#if you have a problem with that you have a problem with the books

[0scarp1astr1]

Wax Appointment

જ⁀➴ Desc: || In which you tell them about your brazilian wax appointment, they just have one problem, your waxer is a man. ||

ᯓ★ Featuring: Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris, Carlos Sainz, Fernando Alonso.

ᯓ★ 2x Genre: Fluffy (slight humor)

ᯓ★ Warning: Suggestive humor/themes

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: First official writing, remember inbox is open! I hope you all enjoy. And if you want another part of this, you can just tell me what drivers you would like to see in this same scenario. My pinned tells you all the drivers I write for.

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Max Verstappen

It was halfway through the day when Max caught you freshening yourself back up. At first, he brushed it off, assuming maybe he worked out while he was gone and needed a shower. He was never the type to press you on the matter unless it was something that caused you discomfort, and he needed a reason to beat up someone for you. He was sweet in his own way, but a kind, gentle soul when he needed to be.

"Alright, I'm leaving," you said, reaching for the keys. Max had looked over from his spot on the couch, raising a brow. "You're leaving? "I didn't know you had plans?" he questioned. He knew deep down he would be safe. He trusted his friends, plus most of them were other wags. You always got along with Alexandra.

Letting a soft chuckle slip from your lips, you shook your head, looking at him. He looked even more confused before you explained. "I'm going to my Brazilian waxing appointment." You smiled at him. Max's brain took a moment to process. "And that is what exactly?"

You sighed, figuring you would have to explain the basics to your lovely boyfriend. "It's waxing, they do everything, front, back, and everything in between." You winked playfully. He blushed for a moment before nodding his head. "Have fun!" he replied, eyes adverting back to the television.

"I will. "I have to go, or he's going to make me pay extra! "If I’m late,” Before you have the chance to prance out the door, your boyfriend was right behind you. "He? "It's a GUY?!" he said rather loudly, moving to block the door. You looked at him, almost offended. “Yeah? "It's a wax, this is his job," you tried to reason.

Max shook his head. "No, I can do it!” he said as his eyes widened at his suggestion. "Max, you can't wax me down there" you shook your head in protest. Max scoffed. "Schatje! I've seen every inch of you naked. I know my way around your body. In fact, I know my way in! "I'm waxing you! End of story!" he picked you up, throwing you over his shoulder.

"his job? I'm your boyfriend. this is MY job."

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Charles Leclerc

The crazy thing about Charles is that you told him about your Brazilian wax appointment, but it seems he forgot. Which isn’t a surprise considering he wasn’t paying much attention when he was spoken to, but you loved him regardless.

Opening the door, your eyes landed on Charles, who was playing his sim racing, giving a soft smile towards him as you spoke up. “Okay, I’m heading out for my Brazilian wax” you said as Charles hummed with a soft smile. “Enjoy yourself mon amour, give her a tip I like when she does your waxing” he stated.

 “Ah. "Amy’s out of town, I have a new waxer, but he said he knows what he’s doing” you assume, with a shrug. Charles forgot everything at that point, his head turning fast with an expression of disbelief. “He? Mon amour! It’s another man! He can’t see what’s mine!” 

“Charles, it’s just his job. "If I was uncomfortable, I’d never book this waxing” you shook your head, he let out a sigh. “I know that, trust me I know” he assured, silence falling over before he hummed to break the tension forming. 

“Just don’t get a waxing at all..personally, I don’t need this guy investigating you like some temple”, he said, causing you to chuckle, “It’s nothing like that.” Let me get my wax so you and I can have a good time. "I feel it ruins the mood if I’m not up-to-date with my self-care!”

Charles shook his head. “Fine…but let me fuck you first before you go. "I need to leave behind something,” he said as you slapped his arm. “Charles!” You shook your head, he shrugged.

“What? I don’t want anyone seeing what’s mine! At least let me label it before you go mon amour!”

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Lewis Hamilton

Fairly respectful guy, so you honestly have no issue with him, and he knows half the people you see anyway. He pays for your hair, nails, anything really. He just didn’t realize you had a man doing the waxing instead. 

Lewis casually lounged on the couch, Roscoe resting next to him and the TV playing some random film he found when channel surfing. When he saw you walk towards the door, he finally spoke up.

"Brazilian waxing, right?" he asked, wanting to double-check as he nodded your head in response to him. “You should be back in time before our date tonight. I know it’s not far from here,” he smiled softly. 

"Actually, it’s a new place I'm trying. They have me booked with some guy," you said as he nodded his head. "So how much did they-wait for a guy?" he looked at you as if you had just insulted Roscoe himself. Which only caused you to giggle in response to his reaction. “Yes. A man is doing my waxing.” 

Lewis raised up from the couch as Roscoe looked over, his rest now disturbed. “I can live with you not waxing, you can just shave” he said as you cringed. I hate shaving. "I need to be nice and pretty” he said as he groaned. “I’ve eaten it before! "Why does it matter now?” he said as he shook your head, Roscoe barking. “Lewis! "Roscoe is right there!” You gestured. 

“Excuse me baby doll, you know I love Roscoe but I’m more worried about the man waxing you!”

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Lando Norris

It was a pretty simple day with Lando playing games with his best friend Max and you rummaged through the bathroom and digging through makeup. “Lando!” You shouted from the bathroom. He excused himself from the game, walking to the bathroom. 

He opened the door as you looked at him with a frustrated expression. “Have you seen my makeup brushes?” You asked, earning a headshake from him. “I haven’t. "Where are you going anyway?” he asked. Lando didn’t mind you dolling up, but he also knew you rarely did. “Brandon is waxing me today. I scheduled my Brazilian wax for noon.” 

Gears turned in his head as the bathroom door was fully open now, his weight leaned against it. “Excuse me? Brandon? "What kind of womanly name is that?” He asked as you snickered, shaking your head. “Not a woman,” he said as he gasped. “You’re cheating on me?!” He shouted. Earning a rather offended expression on your part. “That’s not cheating!” 

“Letting him see MY woman’s elegant body is cheating!” He said as you groaned. “It’s a wax!” You scoffed. “Same thing.” My eyes only. "He’s going to try to steal you from me. "I know this because you’re absolutely sexy in my eyes and everyone will try.” He bickered back. A small smile broke out onto your face. “Are you sweet-talking to me?…” She smiled. 

Lando sighed. “Yeah. "Is it working?” He raised a brow, hating to admit how it was working, you caved in. “Kinda yeah,” You said as he grinned. “Excellent.” "You are going to get that waxing, cause now I feel bad.” He said as you, awed at his sudden change. 

“Thank you, Lando…” you smiled softly. “Of course.” "Now where are the wax strips you use?” He asked, scooting you out the way to rummage for them. “What?” he asked as he sighed, his eyes speaking for him. “Not happening Lando.”

“Do you want the wax or not? You don’t even have to pay me. You get a free Brazilian wax and I get to see you naked. It’s a win.”

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Carlos Sainz

The crazy thing is, Carlos looked into the booking since he was fine paying for it and just wanted a basic booking list to look at. It lined up perfectly with the vacation he booked for you two for the anniversary on the way. Everything was a miracle for him. 

“You sure you want to come to the room?” he asked as Carlos chuckled, nodding his head. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before cariño”, he smiled softly. You kissed his cheek, gave a soft sigh and walked into the room, knowing exactly what to do already. 

Overtime, Carlos had been texting on his phone and waiting, so when the door opened, he looked up and his smile dropped as he looked at the guy rather closely. “Who are you?” He asked suddenly, causing him to side eye his sassy tone given. “Ah, I’m doing the waxing today, my name is-“ Carlos had quickly moved from his spot.

“You? "No offense, but you can’t wax my woman,” he said. You glanced at him for his boldness. “Carlos-“  "No! I want a woman! I don’t exactly trust this process.” He glared at the guy. The man clears his throat. “I can assure you it’s a fast process,” he said. 

Carlos crossed his arms. “I want a woman to wax. If not, "We’ll be taking our leave.” You looked at the guy, trying to give him a reassuring smile. “I’m sorry about that,” You said as the guy walked out of the room. 

Your gaze shifted to Carlos, who looked more relaxed and comfortable, only giving you a silent shrug in return. “You scared him away…” you said, but you smiled lightly. “Not that I’m complaining, but you can’t scare away people I need for my wax”, you said as Carlos kissed your forehead. 

“Dios mío, relax. I’ll make it up to you during our anniversary vacation. In the best way possible”

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Fernando Alonso

Dramatic, you knew how dramatic he was capable of being when you first started dating, and he damn near scared the waiter away. So with the waxer, you knew it was no different. 

It was the usual morning of you both lounging around the bedroom, wrapped in the warmth of your cuddle session. “I don’t want to get up, but I can’t miss my wax either” you said as Fernando hums, his arms still around you. “Schedule it another time” he suggested, and you figured maybe it wasn’t a bad idea, so you did it. 

Sadly, you lost track of time and when you finally got up two hours later, you internally screamed at yourself. Fernando only propped himself up on his elbows, watching you move around the bedroom in a panic. “You’re only a bit late,” he said. “A bit?! Fernando, I’m hours late! I had to call to make sure I could go!” 

“And?” he sighed heavily. “The original waxer is out. Luckily, this one guy made time to squeeze me in today for a Brazilian wax”. At the moment when you said that, Fernando was well awake and jumping out of bed. “No! Absolutely not! "Do you hear yourself, Mi amada?” he asked, eyes wide. A part of you was aching to laugh just because of how dead serious he was. 

“Who needs a wax anyway? "I can manage” he shrugs, causing you to snicker. It’s not funny! "He’s going to see you! "Every bit of you! "I can wax you! "I’m your husband!” He said as you giggled. “Boyfriend.” You corrected. “Soon to be husband! "My point is, you’re laughing, and I’m offering to wax!” He pointed out. “You’re such a drama queen Alonso,” You said. He stood in front of you, silence taking over, who was going to cave in? Only time was capable of telling. 

Now here you are, lying down at home. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into letting you wax me at home,” You said as he shrugged. “I was helping you”, he said as you rolled your eyes playfully. “You’re lucky the world loves you.” He gave a satisfied smile. 

“Happy to help, I’d be a fool to allow another man to touch you. Call it dramatics but you love it.”

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[64reprieve]

picture you (e.w.) ˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚

pairing: butch!college!loser!ellie x femme!camgirl!reader

synopsis: you need promo for your business. ellie’s tuition is due. or ellie’s a college student in her junior year scrambling to get her shit together and desperate to make ends meet with side jobs. you need pictures taken by someone who isn’t a creep from craigslist and won’t kill you. your friend knows just the person.

content: angst, amateurphotographer!ellie, loser!ellie, college!ellie, butch!ellie, brief mean!ellie at first but she softens up, camgirl!reader, femme!reader, ellie is broke and judgmental, awkward photoshoot, mentions of depression, mentions of agoraphobia, miscommunication, explicit language

word count: 4.7k

nsfw, men and minors dni

prologue ➤ chapter one ➤ chapter two ➤ (tbd.)

A beaten mumble drawls from you.

“I’m going to lose my job.”

The basement air is crisp from the harried sliding door of people reentering, the cold wafting in and raising your exposed skin to pebbles. Parties fall short in appeal, but you’re undeniably lonely; a skewed dichotomy granted how you spend nearly every night with an audience.

It’s hard enough to collect the mail from your doorstep, but you’d much rather hang out with Riley than die alone from holing up in your shitty, off-campus apartment.

Your isolation was a deluded salvation of choice from the start; there’s no childhood bedroom to sleep in during the holidays, no weekly phone calls home you pretend to make begrudgingly.

Winter break empties and hollows out your insipid college town into a blanket of white, undisturbed.

Self-help books have stacked themselves in your closet since Freshman year, but there was little to romanticize or heal over sitting on park benches under a single streetlight until your hands curled into the wood and buried blue beneath the snow.

Those weeks are cold, but your empty bed is freezing.

It’s unequivocally a first-world problem but you’d soon rather shake a cup on the sidewalk to make rent than return to late rides from campus to work, and then home.

Memories rouse the thick, stale scent and warm air of the bus, and your inner cheeks chewed raw from standing outside at night, bones buzzing with exhaustion.

You couldn’t go back, you couldn’t, you couldn’t, you wouldn’t, you–

Riley swirled a mint in her mouth, clicking against her teeth, "Okay. It can’t be that bad. What’s wrong with the photos you took last time?”

The ratty couch chafed the back of your bare thighs pink. Smeared eyeliner clung to your heavy lashes as you traced the rim of your sharp-scented cup, swimming with a repulsive concoction of sparkling fruit juice and gin that weighed down your insides.

“For one, those are from four months ago,” You paused to sigh, shutting your eyes in half disbelief and acceptance, “And two, they were Christmas-themed."

Your fingers pinched your ears to mimic a point, “I’m wearing elf ears in them. I can’t repost that in March, it’ll look like I’m pedaling for Santa fetishists.”

Across the cushions, Riley’s attentive gaze was a warmth that bordered sobering. It's not often you get to complain.

An amused laugh bubbled from her, “Have you tried posting about it online? Maybe like Twitter or something. Or I could do it. I know that our phones are busted, but we could probably photoshop the glare out. ”

“No,” Your head stabbed at the thought, “And I want to stay anonymous. I can’t imagine anyone who responds to that and pays attention to my content would be normal.” You sigh, “Shit, I wish Abby didn’t transfer.”

“She took your elf pictures?” Riley snickered, sitting up to hear you over the music and drunken babbles.

“It was one time. Her dad bought her a really good camera.” You argued, shooting her a look of disapproval.

Riley kissed her teeth, stretching her arms out with a faint grunt.

A short, pensive silence fell between the two of you.

Riley’s knee knocked into yours suddenly, pulling your attention, “I think I know someone.”

Who does Riley know that you don’t? Then again, you haven’t properly socialized outside your tiny circle in a couple of years.

You winced at the vision of a guy with a five o’clock shadow, greasy hair, and a camera bag hanging around their neck. Or worse, a cologne-drowned, perm-haired, red-pilled, indie boy with an abnormal vintage camera obsession.

“He’s not super weird, right?” You probed, wearing a look of uncertainty.

You worried as though it paid.

Riley leaned back on the armrest, “No, she’s friends with Dina. We’ve hung out before. You guys would get along. Want me to talk to her?”

A weight retreated from your slumped shoulders, “She has a camera and stuff? I don’t need much. Just some shots at my place and it won’t be anything crazy. Do you think she’d be like–okay with it?”

Riley nodded to your ramble, spitting her candy into your neglected cup before setting it on the floor. You’d worry about it later.

“She won’t mind, trust me." Riley insisted, waving you off, "So, is that a yes?” She mused.

“Tell her I’ll pay well.” You exhaled in relief, taking her hand.

Riley affirmed lazily, squeezing back, “She’ll do it.”

────୨ৎ────

Morning dew unfurled the lushness of vernality as worms curled beneath saturated dirt; Earth rose in the stillness.

Ellie squinted in the luster of warmth; the breeze cooling sweat before her clothes could stick. She walked beside her friend, taking space on the path with disregard and forcing passersby to walk on the damp grass.

“Who?” Ellie asked, taking out her earbuds and slipping the cord through her belt loop.

Dina looked up at Ellie as they walked to the library together, “One of Riley’s friends.” She exhaled through her nose, “I sent you her Instagram already. You would know if you ever checked your messages.”

Ellie mumbled, slipping her phone out of the pocket of her cargo pants. Her fingers tapped on the screen, eyebrows furrowed, “Okay? What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? She has two posts and one of them’s from five years ago.”

“I didn’t send it so you could gawk at her pictures–text her!” Dina groaned, adjusting her backpack as they tread uphill on the sidewalk.

“Relax.” Ellie refreshed your profile before tucking her phone away, “Riley said she asked for pictures? For an event or something?” She guessed, nearing the building.

Dina shrugged, stopping by the door before Ellie opened it, “Thanks,” Dina whispered, looking around the quiet library. “She said it’s just for social media but it’ll be at her friend’s place.”

Ellie bit her tongue, holding off her complaints. It would be pointless, she already knew she wasn’t in any position to say no.

Ellie worked over expenses for the month; a ninety-dollar textbook, course enrollment fees for the following semester, credit card bill, the brake pads of her truck still needed to be replaced, and her meal plan card only had around sixty dollars left–which bit when she was exhausting at least two to three energy drinks every day.

It wasn’t the type of money she could ask from Joel. She refused to. She couldn’t if she tried by this point. The thought alone of calling Joel sent a shiver through her body and made her palms sweat.

Ellie hadn’t grown up with much, though it wasn’t out of Joel’s cheapness and she knew that, always had.

It led to the fight on Ellie’s fifteenth birthday after he’d gifted her a Martin despite barely making the light bill that month.

Ellie had screamed until she turned red, trying to drag Joel and the guitar down the driveway and into the truck so they could return it to the shop. He refused until Ellie’s voice gave out, but learned to stick to grocery store birthday cakes from then on.

She made sure never to see another dollar from his wallet.

Ellie sighed under her breath, “Don’t tell me it’s another mixer. I swear to God.”

The two walked past the front desk, finding their usual study corner tucked away by rows of shelves. The scent of fresh carpet and paper imbued the building.

Ellie sat down, tossing her backpack between her legs and turning on her laptop while Dina set up her iPad from across the table, arranging her notebooks in a neat stack and rifling through her pen case to lay out highlighters and little sticky notes.

“Dina,” Ellie smirked, watching with amusement, “Are you prepping for surgery?” She teased, raising her eyebrows.

Dina clenched her teeth, sending her a glare, “Shut up.” She whispered harshly.

Ellie scratched the back of her neck as she aimlessly clicked around on her laptop for a few minutes before taking her phone back out. She should be using this time to study, especially with how awful her procrastination had grown since starting college.

Still, Ellie had adopted ‘I’ll start tomorrow' as a commandment.

She found your profile again looking through your tagged photos. Nothing. Ellie sighed before searching Riley’s Instagram: a plethora of posts; car selfies, blurry concert videos, photos taken on late nights out with criminally overused flash, though Ellie was culpably in some of them, until finally she came across a post of you.

Simple, sweet.

A photo in a bustling restaurant of you blowing out birthday cake candles, captioned ‘19 years today for this beauty queen’ with your account in the comments, asking her to take it down.

Your hair was down, curls cascading a little past your shoulders, with one side pinned behind your ear to show just enough of your face. Your red, manicured nails reflected the candlelight as you locked your hands, looking through your long eyelashes.

As if your smile wasn’t striking enough, you had dimples. Fucking dimples.

It seemed you two ran in the same social groups, so how had she never met or heard of you? From the looks of it and your absence of an online presence, you couldn’t be a sorority girl or anything.

She would’ve ghosted you if so.

Ellie chewed her top lip, glancing up at Dina to find the girl grossly entranced with doodling a diagram on her Ipad. Ellie cleared her throat, leaning forward, “You’ve met her?”

Dina nodded without looking up, “Who? Oh–maybe a couple of times. She’s nice.”

“Is it a baby shower or something?” Ellie asked, eyebrows knitting together.

“Ellie, I don’t know. Like I said, I’ve only met her twice and Riley didn’t give much detail. She just said it’d be small.” Dina mumbled, tilting her head with a bored expression.

Ellie sat back with a short nod, clicking back to your page before finally typing a message.

hey, this is ellie. i heard you need some pictures taken.

Too short, dry, and awkward. She clenched her teeth, backspacing through the entire thing before retyping.

hi, this is ellie. i heard from riley. when do u need the pictures by?

Better, she figured.

She waited and waited, staring at her phone until Dina kicked her beneath the table. She ignored her, sitting up when a text from you loaded in.

hi! thanks for getting back to me, i really appreciate it. i just need a few pictures. if you’re still comfortable, i’d like to do it this week but next week is fine if that works better for you!

How polite.

i can make time this week. what’s ur address?

You were waiting by the phone too; her guess. You texted back in seconds.

thank you so much! i’ll send you a link to the building. i’m in apartment #28. do you prefer cash or card? and what’s your availability?

Ellie clicked the link. You lived about five minutes from campus, which was barely a drive. She could skate over instead of wasting gas if she wanted but there was also the chance of tripping on cracked cement and breaking her camera, or worse– someone witnessing her fall off her board, but it was an undeniably better gig than the day before, when Jesse paid her thirty bucks to bake a box cake and she nearly burnt down the dorm’s communal kitchen.

i’m okay with either. we can talk payment after i get there.

She rubbed her nose, biting her cheek as her thumb hovered over the keyboard before she gave in.

i’m free right now if u are. or we can work out a different time. just send me ur schedule.

Your typing bubbled in and out, before you finally replied.

I’m free! just shoot me a text or knock when you get here or if u get lost. im on the second floor.

Ellie hurriedly packed her bag, laptop thudding against the table in the quiet building. Dina glanced over, squinting at her.

“What are you doing?” Dina mouthed, setting her pen down.

Ellie shrugged, pushing her chair back in, “Something came up but I’ll be home tonight. Are you good to walk back or should I text Jesse?”

“Don’t text him. I want to enjoy my peace and quiet without you two.” Dina waved her off with a lighthearted sigh, “I’ll be fine. I’m almost finished.”

Ellie exhaled, ruffling the top of Dina’s head, “Alright. Call me if anything changes. Have fun with your nursing stuff.” She snickered.

Dina shoved her away playfully, groaning, “Just go.”

────୨ৎ────

Ellie stood outside your apartment door. She wiped the sweat beading on the back of her neck, staring down the burgundy paint before knocking.

What kind of prissy bitch had the money to afford to pay someone for Instagram pictures while simultaneously going to school and living off-campus?

It left a bitter taste in her mouth– you left a bitter taste in her mouth.

The door opened, and Ellie’s shoulders loosened at the sight; your hair was straightened unlike the photo Riley had uploaded, you wore pink gloss to match your nails, and your eyes were larger in person.

Pretty. You were so fucking pretty.

You stepped aside to let her in, fidgeting with the belt of your robe and wearing a cautious smile as the two of you exchanged hellos.

Ellie set her skateboard against the wall, and you took the time to look at her then.

Her auburn hair stopped at her neck, half tied up with an undercut and her chipped nails were painted black. She wore an aged, light blue flannel over a white wife-beater, and black cargo pants that sat on her hips with just a sliver from the band of her grey boxers and a happy trail peeking through. A heavy carabiner loaded with keys, keychains, a couple of worn hair ties, a pocket knife, and some lettered beads you couldn’t quite make out, pulled down from the left of her belt loops that jingled as she straightened up.

Her green eyes gloomed in the dimness, freckles scattered across her skin like she was kissed by the stars. A faint scar rose from the corner of her chapped, pouty lips.

She was devastatingly attractive in a ‘lover i dreamt of once and couldn’t replicate’ kind of way.

It made you feel all the more graceless about the situation.

You took a step back as she turned around, offering a smile, which she returned with one that didn’t meet her eyes.

Ellie glanced around the living room of your apartment, thumbing at the strap of her backpack.

Your place was quaint with inconsistent decorations; a fake plant here and there in corners of the room, a scratched coffee table with a stack of mail, a grey couch with a few throw blankets folded on the armrest, and a TV across the room. The curtains were drawn shut, only a lamp and the kitchen light to brighten and the walls were bare; just a dead clock above the balcony doors. Your kitchen was clean, from what she could see, aside from a pot sitting on the stove.

You pulled the curtains back, apologizing sheepishly, “Sorry. I forget how dark it is in here sometimes.”

“I have blackout curtains so I get it,” Ellie shared, setting her backpack down on the couch and taking out her tripod and camera, “How do you wanna do this? The balcony or we could go outside? It’s still light out.”

A nervous laugh bubbled from your throat.

What kind of content did she assume you made?

You flushed, shaking your head, “Oh– god, no. I’m not like that. I thought my room would be good. I also have lights if you want to use them.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow, scanning you, “Are you shy?”

What was your deal?

Maybe Ellie was in a bad mood today, as she often was, but she couldn’t figure you out. You seemed nice, spoke softly, and smelled so sweet; you’d clouded her with a bubble of rose as soon as the door swung open.

She couldn’t be upset with you despite her premature animosity. And the fact you were paying.

Regardless, she just wanted to get this over with so she could go back, edit your pictures in her bed while she shared a joint with Dina, get paid, and then ignore you as if you didn’t exist because until now, you didn’t.

“Not really, no.” You mumbled, “Would you like a water?”

She scanned your being then looked off to the side, “No, thanks.”

“Right, sure. I’ll show you the way.” You hushed, walking away.

Ellie glanced down at the back of your ankles to see a pair of embroidered winking cartoon cats. Cute.

She snorted, following you.

The bedroom was noticeably more lived in; posters and tapestries lined up the white walls except for the one your bed was against, fairy lights adorned the trim of the ceilings, and your dresser with heart-shaped knobs had trinkets and makeup littered atop. A desk sat pushed in the corner with a glass-stained lamp glowing and a heavily stickered laptop with a webcam. A few ring lights were resting against a wall. Your closet was partially shut, a sweater sleeve hanging out the gap and a pink duvet swallowed your bed. A fluffy, white rug lay in the center of your bedroom, and Ellie considered how you’d managed to keep it spotless.

It all looked new. Did your parents help you? She assumed they’d picked out this apartment, and then furnished it too.

You were annoying, but she couldn’t deny how well your place suited you.

“I never asked how many you need. Will this take long?” She blurted out.

You wavered at her tone. It wasn’t like she owed you anything, and she had come out all this way just for you.

“No, not at all. Honestly, if we can get just one decent shot, I’ll be grateful.” You confessed, biting your tongue.

She set her tripod down, turning her back from you to mess with the ring lights and their placement. She wasn’t very experienced using them, but lighting wasn’t an unfamiliar concept–she hoped.

“Thanks again for helping me. I know it’s probably weird, but it would’ve been hard to find another girl, I think. I tried to do it myself but they looked– horrible.” You explained, sitting down on the edge of your bed.

Weird?

Ellie’s eyebrows knit together, glancing over her shoulder at your words.

Her eyes faltered over your presence as you shrugged off your robe. You weren’t wearing an overpriced dress underneath that you were hoping to avoid staining.

No– in fact, you weren’t wearing much at all.

You peeked at her through your lashes with uncertainty; hands smoothing the thin straps of your sheer babydoll dress and a lighter lingerie set peeked under the mesh. A pair of ruffled, bow adorned garters hugged your thighs, bare skin glowing through.

She snapped her head back, fighting the pink rushing to her ears. Pink like you, she senselessly thought.

She should’ve just asked Riley or you what this was about, instead of aimlessly berating Dina for answers earlier, but it hadn’t crossed her mind. She grimaced at her previous behavior. It wasn’t your fault that her friends played Telephone with your request.

Did she make you out to be an inconvenience when you were half-naked in front of a stranger the entire time?

Ellie cleared her throat as she swallowed a shaky breath, “Yeah, no problem.” She exhaled, licking her lips nervously. She turned with a tight-lipped smile, praying the hue of your room would drown out her skin.

Please, please, please.

But you didn’t say anything. You avoided eye contact, shifting on your duvet and fixing your hair, “Is there a way I should pose or–”

She shook her head sharply, skimming over your figure again. Her hands shook around the camera, looking through and adjusting the settings, “No. Just do whatever you like. Whatever feels natural.”

Sure, you could do that. You laughed your head off with Abby that time she helped you, and it was nothing. But Ellie wasn’t your friend or anything like her.

This didn’t feel familiar.

Ellie glanced between you and the light as she flicked through the buttons, “Tell me if it’s too much on your eyes or if you don’t like something.” She murmured.

You hummed, rubbing your arm in a soothing manner as you watched her, fixing your posture when she clicked the camera into place.

Ellie observed the photo for a second, peering up at you, “Ready?”

It was silent at first, aside from the occasional shutter of the camera. Your movements resolved into something less hollow, and Ellie softened the tension with small talk. You kept your breath even and your gaze fixed on the veins sprawling the back of her hands.

“How long have you been friends with Riley?” She rasped behind the camera as you sat on your knees, looking over your shoulder.

“About a couple of years. We were paired on the same tour our senior year– found out we both enrolled there halfway through the first semester.” You divulged, laying on your stomach and kicking your feet up, “How about you?”

“We grew up in the same neighborhood.” She emitted.

You nodded slowly, then rolled over, laying on your back and propping your knee before resting your arm beside your head. She wasn’t much of a talker, but you appreciated her fill of the silence.

Ellie walked closer, thighs brushing the edge of the bed from where she stood over you.

To her, you looked beautiful.

Ellie loved women like you. She worshiped their otherness; reveling in the act of placing her hand on a girl’s back through a large crowd, watching them get dolled up, and being the pair of arms they ran to. All of her ex-girlfriends had been complete opposites.

The sweeter they were, the deeper her admiration, and in turn– the worse the breakup.

In terms of physicality, you surpassed her type; a great inconvenience, considering how jaded she felt toward you.

You pursed your lips from the dip in your stomach, meeting her gaze briefly before staring into the lens.

She regarded your doubt, whispering, “You can look at me, it’s okay.”

Up close, Ellie smelled of faint smoke and light cologne; a fleeting thought passed of how close you’d have to be, to smell her skin. Her voice lured like a moth to light; firm yet reserved. It was low with a hint of scratchiness and your mind racked for the last time anyone spoke to you with such patience.

You returned to her as she held the camera.

Another shutter.

Ellie eyed a strand of hair between your eyes, reaching out with a soft murmur, “Do you mind if I–”

You shook your head; pulse pounding within your neck, “No.”

Ellie’s fingers brushed the tip of your nose, tucking the strand behind your ear. You felt the roughness when you blinked, pushing down a sigh.

When was the last time you’d allowed warmth to greet yours?

“Do you go full-time?” She inquired.

Your ankle twitched as her voice brought you back, just barely, and you were grateful it was out of view, “Not this semester. I’m trying to focus on other things.”

Ellie’s hand gripped your ankle absentmindedly, shifting it so your foot didn’t hang off the bed before fixing your sock. She noticed.

“Smart.” She quipped, “I should to do that, but I don’t have the patience.” Or money, she thought, the corner of her mouth twitching.

You smiled up at her, “It’s definitely frustrating, but at least I have work to pass the time.”

Ellie hummed in agreement. You worked. That was a far better reality than what she’d conjured in her head earlier for the sake of justifying her presumptions.

A qualm of guilt heavied her throat; one she swallowed down.

Ellie’s palm wavered by your legs, and you instinctively leaned in. She clasped your knees, carefully pinning them to the side, thumb brushing the back of your knee before leaving you cold, lowering to smooth the duvet beneath you. Her tongue poked between her lips.

You stared.

────୨ৎ────

The glowing stars stickered to your ceiling were beginning to peel from their points.

You twiddled your thumbs over your ribs and traced the edges with your eyes, laying flat on your bedroom floor with the occasional sigh. Your damp hair soaked into the rug beneath you; skin rising to pebbles from the box fan fixed at your lower half, and still tender from the boiling shower. Your breath synchronized with the spinning blades, hands unfolding to brush your thighs, mimicking her touch.

It was nowhere near the same.

You wanted her.

The day had unfolded in providence. You’d furiously erased every photo on your laptop that afternoon and swore that you’d delete your accounts by the next morning.

By divine timing, you received Ellie’s text an hour later.

An underlying perturbation radiated off of you the moment you found Ellie at your doorstep.

It’s not as though you were ashamed– your work paid the bills and kept your stomach full, but Ellie had felt so indifferent and intimidating upon first impression, that you immediately contemplated sending her home with full payment and a long-winded apology for the abnormalities ailing your life and thus, inconveniencing hers.

You fell into a routine then, though you slipped elsewhere, because you couldn’t recall much of what was said between you two in the window of an hour–only how it felt.

You learned Ellie had a cat back home named Daniela, and gray was her favorite color. It reminded her of rainy skies reflecting off the lake in Jackson.

Before putting the camera away, she’d draped the robe around your shoulders and gathered your hair to sit against your collarbones.

You met her in the living room, once you came to, and helped her grab her belongings, tucking two hundred dollar bills in her hand when she was halfway out the door.

“I don’t mean to be annoying, but thank you again. Is it okay if I reach out to you next time?” You expressed, holding her backpack.

You’re not.” Ellie hummed but didn’t meet your eyes as she took her bag, “And you can. I’ll give you my number when I get home to send you the pictures.”

Ellie thanked you before reminding you to lock the door.

You locked it twice, repeating her words in your head.

────୨ৎ────

Upon her return to the dorms, Ellie stepped into the shared area, exhaling at the first sight of Riley curled up on the couch with her legs tossed over Dina’s lap.

“You’re a fucking dick.” She chastised, pointing at her friend while kicking off her tattered Converse into the shoe bin.

Riley blinked in disbelief, squinting at Ellie, “What the hell did I do?”

“I met your friend today,” Ellie blurted, “I took her pictures–why didn’t you tell me?” She snapped, taking a step closer to the couch.

Dina fisted a handful of popcorn, increasing the volume of the TV. It wasn’t be the first or last time Ellie walked into a room, pissed off.

Riley sat up, furrowing her eyebrows with a clenched jaw, “Why does it matter? I mean, of all people–”

Ellie cut her off, insisting, “Because I felt stupid! A warning would’ve been nice, you know?”

“A warning?” Riley repeated, quirking an eyebrow, “You wanted a warning for her?” She deadpanned.

“Whatever–” She gritted, stomping to her bedroom door, “Give me a heads up next time. I almost made an ass out of myself. ”

The door slammed shut beneath her foot, enclosing her in the darkness of her cramped bedroom.

Ellie tossed her skateboard down, watching it roll to the wall with a light thud. She ran her palms down her face, puffing air from her cheeks before falling over on the bed.

She’d only met you today. You were likely straight. These pictures were probably meant for your boyfriend–where were her thoughts heading?

Her arm extended to smack the bedside lamp, filling the space of her nightstand. She closed her eyes in exhaustion, groaning at flooding visions of you; how pliant and perfect you’d been when she moved you into another pose, how your dimples deepened at her poor jokes.

Your frame stamped her inner eyelids with vexation, a multitude of strained curses misfiring as she hooked a finger in the collar of her flannel, tugging it from her neck.

Her shirt smelled like you.

“Fuck.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ hi, chapter one as promised! this is more so introductory. im in the process of editing chapter two but there's a lot of incoming smut for sure. shoutout to my mutuals who passionately indulged this concept. i did it all for you <3

please reblog or comment if you’re interested in being added to the series’ taglist!

thank you!

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[no-144444]

miami blues- o.piastri

꩜summary: for some reason he took lando's advice, it doesn't go horribly... kinda

꩜pairing: oscar piastri x ex! single mom! fem! reader

[08.43, 8th of May, Miami] 

“Hey umm,” he sighed, feeling every bit as awkward as he was being. “I was wondering if you’re in Miami yet?”

“Yeah. We just got here. Settling into the hotel. How are you?” you asked, your voice calm but he could tell something was off.

“All good. Okay umm,” he swiped a hand down his face as he tried to muster up the courage to ask yet another impossible question. “Is there any way I could see you guys tonight? If you’re free? And how are you?” he hit himself in the head, embarrassment running through his veins.

The other side of the line was quiet for a moment. “Yeah sure. I’ll drop Mia by your room if you’d like?” you offered.

He paused for a moment. Where would you be? “Yeah of course, that’d be perfect, thank you,” he nodded. “You’re welcome to come too, obviously,” he added, hoping he wasn’t being so blatant about his want for you to be there. 

Again, you paused. “That’s alright. I think you two know each other well enough and I trust you with her, it could be your first time on your own,” the smile you plastered on your face was fake, and so was that cheery tone of your voice. “It’d be nice to have a night off as well, if you don’t mind.” 

“Of course!” he rushed out, wanting to let you have a good night. “No, that’s perfect, thank you.” 

“Great,” you huffed out. “I’ll drop her over at like… 7ish and pick her up at 10?”

He smiled despite the weirdness between the two of you. He had Mia for the night, something to look forward to. “That’s perfect, thanks Y/n.”

You hung up without another word. 

Oscar was nervous to have Mia on his own. She was a brilliant kid and he loved her more than anything in the world, but it was strange, usually he could look at you if he didn’t know what to do. Those parenting books he’d been devouring weren’t doing much either, but they had some good tips and games, so he wasn’t livid. The knock on the door sent the butterflies in his stomach flying all over the place and he literally had to take a deep breath before opening the door. It reminded him of the first time you two went out. You were going to the cinema. You had agreed to go out with him by some grace of God, and he knew he wasn’t messing it up. He had been so nervous, but you just seemed calm, like this was normal. Like it wasn’t the single greatest moment of his life. 

“Hey,” he smiled, immediately taking Mia out of your arms. “Hey baby,” he smiled at her as she hugged him tight, clinging onto his shirt. “How are you?” 

“Good,” she nodded, hiding in his neck. “Excited.”

“Me too,” he chuckled, taking her bag off of you as you watched the two of them with fond eyes. 

“Hey,” you smiled, watching as your daughter clung to him. It pulled on your heartstrings sometimes. You’d always known Oscar wanted to be a dad, and you felt almost… guilty for keeping Mia from him for so many years. Obviously, it wasn’t exactly your choice, considering he was the one who ended it and blocked you, but still, it didn't feel right that he didn’t get to see her when she was so small. “Can I come in?” 

“Of course,” he nodded, making room for you to walk in. His hotel room was the size of an apartment, and you stared. You almost forgot he was an F1 driver sometimes, especially when he was holding Mia like that and looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered in the world. “How are you?” he asked as he placed Mia down on the couch, starting to unpack the dinner he’d ordered. Of course he already knew her favourite foods, of course. 

“I’m good,” you nodded, arms crossed as you looked around. “Tired, but good,” 

“How was the flight?” he asked. “Sorry I couldn’t fly with you two.” 

“Not a problem,” you smiled. “And thank you for the upgrades, you really didn’t have to do that.” 

“It’s the least I can do,” he shrugged.

A flat smile made its way onto your face. “We both know that’s not true.” 

He looked up, trying to decode whatever that meant, but you were already preoccupied with looking at the view. The Miami seafront. You could see the track from up there. It was beautiful. The low lights of the hotel room gave the entire space a nice glow, you liked it. “So what are you going to do with your night off?” he asked, serving Mia up her dinner. 

You debated on telling him, then decided against it. “Just relaxing. Maybe watch a movie.” 

“Nice,” he nodded. “Well, I’m good here if you’re good to go. Don’t want you to miss your movie,’ he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. You could see that he wanted you to stay. It tore a hole in your heart. 

“Yeah, see you later,” you smiled flatly before heading over to Mia and giving her a kiss, then out the door. He felt that hole in his own chest ache. God, why was this so fucking confusing?

“Dad,” Mia was grinning, he could hear it. It pulled at his heart in the best way when she called him dad, and maybe all this heartache was worth it for her.

Mark was usually right about things. Going to McLaren. Putting a number two driver clause in. Doing physics for his A levels. 

“They’re no good for you.” 

That was complete and utter bollocks. Oscar’s jaw tensed. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Maybe he’d been bragging about Mia and how he got to have her for the night, and yes, he knew it was getting repetitive for his dad and Mark, but holy shit. Who says that? That’s fucked. His dad stared between the two of them, watching it play out as the air filled with tension.

Mark scoffed. “I mean, you broke up with her for a fucking reason Osc, get your head out of family life and back into the car mate” 

“I happen to enjoy putting my head into my family life, mate,” he spat. “And it’s not like it’s having any effect on the track, and if it has, it’s been good.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “You’re 24 and have a 4 year old. Your ex-girlfriend didn’t tell you about her. Maybe you’re not meant to be in her life,” he shrugged. 

“Well, I am in her life, and that’s what’s happening. If you don’t like that, you can keep it to yourself mate,” he scoffed. “And I broke up with her because you told me to. You said I needed to put my head down and work. Well I have worked. I’ve worked so fucking hard and maybe Mia and Y/n are the nice part of my life that really aren’t worth sacrificing right now, considering everyone here has gone insane,” he gestured to the table, his blood boiling. 

“Osc, I think what Mark is trying to say is that you have a real chance this year. We just don’t want you to throw it away for her. And we are also aware of the timing and how… opportune it is,” Chris added, and Oscar saw red. 

“Dad, you out of everyone should be able to see the fact that Y/n is anything but completely honest. She told me everything, she told me I didn’t have to help with Mia in any way, this was my choice. This was what I wanted. Have you guys gone insane?” he questioned, really feeling like he was the only sane human in the room. “She hasn’t asked for child support, she didn’t ask me to move to London, she didn’t ask me to take Mia. I love Mia, and yeah, I still love Y/n. Is that complicated? Sure. Is it ideal? Not really. But it’s the truth. I care about them, and they’re part of my life whether you like that or not.” 

Mark and Chris watched as he walked away, more fired up than they’d even seen him. 

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[sketchfanda]

"you just hate them because they're differet"

no we hate them because many of them are admitted sociopaths who like to play being wolves in sheep's clothing and go out their way to enslave and hunt humans down to make them into their personal bloodbanks and are often classist and elitist.

this has often become the same problem with mutants in the marvel universe, many of them have acted out in ways that have only made the likes of the friend of humanity feel their prejudice and bigotry, irrational as it can be, actually feel justified. how can you trust a telepath when at times they'll read your thoughts and mess with your head like an open book they're scribbling all over?

the reason "robot racism" is often a really stupid metaphor is the same reason that like. discrimination against demons or vampires or whatever doesn't work, is because there's often a pretty justified reasons humans are scared of vampires or robots or whatever, in a way that doesn't apply to real life minorities, like a fantasy author will be like "the reason vampires are discriminated against is because most of them and kill and eat people for fun and pleasure, and so humans respond by trying to kill them, isn't that so sad" and like no that's a perfectly fine reason to not trust vampires i think.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🧃 How to Develop a Vibe AND a Plot (aesthetic doesn’t cancel arcs. let’s balance them.)

hey you. yes, you. the one with the moody playlists, the 73-tab Pinterest board, and a half-written draft that just keeps…vibing in circles.

if you’ve ever written 10k of immaculate vibes but couldn’t tell anyone what your story is about, this post is for you. because here’s the thing: ✨ aesthetic is not a substitute for stakes. ✨

let’s talk about how to keep your ✨vibes✨ and actually have a plot that moves. no ✧ fluff ✧ just structure, character arcs, and some lovingly blunt advice from your local writeblr gremlin (me).

🌊 1. aesthetic is a result, not a premise

the most common mistake i see is starting with a vibe as the story. like:

“sad girls on the beach in 1996”

“a cursed forest full of dead gods”

“a pastel academic rivalry with secrets and sexual tension”

cool. great. love that for you. but… what’s the story? what’s happening?

✨vibes = setting + mood + tone. ✨plot = choices + consequences + change.

your aesthetic can inspire the story (please keep making playlists. i love them). but don’t confuse the feel of your world with the function of your plot. start with tension. stakes. character flaws. emotional damage. that’s the engine. the aesthetic is the paint job.

🎯 2. define your “emotional throughline”

okay, so you’ve got an aesthetic. what’s the emotional core of it? your plot should orbit a single emotional question, like:

will this character ever let themselves be known?

what does it take to unlearn loyalty?

is love worth destroying something sacred?

start with that. then attach aesthetic scenes to it.

🧩 pro tip: aesthetic scenes are more powerful when they contradict or complicate your emotional throughline.

ex: your story’s about loneliness? show them at the loudest, busiest party. story’s about grief? show them smiling in photos while everything breaks behind the lens.

aesthetic is stronger with irony. contrast. juxtapositions. don’t just bathe the reader in vibes. weaponize them.

💥 3. let your aesthetic hurt your characters

whatever your aesthetic is--soft academia, vaporwave horror, regency witchcore, don’t make it just a backdrop. make it an obstacle.

your setting should create problems. friction. conflict.

if it’s a sleepy coastal town: what’s festering beneath the quiet?

if it’s a hauntingly beautiful forest: what does it take from people?

if it’s a cursed mansion: what happens to the girls who stay too long?

every time you design a pretty place or moody visual, ask: ❓ how does this setting test my characters’ beliefs or desires?

because then your aesthetic drives the story forward instead of just decorating it.

📚 4. develop plot like a playlist: structure the escalation

your aesthetic playlist has structure, right? (don’t lie. i know you’ve got a specific song for act 3 heartbreak.)

plot works the same way. it’s not a mystery. it’s escalation.

you want a structure? here’s a dead-simple one:

give your main character a desire (internal & external)

give them a reason they can’t have it (flaw, fear, lie)

make them try anyway (rising stakes)

make it cost them something (midpoint shift)

force them to change or break (climax)

let that change play out (falling action / resolution)

that’s it. apply that structure to your vibey little story and suddenly it’s a book.

👁‍🗨 5. plot is what they do - vibe is how it feels

don’t choose one. you can have both.

you can have a soft lighting scene on a rooftop and the secret betrayal reveal. you can have dreamy prose and broken character dynamics. you can give me worldbuilding so lush it smells like petrichor and rot and still give me a plot twist that leaves me feral.

you just need to be intentional.

every scene = a purpose. every aesthetic = an angle. every image = tied to stakes, desire, or change.

✨ that’s the difference between “ooh pretty” and “oh my god i can’t stop thinking about this story.” ✨

💌 so in conclusion:

start with an emotional arc

let your aesthetic scenes earn their place

make your world fight your characters

escalate, escalate, escalate

and stop hiding a lack of plot under “vibe” like a glittery throw blanket over a broken chair

you’ve got this. now go write the beautifully messy, aesthetic and emotionally devastating story you were meant to.

i believe in you.

🧃rin t.

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

[bullet-prooflove]

Ugly: Jack Abbot x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @flyinglama @yousigned-upforthis @gabsgabsvaz @fadeinsol

Summary: Jack sees your scar for the first time.

Companion piece to:

Tummy Tingles - Jack feels his first flush of desire since Maria's death.

Go Your Own Way - Jack struggles with his feelings for you.

The Asshole King - Jack discovers you have an unusual technique for dealing with patients.

Bob Dylan - You help Jack to relax after an incident at the hospital leaves him temporarily blind.

Because Of You - Jack realises he's starting to heal in more ways than one after you spend the day taking care of him.

Balance - Jack reveals his feelings for you but they come with complications.

Prequel to:

Three Days (NSFW) - Jack spends three days making you his.

Messy - John doesn't mind getting a little messy when it's with you.

Off Limits - An awkward start to the day leads Jack to make a claim on your affections.

The Go Bag - Your relationship with Jack takes a turn when you discover another go bag in his car.

Nadine - Jack's sister in law is a real piece of work.

Hawaii - Jack discovers who he really is when you book a trip to Hawaii.

Silk (NSFW) - Jack loves the sight of you in silk.

Sucker - Jack pulls out all the stops in order to win an important race.

Boston - You reflect on the past after your ex-husband makes an appearance on a trying day.

This God Damn Fucking Day - Jack steps into the fray with things get messy between you and you ex-husband.

Misdemeanour - Jack's forced to step in when you get arrested because of your ex-husband.

Fishtail - Jack helps you decompress in the aftermath of your ex-husband.

Love Language (NSFW) - Jack has his own unique love language.

What Puts You On That Ledge - Jack finds away to pull you off that ledge.

Champagne Gold (NSFW) - Jack never thought he'd marry again.

Masochist - You and Jack have an indepth understanding of one another.

Seven Shades of Fucked Up (NSFW) - You know exactly how to get Jack off.

Part of the Job - Violence has always been part of the job, but this time it hits a little too close to home for Jack.

Pittfest - Jack's day turns into a nightmare when he recieves a notification from the hospital regarding a mass casuality event.

Snapband - Jack's worst fear comes true during a mass casuality event.

Blood (NSFW) - Jack takes care of you in the aftermath of Pittfest in his own special way.

Life Raft - Jack reaches out when he sees that you're struggling.

Bread - Jack finds his own way to cope with almost losing you at Pittfest.

Overcompensating - A problem with Jack's prosthetic leads him to overcompensate during his shift.

Good Boy (NSFW) - You use alternative methods to get Jack to agree to take care of himself.

A Goddamn Miracle Worker - You always know the perfect way to take care of Jack.

Mood - Jack reacts badly when you surprise him with a trip to Germany.

A Force of Nature - Jack makes a suggestion regarding Germany.

Germany - Jack’s put through his paces when it comes to his new prosthetic.

You have a scar, one that Jack has never seen before. It’s a ragged mess of tissue that runs from the space just above your knee to halfway up the inside of your left thigh. His gaze fixates on it as you straddle his hips, his thumb tracing over the damaged flesh underneath the pair of borrowed boxers you’re wearing.

“It’s ugly, I know.” You sigh, misinterpreting the intensity of his gaze.

“Am I the first person to see it?” He asks. His voice is rough, deeper, more gravelly. His thumb climbs higher, chasing the edges of the indented skin until he finds himself caressing another area, one that’s already wet for him.

“Yes.” You whisper as your head tips back, your hair tumbling over your shoulders. Jack shifts into a sitting position, his arm encircling your waist, keeping the two of you locked together.

“I don’t understand how you don’t realise how beautiful you are.” He murmurs, his nose ghosting along the column of your throat, his lips leaving a heated trail. His palm settles over scar the once again, guiding your thighs open even further. His cock sits between the two of you, the shaft rubbing lightly against your core. “You think that scar is ugly, but it’s not, it’s a part of your story, the one that led you here to me.” His warm breath ghosts in your ear as his hips begin to rock, the damp fabric of those borrowed boxers rubbing just right on his dick. “When you are ready to tell me about it I’m here but until then I’m going to spend the next couple of hours exploring every inch of your body. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No.” You whisper as he guides you back onto the make shift bed until you’re spread out like the prettiest goddamn gift, ready for him to unwrap. “I don’t have a problem with that at all.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[breelandwalker]

So, a week or so ago, I found a random journal from my teenage years while I was cleaning out a last-minute doombox I hadn't touched since moving out of my mother's house over a decade ago. You know the type - that one box you just throw things into at the last minute because you're out of time to pack and you care about the items just enough to not throw them away but not enough to sort them.

The journal was from the tail end of my Harriet The Spy phase, when I coped with my problems through constant scribbling. I went through probably a dozen different composition books, most of which don't exist anymore. This particular one was only a partial and wasn't dated, but judging by the material, it was probably written when I was about 14-15. This years were...not great.

And right there on the page was a list of things I dreamed of doing once I "make it out" (e.g. grew up, got money, moved away, had autonomy, etc), among them:

Move into my own place

Have a real garden

Keep in touch with Forever Bestie

Have lots of cats

Become a published writer

Marry somebody who thinks I'm cool

Rather appropriately, this was also mixed in with some scribbling about tromping around in the woods with Forever Bestie and making potions with random bits of moss and flowers.

I had to sit down and my husband had to ask why I was crying.

Look at us, Wild Child. We made it out. And we did it all and then some.

[gottalovesae]

Operation: Cupid ✩ Oscar Piastri

Characters: Oscar Piastri x fem! reader, Lando Norris x fem! reader (platonic)

Summary: Lando playing matchmaker and trying to get his two best friends together in the most desperate and dramatic ways that only he could pull off. Oscar just being done with his friends antics and reader who just plays along.

1,750words

Warnings: brief indications showing reader is in the medical field.

Yours Truly: so tell me why I didn't notice until today that I accidentally posted this story unfinished. I woke up to notifications confused. So instead of deleting I'll finish it after my work shift. So full story will be completed by 5pm. Thank you to those who've already liked 🤍

Lando Norris has two goals in life at the moment: win the drivers championship and to get his two best together. Ever since Lando introduced them he could see that they were just perfect for each other.

Oscar Piastri, his teammate, was a brilliant driver, no doubt. Fast and focused, but also painfully oblivious. And Y/N, his best friend since diapers, intelligent, down to earth, and wit sharper than the Monaco hairpin.

And they were both, individually, one of Lando's closest friends. The problem? They were perfect for each other. An undeniable chemistry brewing between them whenever they were in the same room, a series of shared glances, jokes, and banter that Lando quickly noticed.

They always admired each other from afar, never too close, afraid to pass an imaginary line. The pieces were right there. They just needed a little.nudge. A nudge that came in the form of Lando Norris. He calls it Operation: Cupid.

Lando has tried everything, and I truly mean everything.

First, Lando "accidentally" double booked the same fancy restaurant for dinner with both Oscar and Y/N on the dam night. He acted surprised when they both showed up and suggested that they all just have dinner instead. He bribed the waiter to give them the romantic corner table with candles and the best view. He pictured romantic glances, whispered conversations, maybe even a shared plate of pasta. In reality, dinner was spent locked in a heated debate about the best types of pizza dough. Both parties failed to notice the work Lando put into the evening. Strike one.

Then Lando tried "forced proximity." On a road trip, he "arranged" for Oscar and Y/N to ride in the same rental car. He expected shared bags of snacks, giggling over inside jokes, and singing along to karaoke, but yet again his hopes were just way too high. Oscar, the ever responsible one, meticulously mapped out a safe route, and Y/N spent the travel catching up on sleep with her her head conveniently (and infuriating so) rested on the window, and not Oscar's shoulder. Lando wanted to pull his hair out. Strike two.

The next attempt Lando came up with was a "team bonding" exercise. He convinced half the paddock (who were unwillingly dragged into this) plus her to go out for a weekend of... paintball. Yes, that's right people paintball. Again, Lando was expecting cutesy couple-ly stuff like them working together taking people down, having each others backs, and celebrating together when they won. Yet again he was wrong. Instead, Y/N with terrifying accuracy, had accidentally shot Oscar in the… well, let's just say it was a sensitive area. Oscar, in retaliation, had unleashed a wave of paintballs upon Y/N with the intensity of a warrior. Honestly Lando should've seen it coming knowing how competitive they both get. By the end of the weekend, both were covered in bruises and barely speaking to each other. This was strike three.

Lando was really desperate now. He truly did try everything. This next idea in his head would have to be the best performance of life. He swears this will work in the name of love.

Lando calls this plan "The Sidewalk Serenade."

The midday sun beat down on the Monaco sidewalk with relentless intensity. Lando Norris, professional racing driver and amateur Cupid, lay dramatically on the pavement limbs sprawled out, feigning unconsciousness with a dedication usually reserved for battling Max Verstappen for the lead on the final laps of a race.

"Ugh...the.the heat..t.o.o..much." he groaned, theatrically flailing his arms. He'd practiced this fall in his head for three days, meticulously calculating the right angle without actually cracking his skull.

A part of him, the small, rational part that hadn't been completely taken over by his determination that Oscar and Y/N were destined for each other, screamed that this was utterly ridiculous. He, Lando Norris, Formula 1 superstar, was pretending to faint on a public sidewalk. But the larger, more persistent part of him, the part fueled by the power of friendship, and a alarming amount of caffeine was completely unashamed. This was "Operation: Cupid," and damn it, he was going so see this through.

Across the street, Oscar Piastri stood frozen in a mixture of disbelief and extremel embarrassment. He'd been on his way to grab a quick lunch when he'd spotted Lando's..performance. His jaw hung, baffled.

"Lando?" he called out, his voice laced with exasperation and genuine concern. "What in the actual hell are you doing?"

Lando, maintaining his commitment to the charade, continued to groan. "Help...me... see...lights.."

Oscar sighed, running a hand through his hair. He considered turning around and pretending he hadn't seen anything. He really did. But the thought of Lando genuinely collapsing from heatstroke, however unwillingly, forced him forward and right into his friends trap.

As Oscar approached, he noticed a figure hurrying towards them from the opposite direction. It was Y/N. And the other half of Lando's audacious matchmaking scheme.

Y/N's brows were furrowed with concern. "What's going on here? Lando! Are you alright?" she asked, kneeling beside him and immediately checking his pulse.

He..he just collapsed," Oscar stammered, slightly reeling back awkwardly suddenly very, very aware of Y/N's proximity. "I don't know what happened."

Lando, internally delighted from the success of his elaborate plan, suppressed a grin and managed a weak, "|..I think I need.. a doctor.

Y/N skillfully assessed him. "His pulse is elevated, but regular. He's breathing normally. Lando, can you hear me? Open your eyes."

Lando fluttered his eyelids open, feigning disorientation reaching for her face. "Y/N? Is that..is that you? Am..I..dead?" 'Oh god,' Oscar thinks.

Y/N rolled her eyes, but a small smile played on her lips. "You're not dead, you drama queen. But you are being incredibly troublesome. Oscar, can you help me get him to his feet? He probably just overheated."

Together, Oscar and Y/N helped Lando stand. As he leaned on them, Lando subtly moved, making sure that Oscar and Y/N were practicallv shoulder-to-shoulder. He even managed to "accidentally" bumped their hands a couple of times.

"Maybe we should get you some water," Oscar suggested, his cheeks slightly flushed.

"And maybe we should check your blood sugar," Y/N added, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Unless you've been pulling one of your famous stunts, Lando."

Lando chuckled weakly. "Stunts? Me? Never. He then launched into a completely fabricated story about skipping breakfast and pushing himself too hard at the gym (mind you he hadn't even gone to the gym that day), throwing in a few dramatic pauses for effect.

As they walked towards a nearby café, Lando, hanging heavily between his two unsuspecting targets, felt a surge of victory. Now, all he had to do was fan the flames.

Lando, now miraculously recovered from his "heatstroke," was rambling about a near-miss on the track, but his eyes kept darting between Oscar and Y/N, gauging their reactions.

Oscar, still slightly flustered by the events of the past hour, found himself aware of her. He noticed the way her brow furrowed slightly as she listened to Lando's story, the subtle curve of her lips when she smiled, and the way her eyes sparkled. He had always found her attractive, but today, something felt different.

Y/N, for the most part, was trying her best to ignore Lando's antics and focus on Oscar. She'd always admired his quiet presence and his dedication to his craft. He was clearly embarrassed by Lando's behavior, but he handled it with a grace and good humor that she found endearing. Plus, she had to admit, he looked incredibly good in the afternoon sun, his normally meticulous hair slightly ruffled from their impromptu rescue mission from having to physically lift Lando from the pavement.

As Lando's story finished, he paused dramatically, expecting a reaction from Oscar and Y/N, who were lost in their own little bubble, their eyes locked in a moment of unspoken connection.

Lando cleared his throat loudly. "So..what do you guys think? Pretty crazy, right?"

Oscar and Y/N blinked, startled back to reality.

"Uh, yeah, crazy," Oscar mumbled, his cheeks flushing again.

Y/N nodded in agreement. "Definitely..intense."

Lando grinned, sensing an opening. "Well, I'm starving. How about we grab some dinner later? My treat."

Oscar hesitated, glancing at Y/N. "Actually, I was planning on just ordering in tonight. Big day of practice tomorrow."

Y/N chimed in, "I was going to catch up on some reading, but dinner sounds nice. Unless you're too tired, Oscar?"

Oscar's face lit up like a damn Christmas tree, completely disregarding what he said before. "Not at all! Dinner sounds great. Just the three of us?"

Lando, trying to suppress a smirk, feigned disappointment. "Oh, you know, I actually have a thing. Important..racing..stuff. You two should totally go without me." He winked.

Oscar and Y/N exchanged a look, a silent understanding passing between them.

"Are you sure, Lando?" Y/N asked, her voice laced with amusement.

'Absolutely! Definitely! You guys have fun. I'll catch you later, Lando said, practically shoving them out of the café.

With no choice, they both walked away together and immediately burst out laughing once they were at least a block away.

He's unbelievable," Oscar said, shaking his head. "I can't believe he actually faked a fainting spell."

"He's a terrible actor," Y/N agreed, "but I have to admit, it was kind of...sweet."

"Sweet?" Oscar raised an eyebrow.

"Well, misguidedly sweet in his own Lando way,' Y/N corrected. "He obviously wants us to get together. He's been trying really hard."

"And do you?" Oscar asked, his voice suddenly serious.

Y/N stopped walking and turned to face him. "Do I what?"

Do you want to get together? With me?"

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then smiled. "I wouldn't mind getting to know you better, Oscar. Without Lando's....interference."

"Me neither," Oscar said, his smile mirroring hers. "How about we ditch the restaurant and just grab some pizza? My place, Netflix, no fainting allowed."

"Sounds perfect," Y/N said, her heart skipping a beat.

Lando, watching from across the street, pumped his fist in the air. Operation: Cupid was a success! He might have been a bit over the top, a bit ridiculous, and maybe a little bit manipulative, but he had brought two amazing people together. And that, he decided, was worth any amount of embarrassment.

A few months later, Oscar and Y/N were happily dating, Lando had calmed down with the constant matchmaking attempts. They were thankful for the nudges that brought them together. After all, sometimes the most unexpected connections come from the most ridiculous schemes.

As for Lando, he was already plotting his next matchmaking adventure. There were plenty more lonely hearts in the paddock, and he was determined to find them their perfect match.

After all, what were friends for?

[parfaitblogs]

i knew it, i know you ❀ s. reid x reader

in which your boyfriend comes to find you amidst radio silence, and you finally let out all your frustrations and insecurities. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst tags: ambiguous ending. certified overthinker reader. effie trinket would hate you for what you do to mahogany. argument. they yell at each other. everyone is angry n mean. :(. word count: 3k a/n: me when fine shyt starts flirting but i've already convinced myself everything he says is a genius manipulation technique that i need to outsmart before he adds me to his list of gullible weak victims. this was a vent piece from like 3 weeks ago. still relevant. love u.

You'd be a very successful magician. Vendors and patrons would move Earth just to see your disappearing act in person, to see if it's as brilliant and mind boggling as people say it is. If you were as talented as rumours say.

You'd say so.

A flickering lamp illuminates mahogany. Mahogany you hadn't cleaned in weeks. Mahogany you hadn't sat at in weeks. A thin layer of dust tells the story of how it sat untouched. Neglected. It's wondering of when you were coming home. If you were. If you'd ever swipe a rag over it again, lay down a tablecloth, set it with silverware you only have one set of. 

You would. You would. You promised you would. You placed a hand on it when you left that odd Thursday and whispered you'd return eventually. A silent deal with yourself you'd never get rid of it. Spoken aloud when you inherited it from grandparents now deceased. Then, swept up in an ill fated fairytale that kept you from coming back to it. Another table, not quite as nice, not nearly as expensive, discovered the lines of your palms amidst debate. The edge of your elbows to hold up forkfuls of food. Your thighs, pressed up against the sides. Attention given to something cheaper, and the dust sprites atop this table taunt you for it. 

You're not staring at it, though. Transfixed, instead, on how the lamp barely provides light for the rest of the apartment. Cautioning on the side of blowing any second now. You'd be thrust into darkness so fast you wouldn't know how to react. Maybe you'd stumble around a bit; try to find your phone for a light. Maybe you'd sit in the black. Let the air still, seeping into your bones until you are as good as air that does nothing. Perhaps you already are. 

You don't get the chance. 

Somebody's fist raps against your front door. You know who. It's politely quiet, but eagerly fast. Seeking you out quickly after seven damp days of radio silence, to find if you've died or not. 

You should be hastier. A soon to follow knock announces that for you. Yet, you're a soul on the ceiling, watching an uninhabited sack of skin walk towards the banging fist, turn the door handle, and let an uncomfortable flood of light into the apartment. 

He must recognise the hollowness in your eyes, because he doesn't say anything as he enters your apartment. A quip about how you didn't invite him in manifests on your tongue, but then you remember he doesn't know there's a problem between you two. 

"What a joyous apartment you have," he says, flicking the light switch to light up the rest of your neglected apartment. The last book you were reading found on the edge of your couch, face down and open, the spine creased beyond repair. A glass once full of water now sits empty — evaporated — on the kitchen counter. A duffel bag of two people's mixed clothes and travel sized shower products on the floor next to your feet. 

"What're you doing here?" you ask him, feet firmly planted in the entryway. You couldn't move even if you wanted to. 

He does, though. He freely moves around and it's as if no time has passed. He is more at home in your apartment than you have been all week. Guiltily, you feel resent well in your stomach. How dare he come in and act as though nothing has happened?

He doesn't know. He doesn't know. You repeat the mantra until he speaks again, for it is not his fault you are upset over something you made up in your head. A narrative only the worst parts of your brain can entertain. 

"Well, you disappeared for a week," he states, palms pressed against your kitchen bench as he leans against it. "I got worried."

"Why?"

What a stupid, stupid question to ask him. 

"Because you disappeared for a week," his words come out tantalisingly slowly, as if he's trying to explain to a toddler. Perhaps he is. As old as you are, you seem to feel like the five year old who resides inside you more often than not. Pathetic sentiment. 

"Forgive me for not being a constant presence in your life," you say. It isn't meant to bite, but your tone of voice comes out too sharp for it to not, and he is all too quick to catch it. 

"Sorry?" 

You freeze. Time stands as still as it has all week. The light bulb of your desired lamp blows, and you distantly hear it pop. It no longer matters; your overhead lights are on, courtesy of the man standing before you. You feel plunged into the dark anyways. 

"I didn't mean that. Sorry," you deflect, and a smile that doesn't reach your eyes is sent his way. Not that you look at him. Too afraid of what his eyes will say to yours if you lock them together, you keep your gaze on your couch. 

"Yes you did."

Well, fuck, Spencer. Guess you know everything there is to know about everything. 

You accept the defeat. "Yes I did."

"Explain, please?"

Wordlessly, you shake your head, and the inside of your cheek finds its way between teeth. "It's mean."

"Then be mean."

"No. I—I can't," you shake your head. "It doesn't really matter."

His lips press together, and you can feel the nausea in your stomach churn. "It doesn't matter?"

Your head shakes again, "Mm-mm."

"Well, great. You've got an issue with me that causes you to disappear for a week, but it's all good because it doesn't matter?"

Oh.

"I don't have an issue with you," you lie, but God forbid you do such a thing in front of a profiler. 

"You do. Clearly, or else you wouldn't be this hostile with me. What have I done?" he's gotten off the kitchen bench. He's closer to you. Or, maybe, he's just risen his voice, and he hasn't moved an inch. 

You're entirely not present enough to figure out which it is. 

"Spencer, you haven't done anything. It's all stuff inside my head," you shake your head, again, and it's done so violently you can feel the contents of your brain shake within your skull.

No you can't. No you can't. You're imagining that to worsen your own feelings. Nobody can feel that. Everything inside of it is so loud, and Spencer is no longer Spencer. Rather, a lifeless, faceless entity occupying your apartment. You don't even recognise him. 

"Then tell me what's inside your head, honey, please—"

He doesn't even sound like Spencer anymore. 

"—It's so mean. I can't."

You don't sound like you.

"Then be mean!"

"You're exhausting to be around!" 

You snap, and he falls silent. For once, he doesn't have something to respond with. You're grateful, somewhere inside of you. The same place the urge to backtrack and try to make things alright again comes from. You're usually ruled by that place. 

Today, you are not. 

"You are so exhausting to know. I am so fucking exhausted. I spend my life jumping through hoops to get you to talk to me, to notice me. I mean, you only care when I'm doing exactly what you want. Naked. You only care when it's convenient. When there is nobody else there to satisfy you, nobody you actually want, you will call for me. Right? You have to fill the hole in your heart somehow. Your stupid, incessant need to have somebody there at all times. Why can't you sit with yourself? Alone? You grew up alone, right?" 

It's such a mean thing to say. For a second, you're outside your ablaze mind, and instead watching you say all these awful things to the man you claim to love. Love. How could you possibly love anyone you speak to like this? "You've been alone before. You can't be alone some more?" he's taken steps towards you, and gentle hands on your waist have you inhabiting your body once again. You're crying. Warm, fat tears falling down your face, but he doesn't try to wipe them away. "Why am I just a piece in a—in a fucking chess game? Does that analogy make it make sense for you now, Spencer? You are playing me like chess. How fucking dare you!"

So much of your energy is exerted into pounding your fists against his chest, and he just lets you. Every word you spoke corresponding with another hit. He doesn't do anything until you exhaust yourself, and your hands fall limply by your sides again.

Then, he speaks, in a voice so calm you think you imagined your outburst. "What have you found?"

"What?"

"What have you found?" 

"Nothing," panic rises in your chest. "I—I don't understand why I had to have found something—"

"—This isn't coming from nowhere," he observes. Then, it clicks. His understanding of your brain coming to the forefront of his mind. "Unless it is. All this talk about my inability to be alone, did I leave you alone for too long? Is that where this is coming from? Are you spiralling and making up a narrative about me and then, evidently, taking out your frustrations at a made up problem on me?"

"No," your voice strains. "I mean, I did find something, but it's stupid now."

"It's stupid now," he parrots, condescendingly. "Stupid as in, you think you're going to be ridiculed for being upset about something valid, or stupid because it is not valid at all?"

"That's—you're being mean," you stammer, but even as you say them, the words sound unjust. 

He must laugh mockingly, or maybe he's belittling you with it. Unkind words being thrown, and now you're trying to make him the bad guy. What a breathtaking reveal of your expert victimisation.

"I'm being mean?" his tone is incredulous. "Me? Coming from the girl who said I'm, what, exhausting to be around? To know? I'm the mean one?" 

Yeah, okay, you deserve that.

"You're invalidating what I'm saying—"

"—I'm regurgitating your own words back at you!" he snaps. "You said it was stupid. You. Not me."

Let me speak. "Spencer—"

"—The latter, then. You're embarrassed to admit that."

Let me speak. "Spencer—"

"—Whatever it is you found, I don't care. I can't imagine you've found anything."

You stare at him, waiting. Waiting for him to continue, to berate you some more, to offend you so deeply you can find a real reason to be upset with him. Right now, there is nothing but overthinking his gestures, and blowing things out of proportion. 

"It's little things."

"Little things," he clarifies. 

"Yeah."

You hear him sigh. He's exasperated. "I'm gonna need more than that."

"Like—like..." you're stammering again, your brain folding over itself to find something you can bring up to him that doesn't sound utterly insane. You aren't insane. 

Right?

"Like when I left early the morning after sex for work?" he cuts in, and your chest tightens. Not because his words are mean — though, they are — but because they are true. "Did you think I didn't want you anymore? Or when I didn't call you back for two days because I was on a case? Those little things?"

"I guess."

"Right," he nods. "So, again, did I leave you alone for too long you spiralled into making up narratives about me?"

"They're not narratives—"

"—You've wholly convinced yourself I am a bad person!" you flinch at how loud his voice is, and for a moment, he pauses. He softens, his tensed arms relaxing, and he's sure to take a comforting step back from you. "You're so sure of this idea that I am using you for sex, and I don't want you for anything else, and only when I am bored, or lonely," still silent, he studies your face for a reaction. Whatever he finds mustn't satisfy him, because he continues. "I don't text you constantly because I don't want to be overbearing. I don't hierarch my friendships by how often I talk to someone. Rather, by what I spend my time with them doing. Being with you is so easy. I love being with you. Yes, I like having sex with you too, because I am attracted to you, and that's something we've established. If that has changed, and this is a long, winding way to tell me that, then please—"

"—It hasn't changed," you're quick to correct him.

"Okay," he nods again, firmer this time. "Then, I don't understand why you can't just talk to me. Why can't you just talk to me? Why do I have to be insulted before you communicate with me? It feels almost unfair."

It is unfair. You know that. The thought appears in your brain every single time an insult flies out of your mouth. 

Yet, you can't stop. 

"You're ridiculing me right now. Why do you think I can't communicate with you? You make me feel small. Like—like my feelings aren't valid, and I'm crazy! Am I crazy? Do you think I'm crazy, Spencer? Do you hear me say all these things I think about you and go, fuck, this girl is a psycho? You must. Or else you wouldn't be here," there's a look of recognition behind your eyes that scares him. Your lips twitching, a sardonic laugh leaving them. "You find it fascinating, don't you? Figuring out my brain. Why I do the things I do, why I feel the way I feel. I have a brain you can psychoanalyse for your sick pleasure, so of course you don't leave!"

"No. That's not why I'm here," he speaks so calmly, and you know you've touched a nerve. You feel bad, somewhere. Outside of this untouchable blackout, you're apologising to him. Over, and over, and over. 

"I'm here because I like you," when you open your mouth to mock him, he cuts you off, "did you know I think about you constantly? Everything I do I think of you. I find books I've read in stores, and think of you, and how you'd love them. I see posters for movies I have no desire to watch, but consider asking you to go see them because you mentioned liking the lead actor in passing. Every case, I am picking up the phone on the first ring in case it's you asking how it's going. I care so deeply for you, and this is confusing me a lot, hurting me a lot, because I didn't realise you weren't aware of that. But I can't reassure you every week that I do like you."

You stare at him. "Then you don't really know me. I said really early on that I'm insecure."

"I didn't think it would be this bad."

This bad. 

"It's not my fault you can't step outside yourself."

This bad.

Your chest aches, and you can feel every single familiar feeling in your body dissipate. Once again, just a sack of skin standing in the centre of your apartment, looking at a boy who has so much distaste for you in this moment, his anger is silent. 

Quietly you murmur, "Then I can't do this."

"Yeah," he breathes. "Me neither. You're exhausting too."

And then he's gone. 

Silence. 

There is so much silence when you are alone like this. His final words echoing in your brain, following your conscience down to the depths of it. Ruminating beneath years — decades — of mistreatment, insults. Every single layered brick that built the person you are today rotting in the pit of your brain, with the last thing Spencer Reid ever said to you, fresh; hot. 

He left, and you're stuck with the silence of your apartment. The door that fell shut taunting you, for it was the last thing you possess to feel the touch of his hands. Gentle hands that used to hold you as you cried like this, letting you soak his skin with tears and then taking you out to the rooftop to watch the stars. Loving hands that used to push buttons you never knew to exist until he pushed them, emitting sounds you didn't know you could make until he emitted them. Kind hands, that would hold your waist when in a crowd of people; your face as he kissed you. 

You pick yourself up off a floor you don't remember falling to, stumbling over feet too fast for your brain, trying to get away from here. Here, where he yelled at you, and you; him. Here, where he told you your brain is too bad for him to deal with. Here, where he left you. 

You find your bathroom.

Uncomfortable, fluorescent lighting blinds you as you find solace in the cold tiling; the chipping painted cabinetry. Trembling hands fish your phone out of your pocket, and you stare at the black screen on the device for so long you must go insane. Burning the barely there image of your teary face into your mind, going over every single thing he said to you tonight. Every single cruel thing you said. 

Guilt creeps up on you, twisting its way through your gut and up to your throat. Choking you, until you're gasping for air, eyes wide. 

"No," you stutter, the word leaving your lips too many times, your head spinning. Fingers burying into your hair, phone clattering to the floor. "No."

At some point, sobs calm down, and tears dissipate. You find your footing within yourself again, furniture becomes furniture again, objects are objects. Your brain is no longer closing in on itself. 

You unlock your phone and find his contact. 

It rings for minutes. Probably only seconds. So loud in the silence of your apartment, and every ring inches open the door of regret. 

The line clicks. Quiet follows.

Quiet, not silence. Though you are breathing heavily to yourself, you are not alone with your thoughts, and it is not the only sound you can hear. 

There, through the phone, you can hear him breathing too. 

[y2kstarr]

࣪˖ ִ⭑ ࣪ private study sesh with fb!nerd!matt

in which matt helps you "study" for your chemistry class . . . paired with fwb!brat!reader warnings: suggestive themes, flirting, almost smut (😋) p!link

Outside of your dorm room, the halls are bustling with noise and movement as kids rush to their afternoon classes. It penetrates the thin walls and seeps through the floorboards, providing something like an aggressive white-noise to your studying.

A chemistry textbook sits open on the bed, where you’re stretched out, legs splayed over Matt’s lap while he lights up a joint.

“This right?” You ask, nudging the book towards him with the slip of your homework, one of the problems scribbled out on the page.

Matt leans over, exhaling a lungful of smoke into the space between you two. He’s still shirtless, sticky and sweaty from another round of casual sex, pressing in close behind you, fixing his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“Nah,” He hums, stealing the pen you’ve been chewing on and replacing it with the joint as he smirks at the sight. “You’re really bad at this, huh?”

You scoffed at his bluntness, watching him steal the pen you'd been chewing on and replacing it with his joint as he teased you, making you playful glare up at him as you took a puff before blowing it out, the smoke curling into the air of your dorm room.

"Well, you did just fuck me senselessly, sooo," You playfully stated, handing him back his joint with a smirk on your lips, turning to your side a little as your legs were still splayed over his lap, having on only your panties since you were still cooling off a bit. "Sorry if I still can't think straight."

Matt looked you over with a smirk, tilting his head. His gaze was cocky and self-assured as he drank in the sight of your body. His fingers traced up your legs, starting at your ankle before tracing a slow line on the inside of your thighs, watching as you shuddered at his touch.

“Oh, did I now? Cause I ain't sorry one bit. In fact...” He murmured, leaning in closer to you and placing the joint between his lips again, taking another hit whilst smirking as he blew the smoke in your face. “That was the plan.”

You waved off some of the smoke, playfully glaring at him as you giggled, before feeling as his hand patted your hip, a little signal that he wanted you in his lap. You sighed before complying with him, maneuvering your body so that you now sat up, straddling his lap. How in the hell did others see a nerd in him? Hmm... must've been the glasses.

The curve of your hips were flush against his, your eyes glancing down at his lips before glancing back up at his eyes. "You are the worst tutor I've ever met," You playfully joked in a quieter, teasing voice, your hands coming to his chest and sliding up to wrap around the back of his neck.

“Worst tutor?” He scoffed, his eyes fluttering at how your fingers teased the hair at the back of his head, before his hands came to your waist, gripping the flesh there in a sharp yet gentle grasp. “I dunno,” Matt said, rolling his hips up into yours with a smirk. “How 'bout I give you an in-depth lesson on chemistry, ma?”

You gasped softly at the contact, biting your lip with a smile at the pleasure that rushed through your body, even after having fucked him less than an hour prior. "Sounds much more intriguing than solving mind-numbing equations," You teased back, watching as he reached over to put the joint out in the ashtray on your bedside table.

Before you knew it, a gasped yelp left your lips as Mat rolled the two of you over with ease, pinning you beneath him on your bed like he'd done nearly a thousand times before, and yet you'd never tire of it.

His lips met yours in a slow, passionate kiss, deep and needy, before he left the kiss, trailing his lips down your jawline and throat, between the valley of your tits and down your stomach.

"You better pay attention, cause I'm quizzing you on this later," He playfully joked against your tummy, glancing up at you with blue eyes that burned with desire.

"You wouldn't," You exaggeratedly gasped, giggling as he chuckled against your skin, but your laughter turned into a sweet moan as he mouthed at your pussy through your panties, tongue dragging flat against the fabric before he tugged it to the side, hooking your legs over his shoulders with a smirk on his gorgeous lips.

"Oh, I totally would."

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

a / n : did I base him off of lip gallagher just a little bit??... yes, yes i did 😔 GOD FORBID A GIRL HAS OBSESSIONS (also- should I make them an au?)

Inbox, dms, and requests are all open, hit me up wheneva babies <33

taglist 🏷️

dividers → @issysh3ll + me

[greenandredtomatoes]

I had no problems with the pronouns while reading the books but then the show came out and my brain went 'yup, that's a man allright' so now I'm having to retrain the damn thing. (The damn thing being my brain.)

"It would not appreciate being called he even though it wouldn't say anything just judge you silently and go back to watching it's shows."

Sort of thing.

r/Murderbot mods really said "if you can't use it/its for a fictional character, get over yourself".

[inkedinshadows]

omg no. 15 with Az? 🥺💙

Clingy and Azzie

Pairing: Azriel x f!reader

Word count: 524

Warnings: none

15 - having nicknames/pet names for each other than no one else is allowed to use

(fluff writing game)

It was a quiet afternoon at the townhouse. Azriel and his brothers were going over some reports sent from his sources in Illyria, but they were mostly silent as they lounged on the couches and armchairs, exchanging only the occasional comment.

“It seems Devlon is finally respecting the training hours for the girls.”

“Some camps up north are threatening to resume clippings.”

“Looks like we’ll have to pay them a visit soon then.”

You were curled up next to Azriel, not really listening to their brief conversation, too focused on the book you were reading. Except that something kept distracting you.

“Azzie,” you called, not bothering to look up. “Can you tell Clingy that he’s being annoying again, please? I can’t read like this.”

You didn’t get an answer, but you felt him tense beside you. It was subtle, yet enough for you to notice.

Finally looking up from the book, you found Rhys and Cassian staring at you—the former with his brows raised, the latter with an amused smirk.

“Azzie?” he repeated, his gaze darting between you and your mate. “Is that what you call him?”

You set the book down. “Yes. Why?”

Azriel spoke before Cassian could say a word.

“I know what you’re going to say, Cass. Please don’t.”

His brother opened his mouth, but Rhys chimed in. “Let me ask you a question, then.” He paused, looking first at Azriel, then at you. “Who’s Clingy?”

As if summoned by the name, a wisp of shadow emerged from your hair and settled on your shoulder.

“This is Clingy,” you explained. “He likes to cling to me, hence the name. But sometimes,” you added, shooting it a look, “he also likes to tickle my ear when I’m trying to focus on something else.”

Clingy quickly flew over to Azriel, disappearing behind one of his wings like a child ashamed of being scolded.

You knew he'd be back soon.

Cassian and Rhysand stared at you in disbelief.

Azriel sighed. He had really hoped they wouldn't find out. They'd never let him live it down.

“Well, that sounds just like Cassian.”

Rhys broke the silence, grinning as he glanced at his brother. “Pestering people when he doesn't get enough attention.”

“Hey!”

You all laughed, but Cassian still didn't seem over the new discovery.

“Are we just going to ignore that she gave a name to a shadow?”

You smiled. “He's not the only one I've named.”

“Please,” Azriel said softly, “don't encourage him.”

You chuckled, but you didn't apologize. It was fun, and the damage was already done anyway.

Cassian leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and stared at Azriel. “So, she calls you Azzie and she named your shadows?”

The Shadowsinger remained impassive. “Do you have a problem with that, Cass?”

“Can I also call you Azzie from now on?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s my mate,” you answered, hugging his arm as if claiming him. “Only I get to call him that.”

Azriel nodded. A small, proud smile graced his handsome features.

“What she said,” he confirmed.

You placed a light kiss on his shoulder.

He was yours. Your mate. Your Azzie.

Yours.

Taglist: @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @lilah-asteria @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @ivy-34 @yesiamthatwierd @lreadsstuff @littlest-w01f

Azriel tags: @kathren1sky-blog

[transforming-transformer]

Charming

Chapter One: Dreams Come True

———

Everyone surely knows of Cinderella. A maiden stuck in an abusive household and forced to be a servant to her wicked stepmother and cruel stepsisters, who by the magic of her fairy godmother was able to go to the ball and dance with Prince Charming. Then she runs away at midnight, while the Prince goes looking for the girl who lost her glass slipper, till Cinderella wears it and it’s a perfect fit. The two of them get married, and it’s happily ever after. You know that story, right?

Well, if only you knew that there wasn’t exactly a happily ever after. Once the story ended, all its characters were forced to relive the story from the very beginning, their lives bound by the rules of the fairy tale, going on forever, and ever… and one of those unfortunate characters stuck in this endless cycle… was me. I was the Prince Charming of Cinderella’s story - a plain, unassuming, undeveloped character that only appeared whenever Cinderella was at the ball, and at the wedding.

The story just went on, and on, and on, in the same cycle, over and over... and I was getting deathly bored of it.  Look, Cinderella was a beautiful girl, but after a thousand repeats of this life, I stopped finding her as attractive as I did the first few times I met her. Not just that, there just didn't seem to be any land beyond the kingdom... only plain white light. 

I felt trapped, and it was suffocating me in a way I never felt before. As I danced with Cinderella once more, I began to dream of a day I could get out of this wretched story, and find out who I really was behind my lackluster role as a charming prince.

—

James always liked the story of Prince Charming and Cinderella growing up. Considering it was the first Disney film he remembered watching as a kid, the tale of someone finding their rightful place and rising above cruelty was endearing to him. That and he was gay, no matter the portrayal, James always loved the idea of having a prince charming of his very own.

“A handsome man that could come sweep him off his feet and fix all his problems? Who wouldn't be drawn to that?” he thought to himself often as he grew up. See, when James was ten, those problems were petty and small, after all, children’s problems were quite simple. Now that he was 26, a maths teacher who struggled to make ends meet, the problems he wanted to be sorted magically were vastly different. 

While James was on a trip to Oxford for the weekend, visiting some of his family. They explored the city, looking around and doing whatever shopping they needed, and planned to meet later in the evening for dinner. As he wandered around the large campus of the University of Oxford, a twinkle of curiosity flickered in his eye as he found himself near the Bodleian Library, one of the oldest libraries in the world. Entering through the doors, James got to browsing the shelves of old books, not really touching them, just looking. 

That was… until he set eyes on a copy of the original printing of Charles Perrault’s Cinderella… and he couldn't resist pulling it off the shelf and opening it, taking a seat at a nearby nook to read.

As James opened the old, small leatherbound book, he marveled at the beautiful illustrations, feeling immersed in the beautiful world of the fairy tale. It felt like hours passed when he eventually reached the scene of the ball, and just as he turned the page, there I stood, yawning as the girls of the kingdom presented themselves.

Yet, as I looked up to the ceiling of the castle, by some strange magic, I could see James smiling as he looked at me, admiring how handsome I looked. Startled, I stood back, and shouted. 

"Hey, you there!" I moved forward and walked around the page, as if moving towards James. "Get me out of here!" I pleaded.

James’ mouth dropped open as he watched the illustration of me in this old book moving in front of him, as if alive. Almost dropping the book by surprise, he peered down at the page as I spoke. 

"Wait... Are you talking to me? Am I being pranked or something?” James glanced away from the book and around the library, but saw no one watching, before turning his focus back on the moving drawing.

"What... What can I do? You're him, right? Prince Charming?" The unassuming nerdy man asked, feeling a bit silly talking to an old book, but... then again, I’d spoken to him first.

Surprised that he heard my plea, I nervously nodded. 

"I am, but I'm getting bored of this. It's the same story cycle over and over. I meet Cinderella at the ball. We dance. She runs off at midnight and loses a slipper. You know the rest... I can't handle it anymore." I shook my head, throwing my hands in the air, frustrated. 

"I just wish I could escape and live a life of my own, for crying out--" 

Before I could even finish my sentence, my body and mouth froze. The old book began to float from James’ hands, which caused him to fall on his ass, and all of a sudden, a bright light blasted from it. It wasn’t an ordinary light by any chance, it was magical. The wish I just made was about to come true, and neither of us knew what was about to happen.

Just as he stood up and marveled at the golden glow emerging from the pages, a handsome, muscular man flew out of the book, as if ripped out, and landed on top of James, before the book closed itself and fell on the floor in a thud. 

“You... You're..." James groaned and blinked a couple of times at the alluring hunk that had just fallen on top of him, till his eyes popped wide. Wait… he didn't look quite like the illustrations, less perfectly pretty than Prince Charming had always been drawn, but still gorgeous. 

"Ow..." I groaned as I slowly got up, unaware that I wasn't an illustration on a page anymore...

James sheepishly asked, “You aren't him... Are you? Charming? Did you just jump out of that book...?"

I gasped for air and rushed myself off of… the man I saw in the ceiling? I raised my eyebrow and froze in my tracks. I wasn’t in a ballroom, and there were girls in dresses. I looked down at myself - no dress uniform on my body, just a simple blue… shirt of sorts, and strange illustrations on my hands and arms.

As I looked around at my surroundings, I gasped. There were just rows and rows of books, the Cinderella book on the floor… and James just stood there, mouth agape in utter shock.

“I made it out of the fairy tale?” I asked him, unsure of what else to say.

———

Hello, Tumblr! I'm back with a new story after some time. I really hope you all enjoy Chapter 1 of Charming!

This story, and its continuing chapters, are based off a fun roleplay I recently did on Discord with @tf-lover, who is a phenomenal writer himself, so please go support his work too!

Chapter 2 will be coming very soon! 

If you're interested in commissioning a story from me, see my post on commissions here! If you can't or don't want to commission any stories, you can also tip me over on ko-fi!

[alaiasole]

🍸 welcome back to solè’s bar🍸

tonight’s special: connie springer, one year married, and a yacht you may not survive.

· · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · ·

→ connie springer x black!reader

→ smut | modern au | married, rich & nasty, anniversary

→ tags: f!reader, yacht sex, cunnilingus, praise kink, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk

· · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · ·

the sea glistened like glass beneath you, sunlight splintering off the mediterranean waves.

italy was showing out. and honestly? so were you.

you lay stretched across a cream sunbed on the deck of your private yacht, body kissed golden from the sun, that little black bikini hugging every curve with disrespectful precision. a mimosa half-empty beside you, unread book face down on your chest, glimmering ring catching every sunbeam. one year married. one whole year with connie springer.

and you still felt like the luckiest woman alive.

footsteps padded up from below deck. you didn’t even have to look. you could feel the shift in the air.

“damn,” connie muttered, grinning down at you. “you tryna get me killed in broad daylight?”

you cracked an eye open, lips curving.

he stood there in nothing but swim trunks, abs glistening with leftover saltwater, gold chain resting on his chest, eyes glued to your thighs.

“you walked up here shirtless,” you said, sitting up slowly,but i’m the problem?”

connie didn’t even try to hide his stare. “look at my wife,” he said under his breath like it was too much. “sittin’ pretty. out here lookin’ all beautiful and shit

you rolled your eyes, grinning. “boy, shut up.”

“nah, don’t ‘boy’ me,” he said, walking over to kiss your forehead, then your shoulder, slow and soft. “and i saw the way you was starin’ at me when i got out that water.”

you scoffed. “so i can’t look at my own husband no more?”

“you can,” he said, laying down beside you on the sunbed, “but them eyes was sayin’ somethin’ else.”

you smirked, but didn’t answer. just stood up, walking to the edge of the deck. the view stretched out in front of you like a dream open water, cliffs in the distance, some rich italian couple on another yacht a few miles away. you leaned on the railing, letting the breeze kiss your skin.

behind you, you could feel his gaze on your body. your ass. your legs. your everything.

connie walked up, standing behind you, warm chest pressing against your back, arms sliding around your waist.

“goddamn,” he murmured, breath brushing your ear. “look at you.”

you melted just a little in his hold. he kissed your temple. “you look so good, baby.”

“do i?” you asked, voice playful.

he squeezed your waist. “stop playin’. all this?” he ran his hands down your hips. “this mine. forever. you know how crazy that makes me?”

you held up your left hand, let the sunlight hit the ring. it gleamed like it had its own spotlight.

“show me that again,” he whispered.

you held your hand higher. he kissed your knuckles, then your palm. “look at that shit. biggest flex of my life.”

you turned around slowly, pressing your body against his. “you bein’ sentimental?”

he smirked. “nah, i’m bein’ real. i got the most beautiful woman alive. and we made it a year. you know what that means?”

you cocked your head, curious. “what?”

“i’m bout to treat you like royalty. again.”

his voice dipped on the last word, and something in your stomach flipped. the hunger in his eyes focused.

you toyed with the waistband of his swim shorts, fingers light, teasing.

he raised an eyebrow. “that what you wanna do?”

“i’m just touchin’,” you said, sweet and innocent.

“uh huh.”

you sank to your knees on the smooth teak deck, sun painting your skin gold. your diamond ring caught the light as you reached up, tugging his shorts down.

his cock was already hard thick, long, that pretty pink tip glistening in the sun.

you looked up at him. smiled. wrapped your hand around him, slow.

and then you kissed the tip.

he hissed through his teeth. “fuck, baby…”

you suck on his tip, slow at first, lips wrapped around that soft pink head while your eyes never leave his. your hands work the rest of his shaft, both of them stroking him with gentle pressure while you take more of him in your mouth.

“just like that,” he groans, voice already hoarse. his fingers twitch at his sides. “there you go. fuck, baby… you doin’ so good.”

you hum around him, tongue swirling, jaw relaxing to take him deeper.

he lets his head fall back for a second, breathing uneven, then looks down at you like you’re unreal.

“shit. baby”he mutters. “you gon make me fall in love with you all over again.”

you blink up at him, eyes wide and warm, spit glistening on your lips. you keep going, sucking him off like he’s the only man that’s ever existed, and it’s driving him wild.

he grips your arms, pulls himself gently from your mouth, and helps you to your feet.

his kiss is messy this time open-mouthed, desperate, tasting himself on your tongue. then he turns you around, guiding you until you’re facing the railing again, the wide open sea sparkling below.

“gonna fuck you to this view,” he says, voice low, rough in your ear. he he looks down at your ass, gives it a slow squeeze before smacking it, palm landing with a loud clap that makes you gasp.

he slides your bikini to the side and groans when he sees how wet you already are.

he chuckles, rubbing his fingers between your folds. “this all from suckin’ my dick, huh? or just the thought of me fuckin’ you right here?”

you whimper when he brushes your clit, hips twitching under his touch.

“you feel that?” he whispers, right by your ear. “she talkin’ to me. real loud too.”

he leans down and kisses your neck, fingers rubbing slow circles on your clit, just enough to make your thighs twitch.

“connie,” you moan, your voice catching in your throat.

he hums like he didn’t hear you, slips two fingers inside you slow, real slow, til they’re buried to the knuckle.

you suck in a breath as he starts to move them—slow curls, dragging against your walls, thumb rubbing your clit like he’s done this a thousand times. and he has.

“shittt… she wet as hell,” he says, pulling his fingers out just to see them glisten. he taps your pussy with them, light little slaps that make you jump. “look how she openin’ up.

you whimper, biting your lip, and he grins.

“nah, don’t start actin’ shy now,” he teases, pushing his fingers back in. “you the one who got on this lil ass bikini wit’ all that ass out… got me walkin’ around this boat hard as shit.

he fucks his fingers into you deeper, faster, curling them up until you whine.

“say that shit,” he mutters. “say whose pussy it is.”

“yours, fuck connie, it’s yours.”

“louder, mama. let everyone know”

“it’s yours!” you cry, voice shaking.

he smirks, thumb back on your clit, rubbing tight circles while his fingers keep fucking you open.

“that’s right,” he groans, breath hot on your ear. “this mine. mine to stretch. mine to taste. mine to ruin.”

your legs start shaking and he notices immediately, holds you tighter.

“you gon’ cum for me?” he whispers. “you gon’ make a fuckin’ mess all over my hand, huh?”

you nod, barely breathing.

“yeah, do it. squirt all over me, mama. let me feel that pretty pussy lose control.”

your body jerks, the orgasm hitting hard and fast, your legs trembling as you squirt on his fingers, loud moans pouring from your mouth.

“fuck yes,” he moans. “there she go. goddamn.”

he pulls out slow, his fingers dripping, then licks them clean right in front of you.

“so sweet,” he murmurs, sucking the last drop from his knuckle. he pulls down his shorts, his cock springs out thick and heavy. he strokes it twice, slow and lazy, eyes locked on you. then he pulls your bikini to the side, aligning himself with your hole.

he pushes in and you both moan at the feeling, the stretch making your eyes flutter.

you brace yourself on the edge of the yacht, back arched, mouth falling open.

“fuck baby… you feel so good,” he groans, hips already meeting yours in deep, slow strokes.

you moan loud, trying to keep yourself steady, but it’s overwhelming. every thrust hits deep, your pussy already clenching around him.

you try to scoot forward, hips twitching, but he grabs your arm and pulls it behind your back.

“nah, don’t run,” he growls in your ear. “take it. that’s it. i know you can.”

“fuck con,” you whine, voice high and needy. your walls clamp down around him and he feels it.

“you hear her talkin to me?” he smirks. “this pussy love me.”

he keeps fucking into you hard and slow, his pace deep, you feel yourself get even wetter, cream leaking around his cock. you squirt out of nowhere, legs shaking.

“there you go. goddamn,” he mutters, pulling out just to slap his tip against your clit, watching the mess you made. “look at this pussy. soaking for me.”

he grabs your hand, guiding you back to the sunbed. he lays down, chest rising, cock slick and hard. you climb on top of him without a word.

you sink down on his dick again, moaning as he stretches you out all over again.

“fuckk,” he groans, head falling back. “that’s it mama, ride your dick.”

you start to bounce, hips moving in slow circles, hands planted on his chest. you bite your lip, eyes low.

“rub her for me,” he breathes.

you reach down, rubbing your clit fast as you ride him. your moans spill out without warning, eyes fluttering shut.

“it feel good huh? look at you,” he groans. “so fuckin beautiful. so sexy.

you lean over, lips brushing his ear, voice low and sweet.

“it’s my dick.”

he groans loud, hands gripping your waist tighter.

“fuck it, it’s your dick. all yours. ride your shit, baby.”

“you gon give me all of it?”

“every drop.”

you bounce harder, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you. your orgasm comes fast and sharp, pussy clenching as you squirt again. your thighs shake, moans spilling out uncontrollably.

“connie, i’m cumming, fuck—”

“cum on it. do that shit. let me feel it.”

he fucks up into you while you ride it out, eyes rolled back. his strokes turn messy as he grabs your ass, holding you down and filling you up, his cum spilling deep inside.

you both breathe heavy, stuck together and slick with heat. you slowly lift off him, his cum dripping out of you, sliding down your thigh.

you giggle, looking down at the mess.

he grins. “you think the captain heard us?”

you shrug, still breathless. “he definitely did.”

and you both laugh, tangled and glowing under the italian sun.

· · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · ·

[presidentkamala]

Rant about white leftists incoming:

As a progressive who's politically involved, I'm fascinated by the way that I see white leftists around me simp for and identify with white conservatives. I'm white too, but I'm trans and have lived in redder/purpler areas than a lot of these people have, and I just can't share their romanticism the same way. These white leftists often identify economically with rural white conservatives and do rightly point out that left wing economics would help these people. I also know a lot of liberals who would benefit from these things but curiously I never see leftists romanticizing impoverished liberals. The thing is, yes, sometimes conservatives will say things that sound very leftist. (Liberals will too, but I never see THAT discussed by them). And so they assume, then, that working class conservatives just need the Right Candidate to swing them over to the left. But as someone who's had to deal with these people (and has a political science degree, no biggie), white leftists fundamentally misunderstand these people on every level.

They want the benefits of good social services--*as long as not a single black person gets to have it*. These are the people who closed public pools so they didn't have to integrate them. They are willing to deprive themselves of anything as long as they don't have to share it with people of color. They are not with Trump because of "economic anxiety". They love the racism, the sexism, and are willing to suffer themselves if they're told an undocumented Mexican worker will suffer a little more. They were not duped into fascism, THEY ARE HERE FOR IT. When these people say they're alienated by Dem party elites they're not making insightful points about how the Dems are still too entangled in billionaires for my liking as well, they're talking about women, poc, and out LGBTQ people being successful when they're "not supposed to be" with some antisemitic overtones on top. These are people who have shot themselves in the foot so they can bleed on a liberal's carpet.

I don't want to believe anyone is hopeless--I don't! But deprogramming these people has to address their racism first. You are not going to cure these people by running Bernie Sanders. You are going to have to make them check their privileges and that 1950s America is never coming back, and that it shouldn't. They do not want leftism right now! They want privilege!

(Also these people will talk about how racist and imperialist this country is constantly, but when a black woman loses to a clown of a white man, suddenly America is completely blind to race and gender and Harris was just a bad candidate, acksually and what do you mean I need to check my racist and sexist biases I don't have those I'm Woke, remember? Because I own a hammer and sickle flag)

SAY THAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Leftists will call liberals every bad name in the book and turn around immediately to lick cons' asses and try to woo them by throwing every single one of us under the bus. We need as many hands as possible to get us out of this quagmire but until leftists can make me understand how black women and jewish people are the "elite out of touch democratic establishment" i just dont think they have anything interesting to say.

And while almost all democratic voters have voiced criticisms of and conflicts w the party leadership, the slavish attachment to bernard is pure cult and grift and deceit from the left!! They're only just now realizing how badly they burned the rest of the anti-fascism coalition and are throwing the biggest tempy tanty ive ever seen. But you hit the nail on the head: they AND maga have the same problem which is a total refusal to grow the fuck up

[annoyamii]

Maybe in another universe where what we believe in wouldn't cause our downfall.

I FORGOT TUMBLR EXISTED MB YALL💔💔💔

Ok for this to make sense, this is an au I'm making called: 'Recluse Turned Saviour'. I think the title is self-explanatory BUTT lemme tell you because I love to yap and I probably ruin some friend's day with this au lmfao.

Sage found a journal at the peak of truth, alongside some books. He was about to read it until Recluse snatched it from him.

He got kinda pissed but he was so intrigued by the book that he secretly took it back into his home and read it. But unfortunately what that journal contains are the unbearable truths that the Recluse hid for millenniums.

He kinda went mad, but being someone who preaches the truth, why should this be hidden? So he began to teach those truths in his lectures. But unfortunately, the people couldn't handle those truths.

Recluse finds out about this and rushes into the town square, seeing the Sage teaching what he's been hiding, and the common folks look uneasy. So he stepped in with a little lie to ease them. They believed him, because it's much more comforting to believe in a sweet lie rather than the harsh truth, right?

This went on for SO long that Sage went FULLY INSANE, he is doing what he's supposed to do, spreading the truth to the public, but why are they believing at the Recluse whose words are filled with deceit. So one day, he snapped.

He became corrupted, Sage kinda became Shadow Milk. He started attacking the common folks and once again, Recluse steps in to save them. They battle, Recluse is having a hard time but he finds an opportunity by snatching Sage's soul jam—weakening him just enough for him to use his powers to immobilise him.

He just wanted to talk but suddenly chains surrounded the Sage, the witches are capturing him.

And then, the Sage is gone. Problem solved. He now holds the other Soul Jam. He felt really guilty, it was his journal that caused this, if he just hid it properly, this wouldn't have happened! He's still trying to recollect himself but suddenly the crowd cheered.

They're celebrating the defeat of the fallen scholar, they are celebrating the Hermit that resides at the Peak of Truth. They are celebrating his victory against the Sage. But all he did was lie.

He is regarded as a hero, but he doesn't feel like one.