping am goddamn u max verstappen and ur stupid cute face 

should I continue this?✿ tag list: open

[mothbart]

12 days of kolowv: day 9

my baby @theapocryphaofantares's birthday is in nine days, and because i love him with all my heart he gets a small microfic every day until he gets his big present on his actual birthday.

prompt: salt | frenemies jarty | words: 848

“You’re such a—not a nice person,” James grits out. He’s angry, he’s so fucking annoyed, and he has two eleven-year-olds in the minivan with him so of course he can’t fully express how he’s feeling. Barty is sitting in the front seat, feet on the dashboard, and analyzing the stupid hand tattoos that James never failed to remind him looked like shit.

See, here’s the issue: James did not want to go to the beach. He wanted to stay home and sit on his porch with his kid, but Barty had other plans. Barty had busted inside their house and walked into the kitchen with Luna in tow in a bathing suit and heart-shaped sunglasses on her head. Barty’s holding a large beach bag, and sticking out of it were sand castle molds. James and Harry sat at the small dining table eating a late breakfast. And as Harry was mid-bite of his pancakes, he looked at Luna, then looked at Barty, then looked at James.

“Appa,” Harry said. “Are we going—”

“No,” James answered quickly. “No way.”

But yet, here is James, driving Harry, Luna, and the idiotic man-child to the beach.

“Not a nice person, huh?” Barty questions. “I have two other people in this car who beg to differ.”

“Don’t speak for my kid,” James says, eyes still on the road. He sighs. “I hate the beach.”

“I know,” Barty replies. “Why do you think we’re going?”

And it takes everything in James not to stop the car and throw Barty out.

--

“Appa,” Harry says, standing in the ocean with James. Harry’s wiggling his toes in the sand and they’re watching Barty and Luna play in the water, splashing each other. Luna’s laughter is loud, and it brings a small smile to James’ face. “Uncle Barty said that the foam in the water is whale sperm.”

“What?” James asks, smile quickly replaced by a look of disgust. “No, Harry, don’t listen to him.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not true.”

“So what it is then?”

“Not—not whatever Uncle Barty said.”

“Whale sperm.”

“Okay, you don’t need to say it again,” James mutters. “Don’t tell anyone else that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you shouldn’t be spreading misinformation to others,” James replies. “Your uncle is a moron who doesn’t know what’s coming out of his mouth half the time.”

Harry shrugs, and James knows that Harry isn’t going to listen to him anyway. Barty is carrying Luna out of the water, who looks exhausted but has a big smile plastered on her face. When they get closer to James and Harry, Barty looks down at James and where he’s standing and looks back up at him.

“Gross,” Barty says.

“What?” James deadpans, clearly not in the mood to deal with Barty's bullshit. “What is so gross?”

“Harry,” Barty says, nodding towards James. “Your dad is stepping in whale sperm.”

Harry and Luna break out into laughter, and James wants to bury Barty in the sand and make him suffocate.

--

“Uncle James,” Luna whispers, crouching next to him. James jumps a little, not expecting Luna to be right there. “Uncle James, what are you doing with Uncle Barty’s soda?”

James had this incredible idea while Barty and Harry trekked a little further down the beach to build sand castles. Barty had left his can of soda near James, opened and half empty. When Barty had his back turned, James took the can and dumped out the contents. He waited when Barty wasn’t paying attention to him before jogging up to the ocean and carefully replacing the soda with ocean water.

“Shh,” James says, putting his finger against his lips. “Don’t tell Uncle Barty.”

“Are we playing a prank?” She asks, tilting her head.

“Yeah,” James answers, nodding. “But we have to be sneaky, okay?”

“Can I help?”

“Sure, of course,” James says.

Luna holds out her hand, and James looks at her with a confused look. Once he realizes she’s waiting for him to give her the can, he hands it to her. He watches as she slightly jogs over to Barty, and he quickly gets up and walks as far as he can from the ocean and gets settled at their spot to make it look like he has no idea what’s going on.

He watches Luna hand him the can, and Barty stands up and ruffles her hair before taking the can and sipping on it. James snorts when he watches Barty spit the salt water out. He can hear him say something to Luna, but then he sees Luna pointing at him. Barty follows where Luna is pointing at and James doesn’t have to be up close to know that Barty is pissed.

James makes himself comfortable on the beach towel, lays down, and closes his eyes.

That’s what Barty gets for fucking dragging James to the beach in the first place.

[ditttiii]

snow on the beach | i | max v.

⇢ summary: crashing into him in the middle of nowhere a day before christmas wasn’t part of your plan, but then again, spending the night with him in a car wasn’t either.

alternatively; max is the knight in shining armour no-one expected him to be. 

⇢ genre: fluff, eventual smut, sprinkles of angst along the way maybe? slow burn.

⇢ pairing: max verstappen x female reader

Chapter one || masterlist 

⇢ word count: 3k

⇢ a/n: hello hi! all my f1 fics have been moved onto my sideacc @rosegasly​ and all further updates for it will be posted there. ​

drop by my ask box and let me know what you thought ♡ 

You curse for the umpteenth time, restraining yourself from swerving to avoid a particularly slippery-looking spot on the road and praying to every god and guardian angel to keep you from skidding right off the road and into the dense forest beside. Your mothers berating rings in your ear as she reams you through the phone for delaying getting the train ticket till the very last second and then failing to find any.

“Mom, I love you, but please, can we hold off this conversation until I get back?”

“You wouldn’t be driving through this terrible weather and giving your poor mother a heart attack if you had just listened when I told you to book the tickets now, would you?”

You sigh, and it’s equal parts fond and exasperated. She is right and you know you have fucked up by not buying the tickets when you should have, but being a university student, a medical one, to make matters worse, December was a busy month for you. Amidst the stress of finals, burning the midnight oil and the buzz of caffeine, there wasn’t much registered in your cognisance besides your coursework. While you recall your mother talking about the busy festive season and buying said tickets early on, much of it came in through one ear and left through the other.

Humming, you glance at the time displayed on your dashboard and cut the conversation short. Soon it would be dark and you have no desire to drive through the winter weather a day before Christmas eve and arrive back home in a body bag.

“Yes, momma, you’re right, but I really need to concentrate on driving now. I love you and I’ll call you once I am close, kay?”

She sighs through the phone and your heart melts a little inside the hollow of your chest. For all the loud and impatient she is, you know her worry comes from a place of love for you and you make a mental note to make her breakfast tomorrow to make up for it.

“Alright, I am hanging up but drive carefully and stay safe. I love you. See you soon.”

“Love you loads, see you very soon.” You end the call with an audible mwah, knowing she’ll shake her head, muttering a brat not so quietly under her breath.

Blowing through your nose, you grip the steering wheel tight, letting whatever the radio is playing fill the silence. Conscious of your driving skills, the one thing you did not want to do to close off the year is driving your ratty old car through terrible weather. Snow blanketed your surroundings, thick and white, covering the green around you into a shimmering white and if it wasn’t you driving a car that already had less drivability than most would be comfortable with, you might even have enjoyed going through the countryside, but as it stood, it took all of your concentration and a healthy dose of luck to make your way through the long stretch of slippery tarmac.

It comes out of nowhere, one moment, you are straight and the other, the grip of your rear tyres is lost and you are slipping, skidding to the other side and banging into incoming traffic. The impact isn’t as bad as it could have been since you were careful to drive slow but the sudden change of inertia still throws you off your seat, head banging against the rearview mirror before the seatbelt pulls you back into place, stinging the flesh of your chest with the force with which it sends you back, biting into the skin for hold.

A scream is caught somewhere in your chest as your vision swims, panic and shock bringing white spots ahead of you as your body grows stiff in self-defence and you wait for the world to stop moving.

The screeching of the tires is replaced by the ringing in your ears, the only thing audible through it the harsh breaths you exhale. Hands shaking you move to take them off the steering wheel and push open the door. Nausea claws at your throat, begging for a release and it’s a second too late that you realise that you still can’t control the feeling in your lower extremity as you fall onto your knees beside the opened gate of your car and heave.

Tears blur your vision, as painful retches wrack your frame but nothing comes out. You heave until your throat starts to sting, until your chest and abdomen hurt with the weight of a thousand bricks and you struggle to breathe, lack of oxygen making your head spin and suddenly you are being turned around, warmth enveloping your forearms and through hazy eyes, you see the outline of someone’s figure on their knees facing you. It takes you a moment to register the hand that is rubbing your back, and slowly things start to come back. The feeling in your arms, the cold stinging your naked skin, the burning in your abdomen, the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins slowly abating as you try to ground yourself to reality.

“Are you okay?” It takes you a few tries to understand the words, and you nod, not yet trusting your voice. You aren’t sure if you are hurt, but you don’t see blood anywhere and while you do feel a little sore, whether from the receding adrenaline or the cold and shock, it’s nothing you can’t bear.

Fingers appear in front of your steadily clearing vision and you hiss, jerking back as pain erupts across your forehead.

“You’re hurt.”

You realise it’s a man before you see him by the deep baritone of his voice, picking up the fine gravel in his voice even through the howling winds. It’s his hand floating in your vision and when the pain stings and recedes yet again that you realise it’s his doing too. There is a furrow in his brows, thick and arched now creased in concern for you and had you not nearly died, you would have marvelled at the sea of cerulean that his eyes are.

Clearing your throat, you move to lean back, getting tired of him poking your forehead and making it sting more, “I’m fine.”

The hand on your back, unbeknownst to you, had sneaked up at some point and it’s the tug that brings you two close again and helps register its presence. The nape of your neck feels hot and you aren’t sure if it’s because of the accident or the warmth of his hand.

Or a noticeable blush.

You quickly squash that particular thought, throwing the remains in the furthest reaches of your mind.

“You’re bleeding.” His response is slow, almost condescending. As though you are stupid for thinking anything otherwise, and you bristle. Shrugging off his hold, this time with more force, you say, “I am fine.”

The effort of leaning back is a little too quick for your still recuperating body and your vision swims, your knees nearly slipping from under you until an arm snakes around your waist, holding you up.

The man sighs and his warm breath tickles the hollow of your neck, making you shiver. “Don’t be stubborn and sit still for a minute.”

You still bristle but having learned your lesson, you stay put and let him assess you. As much as it hurts your pride to have a man, a gorgeous one, treat you like an idiot, you are in no position to be harbouring any arrogance after the quite literal stunt you have pulled.

“Look at me,” he commands. Squashing the petulant urge to argue, you do, feeling slightly bashful at the blue of frozen ocean that stares back at you. Thin, warm fingers grip your chin, turning your face side to side as he inspects you and a vain and idiotic part of you curses internally for forgetting to apply anything on your lips. They are horribly chapped from the poor self-care routine (or lack thereof) finals month had forced them into.  

You take the time to inspect him back too. The beginning wisps of jealousy simmer in the pit of your stomach at how full and pink his are. A small tiny mole sits sunk under the deep of his skin on the top left edge of his upper lip and for some inane reason, you decide to focus on it instead of his nose or eyes or forehead like any other average person would.

You don’t know if it’s seconds or minutes later that he finally shifts away from you, breaking your silent staring contest with his lips, moving to stand. His one hand still grips your forearm, maybe not trusting you to topple over and off the road into the under bushes like a pinball knocked over by the slightest breeze.

“Can you stand?”

Blinking, you look up, seeing an outline of his silhouette against the backdrop of the setting sun and nod at how broad his shoulders are. Nice.

“Can you?” he repeats, and there is a hint of impatience in his voice this time.

“I don’t know; you’re the one who asked me to sit still.” You know you are being snarky while he is just being helpful in his own jackass way, but it’s still embarrassing and you don’t want to move, talk or do anything more to make your present any more real than it already is. Maybe if you continue to sit still, the sun will rise again and you can have a do-over. Pretend none of today happened and get back home with your still ratty but in one-piece car.

He doesn’t respond to your sarcasm verbally, just tilts his head and somehow, that makes you feel even more stupid.

“Stand then.”

You can’t help the distinct feeling of resemblance to that of a dog as you follow his command, bound by your own previous words and stand on shaky legs. The ends of your feet sting like a million pins and needles are being pierced through them and you stumble right back into his arms.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you.” He breathes against the shell of your ear and the warmth travels from your neck, flushing your cheeks—it’s entirely too cold for how warm your face feels.

You hum, nodding to indicate you have heard him, not trusting your voice to pitch and give you away.

“Hold on to me.”

Wordlessly gripping his denim-clad forearms, you follow him to the parked car beside yours. Observing the damage to its front, it doesn’t take long to add two & two and you feel a little guilty for being snarky to the man you ultimately crashed into.

“Are you hurt?” This time it’s you asking the question you would have asked much earlier had you realised who he actually was.

You feel the movement of his head and know that he’s looking at you, but don’t turn your gaze to catch his. Partly out of guilt, partway because you realise the pull his eyes have and you don’t want to be seen gazing again.

“I am fine.” He says and you nod, accepting his answer.

Opening the passenger side door of his dark SUV, he gently pushes you forward, “Sit and face this side. You are bleeding. Wait here while I get the first aid kit.”

With another nod, you climb in, sitting sideways and pulling your feet closer to ward off some of the cold the open door was letting in. You could hear your gorgeous self-appointed nurse rummaging through the trunk and you take the time to rest your head against the head support, finally breathing a sigh of relief. The realisation that this very well could have been a fatal crash for you is starting to sink in slowly and you clench your fists, wrapping your arms protectively against your middle as the sharp of your nails dig into your skin, the pain almost cathartic, a pulsing, bleeding reminder of how alive you are.

If he had been a second later on the breaks, maybe if you were an inch off more, you wouldn’t be sitting here in a stranger’s car, and perhaps you would never be able to see your mom and listen to her berate you again for getting into yet another mess. It’s morbid and disturbing, but you are glad your mother won’t have to bury you on Christmas eve.  

Coming back around, the man passes you a bottle of what you are guessing is water, “Drink.”

“Thank you,” the soft mumble could have easily been lost in the screeching winds, but nonetheless, you extend your hand to grab the offered vessel, fingers brushing the ends of his. Uncapping, you take a gulp, and two and three until you are properly chugging the water down, glad for the way it cools your dry, scratchy throat. The abating flight or fight response having left you parched.

“Easy, you don’t want to choke right now.”

“I am studying to be a doctor,” you don’t know why you say that. You know what you sound like out loud, and you won’t blame the man for thinking you are a bitch, but you can’t help the way defensiveness cloaks you like a too tight jacket and makes you lash out lest you seem vulnerable—guilty.

“And you’re a patient right now, so play nice.” There’s a smirk dancing at the seams of his lips. Contrary to your belief and guilt of him finding you troublesome, he is amused. The shadows of the setting sun caressed his skin and brought out his features. You still haven’t been able to look at him without focusing on one focal point of his face and with every passing minute, you are discovering something new about the way he looks and you wonder if it's just purely flesh and bones or if the way he acts is influencing your view.

Rolling your eyes, you keep the facade of indifference clutched close to your heart. Unwilling to slip and let this handsome stranger in, that you had apparently almost killed, to see you at your weakest.

“Alright then doc, go ahead,” you say and the smirk teasing the edges stretches into a tiny grin.

Stepping close, he grips your chin again and you note it’s gentler this time. Wetting a swab of cotton in an antiseptic, he swipes it over your wounds, methodical, small circular movements from the inside out before discarding the cotton and starting afresh with another swab. His hands are sure, the method more precise than most people who aren’t trained to give people first-aid would know, and you wonder if he is a health professional. Your earlier admission swims to the forefront and you beg anyone up there who is listening to you for it to not be true. You won’t be able to live through that embarrassment.

He blows on your skin, the exhale soft and leaving a barely there whisper of a touch but it’s still enough to make you want to jerk back—which you would have succeeded had he not been holding onto your chin again.

“Tsk,” he is looking at you, annoyed again, and you reign in the urge to kick him in the shin.

Instead of apologising, you stay still and let him finish. He is surprisingly, unbelievably gentle with you and you struggle to figure out why. Maybe he is just scared of accidentally hurting you worse?

“This might hurt so let me know if its too much,”

“Okay,”

He is quick but meticulous as he applies some disinfectant cream that you can’t read the label of with the growing shadows, but by now, you have grown a sense of respect for the man, albeit grudgingly and trust him to not screw it up.

Coughing into your fist to clear your throat, you finally introduce yourself. The water helped soothe the dryness and your voice no longer feels like a nail against the chalkboard to your ears.

It’s a bit too late for introductions, but you two haven’t met in the most normal of circumstances, so you let yourself off the hook. If he is surprised by your willingness to be civil for maybe the first time since your ill-fated encounter, he doesn’t show it.

You catch his gaze and to none of your wonder, it pins you right where you sit, twin pools of ocean under a night sky, blue speckled with the richest of green, as he replies, “Max.”

i wrote this whole thing in one sitting and my hands fkn hurt. its also 8 flippin am goddamn u max verstappen and ur stupid cute face 

till next time! ✿

[sirfrogsworth]

So... I paid $220 to go from this...

To this...

I'm pretty sure that was not worth it.

But good for Dakota. He is an excellent salesman.

Now, my previous tire sensors were wildly inaccurate. Sometimes they were off by over 5-10 PSI. I can't tell you how many times I thought my tires were nearly flat and then I'd bust out my Jaco Elite Digital Tire Pressure Gauge with shop-grade accuracy, a robust stem, and a 360° swivel chuck...

And I'd be like, "Yo Jaco, my dashboard says my left front tire only has 18 PSI!"

And Jaco would be like, "Dude, chill. You're still at 27. You'll be fine. Also, remember that since your brother had to swap out a wheel, your sensors think your left front tire is your right front tire. He said it was a pain to fix and you should just remember which is which and he was sure that wouldn't be confusing in the future."

Narrator: It was very confusing.

If there could be one redeeming result from this, it would be getting those Cadillac-grade super accurate tire pressure readings.

So... let's compare the new fancy $220 pressure sensors to Jaco, who is certified accurate to professional ANSI 2A standards.

*drumroll*

Well slap my patoot and call me a Cadillac.

That's... amazing.

The largest delta was only 0.6 PSI!

I don't know if that meets ANSI 2A standards, but that exceeds FROGGIE 2A standards.

And the left front tire was the left front tire and the right front tire was the right front tire. And I'm sure all of that time I spent training myself to reverse the reading from the front tires will not cause any more confusion.

Narrator: It will.

This means I can actually rely on these readings. I don't actually have to bend over and kill myself trying to stick Jaco onto the little... *brain gears grinding* umm... the tire nipple? The pressure nubbin? The nubbin nipple pressure thingie?

The valve stem!

That's what that's called. The tire nubbin nipple valve stem.

Poor Jaco might end up collecting dust. I'll make sure I remember to press his rapid air bleeder every once in a while to give him some attention.

Narrator: He won't.

Poor Jaco.

In any case, having reliable pressure sensors that save me from bending over does make me feel better. Not $220 better. But better. I mean, having an expensive thing be functional is a low bar, but I am happy it works.

Alright, down to business. Who wants to see some beauty shots of these budget tires that get super hard in the winter?

May I introduce you to the Radar Dimax AS-8 tires.

So fresh and new.

So rubbery.

Those leaves were totally just there. By no means did I kick them in front of the tire to add a pop of color. I have journalistic integrity and I only shoot the truth.

Look at that asymmetric tread on this all season sport touring tire.

Do you want to go sport touring with me?

Is that a thing people do?

Look at how deep that tread is. These babies won't be balding for years.

Let's get closer.

Absolutely cavernous.

I'd even say that tread depth is downright... trenchy.

Like, I'm half expecting an X-wing to fly in there.

If only I knew someone proficient in the ways of Photoshop.

I'm that someone!

[ohwhataniight]

more than the world can contain - Chapter 4: A Scandal in Belgravia - Part 3

Part 1, Part 2

Songs I was listening to while writing:

Sherlocked

Faded

Tango del Fuego

So. I can't stop writing and posting little bits of my WIP. It's horrible. I can't seem to be able to sit down and proofread and complete it before I appear on your dashboard again. Anyway, please forgive my impatience once again.

Irene Adler makes me hot. Seriously, every character in this universe makes me swoon. Impertinent.

J

Now that’s a visual and auditory experience I never expected I’d acquire. Sherlock Holmes, the mighty and seemingly heartless (I declare bullshit to that) detective, lying like a giant lump in his bed under covers he keeps throwing off, tossing and turning, his voice alternating between tiny whimpers and an anxious baritone. “I am not in love, I am not in love.”

In retrospect, I should have seen this coming. I had been foolish enough to be comforted by his “married to my work” facade and assume that this - us, solving crimes together - would keep being enough for him. I should have listened to Donovan. “He’ll get bored of you” meaning you’ll never be enough. Because, apparently, people who could be enough for Sherlock do exist, after all, in the form of women who match him in wits and ineffability. It only makes sense that he has to deny being in love with such a person, a woman, now that was unexpected, only a day into meeting her. Such forms of denial, when uttered with such desperation by those lips, are akin to a declaration.

Honestly, I don’t know what this sinking feeling in my stomach really signifies. I should have expected this, and even if I hadn’t, I shouldn’t care. I don’t know why I care, why it feels so ugly and wrong that Sherlock Holmes is so adamantly denying (declaring) his love for a woman who, painful as it is to admit, is a perfect match for his mind and his looks. I think I have sort of become addicted to this - this us, again - to being handcuffed together, running around foggy London hand-in-hand, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, just the two of us, sleuth brothers-in-arms, colleagues, friends.

For some reason I can only blurrily see, my knees give out with the idea of someone else stepping into the equation.

“He’ll get bored of you”.

About bloody time I realized that, then.

But for now, he’s unconscious, and distressed, and he needs me. So I provide the comfort he requires, my hand brushing damp, stray curls away from his forehead, stroking his head, hushing him, taking it all in (including the image of his lipstick-stained skin) while I still can, privy to the fact that the only reason he accepts that is because he’s high as a fucking kite. The realization tugs painfully on my heart like a rusty hook.

Yet, he seems to want me here, leans into the touch, drags me close with his arms wrapped like tentacles around my waist when I make an attempt to withdraw after musing on consent, and when he calls my name I realize that I’m more than okay to do that for the most brilliant man in the world.

I’m okay with him needing me, until he realizes he doesn’t anymore.

S

Tasteful touch, the moaning. It attracts some delightfully appalled stares. Especially from John. He’s been counting.

She is interesting too, diverting, even. A pleasant distraction. I stalk her on Twitter, become occupied with her in more ways than one. I never respond to her texts, and yet it’s still somehow like a two-way conversation. She catches up quickly, she understands. It’s refreshing to find someone who is equally intrigued by The Game, and fit to follow (or even lead, sometimes).

Until her texts become all about John Watson.

Still not responding?

Are you so terribly busy, Mr. Holmes?

You’re having breakfast together, aren’t you? How domestic.

I can do to you things that would make John Watson blush.

We could let him watch.

John watching. John participating. John. The images materialize instantly in my head - it’s the curse of exceptional intelligence combined with a synaesthetic ability of sorts. Damn my mind palace. Thankfully, the presence of both Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson in the room is distasteful enough for me to be able to brush off every and any unsettling image involving the Woman and John.

To be continued...

[chelseasdagger]

Fall From Grace

Frank Castle x F!Reader

Summary: Frank comes home after a long job and is so thankful to have you with him. But his hands are dirty, unknown to him, and the sight of blood on you makes his mind spiral

Warnings: angst, cursing, blood, gun mention (one time, briefly)

Author’s Note: Ah! First time writing in so long and I’m very worried I’m rusty (not to mention it’s my first published Frank fic). But I hope it’s still enjoyable nonetheless! Feedback is greatly appreciated! Thank you to @chellestrash and @suitsofwo3 for your encouragement! I wouldn’t have done it without you guys :’)

Word Count: 2.9k

It’s been nine days since Frank has been home. Nine days of judging looks from the passerbyers of the town who don’t recognize him. Nine days of finding more leads at the end of a trail of bodies. Nine nights of dreams, all of them of you.

He’s currently alone, surrounded by nothing but the asphalt under his tires. Its sound echoes out as it rubs against the rubber, his foot pressing on the brakes once the streetlight ahead of him turns red. He stares up at the sky, watching the light sway of the wire from the wind as it blows. His eyes are heavy but he fights to keep them open, the few hours of sleep evident from the way his eyes burn at the corners.

The red light shines down on the windshield and over his face as he sits at the intersection. The black van is the only car on the dark road illuminated by just one lone street lamp. He checks the time on the dashboard of the car, making out the dimly lit numbers of the digital clock. Half past twelve.

Frank sighs to himself and adjusts his hips in his seat. His legs are cramped from driving for hours and he’s trying to imagine how soft the mattress will feel on his aching muscles once he’s home. But the more he thinks about home, he’s left with more questions.

Will you be up? Are you even at the apartment? If you are, do you want him there?

The sudden green glow pulls him from his thoughts and he places both feet on the petals while putting the car into gear. It becomes background noise after a while: the humming of the engine under the hood, the sound of the clutch engaging when he shifts, the tires roaring on the road. The only question on his mind is if the place he calls home will be as empty as the dingy motel room he’s been living in for days.

Right now, he’s not so hopeful.

He gets to the driveway faster than he expected, and he doesn’t have a total recall of the last few minutes. After turning the car off, he stays inside for a few moments longer and he can’t understand why he feels paralyzed. He’s finally here, after over a week of dreaming of it, so why can’t he move? Fidgeting with the keys between his fingers, he thinks of every possible outcome of what’s behind that door. It flashes in his head–an empty apartment, tears in your eyes, a fight that lasts for hours–the visions overlap until it’s muddled and he forces his mind away from it.

Solemnly, Frank swings open the van door and grabs the duffle bag on the passenger seat. It’s heavy as he throws it over his shoulder, grunting when the contents of the bag brush his bruised ribs. He walks with a slight limp, the wound to his ankle disrupting his normal gait. When he gets to the door, he wraps his fingers around the doorknob and pulls in a deep breath. His chest fills with air, and he focuses on that feeling instead of all the other worries clouding his head.

The metal hinges creek quietly as it opens, and he scans the silent living room before stepping inside. The only light comes from the open wooden door, the lamplight pouring in over his shoulder. Everything’s exactly as it was and he’s relieved, yet slightly disappointed. He does one more sweep after turning on the lights, listening carefully to any sound of another person before he hears footsteps from the hall. His hand reaches under his shirt for the pistol in the waistband of his jeans, but the second he sees you turn the corner, his whole body stops.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t blink, he’s not even sure he’s breathing as he sees your figure in the corridor. He was certain he’d be alone, he was preparing himself for it all those hours on the drive home. His eyebrows pull together in confusion, wondering how and why you’re even here. The pounding of his heart in his chest reminds him to breathe, and his lips part as he inhales a shaky breath.

“Frank?” your timid voice calls out in the quiet room. He swallows hard then and blinks quickly, finally processing that you’re standing here in front of him. His eyes flicker all over you, not able to focus on one particular thing, and that’s when he takes in the nightgown draping from your body. The ivory satin flows around your waist and ends at your upper thigh, the white straps thin on your shoulders, and the neckline plunging to expose some of your cleavage. You’re like a true image of innocence—untouched, unharmed and pure. He swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

And then you smile at him and he realizes that there’s one thing more beautiful.

Your eyes have a light in them that he has never been so thankful to see before. It’s his own beacon of hope—the darkness, the violence, the blood, it’s all behind him now. Your face reassures him of that. It’s the first face he’s seen in so long that wanted to see him, that was genuinely pleased by his presence. And the feeling has his pulse pounding faster.

For the first time in nine days he feels he can let his guard down, and slowly he does. He lets out that breath he’d been holding, and his whole chest deflates with it. His shoulders slump and his face softens, mirroring your kind expression. He sighs as he smiles and it’s been so long since he’s done it that the action feels foreign. It soon grows into a grin as you whisper his name again, an air of disbelief around the syllable.

“S’me, sweetheart,” he mumbles as he nods, “I’m home.” His voice is raspy from having not been used in many hours. The duffle bag hits the floor with a dull thud but it’s drowned out by the sound of your impatient steps across the floor. Frank opens his arms wide, body waiting to welcome you into him, and he sees the way your face scrunches up while you cross the small distance to him.

It looks as though you’re fighting off tears, eyebrows scrunched together and bottom lip caught between your teeth. The sight tugs at his heart but it’s soon swelling in his chest at the feeling of you crashing into him. You’re warm. You’re actually here. You’re accepting him.

Frank can’t find the right words to express his gratitude that you’re still here and that you’re safe. His mind can be a broken, sorrowful place at times and it loves to paint him the darkest scenarios it can and name it the best outcome. His head had told him that the hug goodbye and longing kiss you gave him before he started his journey on the road would be his last time he saw you again. Now, he’s just so thankful it was a part of his colorful, albeit twisted, imagination.

His fingers make purchase on your ribs, squeezing gently and breathing in your scent. He had only been living off of memories of you and picturing your perfume on the cold, thin sheets of the lonely motel room. But the distant echoes of you couldn’t do this justice. Not when you’re hugging him so tight he’s reminded of the bruise to his ribs or when your arms cross around his back and your smaller hands grab as much of him as you can. You make him feel wanted, and it’s better than anything he could’ve conjured up.

“Oh, my god,” you whisper softly. Your shaky voice breaks the silence that had settled over the small room again. You pull away from his chest and look up at him before continuing, “I’ve missed you so much.” Your hands quickly reach up to your eyes, brushing away the tears welling up from the sight of him. Frank sees how you try to dismiss them but he doesn’t want you doing it for his sake.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay,” his bigger hand cups the back of yours and gently pulls it away. He glances over your face before speaking in a hushed whisper, “Don’t push it away, let it out.”

If there’s one thing he encourages you to do, it’s to feel your emotions fully. He knows first hand how damaging it can be and he’d never want you to go through it. So when he sees you nod gently and blink up at him, when he sees more tears stream down your already wet cheeks, he can’t help but smile.

“Attagirl, just like that,” he reassures you, hand rubbing up and down your back. His opposite hand cups the back of your head and brings you into his chest. He cradles you there and breathes with you while you work through your tears. Little praises fall past his lips as he holds you in the empty living room, the two of you clinging onto each other as if it’s the last time you’ll be together.

It’s only when your shaky sobs die down into quiet sniffles that he pulls back to stare down at you. He gives his best smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he whispers like you’re the only one meant to hear it. The light in your eyes returns at the tender tone of his voice and you grin at him. Frank brushes away the lock of hair that falls in front of your eyes, swiftly tucking it behind your ear.

“And you…” he trails off, taking half a step backwards to take in your nightgown once more, “you look beautiful.” He shakes his head lightly as his eyes work down to the lace hem ending a few inches below your hip. The ornate design makes the whole garment seem more delicate, and he can’t deny how much he loves it.

“Christ, sweetheart, it fits—,” Frank cuts himself off as his eyes go wide. He lets go of your hip, taking another step back as his eyes get even bigger. He turns his palms so they’re facing him and he immediately looks back to your gown.

“What is it, Frank? Are you okay?” you ask, taking a step towards him. His body reacts faster than his mind, and he flinches back away from you as if he’s been burned. You let your outreached hand fall down, scared to overstep and upset him. He doesn’t respond to you, only stares at you with more and more concern taking over his expression until it scars over into terror.

You look down at yourself, bunching the fabric of the skirt to the center of your stomach to attempt to see what has scared him. When you twist so you can see your side, you immediately see what made him withdraw from you. There’s blood on the shiny fabric, the most obscene contrast to the pure color. Frank doesn’t know what to say, his whole body freezing as he takes in the sight. Logically, he knows you’re not actually hurt, but the sight alone has his mind spiraling.

It’s a sick, tangible metaphor of his worst fear—ruining you. His hands shake slightly while he stares at the dried blood on his palms. He doesn’t even know if it’s his own or one of the many men he took down that night. All he’s sure of is the icy shiver running through his chest and the panic strangling his throat. He’s always known, deep down, it would only be a matter of time until there’s danger right at your doorstep. He just never expected it to be him alone that hurts you.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t…” he trails off, his body finally catching up with his mind in time to form words. He brings his hand to his jeans, slowly rubbing down against the denim. It’s a futile attempt to scrub the stains off, but it’s the best he can think of to do. His voice is shaky when he says your name, muttering more and more apologies that tangle together.

“I’m so sor—fuck, I’m sorry,” Frank continues, the crack in his voice audible as he whispers. The stiff material of his pants begin to give his hand a prickly, numbing feeling. He doesn’t even register it, too lost in the need to erase any evidence of the harm done to you, although he can’t stop looking at the mess he’s made.

“Frank it’s okay, I’m alright. See, I’m all good—,” you try to reason with him in a soft voice, but he recoils when you take a step towards him. He’s shaking his head and his lips are moving but there’s no sound leaving his mouth.

“I…I-I’m, I…” he keeps trying to start the sentence but his mind can’t string the words together. The sight of him breaking down like this is foreign to you; Frank is usually strong and confident in his actions. It takes something worse to shake him to this level. The only time you can recall is the one time he lost someone he was trying to protect. It was the longest night of your life, watching him spiral and blame himself when he eventually did find the words to speak. He acted similar to how he is now: the stuttering, the shaky inhales, avoiding your gaze. But you caught his eyes when he first saw the scarlet stains, and he looks even more petrified tonight.

You move towards him again and reach up to place your hands on either side of his face. “I’m right here,” you whisper, glancing from one of his eyes to the other. “I’m okay, look at me, Frank.” You try your hardest to keep your voice even and gather his attention. His fingers curl around your forearms as he shuts his eyes tightly. He begins to shake his head again, refusing to look at you.

“No, no, no, I can’t,” he repeats again and again. The image of him becomes blurry again in your view, each repetition of his words splitting your heart further. You continue to hold him through your silent sobs, desperately begging him to trust that you’re okay. His grip on you only tightens but he still doesn’t look. Instead, he keeps muttering apologies and trying desperately to rid his mind of the image of you bloodied by his hands.

It isn’t until the sharp smell of iron is cutting through the bathroom of the apartment that he begins to calm down. The scent is familiar, dare he admit, welcoming. It cuts through the cloud of despair in his head, and it’s silent with the exception of small sniffles coming from you. You’re wearing his shirt and sweatpants now as you hunch over and focus on his hands. He’s sitting on the lid of the toilet while you’re across from him on the floor, a first aid kit on your right and a wet rag on your knee.

You turn his hands over carefully, inspecting the calloused palms for any sign of injury. Dragging the already soiled rag down his fingers, you watch the stains leave his hands, revealing perfectly intact skin. You sit up and fix the posture of your spine as you bring the back of your hand up to your face, pushing your hair away from your forehead.

“Looks like you’re all good,” you start, gently dropping one hand before moving for the next. “No cuts, just some bruising on your knuckles.” He only nods in understanding.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“What?” he asks, blinking once. You repeat the question and he stares at you, questioning whether to tell the truth. He doesn’t want to burden you with more wounds, but he knows you’ll find out anyway. He swallows hard and nods again, listing off the ones that are currently aching. Your fingers find their way to the hem of his shirt and begin to pull up before he’s finished speaking, and his own fingers wrap around your smaller wrists to stop you.

“You don’t… have to do this,” his eyes flicker all around your face. “I know it’s a lot, a-and after tonight,” he sighs as he looks down at your hands.

“Hey,” you begin, raising a hand up to lift his chin gently. “It’s nothing I don’t want to do. You mean as much to me as I do to you, you know that, right?” you ask, tilting your head down and looking up into his eyes. He thinks it over for a second before giving a weak nod.

“And you know how incredibly important you are?” Frank scoffs at this question, but you push further and he agrees, begrudgingly. Your hands go to each of his knees, using them to lean forward and press your lips to his. He kisses you back instantly, his hand reaching to cup your cheek and pull you closer. You pull back and let out a quiet, “Good,” before wrapping your hand around the back of his neck and kissing him deeper. It’s slow but meaningful, the two of you needing to be together in this way. He’s still incredibly gentle with you, but you know that side effect will fade soon.

He’s the one to break the kiss this time as he pulls away for a small breath of air. You snake your hands under his shirt and start tugging up again with a grin. He gives you a questioning look but you continue stripping it off until it’s on the floor beside you. You lean forward to press a quick peck to his lips, your breath hot on him as you whisper, “Besides, you’re not getting rid of me that easily, Castle.”

[password-door-lock]

“What is this?” Unknown demands, giving the oversized cup a once-over. He does not appreciate the tacky snowflake print any more than he appreciates the fact that it is decidedly not what he asked for.

You shoot him a sheepish smile that he could really do without, before stabbing the sheer plastic lid of your drink with a large pastel pink straw identical to the one waiting for him on the dashboard. “You said you wanted something that would keep you awake.”

Unknown grits his teeth. It's like he has to spell every little thing out for you lest you should fuck it up— maybe he shouldn't really be surprised, considering he's had to deal with your antics for months now, but that doesn’t mean he’s pleased with your behavior. “I wanted an energy drink.” He may not drink them often, but they come in handy when he spends long hours on surveillance missions such as this one. 

“Oh.” You wrinkle your brow, looking genuinely apologetic. “I'm sorry. I wish you would have said something— hopefully this will be okay, though. It does have a lot of caffeine and sugar— plus, I got us some pastries, too.”

You brandish a box (also printed with snowflakes) which looks big enough to contain more than enough pastries for the two of you. “Next time, get me what I ask for.” He shouldn’t have to say that, but Unknown understands now that it’s better to err on the side of caution when giving you directions. 

“Of course.” You don't contest the fact that he never explicitly asked you for an energy drink, which, to your credit, does improve Unknown's mood infinitesimally. He’s not in the mood for an argument today, any more than he’s in the mood for… whatever you’re trying to give him now. “But, listen, this should give you enough energy to stay up until we're back at Magenta, anyway. And they're doing a promotion for winter— see the little flap in the cup? There's a plushie keychain behind it.”

“Next time, I'll go with you into the store,” Unknown decides, too caught up in his own thoughts to consider the new information that you’ve offered. None of the work that he got done while you were in the coffee shop makes up for the potential risks associated with leaving you to your own devices for so long. He sincerely hopes that the Savior doesn't look at her card history for this evening, because he has no interest in explaining why so many ridiculous things were purchased in the name of the Mint Eye.

You're not listening to him, either, already prying open the little door in the side of your cup to get to the plushie. Unknown is irrationally annoyed about this, and he stews in his anger as you withdraw the stupid little thing. “Aw,” you look dejected, which  comforts him. “Damn.” You might be annoying, but at least your pouting face is cute. 

“What's the problem, prince(ss)?” Angry or not, Unknown will never pass up an opportunity to mess with you.  

“I don't really like this character,” you confess, “Like, it’s fine, I guess, but I was hoping to get something else.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Unknown murmurs mockingly, reveling in your disappointment just as he indulges in all of your emotions. He really does enjoy his time with you, all things considered— but, then again, he never would have picked you if he didn’t want to be around you. 

“You should open yours.” Now you're giving him puppy-dog eyes, which has never been a particularly effective method in your dealings with Unknown— of course, that’s never stopped you before, and he apparently can’t expect it to stop you this time, either. “Please? It's already paid for. It would be a waste if you just left it.” 

Unknown considers this. As much as he doesn't want to listen to you when you try to give him orders, he is just a bit curious about what might be inside the cup. And you do have a point— it is already paid for. Even though he doesn't want it, if there's any enjoyment to be had from this irresponsible decision of yours, he may as well revel in that, too, before the Savior finds out what has taken place and limits his use of the Mint Eye credit card. Most likely, he'll no longer be allowed to leave you unattended with it. 

Whatever. It takes him a moment to get the stupid thing out of the little door— he ends up just ripping the extra bottom compartment off of the rest of the cup and tossing it on the floor of the car. He figures that you can clean it up later. He studies the prize— it’s just some plush cartoon character that he’s never heard of, though you seem to recognize it, if the way that your eyes widen as you study the thing is anything to go on. “What?” He demands, clutching the plushie in his closed fist. 

“Can we trade?” You ask sheepishly, holding out your keychain like you expect him to take it. “You got my favorite character.” 

Unknown finds himself grinning. He didn’t care at all about the plushie before, but he very much enjoys knowing that he has something that you want. He offers you a smug chuckle before clipping the keychain ring to his belt loop. “No,” he says firmly, “I like this one.” 

But his words and actions fail to have the desired effect. You just grin right back at him, silently clapping your hands as if pleased by his performance. Unknown stares up at the ceiling, wondering what the hell he’s going to do with you. As if you can read his thoughts, you select this moment to be extra-annoying:  “Now try the drink,” you order, “I promise you’ll love it.”

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Heyyy, how are yaa <3 I've been following and keeping up with your blog for a while now and I think you depict each and every character so well, which seems to be a failing factor to a lot of good writers who unfortunately cannot understand characters in all angles. - basically saying I love and I'm glad to have found your blog ahah

So I wanted to ask you something; I'm also a writer, not in the fanfiction/character-writing realm. It's texts, reflections, poems and songs! And I wanted to know how you managed to pave your way through and build a strong base here on the website; basically how you came to be and tried to launch yourself! It's something I always wonder when checking out other popular blogs.

Thank you!! Have a great one <3

HELLO MY DEARHEART! Thank you so much for this uplifting message! It seriously means a ton. It is so, SO important to me to keep all the characters true to themselves so I very much appreciate your feedback <3 I'm so glad you found me too! I actually have a post about this on what was/is my original fanfiction blog here ( @supernaturalfreewill ) which has an even more obscene number of followers than this one does haha because I used to get asked this ALL THE TIME. The post has some thoughts which may or may not be relevant/useful to you.

I think the main things to remember are: 1.) You should be doing this purely for yourself, not to hit some follower goal or some particular benchmark. If you don't enjoy it and you set certain expectations the work suffers and it can be very disheartening if you aren't hitting those goals when or how you wanted to. It's funny how when what you are doing is fulfilling to you, people are attracted to it! If you write what you love, it shows. And putting in the time to edit and reread and practice your craft makes a difference. 2.) Being consistent in multiple ways is important. Posting every single day feeds the stupid algorithm and gets eyes on your work and keeps people coming back for more. Producing a consistent kind of content makes people more likely to follow because they know what to expect from you. At the minimum, make it clear what your blog or site is going to have. I know for myself on Tumblr, I rarely follow blogs that are a mishmash of many topics or things because I like to know what I can expect to see on my dashboard. I follow blogs with a clear "theme" and I definitely have seen it work in terms of building my own following. It's why I have separate blogs for my different fandoms and didn't incorporate them into a multi-fandom blog. (But everyone has different tastes and I'm definitely not saying you can't be successful as a random blog or multi-fandom blog lol but you get what I'm saying!)

3.) Cultivate your "brand" and also be you! Putting yourself out there and being authentic also seems to attract people.

In terms of what I did here on Tumblr, it's literally just those things above. I was already doing the writing for myself and then thought "Hey, maybe other people would enjoy this?" and started posting consistently and frequently. I can honestly say at least when I started posting my Supernatural fics MANY moons ago, I NEVER expected it to take off the way it did. But once I got started, I just kept going as long as I enjoyed it. The idea is the same here on this blog. I try to post at least a drabble almost every day, I frequently interact with my followers, and I write what I love.

I hope this is at least a little what you were asking about haha and I wish you all the best inspiration as a fellow writer! <3 I'm glad you're here.

[armpirate]

The Only One || JJK || Ch. 38

Pairings: mafia!jk x fem!reader

Genre: smut, angst, mafia, contract relationship

Warnings: Prostitution, torture, blood, use of drugs and weapons

Summary: You've always wished for a better life. Every single day at work, you were hoping something would change. Although you didn't think that change would come in the form of one mysterious man and a contract.

His controlling and selfish behaviour only wanted to keep you away from any other man that wasn't him, and you only had to wait for him.

Too bad you really thought you'd be smarter than Jeon Jungkook.

Previous || Next

MASTERLIST

Aprox. time of reading: 15 minutes

The way back to the police station was silent, with barely any sound from other cars -it wasn't like there were many that time of the year, especially in the area that connected with all the touristic spots. Her brain was keeping her from any sound that could interrupt the several questions that were going through her head. They already had many enemies, she would have to worry about the police as well?

She was feeling overwhelmed, unable to keep up with everything that was happening at once, while Jungkook held the wheel tight at the same time his eyes flew in her direction a few times. He was able to see the tension and worry, and there was nothing that made him angrier than having the feeling he could be of help, but he didn't know how.

Her breath got heavier when his car crossed the bridge, feeling like she was forced back into reality. The familiar and calm vibes that she felt from the other side were completely disappearing as soon as he stopped in front of the first traffic light. Under the red light, Jungkook was finally able to look at her, eyes falling to the way her fingers moved nervously on her lap.

—Maybe it has nothing to do with me —he whispered, covering her hands with his palm.

—No —she shook her head, scoffing—. Police came to my place to come at me for sneaking inside the bus a few times when I was eighteen.

—What if it's a trick? —he mumbled.

Y/n's eyes went from the dashboard to Jungkook, catching his eyes briefly before he focused back on the road.

He wanted to keep those thoughts in the back of his head to focus on her, on her reaction and her feelings until they arrived at the police station. He didn't want to alarm her, but it was obvious it was already too late. She was nervous and anxious, expecting anything to come at them at that point.

—Maybe they're pretending to be cops.

—I don't think they're pretending, but they're clearly on Pedro's payroll —she shrugged—. Comissars, politics... I've seen a lot of them coming to the club. They don't need to pretend to be cops, because they already have cops on their side. And I doubt they'd appoint me at the police station if they wanted to do something to me. What worries me is if it has nothing to do with Pedro or your father.

—It'll be okay —he assured her.

Y/n wanted to believe his words, she really wanted to think it was something they could ignore, but having someone watching their every move would only complicate everything they were planning to do.

—Sure it'll be—she nodded, pointing at the last turn he had to take—. It's here —she informed him.

—Hun, it'll be okay —he repeated, holding her wrist when she unbuckled her belt—. Don't let them get to you.

—Easier said than done —she managed to tease him, dedicating a weak smile to him.

Chuckling at her comment, he pulled her close with a hand behind her neck, leaving a short kiss on her forehead.

—I'll be waiting for you here.

He'd always wait for her. She knew that quite well, and maybe that was the problem from the beginning. On her way to the police station, she started thinking about what good she brought into his life. It was as if everything that could turn out wrongly would only happen after she showed up in his life -and she admitted her fault on it.

Y/n walked around the place, guided to a desk in particular after she repeated the name Jorge had sent her through text. The only times she had stepped inside a police station was to renew her ID, but she was able to feel the pressure as she was guided through the room.

It wasn't like she had seen in several movies and TV shows, where she got anxious with the amount of people coming and going and the constant ringing of phones. It was calm, even silent. Maybe that day was particularly silent.

—Y/n? —the brunet bearded man asked the uniformed cop.

Both of their heads turned to her. The cop who was in his civilian clothes, and that she thought was the person looking for her, nodded at the other man and signaled him to leave them two alone.

—I'm Agent Ramirez —he introduced himself.

—I know, I had to ask for you just a minute ago —her tone was dry, blocking any aim to get closer to her.

The man just nodded, taken aback by her sudden answer and her defensive pose. There was no use in trying to soften everything, and act like she was there for something dumb and stupid that could've been solved through a phone call. He guided her to one of the free rooms, making sure there was no one inside, and hoping there was someone listening at the other side of the mirror.

—Do you know why you're here?

—I'm not a fortune teller, so you tell me —she answered, taking a seat.

The room was dark, barely lit with more than just two white lamps, and it was only making her stress get worse.

—Jeon Jungkook.

She clicked her tongue at the pronunciation of his name, crossing her arms over her chest before she corrected him.

—Whatever —he sighed—. What's your relationship with him?

—I'm his girlfriend.

—For how long have you known him?

—A few months.

—Be exact.

She pressed her lips tight, trying to clear up the dates after everything that had happened in such a short span of time.

—Almost four months —her eyes squinted while looking at the man standing in front of her, seeing him playing with the beige folder in his hands—. And this is important because...?

—Because you're still on time to run away from this with no consequences.

—Is this what the police do in Spain now? —she scoffed, eyebrows arching— You all have nothing better to do than going to random people's places and sticking your noses into their love lives?

—Not everyone is mingling with a drug dealer and procurer —he cut her off.

Her throat closed off at the cutting answer he dedicated to her, opening the file to drop some pictures over the table. Most of them were blurry, and it was hard for her to tell whether it was Jungkook or not, except for one. The agent topped all of the other pictures with one where Jungkook was clearly visible, talking with Yejun -and judging by some of the people in the background's clothes, she was sure those were taken during the summer. She could recognize the suit he wore the night they met, and how his hair was perfectly styled to the sides before she made a mess of it.

—I know you were working for a while in Pedro's club. And your father told me you moved out not long ago because you found a job overseas. Whatever you know, you should tell us. Jungkook, Park Jimin, Pedro Montes... all of them are dangerous people, and...

—Is there any proof except for this picture? —she pointed to it with her head.

—What?

—I'm asking if there's any proof for your accusations except for this picture —she reiterated, getting comfortable on the chair while her legs crossed under the table—. Or your scoop didn't have the balls to give you more? —her eyebrow raised.

—This has been an investigation going on for quite a long time...

—Yet all you could get was five blurry pictures, and a stalker-ish picture taken without Jungkook's consent while he was in a meeting to amplify his business in Europe.

—That's why you should work with us, do the right thing, and get all those assholes behind bars.

He was looking at her attentively, hiding his smile when he was aware of the way her fingers moved over the pictures. Almost as if she were getting ready to say something and open up about all the secrets she was keeping.

—Hope you know this is defamation —she mentioned, not even moving her eyes up to him—. You should know better than to waste people's time when your only proof is that —she challenged him—. My private life is no one's business. And if you don't know how to do your job properly, find a better way to find out things than sticking your nose inside things that aren't your problem.

—It was hard, right? —he interrupted her, supporting the weight of his body on the hand that landed over the table— Leaving your studies and your family, and being forced to live a poor life in this shitty place... I know that luxury life, after you came from nothing, is tempting. But it's not worth it. You don't owe anything to Jungkook. Be smart, look out for your family and break any strings you have with him. We'll give you protection, and everything you need if you collaborate.

She could feel her heart racing at that sudden attack, throat closing at only remembering the thoughts that she would constantly try to hide even from herself.

Y/n scoffed, looking down while that ironic smile adorned her face, looking up at him again to let out the calmest response she could give in that moment.

—Is that it? —she managed to ask— If you don't have any more bullshit to say, can I leave? I have things to do.

Without answering, he just nodded and allowed her to head to the door. She stopped on her tracks, momentarily making him think she might've changed her mind and was willing to help.

—All that crap better not leak to the media unless you want to deal with his lawyers —she warned him.

She walked fast, making her way from the room she was into the main entrance, feeling her heart getting smaller in her chest with every step she took. As soon as the cold air hit her face and filled her lungs, a loud gasp left her lips along with some of the teardrops she wasn't able to stop.

Jungkook was in danger, and so were Jorge and Carla, and it all was because of her and her bad decisions. The same cycle went on again. She kept hurting everyone around her, even if those people had given her everything she could ask for. She managed to find a way to harm them somehow.

The reverse of her hand wiped those few tears away, and dried the wet trace on her cheeks, at the same time she tried to breathe deeply. She kept trying to control her thoughts, and go back to nothing before she met with him again.

She didn't speak, she tried to seem cheerful and carefree when she joined him back in the car, but he knew there was something wrong. A quick look into her eyes and he was able to tell that the tone of her voice and her smile weren't in sync with what her gaze was showing. He wanted to ask, or at least let her know that he knew he didn't believe a single word that escaped her lips, but she wanted him to believe everything was alright. And while he wanted to support and comfort her, he also understood that what she wanted in that moment is to believe he bought a single word she let out.

He would gladly do that for her.

—And when he told me all that bullshit, I told him he better not spread those lies around unless he wants you to take legal action.

—Look at you being a tiny mafia boss —he patted her head.

—Can you drop me home? —she asked— I think Jorge deserves an explanation. Or, at least, tell him it's nothing he should worry about.

—Sure. I'll wait for you in the car.

Jungkook started the car, only to drive two minutes away from the police station and stop right in front of her portal. He wouldn't leave her side, not with everything that was happening, so it wasn't on his plans to drop her at her place and leave until they met again. He learned from his past mistakes, and he wasn't thinking of repeating them.

She hopped off the car, kissing his cheek loudly, earning a smile from him, the sweet sound filling the guts she needed to confront Jorge.

Usually, the common courtyard was either empty, or there were two of her neighbors talking between them, not loud enough to let everyone know what they were talking about, but audible enough to let it be known they were dealing with some dangerous information for someone. Although it was obvious for her she was the target, when she stepped inside the building and their eyes traveled instantly to her, at the same time their conversation was suddenly cut off. It wasn't like she cared, it wasn't one of her problems, but she hoped that would prepare her for what she was going to deal with.

The door clicked, and she was met with the murmuring voices from the TV, and a pair of suitcases under the green crystal shelf at the left of the corridor, where they'd leave the keys. She did her best ignoring all the flashbacks that were battling to get inside her head, getting strength out of nowhere to step deeper in the house, turning to the left at the first double door to meet Jorge, who was sitting at the edge of the couch while he stared at her.

—Are you cleaning up? —she pointed behind her.

—I hope not —he sighed—. Let's not play around, can we? We both have always gone straight to the point.

—If this is because of the police showing up... It was a misunderstanding.

—That's what you told them? —he raised his eyebrow— And they ate it up? No wonder the country is going nowhere if we depend on dumbasses like them —he complained, sighing as he stood up.

—I don't really know w...

Her voice was stopped by the loud slap of his hand against the table, making her whole body jump.

—Don't play dumb with me, Y/n. I've known you for way too long to know what you're doing. You suddenly disappeared, the amount of money you had and gave to us when you weren't even around, and the way you showed up to disappear again? —he stopped her— I won't tolerate you treating me like a fool. Not with something so serious.

—I've done nothing wrong.

—You didn't, but the dude you're with did. Did you think about yourself? Or did you even think of Carla for once? Do you have any fucking idea the danger you could put her in for the people you mingled with?

—Jungkook wouldn't hurt anyone I care for.

—Let's say he wouldn't, what about the people that would want to hurt him? Or you? I gave you a home, and I treated you like a daughter. And I'd always consider you a part of my family. Y/n, this is your family. We will always be here for you no matter what, and you're still on time to make the right decision.

Her expression twisted at his words, understanding the meaning behind them and what his intention was.

—I'm sorry you did what you did all this time —he apologized with a shaky voice—. I'm sorry you felt forced to throw yourself into that life to make up for my debts. But you don't need to do that anymore.

—Why are you feeling sorry for that? —the longer the minutes passed, the burning in her eyes increased— It wasn't your fault.

—You can move away from all of that. Go to the police, and make the right decision. Just say you were scared, or whatever you come up with, and come back home. We'll leave this in the past.

—I can't —she shook her head, feeling the knot in her throat tightening—. I can't —her lip trembled—. Please, don't do this. Don't make me choose.

—He's a stranger, for fuck's sake —Jorge stepped back—. You're willing to risk your life, and ours, for him? Carla looks up to you, what am I supposed to tell her?

—Whatever you want to tell her, it's your choice —she whispered, trying to remain as calm as possible—. Whether you want her to hate me or love me, and be relevant or not in her life, it's okay. I deserve it all, to be honest. Just, please, keep all the money I've sent you all these months. And make sure you use the money in the savings account for her university.

After a few months with them, Y/n started sending some of the money she earned to Jorge's savings account. Not expecting anything special in return, she just wanted to make sure there would be some money left for some important things to spend it on. And through the years she realized how important it was. That money was left untouched even when they needed it the most, only because she wanted Carla to have the future she never was able to have, even if that meant crawling to Pedro's dump.

She didn't want to break out crying right there, so she just nodded with her words still flying in the air between them. Picking up her things, she left her place under the attentive eyes of her neighbors, keeping herself as stiff and tough as she had always pretended to be like. She didn't break when she stepped outside, or when Jungkook helped her with her suitcases, and not even when he dropped the killing question and asked her what happened.

She broke when they were completely in silence, only surrounded by the roaring sound of the engine, and while her thoughts consumed her. Her lip trembled fast, unable to stop it -it didn't matter how much she tightened her jaw-, followed by a sob that worked as the start of countless tears rolling down her cheeks uncontrollably.

Jungkook gave her space and time to think by herself, but when he saw her in that state he was unable to just ignore it. He stopped the car at the side of the road, right next to another car that was parked, along with several others, in line. His hand caressed the back of her neck, while his other hand rested on her thigh, trying to calm her down, before he managed to unbuckle her belt and pull her in for a hug.

—It's all my fault —he managed to hear after a few minutes just hearing sobs and snorts—. I don't deserve to be around anyone.

—Y/n, how can you say something like that?

—I only hurt people —she answered, her voice cracking in the middle of the sentence—. I've put everyone in danger. Jorge, Carla, you...

—First of all, I'm the one who put you in danger —he cut her off—. And I thought you said you would protect me? Are you giving up on your skills already?

He tried to soften the situation she was going through at that moment. She was pretty aware of her reality, but being confronted with it is a completely different experience.

—You don't understand. If you had only seen the way he was looking at me —she shook her head in his chest—. I make it all worse for everyone. If I hadn't come into your life...

—If you hadn't come into my life, I wouldn't know what's living in the first place —he whispered—. You said you didn't regret a single thing we did, so? I don't regret a single thing either. I said I would die for you. And knowing my life is worth so much now that I have someone to die for is way better than spending my days being safe in my tower. You've only brought good things into my life.

Y/n finally moved back to look at him, with her whole body bouncing with the hiccups and her eyes looking puffy and red from crying. His thumbs wiped her tears away, while he just smiled to comfort her.

—And I know their protection worries you, I already worked on it. Two men will be watching them until all of this is over. It'll be fine.

Y/n hid her face on his chest again, wrapping her arms tight around his waist. Jungkook chuckled at her action, quickly patting her head while the other arm wrapped tight around her body and pulled her closer, as if he wanted them to morph into one.

—I love you —she managed to say, voice sounding drowned.

—I love you, too, doll.

Just like it happened earlier in the morning, the buzzing of a phone broke the moment, making them look at each other before Jungkook lifted his hips to get his phone out of the back pocket of his pants.

He smirked, pleased with how everything was working just how he wanted. Aware of Y/n's curious eyes, he moved the screen in her direction so she'd be able to read.

Pedro was throwing a party in the name of a good friend of his, and it seemed like they already had a plan for that night. 

Taglist: @kaiparkerwifes @sheylamc @amy2006jones @allamericanuniverse @00frenchfries00 @massivelyfullenthusiast

[sombersynth]

STEDDIE FANFICTION REC MASTERPOST PT. 5

You're Divine by OonionChiver, 259.5 k, explicit ‘Blood?’ Eddie says again. Eyes black but for the slice of iridescent white in the centre. His teeth are sharp, his hands are weapons and Steve thinks maybe he’s made a mistake doing this without telling Eddie first. Eddie’s focus lowers, it moves to his left hand which is… Oh fuck. It’s dripping blood onto the floor. ‘Shit,’ Steve says, takes a single step back, swallows. ‘Eddie, I’m so sorry, fuck.’ Eddie can’t seem to look away, can’t bring his ethereal gaze back up where it belongs. Steve thinks he should run, he should flee. A tiny part of him knows Eddie will chase him. Eddie will catch him, outrun him easily. It's more than a little fucked up how that thrills him. (My personal favorite Steddie fanfiction of all time.)

Stereoscope by Seraphy, 60.8 k, explicit Here's Steve Harrington's biggest secret, though: It's not the alternate dimension brimming with monsters or the impossible girl with powers. It's the fact that he and Eddie Munson have been friends all along. In an on-and-off, tangential, fucked up kind of way. Never on his own terms. But still friends.

(There Is) Thunder in Our Hearts, by Ayes, 28 k, explicit It was only once. They were teenagers. It didn’t mean anything. The last one was a lie.

Paradise by the Dashboard Light by Oaseas, 154 k, teen and up Things were weird in Hawkins. The fields were rotting, there was something in the woods, and Steve Harrington's Beemer had a new problem every week.

Choose the Rose Garden (Over Madison Square), by Strawberryspence, 42.6 k, explicit “I didn’t know you smoked.” Eddie looks at him tentatively. “Didn’t until ‘86,” Steve answers, letting the feeling of the cigarette between his fingers anchor him into reality. “I see a lot has changed for you in ‘86.” Steve snorts, still not returning Eddie’s fixed gaze. “Are you just going to ignore me for the rest of the night?” or: It's 1991, Joyce and Hop are finally getting married. Steve owns a flower shop, Eddie's a rockstar and everyone's tired of their bullshit.

I Don’t Care, Go On and Tear Me Apart (I Don’t Care if You Do), by Gorgeousgreymatter, 3 k, explicit The words are filthy, they always are whenever they do this, play like this. Eddie’s voice is so sweet though, sticky like syrup and sending little pulses, shivers of pleasure, all the way down Steve’s spine. The only way Eddie’ll be able to miss what it does to him — how Steve’s cock is so hard and heavy against his own thigh that it hurts — is if he’s suddenly gone blind. Is it any more than that blistering hurt he always feels when he wants Eddie? It doesn’t matter how, in what way. The wanting always feels the same.

Nothing’s Gonna Harm You (Not While I’m Around) by Judasofsuburbia, 2.8 k, teens and up when max mayfield shows up at eddie munson's door after a nightmare, the last thing she expects to see is steve harrington staring back at her. or steve and eddie being the big brothers that max deserves.

Stevie Don’t Change Your Number by Eggurie, 33 k, teens and up A young Eddie finds the school's golden boy's phone number scribbled on the bathroom wall. A poorly executed call leads to late night talking, secret crushes and lots and lots of anonymous flirting.

[divine-knight-hand]

My Paracosm's Tumblr Dashboard Simulator!!! ❤️‍🔥

Except none of you know my paras, nor am I going to give any context for these. *womp womp*

But, I basically saw this post and decided “Hey, lemme do that!” and then I did that.

Also, a good portion of my paras are primparas, but my fictparas will be glaringly obvious, so, yeah. If you know them, you know them. 🤷‍♀️

I spent way too long on this, lmao... Welp, enjoy! 😌

TW: some humor involving brief mentions of suicide, death, and doxxing

🔥 not-ember-blade Follow

Remind me again why our boss is asking us to make these social media accounts? Isn’t our whole thing, I dunno, subtlety?

💧 sweetest-otaku Follow

Well, with a user like that, I don’t think you’re doing very good at that, anyways… 😬

🔥 not-ember-blade Follow

Let’s not hash out the technical stuff 😅

(1,258 notes)

❤️ a-random-fan Follow

Anyone else ever think about how not-ember-blade and sweetest-otaku were born to contradict each other? Like, how do sisters with conflicting powers learn to not only co-exist, but thrive while working together? Especially when everyone expects them to tear each other apart? Truly, it’s wonderful to see…

🔥 not-ember-blade Follow

Dude, what the fuck? We’ve been past that. Find a new philosophy, Socrates- 💀

#and to everyone who still thinks me and my sister are gonna duke it out #stfu

(947 notes)

🐺 alpha-machine Follow

So, not-ember-blade… What’s the status on that date? 😏

🔥 not-ember-blade Follow

My sister had to physically restrain me from typing “kys” before lecturing me on the importance of a “respectful no”.

💧 sweetest-otaku Follow

Well, it almost worked… 😅

#also please rethink the wording of your tags #I’m not even going to repost them #they’re really vulgar…

(236 notes)

💍 iron-wife Follow

mischief-incarnate, you didn’t happen to put itching powder in alpha-machine’s closet after his latest post, did you???

🐍 mischief-incarnate Follow

Do I look like I’m only capable of mere party tricks to you? Of course not! That foul mutt has magic to thank for any discomfort he may be experiencing. Magic woven into each and every thread, in fact~

🔥 not-ember-blade Follow

Every day, I fall more and more in love with you 😩

#marriage when?

(2,479 notes)

🪞 mirror-mirror Follow

Crippling anxiety? I barely know her! (Lying)

💄 hopeless-hottie Follow

What does this mean?

💄 hopeless-hottie Follow

Hello?

💄 hopeless-hottie Follow

HELLO?!

#can someone go check if she’s okay? #I’m starting to get concerned…

(174 notes)

🔥 not-ember-blade Follow

Can y’all stop asking me if arachni-kid is my son? It’s not even true, and his aunt is starting to ask questions…

💧 sweetest-otaku Follow

One time, I saw you make him a Hot Pocket, kiss him on the forehead, and wish him luck on a test he was studying for.

🕷️ arachni-kid Follow

A test I passed, by the way! I forgot to tell you. 😅

🔥 not-ember-blade Follow

Awwwww! I knew you could do it, kiddo! I’m so proud of you! 🥹

(1,892 notes)

💄 hopelessness-hottie Follow

Look, not-ember-blade! It’s you!

🔥 not-ember-blade Follow

I’m… pi?

🔦 endangered-observer Follow

Maybe she’s saying you are what you eat? 😅

🐍 mischief-incarnate Follow

I’ve not once seen her consume this mathematical notation…

💧 sweetest-otaku Follow

You summoned all three of them and they still didn’t get it 😭

🪞 mirror-mirror Follow

That’s because they all share one brain cell 🤣

(2,437 notes)

🧹 friendly-maiden Follow

As much as I enjoy serving the new queen and princess, can I have not-ember-blade and sweet-otaku back? Please?

💧 sweetest-otaku Follow

Awww! We miss you, too! 🥺

#Please come visit sometime #okay?

(173 notes)

🪞 mirror-mirror Follow

Everyone talking about possibly making a poll to decide who the best sister is between not-ember-blade and sweetest-otaku clearly wasn’t here for the violent discourse that one poll between mischief-incarnate and thunderous-hero, and it shows… 👀

💧 sweetest-otaku Follow

Didn’t mischief-incarnate dox someone for telling people to vote against him?

🔥 not-ember-blade Follow

No, no… That was me… 😶

#but can you blame me? #the bitch had it coming #spreading that harmful propaganda

(2,347 notes)

🍳 wary-chef Follow

Just saw someone cooking without measuring their ingredients. They should lose their cooking priviliges.

🔥 not-ember-blade Follow

You rn:

💧 sweetest-otaku Follow

I was gonna tell you to stop bullying my boyfriend, but- 😭

(1,482 notes)

⚡ thunderous-hero Follow

What are these "fan cams" that people keep talking about?

💧 sweetest-otaku Follow

Oh! You mean, those edits of us? I wonder how everyone got all that footage of us...

#It's actually a little creepy #How do they do it?

(3,487 notes)

🔦 endangered-observer Follow

Who... Who sent me this song?

🔥 not-ember-blade Follow

I know I shouldn't laugh, but... HA!!!

#the whole polycule having daddy issues goes crazy

(1,450 notes)

[ljblueteak]

From "Memories of Michael" by Terry Southern:

Summer of '66 at the top of Duke Street, in the heart of Old Smoke, I...had my first larger-than-life living-colour confrontation with a certain Michael Cooper, Esquire....I moved on a couple doors along Duke Street to the Robert Fraser Gallery and Grill, as we were later wont to call it. I tried the door and found it locked up tighter than Dick's hat-band.

"Looking for Robert, are you?" asked the young dandy, and when I turned I saw something I was to come to love--his extraordinary smile, piercing; and somehow both shy and knowing, almost conspiratorial....

"Yes," I said. "I'm supposed to meet him here at four." It was almost five now.

Michael laughed. "Oh, I expect he's hopped it," he said, affecting a slightly Cockney accent. "Off to Meerakesh, if my guess is any good. Having a right rave-up with Bill Willis and Chris Gibbs about now, I shouldn't wonder, ho-ho!"

I peered through the gallery window; in the shadows I could see the great B-52 sculpture by Colin Self, which he had said was inspired by Doc Strangelove....

"Hold on," [Michael] said. "Is this a bloody Thursday?" I replied that it was indeed Thursday.

"Then Bob's having tea at his mum's."

"And not the right rave-up you had imagined."

"Yes, he has tea with his mum every Thursday, rain or shine." He considered it. "I should very much like to know what they talk about." He laughed. "Robert's poor taste in choosing his friends, most likely. Although she's a very nice woman. Actually quite charming."

"So he won't be coming back here to the gallery."

"No, we'll have to catch him at Mount Street. Have you been to his flat in Mount Street?"

I said that indeed I had....

Many of my memories of Michael involve Robert Fraser. They were ideally suited for the remarkable friendship they enjoyed. Each regarded the other as a grand eccentric, with Robert playing a sort of older brother of a more conservative stamp.

He had a rather protective attitude towards Michael, although it was Michael who was dominant in terms of influence; it was he who always managed to get copies of the latest Otis Redding or Sam Cooke, or to know about a private screening of a Bruce Connor film; and whenever he made a trip to New York, he would invariably return full of enthusiasm for the work of some new artist he had met through Larry Rivers, Andy Warhol or Den Hopper.

He once persuaded Robert to install a 45rpm record-player under the dashboard of his car--a remarkable Italian device that would absorb the bumps and cobbles of Old Smoke without skipping a note. With Michael as DJ and 'Strawberry Bob' at the wheel, driving like a demon, eye glasses glinting in the changing traffic lights, mouth fixed in a smile of stone manic hilarity, we would tool about the city, blasting with our rock'n'roll. A memorable period.

...I once heard [Michael] defending Keith [Richards] in an amusing exchange with Robert. It was during an evening at Mount Street.

"Well young sir," said Robert, waxing indignant, "buzz along the rialto has it that those two esteemed cronies of yours--Squire Richards and Anita Pallenberg--have shown some rather bad form, rather bad form indeed."

Michael brightened. "Oh? How's that, then?"

Robert took great glee (while feigning high seriousness) in recounting how Keith and Anita had run away together, into the North African night, leaving Brian to his own devices.

"'Spanish Tony' brought the news," he said in solemn conclusion and waited for Michael's response. It appeared, however, that Michael had already heard about it, from Christopher Gibbs, and in more detail.

"They left Brian half of the hash and half of the albums," he said in loyal defence.

Robert seemed to weigh the matter anew for a moment, but he remained sceptical. "Including the Little Richard?" he demanded. "I would wager my life they did not leave the Little Richard!"

From Blinds & Shutters (bold mine)