#also hey what’s up? I’ve been fucking abysmal!!!!

[theundeadmetalheadapolagia]

I’d like to thank everyone on my dash vis-à-vis stranger things for not uh. Doing That.

[jamminvroomvroom]

as sick as it sounds, i loved you first. 1

LN x fem!leclerc reader

part 1 of 2 -> find part two linked HERE!

in which you just can’t help yourself and neither can lando…

I’M BACK BITCHES!!!! hi sorry it’s been a while but we are back with what i hope is a bang lol. i’ve missed writing so much and as stressful as this was, i’m so so glad to be uploading something! i worked hard on this one and, of course, now i hate it whoops, but my girlie @lavenderlando made this possible and worth it. that’s my hype woman fr fr. N E WAY enjoy! lemme know what you think, and use some imagination for the timeline…

songs to set the vibe: i love you, i’m sorry by gracie abrams, 2hands by tate mcrae, love in the dark by adele, illicit affairs by taylor swift, think twice by suki waterhouse

warnings: 18+!! minors GO AWAY! smut, angst, fluff, kinda enemies to lovers? kinda? r is charles sister oop, miscommunication, both of them are down bad for eachother but they are also extremely dumb! breeding kink, size kink, pain kink (if u squint), unprotected p in v (don’t be silly!),

part 1: 10.3k words

1. oncoming traffic 

“hey, osc, who’s that girl hanging around leclerc? thought he was still with alex.” lando tries his best to sound nonchalant, but oscar can see through him like a freshly buffed window, the way lando clears his throat and nervously ruffles his unruly hair. 

“mate, i know you’re not the sharpest but i didn’t think you were that slow.” oscar laughs, side-eyeing the brit. he was baffled that lando was even asking. lando just shoots him a glare. “wait, you really don’t know?” lando’s glare hardens further, his eyes demanding an answer and oscar just laughs. “that’s his sister, you idiot. how have you never seen her?” 

lando didn’t know how he’d never seen her. this year had been nonstop, what with the pseudo-championship battle and the never ending media shitstorm that rained on him whenever he reared his head. he’d also learned in his years of racing never to look too closely at the women in another drivers entourage. that’s how you ended up in the wall during a race. but charles’ sister? how had he never noticed? 

“maybe i should go and introduce myself.” lando trailed off thoughtfully, his voice remaining playful. oscar snorted beside him, adjusting his racesuit. 

“ooh, yeah, send twitter into a frenzy. it’s been boring lately.” the aussie driver drawls sarcastically, successfully dodging lando’s rapidly approaching elbow to his ribs. 

“glad to know that you take pleasure in my never ending public humiliation!” lando grins maniacally, sauntering out of the garage, no longer any intention of seeking out the pretty girl in the short, black skirt. it was for the best. 

he’s passing through the pit box, immersed in a groupchat thread with max and p about a trip to portugal that he didn’t really want to go on, and bam! like the idiot oscar had just accused him of being, he slams blindly into oncoming traffic. 

oncoming traffic: the pretty girl in the short, black skirt.

“are you incapable of looking where you’re going?” your accent comes out thick, low with rage. it tickles his brain, like he’s heard it before. lando opens his mouth, like a fish out of water, closes it again pathetically. “seriously, for a pilot you have abysmal spacial awareness!” 

“sorry… what the fuck.” lando mutters. why is this woman shouting at him like she knows him? like he regularly barrels into her? 

“lando, yes?” you’ve calmed down a bit now, but you still speak through gritted teeth. 

“…yes?” he replies like he’s not so sure. 

“learn to look where you’re going.” you wrinkle your nose, composing yourself before stepping around him and strutting down the pitlane as if nothing had happened. 

lando stands there, fixed in place, watching her walk away in utter confusion. 

“smooth!” oscar calls from inside the garage, flanked by several laughing mechanics. 

“go fuck yourself!” lando’s flushed red, now, and beeline’s for the pit wall. 

he’s out of earshot when oscar says it. 

“think he just met his wife, boys.” 

-

lando is staring at the data on the screen when it hits him, will’s voice somewhere far away all of the sudden. 

the mysterious leclerc had every right to reprimand him, because she was right. he did need to learn how to look where he’s going. 

she’d told him that already, during their actual first meeting. 

-

2. the first collision 

the music was too loud, suffocating him along with the overbearing smell of cheap perfume, but the alcohol in his system and the outpouring of validation kept lando going. 

three time race winner, lando norris. 

five years of clawing back points and grabbing at podiums with two impatient hands had built up to this, to the incomparable glory of gracing that prestigious top step, and lando wasn’t about to let go of this moment just because of a pressing headache. max and pietra were waiting for him in a booth, surrounded by the rest of lando’s touring entourage. he was wracking up quite the tab, but it was all worth it. every slap on the back, seductive grin sent his way, made it worth it. 

he’s stumbling over his feet, wasted, or close to it, grinning lazily, peering through hooded eyes. the vodka cranberry in his hand is sloshing dangerously around in the glass, his careless movements propelling him towards disaster. 

lando hears the splatter of liquid, first, the scoff of disgust immediately after. long hair whips against his face as she turns, eyes wide with fury, set into a face that was never meant to look angry. he can smell vanilla, flowers. she’s an angel, turned devilish under the strobe lights, her delicate face morphing when he takes in the sight of him. 

“are you fucking serious? mon dieu!” her accent twists his tummy, as does the increasingly see-through material of her tight white dress, layers of chiffon turning transparent with the stark red liquid. it’s all over her back, running slowly down the length of her exposed thighs, sticky. lando stands there, utterly transfixed and useless. she looks like she might slap him; he kind of wants her to. “of course, just stand there. fucking pilots.” 

she mutters the last part and lando gulps. what does she know about other drivers? the implication makes his skin crawl for no reason, the idea of this nameless, mystery woman being familiar with his co-workers. he’s flushed with embarrassment for a multitude of reasons, opening his mouth just to close it again. 

“‘m sorry!” he finally calls out to her, over the music. can the dj turn that shit down? “can i buy you a drink?” she just glares at him, gesturing at her ruined dress. “or… a new dress?” lando tries again, flashing what he hopes are puppy dog eyes. 

he wants to take her back to his hotel room, lick the sweet liquid off of her frame, lap at her til she’s clean and crying. he wants to peel the stained white material off, tear it a little - it’s already ruined anyway! he can’t, though, because she’s wrinkling her nose at him, eyebrow raised, judging, and he’s awash with embarrassment all over again. the club spins and he feels nauseous. he finds max’s eyes on him, his friend stifling laughter at the tragic scene. 

she’s gone when he looks back, seems to have disappeared into a cloud of distinctly expensive perfume, and her friends are curling their lips up at him, dismissive. they don’t care who he is. he wonders if they’re redbull fans, ferrari fans, perhaps. 

he’s met with hoots of laughter as he slumps into the booth. he grabs a shot without a thought, doesn’t even register what liquor it is as it slides down his thick throat. 

“can’t believe you just did that. only you would spill a drink all over leclerc’s sister.” max teases, elbowing him playfully. 

“wha- he has a sister?” lando slurs, spluttering. 

he doesn’t remember much after that. 

youruser just posted on instagram:

tagged: francisca.cgomes, alexandrasaintmleux, charles_leclerc

liked by francisca.cgomes, alexandrasaintmleux, charles_leclerc and others.

youruser: shoutout to the guy that spilled his drink all over me!

francisca.cgomes: so beautiful so slay i miss u already

alexandrasaintmleux: love you!!!

charles_leclerc: delete this 🤦‍♂️

and other comments.

-

3. the watchful eyes of the big, black horse 

your arm is linked with kika’s, giggling with her as you walk through the paddock. 

“what about him?” kika whispers, pointing her chin towards one of the passing alpine mechanics. he’s blonde, pale, eyes dark.  “pierre said he heard that he’s good with the ladies.” she wiggles her eyebrows and your cheeks heat up, swatting her playfully. 

“i am not about to get a reputation for sleeping my way through the paddock.” you scoff. “plus, he’s not my type.” you shrug. 

“you need to start putting yourself out there more, you keep saying you want someone.” the portuguese girl reasons. you nod sheepishly. 

“i don’t wanna look for something, i want it to find me. is that pathetic? i just see how you are with pierre, how alex is with charles, and that’s what i want. something… real.” you sigh. kika sees the way your eyes gloss over with sadness. 

“it’s never as easy and as perfect as it looks, babe, trust me. and anyway, maybe just focus on… the thing you were telling me about.” kika lowers her voice, giving you the look.

“shut up!” you squeal. “god, i am not discussing that here!” 

“discussing what?” you hear pierre before you see him, hot with embarrassment. you’ve know him since before you could even walk, which is why you have no problem voicing your deepest, darkest shame. 

“how i’m not getting laid, apparently!” you drawl sarcastically, slapping your hand over your forehead. 

a poorly concealed laugh that you don’t recognise has you whipping around, eyes wide with bewilderment. it’s hearty, smooth, surprisingly warming. you practically growl when your eyes land on the source of the noise, standing next to pierre who looks embarrassed for you, his lips pressed thinly together to prevent himself from cackling. 

“why is he here?” you grit your teeth, squeezing your eyes so tightly shut that you feel a pang in your temples. 

“as polite as ever.” lando smirks. you open

your eyes just in time to catch him eyeing up the skin of your thighs that your skirt doesn’t quite cover. is he checking you out? 

“says the drink spiller.” you bite back, rolling your eyes. 

“hey, i tried to pay for the damage.” lando looks utterly amused, pink lips still twisted into a punch-worthy smirk. 

“so, you’ve met lando, then.” pierre grins, staring between you both. you don’t register the way he’s trading looks with kika, watching whatever this scene is unfold. 

“unfortunately!” you smile tightly at the racing drivers. 

“pretty sure you walked into me that second time. distracting me in the workplace, or something.” lando chimes in, enjoying this all a bit too much. 

“if you did a better job at looking where you’re going-“ 

“okay, so this has been delightful!” pierre buts in, knowing that you have the shortest temper of all the leclerc offspring. “you,” he points at you. “get laid. you,” he points at lando. “don’t piss her off, you won’t like the result.”

kika can only send you a sympathetic smile, and remind you of the coffee date you have scheduled for tomorrow morning, as she’s dragged away from your place of social suicide. pierre winks, tilts his head far too pointedly for your liking towards lando. you fantasise, in that moment, of clawing his eyes out. 

“i am sorry, for the record.” lando smiles at you, genuine and gleaming. something inside of you twists. 

“for which time?” you’re just teasing now, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

“you have quite the attitude on you. that why you’re not getting any?”

you’re about to rip his head off and give max an even easier ride towards the championship, but lando steps forward. you can smell old spice, tangy and alluring and masculine. 

“how fucking dare you-“ 

“because most men don’t know what to do with a woman like you. don’t know how to treat them right.” he’s so confident when he says it, leaning towards you in a way you can only describe as enticingly. 

“oh, and you do?” you scoff, arms crossed. you must remain combative, or else you’ll give in. is this rock bottom?

“i’m free tonight if you wanna find out.” 

“i’ll be far too busy doing literally anything else.” you can only pray he hasn’t caught the tremble in your voice, the ever so slight quiver of you bottom lip. you chew it into your mouth to stop yourself. 

“but not anyone else.” lando doesn’t pose it as a question. it seems that he’s got you all figured out. 

“whatever helps you and your hand sleep well tonight.” you spit. there’s heat between you, sparking into a flame that could burn down your whole life. you feel eyes burning into the back of your head - green ones that match yours. you falter. “i’m done here, lando. have a fantastic evening.” 

he takes another liberty, leaning in even closer. spearmint and the idea of a million bad choices flood your every pore. you can feel the big, black horse watching over you, now, set into bright yellow, adorned with ferrari red. looming, warning, turning you in. 

“you know, something tells me i will.” 

lando disappears first, not even giving you a chance you spin on your heel and storm off. you want to kill him, hurt him, sink your teeth into that bronzed, thick throat, claw into his back, down, down, down… until you’re on your knees and- 

“why were you talking to lando?” charles’ voice cuts through your filthy thoughts and you sign yourself over to god immediately, purifying yourself as you banish the visions of delicious sin. after all, you’re standing in the presence of il predestinato, the prince of monaco, a saint to many. but to you, he’s just your brother. your big brother, always in the way, always meddling, always, always watching. you sigh. 

“friendly conversation.” you quip, short. you love him dearly, would take bullets for him, but, god, he keeps you on a leash. leo’s has more give than the conceptual tether charles has to you, keeping you close, boyfriendless, out of “trouble”. you know why, and deep down, you’re beyond grateful, all things considered. you can’t admit that, though. 

“that’s not how pierre described it to me.” charles raises an eyebrow, voice bitter despite the clear attempt he’s made to try and hide it. 

“fucking pierre.” you grunt. “it’s nothing, he came over with pierre. i was with kika. first time i’ve ever even had a conversation with lando.” that didn’t result from a drink being spilt over you to the point of transparency. you leave that bit out - charles really doesn’t need to know that. 

charles mulls over your words, eyeing you suspiciously. you want to stomp your heeled foot like a child, a brat, scream and shout and kick and wail that he has to back the fuck off eventually, but you just smile innocently and pray he believes you. 

“okay,” he mutters, making his peace. “i don’t want you getting too… familiar with him. bad reputation. he used to be quite sweet until his last breakup and now he will fuck anything with a pulse.” you wrinkle your nose at your brothers crude words, feeling the need to jump in and object. but why? you don’t know lando, you don’t care about lando. you press your lips into a thin, painful line. “you should go back to the hotel with alex. looks like i’ll be here late.” he rolls his eyes, you know how it is. 

“sure, good luck.” you offer, smothering the rage that pools in your belly. let me fucking live, you think. just because he’d had to swoop in and save you from yourself once before, didn’t mean that you could live like this forever. 

he has lit a spark under you, one that spreads like a wildfire towards the flame that lando ignited minutes before. if only your brother knew how to keep his big mouth shut, you wouldn’t be spurred on to bad behaviour. 

if only lando hadn’t spilled that drink over you, maybe you wouldn’t be opening his instagram profile and sending a message request. 

a place. your room number. a time. 

you only wish you’d gotten to see the devilish grin on his face when he received it. 

lando can’t want you for the reasons that other guys do. your status as charles leclerc’s little sister, and the gateway to your brother that you provided, meant nothing to the brit. that’s why you’d let him have you; he wouldn’t try to take more than you wanted to give. 

-

4. generous 

the knocks are soft against the door, yet they manage to have every hair on your body standing to attention. you’re quick to let him in, itching to get him inside and away from prying eyes. this is clandestine, secret, could even feel somewhat sacred once it’s over, and the last possible thing you could ever need is for another soul to know what you intend to do with lando, what you intend to let him do to you. 

“hey.” 

“hi.” 

you stare at each other. 

he steps forward. you don’t move away. he takes it as an invitation to close the space entirely, so close that, there it is again: oldspice, except this time it’s mixed with something fresh, shower gel you guess, sea salt. his curls are crisper than they were a few hours ago, still damp from the shower he must have just taken. 

“what changed your mind?” he asks. 

“i was feeling generous.” you deadpan. he bites back a laugh. 

“generous, huh?”

“very.” 

“considering your alleged dry spell, i’d say i’m the generous one, no?” his voiced is edged with something dark, dropped a few octaves. you could absolutely squirm under his gaze, but you hold strong. 

“you know where the door is if that’s how you’re gonna be.” you coo, mocking his seductive undercurrent. all he does is flash his teeth, grinning cheekily, his way of accepting your challenge, your attitude. 

“i think you want me to stay, honey.” 

honey. you fear it works on you. the gap closes even further, you fear it’s your doing. 

“you’re only getting this opportunity because i invited you here.” your resolve is slipping. you’ve admitted that you want him in your pathetic bid to hold the power, when the truth is, you want him to pounce on you, strip away every layer and barrier and make you see stars, feel euphoric. 

“okay, honey, whatever you say.” he chuckles, cruel and taunting. “so, how dry of a spell has it been? wanna know what i’m working with.” 

lando touches you then, lightning shooting down your arm as he traces from your elbow down to your fingers, featherlight, barely there, a ghost of a touch that haunts you so deliciously. your fingers intertwine. you initiate it, but really, it’s his fault. this is all his fault.

you try and laugh, but it sounds broken, quivering it’s way out from your dry throat. 

“dry.”

he just stares at you, expectant. he needs to hear more, needs to know. he craves details about you, has ever since you body slammed him outside his garage - leading to some very covert instagram stalking on his behalf and his oh so convenient way of worming his way into a conversation with pierre when lando could see that the other driver was on his way over towards you. it’s pathetic, maybe, but he craves you the way one craves nicotine forever after just one puff of a cigarette. he has you, just for tonight, maybe longer if he gets this right, so he will know everything he needs to know so that he can touch you just how you need. 

“i’ve only… it’s been a while.” 

he sees right through you. 

“you’ve only what?” he presses. he needs to know.

“i’ve only done this once.” you whisper. it’s the meekest he’s seen you. he loathes it. 

“and was it good?” lando murmurs so attentively that you want to cry. 

your fourth interaction with this man, and he has you melting. 

“not really.” 

“do you trust me?” his nose is bumping yours. you’re locked in, twitching. he has both hands on you, now, one still laced with yours, the other trailing up your arm, tempted to brush his fingertips against the taut skin of your neck. 

how the fuck can i trust you? i don’t know you! what the fuck are we doing? what the fuck am i doing?

that’s not what you say, though, because for some reason, you are so sickeningly comfortable and okay that you worry that something is wrong with you. 

“yes.”

“then this time will be so, so much better. i’ll make it all better.” 

when his lips meet yours, you’re surprised at how good it immediately feels. you don’t know what you were expecting, but his lips are plush, enveloping yours softly, but firm enough that you sink into him, allowing him to cement that grip on the side of your neck that he’d been taunting you with. 

he kisses you like he’s sure of everything, like this is second nature and you’ve done it a thousand times. you want to kiss him a thousand times. why it’s so good, you’re not sure, but it gives you the confidence to lean into him, grab the bottom of his hoodie in your hands and tug. 

“be patient, ‘n i’ll make you feel so good, honey, i promise.” he mouths down your cheek, nipping at your jaw, down your neck until he finds that special spot below your ear. he nibbles there, lapping his tongue over your sensitive skin like he already knows your body. you want to see just how familiar with you he can get. “but,” he punctuates the word with a sharp bite. you both dread and revel in the mark it will leave. “you have to behave for me, okay?” 

his words are whispered against the shell of your ear and you shiver, eyes rolled back already. you wonder if he’ll get them to do a full three-sixty rotation in your skull. 

“‘kay.” you breathe, mindless, floating away. it’s already better than last time.

“‘kay’?” he mocks. “no, honey, you gotta promise me. can you promise me?” 

“promise.” you lock eyes, conveying your obedience. his eyes blow wide, pupils dilating to shove away the mysterious bluey green. his teeth grit. he knows he’s hit the jackpot. 

“good girl.” 

you’re stripped naked, mustering all of your energy to shove his clothes off, his hoodie flying away, his sweats kicked into a faraway dark corner. you’re left naked, him in some increasingly tight boxers, and you tumble into the freshly made bed. he slinks over you, crawling on his hands and knees, predator stalking prey. 

he stains your inner thighs purple, tugging your legs over his shoulder, huge hands warm and rough as they manoeuvre your malleable body to his liking. lando presses kisses to every inch of skin, dragging his tongue over your bare flesh before he spreads you open, sucking and tasting and savouring. he moans into you, open and wet, and it ricochets off of every nerve ending, sending your body taut and arched, catlike. you’re trying to get away, whilst simultaneously grinding yourself closed to him, feeling that broad, sharp nose of his bump messily and firmly against your clit, an ache spreading through your pelvis that makes you shake and shake and whine his name out to the gods. 

“taste like heaven.” lando’s words are simple, straightforward, make you bite your lip so hard you taste something metallic seeping over your tongue. “so tight, even around my tongue,” he slurs, drunk, lost. “gotta stretch you out for me. that okay, honey?” you can just about make it all out, and you nod furiously, pleading. 

his teeth graze your clit. 

“say please.” 

“putain! please!” you kick your feet out when all he does is laugh into your wet flesh. 

one finger grazes through your folds, parting them and collecting a mess of your slick. he looks transfixed as it drips down his finger. 

honey.

you watch him watch how he opens you up, revelling in the utter fascination painting his features, pussy drunk and curious, transfixed. 

“can’t believe you’ve never been fucked right.” he coos, breathless, genuinely shocked. you quake under his skilful hands and his awful, sinful, dirty mouth. 

“more.” you plead, not ashamed by your crude begging. you’re a mess for him already, might as well get the full experience. 

“think you can take another?” 

a second finger slides in, rocking against your walls, testing the waters. you writhe, meeting his movements with shallow thrusts of your hips. 

“faster, i need- mon dieu! anything, lando, please just-“ he really goes to town then, scissoring your dripping cunt open, curling and twisting and grinding the two digits so deep that you see white, hazy chocolate coloured curls and deep, glazed over eyes. 

“that’s it, honey, there you go. so fucking pretty for me.” lando whispers the last bit, awestruck, and you’d take the time to wonder why if you weren’t on the verge of tears, overstimulated, ears ringing. your orgasm crashes over you like a surge of electricity, tearing through your body like it’s trying to escape and take cover. it’s so strong that you’re damp everywhere, sweating and crying and so fucking shocked that it can feel like this. 

“lando.” you pant, mouth dry, voice hoarse.  

“you did so good. was it okay?” he rubs small circles into your hips, eyes flitting between your own and where you’re still leaking for him. he manages to tear his eyes away, like a trance has broken, snaking up your body until he’s laying next to you, propped up on his elbow. he hovers over you, raking his eyes over the rising and falling lines of your body. 

“pretty good, i guess. didn’t know you had it in you.” you tease, smirking lazily up at him. 

you want to keep staring at him but your vision is blurring as your eyes begin to droop. what a long day it’s been. 

“high praise coming from you.” lando reasons, laughing lightly. he strokes over your hipbone and you jolt, curling around onto your side. his skin is warm against yours, soft and smooth, and you dare you press your even closer, shy, as if he wasn’t just buried mercilessly between your legs. you hum in response, spent and languid. “you wanna get some sleep?” he asks. 

“we didn’t… i mean, you didn’t…” you trail off, awkward, gesturing towards his middle. 

lando just smiles. 

“guess i’ll just have to come find you in monaco.” 

you flush, cheeks burning as you consider the fact that you’re gonna be in the same country, a very small, very private city. who knows what could happen? 

you fall asleep quickly, easily, far too comfortable next to the british driver. if you were to ask, he’d say he left immediately. he watches the way you breathe far too intently, ever so slowly pulling his clothes back on. he doesn’t know how long passes, but what he does know is that he can’t wait to have you like this again. 

-

5.  some guy 

you sink into the oversized armchair, sitting back and letting kika and alex talk, nattering backwards and forwards about nothing in particular. or, maybe you’re just zoned the fuck out. 

you can’t stop thinking about the way he touched you, your body littered with evidence, dark purple bruises turning a stale green between you thighs. when you woke up, you initially wondered if it was all a dream, but the dull, sweet ache thrumming through your bones told you just how real it really was. you went through the motions, embarrassed momentarily before deciding to just embrace it, try to bask in the way he’d made you feel: sexy and desirable and electric. 

it was just a shame that it had to be him. that’s what you kept telling yourself, at least. 

kika’s nodding along to a story alex is telling about leo, about to respond with a similar anecdote about simba but she gasps instead, almost spilling her americano all over herself. this gets your attention and you open your mouth to ask her is she’s okay, but she beats you to it. 

“my god, what is that?” she chokes, staring at you. or, well, your neck. 

you flush, heated, blood pooling in your cheeks. 

you’d tried to cover it up, seriously, applying layer after layer of concealer and strategically placing your hair in such a way that you prayed it wouldn’t be noticeable, but nonetheless, there it is, clear as day. red raw skin tinged purple around the seams, branded into your neck like some kind of public humiliation ritual. 

fuck you, lando fucking norris!

you avert eye contact, leaning away from alex who is now making a point of leaning in, going as far as to push your hair back so she can get a closer look. 

“oh my gosh!” she squeals, giggling with kika. 

you take a long, slow gulp of coffee, not caring that it burns your tongue. 

“who was it? holy shit, was it lando?” kika whisper shouts and you officially drop dead on the spot, watching her connect the dots so easily. 

“oh jesus, no! no!” you lie, feigning offence, your leg bouncing shamefully under the table. the two girls eye you suspiciously, but you assume you’ve played it off well. 

“who, then?” alex asks. you wonder if kika has told her about yesterdays interaction. 

“just- i don’t even know, some guy.” you huff, playing with a loose thread hanging from your jumper. 

“some guy? after what you were saying yesterday? okay, babe.” kika teases sarcastically. “no, cmon, who?” she pouts, leaning in as well. 

“just… someone.” you squeak, unable to look up at them. 

“okay, well, we will find out eventually.” alex wiggles her eyebrows and you stick your tongue out, mock-glaring at your sister in law. 

“no, the fuck you won’t.” you try and fake some confidence, scrapping for a mere shred of control. 

yes, the fuck they will, because when you leave for the bathroom, you leave your phone unlocked like the utter fool you are. god has it out for you, you figure, because that’s when he chooses to strike. 

the message lando sends you is short and sweet, and alex chokes on a piece of cake when kika starts gesturing wildly at the notification that pops up on your screen. 

for when you’re lonely at home and can’t find anyone to fuck you right.

attached is his address. 

they don’t breathe a word when you come back, but they share a knowing smirk when they catch you smiling at your phone, and again when you ask if either of them have anything with a higher neckline that you can wear for the race. 

youruser has just posted on instagram:

tagged: francisca.cgomes, alexandrasaintmleux

liked by: francisca.cgomes, alexandrasaintmleux, landonorris and others

youruser: race day, big slay

user1: LEO!!!

alexandrasaintmleux: prettiest girl in the world

user45: lando what are you doing here 🤔

6.    manners

“are you even listening to me right now?” charles scoffs, finishing off his drink out of annoyance. your eyes snap back to him, the thumping music vibrating through your body. 

“sorry, just tipsy.” you purse your lips, attempting to lock back in on whatever he’s saying, but it’s hard. it’s hard, because sprawled out in a booth across from where you stand at the bar, lando is watching your every move. 

you’ve managed to avoid him thus far, no contact since you’d liked the DM he’d sent you a few weeks back. you’d be lying through your teeth if you said you didn’t think of him and what you’d done at literally every waking moment, so the way he’s watching you, hooded eyes sparkling under the strobe lights, has you squirming. it was easier to tell yourself that, surely, it wasn’t that good when he wasn’t right in front of you in a half unbuttoned shirt. the navy blue fabric is wrapped around his body deliciously, taut where his muscles are, the colour popping against his tanned skin - which you can practically feel writhing against yours. 

you wish charles would go away so you could crawl into that booth and commit public indecency. 

speak of the devil, your brother seems to have clocked that you have zero interest in what he has to say so he huffs, ordering another round for the table and telling you he’s going to find alex. he shuffles away and you subtly search for the british drivers mindful eyes, but he’s disappeared, left his entourage in the booth. you swallow disappointment that makes you feel pathetic, head in your hands against the bar top, but the lightest brush of fingers against your waist drags you out of your spiral. you know immediately. 

“did you dress like that for me, or are you just a slut?” he’s grinning, light and teasing, surprisingly sober, tipsy at most, just like you. 

“i could ask you the same.” you smirk, blatantly eyeing his exposed chest. he shrugs, leaning in. 

”might have left an extra button undone just for you.” lando winks and you hope the lights hide the way you flush. 

“sure you did, just for me and every other girl in here.” you challenge. his eyebrows furrow. 

“nope. just for you.” his eyes darken, just a tad but enough that you notice. your mouth runs dry. “you never replied to me.” 

“not true, i liked the message.” you smile coyly, sipping your drink. your lipstick smears against the rim of the glass and you watch him stare at the print, tongue wetting his lips. 

“you are something else.” he shakes his head, pushing his curls back. it could be frustration, but he still seems at ease, like he’s enjoying your combative nature. you smile into the glass, hoping he doesn’t notice. he does. “how much have you had to drink?” 

“this is my second.” 

“you sober enough for me to take you home?” lando’s face is mere inches away from yours now, and you can feel the pull, desperate to crawl into the space that still remains and lose yourself there. 

“depends.” 

“on?” you truly exasperate him, but he thinks he loves it. 

“if you’re actually gonna fuck me this time.” you casually take another sip, playing it off as if your crude words had no impact on you. 

lando’s eyes widen at your bluntness, and so does his grin. 

“meet me by the valet.” 

lando leaves, and you quickly follow, downing the remnants of your glass and touching up your lipgloss. 

-

alex watches from her booth, and pulls out her phone. 

to: kika gomes 

oh, she’s deeeeefinitely sleeping with lando!!!  

-

pietra leans towards her boyfriend, close enough that he can hear her over the noise. 

“isn’t that charles’ sister?” she shouts, pointing to the bar, where lando is stood. 

max analyses the way he’s stood, leant  against the bar, nice and close to the ferrari drivers little sister. he knows that look on lando’s face, and he knows it far too well. max pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“oh for fuck sake.” 

-

it’s weird, sitting with him in silence. he’s only had half a drink, able to drive back through the winding hills to his apartment. you stare out the window, mostly, when you aren’t staring blatantly and curiously at lando. you can see the sea, glistening under the moonlight and you wish you could focus on that instead, but he’s there, and you have to admit - begrudgingly, albeit - that he’s stunning. his hands wrap around the wheel tauntingly, as if he’s trying to convey how he’ll touch you, all consumingly. your thighs press together, your fingers clasping together as if you’re subconsciously stopping yourself from reaching out for him prematurely. 

as if he can hear your thoughts, his palm smoothes over the skin of your bare thigh, right where your dress has ridden up, without a second thought, nothing tentative about the way his digits curve around your skin. 

“so, you’ve been thinking about that night, then?” he breaks the silence, glancing over at you. 

“what makes you say that?” you whisper, not even meaning to but the silence had been so heavy. 

“well, you only left with me on the condition i’d bend you over.” he laughs loud, whole and warm. you fight it, just for a second, but then you join in, giving in to him. you can’t help it, he makes it easy. 

“you got me.” you concede, rolling your eyes. without realising it, you’ve relaxed completely into his touch. 

he pulls off of the road and into a private garage. you breath hitches.

-

“do you want a drink or…?” lando gestures blindly towards his kitchen, walking further into the apartment. 

he’d spent the elevator ride up to his place leant against the opposite wall, taunting, making you wait. he’d let himself look at you, totally unabashedly, raking his eyes over your frame, meekly tucked into the corner, shy under his intense gaze but frustrated by his lack of urgency. 

“i’m good. didn’t come here for a tea party.” you hope your words push his buttons. they must, because he turns on his heel, facing you again, suddenly towering over you. 

his eyes are steel, face serious, and you don’t know what to do. you’ve never seen him look at you like this. 

“i think we need to work on your manners.” he speaks condescendingly, down at you, and if you weren’t so needy, hadn’t been waiting weeks, you’d turn around and leave just to really prove his point. but you stay planted, looking up at him through mascara coated lashes, softening you gaze until you’re sure you’re conveying faux innocence. 

“maybe we can work on them in your bedroom.” you truly don’t know where you get this confidence from, he’s the second man to have ever touched you so intimately, but he’s magnetic, drawing you out of your own head and straight towards him. 

he tugs you towards him, kissing you messily, right there in the dim light of his kitchen, pawing at your waist hungrily. his tongue brushes your and you moan, humming into his mouth at the faint taste of mint and vodka, long gone but you can taste everything. his thick fingers find your ass, hoisting you up until you have no option but to wrap your legs around him, your dress scratching at your thighs the higher it rides up, but all it does it turn you on more, rough sensations on sensitive skin. 

lando walks you blindly to his bedroom, never breaking the kiss, and you wonder how many times he’s done this to get it down to muscle memory. the thought makes you nauseous, drags you mercilessly right back into your head, and you pull away, your lips barely brushing his. 

“why me?” you breathe, panting into the shallow space where your mouths have parted.

“what?” he whispers, confused. 

“why do you want to do this with me?” you have to check, past insecurities rising to the surface like bile in the back of your throat. he looks genuinely baffled and you feel foolish for ruining the moment. 

“why wouldn’t i? you’re gorgeous and-“ he cuts himself off, his eyes glazing over. the demeanour slips and you’re stuck, his arms still tight around you, holding you close in the empty space at the foot of his bed. 

“what?” you whisper. 

“you’re part of the same life.” the way he looks at you says words that he can’t. 

words that will sound too shallow and too selfish and too meaningless, even though you will understand them because you’re here for similar reasons, and therefore, they will mean too much. 

you can’t take things from him. you can’t fake it. you can’t break him into a million pieces when he finally discovers that you want him because of what he can give you.

you nod once, firm.  

“i get it.” you smile sadly. lando wants to know more. he can find out some other time. a moment of clarity passes between you. “kiss me, again?” you ask. he delivers immediately. 

kisses you all the way onto the bed. kisses you while he helps you take off your heels, while he drags the zipper of your dress down. you both feel safe now, understood, and that really moves things along. 

“so pretty.” he mutters into your skin, shedding you of your tight dress. 

your shaky fingers work over the buttons of his shirt, peeling it off of his broad shoulders, taking in the sight of him all over again. you’re left in your panties, braless already, and he gawks down at you, like he’s seeing everything for the first time. it makes you feel powerful. 

“can you hurry up?” you writhe, arching into his touch. he smiles, covering his body with yours and pressing a kiss to your lips. his fingers slide over the curves of your body, finding the band of your underwear and toying with it. 

“want me to take them off?” he purrs, trailing his lips down your jaw to just below your ear. 

“now.” you beg, eyes fluttering closed as his warm breath pricks at your skin, teeth nibbling. “no marks.” you whine, flashing back to the weeks over knowing looks and attempts at covering the last one up. 

“what were we saying about manners, hm? gonna need to start hearing some ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’, okay, honey?” he bites down again, harder this time, and you squirm underneath him, your soft belly moulding to each dip of his abs.

his fingers dip into your panties, finding your clit amongst your wetness. you just about bite back a moan, but you can’t help but roll your hips into his hand, his fingertips gliding easily through your folds. 

“va te faire foutre.” you mutter, teeth gritting at the pleasure and his words. go fuck yourself.

“i’ve lived in monaco long enough to know what that means.” lando whispers, pinching your clit once before plunging a finger inside of you. 

you hiss, head thrown back, the feeling of him smiling against the hickey bittersweet. and to think, it was almost healed. you can’t help but keen into his touch. 

“more,” you pant. “please.”

“you learn fast.” lando approves, and quickly fulfils your request, adding another finger. 

they flex inside of you, grinding deeper and deeper until you’re whimpering his name and leaking down his wrist. your arms wrap around him, nails digging in to his smooth back, his ropey muscles tensing under your firm touch. his thumb bumps your clit, over and over, pushing you to the precipice, so close you can taste the impending orgasm on your tongue. 

“it’s so good, merci, god.” you sound wrecked already, and lando can’t wait to see how far he can push, how far apart he can take you.  

“that other fucking loser didn’t know what he had, jesus, you’re so fucking hot.” he rasps, admiring the rise and fall of your chest, how your breasts bounce with every thrust of his fingers, the way his hand is glistening in the low light of his bedroom. his words are your undoing, the awe in his voice sending sparks shooting through every nerve ending. 

“lando, ‘m gonna… putain!” the way you switch languages is sexy to him, tells him how scrambled your brain is, and he twitches in his boxers. when you cum, it’s as gorgeous and as enticing as the first time, and he jolts against your hip, desperate to get inside of you finally. 

“you’re so beautiful.” he groans, pulling his fingers from your entrance. he stares blindly at the mess you’ve made on them, salivating, remembering the way you taste. it’s a no brainer for him, and he licks both digits clean, giving you just a moment to recover. 

“i need you.” you whisper, your legs still spread, quivering slightly. 

you pull him in once more, his covered crotch grinding against your slick and you cry out, the friction sending you into overdrive. his teeth dig into your shoulder, the sensation entrapping him, leaving him weak, ready to give you whatever you ask. he pushes his underwear away, and your eyes go wide. 

“you can have me,” he grunts, running his hand over himself. “think you can take it?” he wets his lips and you think you could cum again at the sight of him. sweat slicked, tight curls falling over his eyes, lips licked pink and kiss swollen, hard and heavy in his own hand, body curved over yours possessively. you’re a simple woman, really. 

“i think i can try.” you want to sound confident, but it comes out as a squeak. 

he sits back on his knees and brings his free hand to cup your jaw. 

“i’ll go slow with you, honey, okay? you can tell me to stop.” lando promises. “you sure you want this?” 

you nod, pouting up at him. 

“i want you, i can take it.” you manage through a deep breath. 

the stretch is brutal, splitting you in half. all you can do is breathe, watching the way he watches you, and that’s what you hone in on, his pretty eyes watching where he’s filling you up. when he bottoms out, he stops for a second, scanning your face for discomfort. 

“are you okay?” 

“c’mere.” you coo, and he falls back over you, paws at your waist. “move, lando.” you plead. 

it’s slow, deep, makes your toes tingle. you can feel each and every drag of him against your walls and it makes you dizzy, a knot twisting and tickling in your belly. your fingers are twisted around him, around his biceps, crumbling a little bit every time he flexes in your grip. 

“oh, mon dieu.” you’re whimpering, legs wrapping around him like vines, tighter and tighter with every buck of his hips. 

“‘s it feel good, honey? yeah? you’re so fucking tight for me.” lando chokes, licking over the sweat on your collarbone. “‘m i making it feel good?” he sounds so cocky, sexy, but there’s a soft edge around his words. it matters to him, how he’s treating you, this, a certain delicateness hanging around your intertwined bodies like a cloud. 

“so good, lando, so fucking good.” the words scratch your throat raw, and your teeth sink into your bottom lip. 

“no, no, lemme hear you, pretty girl. can feel how close you are for me.” you can hear the edge to his voice, can tell the end is near for both of you, the way his words wobble despite his best attempts at hiding it. “need you to look at me, and i need to hear you.” 

you don’t even realise until then that your eyes are shut, screwed up tight as the pleasure rolls through your body, flooding each and every one of your senses. you free your lip, and everything pours out, whines, raw slurs of his name. 

“i’m so close.” he grunts, watching the way your face moves, hanging on to every micro expression, the way you battle to keep all of your attention on him. 

“fill me up.” you urge, squeezing his hips between your thighs. his eyes widen, the request slowly registering, and he blinks away the voice in his head telling him to do it. 

“you know i can’t.” he’s firm, sensible even if you aren’t. 

“want it so bad, lan, please, wanna feel it.” you reason, cupping his face and pushing his curls back. 

“not tonight.”

“yes, tonight. give it to me.”

“i said no, don’t be a fucking brat.” he hisses, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“know you want it.” you whisper, seductive and devious. you can see his resolve slipping, tightening around him. 

before you can say anything else, your hands are scooped up, pinned above your head. he’s right over you now, your hips perfectly aligned, and he’s driving so deep that you swear you can feel him in your tummy. his thrusts resort to a harsh grind, digging into each other with every snap of his pelvis. 

“you want it so bad? huh? fine.” he growls, forehead resting against yours. “want me to cum in you, fuck it all back in? yeah, honey? you gonna keep it all in for me?”

“whatever you want.” you promise, eyes rolling back in your head. “just- please, please do it.” you pant, mouth dry. 

“that’s it, pretty girl, take it all for me.” he buries his face in your neck, nipping at your collarbone. “doing so good.” the words fan against your throat, hushed, leaving you warm from the inside out, brainless. 

when you spill around him, it’s at the same time as he lets go, and he fucks you through your orgasms. you go limp beneath him, taking it, letting it all wash over you, letting him wash all over you. you feel like you can’t breathe, suffocating under the weight of him and the reality of what you’ve just done. again. for some reason, you don’t care, and decide that you’ll do this again and again, anytime he’ll have you. not that you’ll ever tell him that… 

“fuck.” he exhales, rolling off of you carefully, but the overstimulation - and then lack thereof - makes you wince, and he strokes your hip gently in apology. 

“that was better than i thought it would be.” you grin, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

“you know, these are starting to sound kinda backhanded.” he beams, laughing breathlessly, but just as he begins to relax into his bedspread, he remembers. “oh fuck, shit, we need a pharmacy!” lando bolts up so that he’s sitting, scanning the room blindly for his clothes. you giggle and he snaps his head towards you, panicked. 

“no, lando, we don’t.” 

“all of that ‘uh, fill me up, please lando you’re so sexy’ talk means that, yes we absolutely do! fuck, how much is plan b these days?” he’s spiralling now, tugging at his curls. 

“first of all, i’m on birth control. second of all, i don’t sound like that, and most importantly, i did not call you sexy.” you smirk, stretching out your tight muscles. 

“that’s the most important part? woman, you nearly killed me.” lando gasps, slumping back down into bed. 

“‘m sorry, couldn’t resist playing with you a little. good to know we share a kink, though.” your smirk turns into a coy smile, and you swing your shaky legs out of the bed, your feet sinking into the plush rug. 

“oh, yeah? what other kinks are you hiding from me?” lando sits back against the headboard, tucking his hands behind his bed. you have to look away, or else you’ll accidentally fall back into his bed. 

“guess you’ll have to wait and find out.” it makes him quirk an eyebrow, a look of understanding settling over his face. 

“so this is gonna be a regular thing, yeah?” 

you’re putting your underwear back on when he says it, searching for your dress, but his words make you freeze. he sounds hopeful, and it makes your chest pang… wait, is that your heart?

“i don’t… i mean, as you unfortunately know, i haven’t done this before. i don’t know how this works.” you say it so earnestly, so innocently, that his whole face softens, awestruck and boyish. 

“i want it to be a regular thing.” he says it gently, like he’s offering it to you, to the universe. 

“okay. me too.” you whisper back, shy under his gaze. 

“are you… like, do you think you’ll be sleeping with other people?” lando squeaks, doing a terrible job of playing it cool. 

“for so many reasons, no.” you grimace. “but if we’re doing this then i wouldn’t want to anyway.” you say softly. your dress is back on now, but he has you flustered, and you can’t quite get the zipper. 

“lemme help.” he offers, and he’s out of bed and before you in a matter of seconds. his calloused fingers graze your skin as he pulls the zipper together and up, adjusting your dress back into place. it feels so terrifyingly intimate, exciting, and you can’t bring yourself to move away. “i wouldn’t want to either.” he breathes the words quietly into the small space between you. 

“okay.” you don’t even try to hide the way you beam, staring up at him. 

“i’ll take you home, yeah?” 

“yeah.”

-

7.  worth it

and so, begins a clandestine affair, touches in the shadows, subtle glances, watchful eyes. 

one of you calls, the other comes, sneaking through doors that neither of you should enter, leaving bars a few minutes apart, making up excuses to get out of plans. 

there’s the time lando has you bent over the end of your bed, tears leaking into the mattress, slick everywhere. he’s so deep this way, hammering away at the special spot nestled within you that he’s become very familiar with. one of his hands is dragging your hips back to meet his thrusts, the other splayed out across your back, holding you down. 

your phone rings. it’s alex. you were supposed to be a brunch twenty minutes ago. you groan out, frustrated in every sense of the word. 

“answer it, honey.” lando grunts, pulling you towards him even harder. you whimper, shaking your head, words dying on your tongue. “go on, i know you can do it. wouldn’t want alex to worry, would you? let her know you’re okay.” he coos, condescending. 

he’s so arrogant, full of it, and you like the challenge. you can’t let him win, can’t let him revel in how fucked out he has you, so against your better judgement, you grab the phone, fingers shaking as you answer. 

“hi, love. i know, i’m late! ‘m sorry, i’ll be there soon!” you wince at the way your voice shakes. you hope she can’t hear the way you’re panting, or the sound of his hips hitting yours. 

lando slows his hips, hitting deep at such a torturously slow pace that feels a million times better than it already did. your free hand flies back, swatting at him. 

“where the hell are you? i was worried!” alex sounds relieved, but there’s something else in her tone that you can’t quite decipher. 

“i’m on my way, i promise! i was with arthur.” you lie, throwing your younger brother into the line of fire. you know, for credibility. alex is silent for a moment. 

“oh, okay. well, get here soon, please! love you!” and with that, she hangs up the phone. you release a breath you were holding, crying out when lando immediately speeds up again. 

“i hate you.” you choke, grinding your hips into him. lando just scoffs, sliding a hand under your belly, flush against the mattress. he finds your clit, playing with it, urging you quickly towards your release. 

“no, you don’t.” he laughs. “you better cum for me, pretty girl, i think you have somewhere to be.” 

-

“i’m on my way, i promise! i was with arthur.”

alex has to bite back a laugh. she stares across the table, where arthur is having an avid debate with charles and joris. arthur, who had been with her and charles for hours. 

“oh, okay. well, get here soon, please! love you!” alex hangs up the phone, giggling to herself. leo stirs in her lap. 

“what’s so funny?” charles asks her. she shakes her head. 

“oh, nothing, she just overslept.” 

-

there’s the time where he has you hiked up on your kitchen counter, messy curls tickling the insides of your thighs. he’s licking at you ravenously, dragging his tongue up and down, twisting around your clit in circles. 

you’re tugging on his hair, holding him close to where you’re aching, dripping, slicking up the lower half of his face. he’s groaning into you, starved and desperate. it’s been a week since you’ve seen him, had him like this, the longest you’ve done without him since the first time you’d had sex. its untamed and needy and you fear what it means, the way you’re so addicted to one another. 

you also haven’t seen your brother for a week, something you realise when you hear a key turn in the lock, down the corridor. you have seconds to react, the noise washing over you like a bucket of ice cold water. you squirm, pushing a very confused lando away, managing to kick him lightly in the head as you leap from the counter. 

“mon dieu! fuck, i’m sorry!” you gasp. 

“what the fuck is going on-“ you cut him off, slapping your palm over his mouth. 

you glance around frantically, looking for a way out of this. there is but one option available. 

“the balcony! just- fuck, get out there!” you shoo him over to the small window, begging him with your eyes. “please! i’ll get rid of him!” 

you can hear footsteps approaching. you’re sweating now, smoothing down your skirt and your hair anxiously.

charles calls your name, rounding the corner  and walking into your kitchen, just as you pull the window closed again. 

“shit, you scared me!” you fake, clutching your chest. you can feel your heart hammering. 

“i did knock, sorry!” charles looks you over, scanning the kitchen. “are you okay?” 

“yeah, fine, sorry, i must have been out of it. i’m in the middle of an assignment.” you lie. 

“oh okay, well i can always go…” he’s looking at you weirdly, and you fear he knows something, that he can tell. 

“can we get dinner tonight? i’ll book.” you offer, scratching your neck. 

“yeah, that’s great. are you sure you’re okay?” your brother asks, turning to leave. 

“promise, yeah, i’m just so busy with work, deadlines and all that.” you wrinkle you nose, feigning distaste. 

“well you can tell me all about it later, okay? love you.” charles says sincerely, smiling. 

“love you too.” you call, listening for the sound of the door closing behind him. 

you immediately rush for the window, throwing it open, peeking your head out. lando stands with his back against the wall, shivering in nothing but a t-shirt. you look at him sheepishly. 

“get back in here.” you tell him, standing back to give him space to crawl back through. “‘m sorry.” you giggle. 

“you’re lucky you’re worth it.” lando teases, stalking towards you and wrapping you in his arms. his skin is cold against yours, and you huff, try and push him off. “hey, i’m cold!” he pouts. 

“you know, you’re lucky you’re worth it, i could have just let him murder you.” you reason, looking up at him. your hands slide around him, returning his embrace, warm hands skating up under his shirt. 

“you wouldn’t.” he says simply. “i’m way too good in bed.” 

“you keep telling yourself that, norris.” 

“i don’t need to, you tell me more than enough.” 

lando leans down to kiss you, then, nothing all that unusual but it always feels like a step too far, intimate in a way that you two usually aren’t. you kiss him back regardless, because really, you love it. he always tastes minty, divine when you let him lick into your

mouth. 

“i believe we were in the middle of something.” he whispers. 

“remind me.” you breathe. 

-

and there’s also the time where he’s fucking you in his drivers room, the massage table thudding dully against the wall with every hard thrust. 

his race suit is pulled down just enough, your dress bunched around your hips, and he’s slamming into you mercilessly.

the whole thing was a blur, really; you’d always vowed that you would never have sex at a race track, but that promise was old news, now, broken the very second you caught the way he was staring at you. his eyes were hard, unreadable, jaw clenched as he glared at the man talking to you. you were just being friendly, catching up with franco, but lando wouldn’t have it, not after such a shitty race. one harsh snap of his neck towards the mclaren motorhome had you quickly excusing yourself. you knew what it meant. 

“you don’t talk to me at the track but you let him?” lando growls, rutting into you wildly. you cling onto the damp material of his racesuit, head thrown back. 

“was just saying hello.” you gasp out, opening your eyes to look up at him. he’s staring down at you, angry. it’s hot.

“i don’t wanna see you talking to him. you see how he was looking at you? fucker should know who you belong to.” he hisses, sliding his hand between your legs. “you’re gonna cum for me when i say, okay? and you’re gonna be nice and loud, honey. no holding back.” 

“lando i’m-“

“when. i. say.” he cuts you off, punctuating each order with a snap of his hips. 

all you can do is take it, dripping all over him. you can hear it, the wet squelch of him filling you up. 

“should mark up this pretty neck, yeah? let everyone know that you already belong to someone.” 

you barely register what he’s saying, but the words leave you hot, pushing you even closer to the edge and you clamp down around him. 

“squeezing me so tight, bet you’ve wanted me all day, huh, honey? saw you looking at me earlier, pretending like you weren’t when i caught you. couldn’t just asked and i would’ve fucked you right then.” lando grunts. you wail out, thrashing against the makeshift bed and he nods, letting you know it’s okay. 

“that’s right, pretty girl, that’s it. been so good letting me have you. cum for me, baby.” 

baby.

it’s the first time he’s ever called you that. it’s the final push you need. 

he collapses into you as he finishes, sweaty curls plush against your bare shoulder. you’re both panting, spent, basking in the moment of silence.

“thank you.” he whispers, sealing it with a kiss against your neck. it tingles, a foreign feeling settling in your belly, shooting through your veins. 

“you drove really well.” you reply, quiet. his breathing halts, a self deprecating laugh filling the room. 

“don’t do that.” 

“what?” 

“act like you were watching my race. charles have a great drive, that must have been a lot more interesting.” 

“maybe, but i was watching you.” 

your words hit him hard. he can’t help but kiss you. you swallow a moan, and a whole heap of feelings that you’re too scared to tackle. 

“you better go. will i see you in brazil?” 

“yeah, lando. you will.” 

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-

PART TWO IS HERE!

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[intheorangebedroom]

Hi Maddie! I hope you are having a wonderful September and you are enjoying the start of autumn. This might sound obsessed or weird, but PTMY and TYBTM are seriously some of my favorite things I've ever read... ever, like I'm putting it up there with novels I've read. It is insane to me how much talent there is in this fandom. Like the Pedro girlies are literal authors, putting out works of art. For me, you are the best of the best! Obviously, both stories have me very hot and bothered lol, but it's just the way you write intimacy and relationships, the peculiarities of your characters and the world's they inhabit so brilliantly, beautifully. I'm sure you know that at times you write like it is poetry! It is so immersive and I love it deeply. My question (apologies in advance) is about writing. I was wondering if you have any tips on (a) how you have improved as a writer, like in terms of how you've been to find your style? (b) how to overcome perfectionism? I've been wanting to take a crack at some Frankie ideas I've had, but I get so weighed down by self doubt and inertia. And also, I worry it's just not original enough. Okay, sorry for the rant! I will never be as good as you OBVIOUSLY lol, but for you I am grateful. I'm so excited for the next part of TYBTM and sad we are almost halfway to the end. I'm so excited for whatever you have in store for the future. Sending you so much love and hope you're having a great day.

Hey Nonnie 🧡

I apologise in advance for the length of this answer. 

Your kindness, your generosity and your time mean everything to me. I’m the worst at expressing gratitude when I’m paid a compliment. "Compliment" doesn't cut it to qualify what you said about my stories, it’s too much, it’s so incredibly kind. You made me so soft but also so much stronger. Thank you 🧡 My first impulse upon reading your message was to throw away my phone and scream I’VE NO IDEA WHAT THE FUCK I’M DOING but I owe it to you to at least try to answer you. Also do you need some blood? A kidney? I have two. You name it it's yours.

I would like to start with the second part of your question, if you don’t mind. 

I have never ever thought any given piece I wrote to be perfect. At best, I think it’s not that bad, but that’s when I read it again a month after posting, because at the time I post it, it’s more like omfg if I read that shit one more time I’m gonna stab myself in the eye.” 

But life is too short for perfectionism. I’m sorry to be speaking like an old fart, but it is. You blink and it’s over. If you have a milligram of creativity in you, do not hesitate. Channel it. Create what you want, what you like. I’m serious. DO IT. Enjoy doing it. 

Self-doubt is a fucking bag of dicks. I’m riddled with it. In every corner of my existence. Every step of the way. Every word I type (not in my mother tongue…). How many times have I wanted to give up, especially during PTMY. The current tybtm chapter has fucking killed me dead. I hate it. It’s not good. Bad. But I’m forty fucking five years old and I’ll be damned if I let self-doubt and fear prevent me from achieving what I set out to do.

When I came back to tumblr in 2020, I saw numerous posts saying “you write for yourself first,” and I did not really understand what they meant. It’s nice to have an audience! It’s nice to be liked and validated! It’s nice to connect with people over something you’ve created. Musicians play live, and get a hell of a kick out of it, right? Why not us, writers? And one day, I think at the beginning of tybtm, it hit me. I understood. Fuck yeah I’m doing this for me. Because I need it. I need to tell this story. I need the satisfaction of having done it. The entire process makes me both incandescently happy and abysmally miserable, and you know what? That’s the fucking spice of life. I want both. I am alive when I write. Through the pleasure and the pain. So if you need it too, well, go for it. Don't let anyone, including you, tell you you're not good enough. Got for it.

There are 99% of chances that what you’re gonna write has already been written. So what? It hasn’t been written by you. No one sees people, life, or Frankie the way you do. Even if you write an age-old trope, even if you write the same trope over and over again in every story (me!), you’ll still bring your own precious singularity to the story, the characters, and the narration. That’s worth EVERYTHING. Please trust me. Maybe no one will like it. Maybe every one will like it. Whatever. At the end of the day, you still did what you set your heart on. I cannot stress enough how important this is. Carpe diem, baby.

Then, how did I improve as a writer, oh Nonnie, I’ve no idea. I don’t think I’m any good. I don’t think I am legitimate to give you any advice. 49.5% of the time, I think I’m too much (too gothic, too lyrical, too big with the feelings and emotions). 49.5% of the time, I think I’m not enough (not precise, concise, clear, good enough). But alright, I’ll try. For you. But please bear in mind I say all this in the most humble spirit.  

I write. All the time. In my head, in the shower, walking in the street, driving, aaaaaall the time. And then I type it down in a doc. And edit it and revise it again and again and again, until it feels smoother and/or I want to puke at the thought of having to go through it again. 

I try to take my time without panicking. If I’m stuck or in a bad mental place, I try to let it rest a bit.

My first year at uni, I studied screenplay writing. I would be unable to tell you precisely what I learned, but I think some of it is ingrained? In terms of conveying intentions through actions and dialogues (I know I tend to write pages and pages of introspection, and I swear I try to restrain myself, even if it doesn’t always translate to the doc).

Then, I’m an art vampire. I soak up everything I can, especially painting, music, and movies. I let it inspire me. I take notes on my feelings, fleeting emotions that I can’t articulate at first, and reflect and work on them until they become fully formed ideas I can inject in the writing. 

I read. A lot. And sometimes not at all when it feeds the self-doubt (comparison, you bitch!). I wait until I feel better, stronger. It may take time. 

With books/fanfics and movies, I analyse the narrative process employed. What I liked or disliked, what moved me, what didn’t. I take notes. To that effect, you can read reblogs of your favourite fics! Sometimes people reblog with some pretty neat analyses, just soak it up!

My obsession is finding the Right Word. I can spend days on the quest. A thesaurus helps. And sometimes it doesn’t. I also read my stuff out loud, because I like when it has a certain rhythm. And when the meaning of a sentence doesn’t work in a rhythm, I rework it tirelessly until it does. Fun times... 

I want to say that if you take the leap and start writing, after a while, you will feel instinctually what works for you. What feels right in terms of personal style. Maybe at the beginning you'll subconsciously write like someone else, but with practice and patience, your style will come out. If you need someone to cheer you on, I'm here.

Oh yeah because, very important, I whine to the very good angel friends in my phone whenever I’m stuck (they will recognise themselves if they read this)(okay they are @dreamymyrrh and @pedrit0-pascalit0). I forfeit all dignity and beg them for virtual hugs. I don't know what I did to deserve them.

And lastly, I have been privileged to witness the genius of Kelli ( @frannyzooey ) in the works and wow. She's it for me. Everything she writes resonates with me, so I just soak. it. up.  

So yeah. to sum it up: carpe diem and be a vampire 🦇

Hope that helps 🧡

I’m also gonna leave that here: 

Claire ( @just-here-for-the-moment ) is one of the best people I’ve been fortunate enough to meet here. She’s patient, sweet, kind, and SO FUCKING SMART. Don't be afraid to reach out.

Nonnie, again, I'm so sorry this is so long. I sincerely hope you'll find something useful in all this gibberish. If not, come back to my ask box with any question. And again, thank you 🧡 From the bottom of my broken vampire heart, thank you 🧡

[elialys]

hey. as a fellow writer from niche fandoms and unpopular ships, can i just say i really appreciate you being upfront about how much lack of engagement sucks. really thank you. especially because it comes from someone like you who has a fair amount of engagement, but you know what? you’re right being pissed. i know i am. i come from fandoms where people are constantly yapping about lack of content yet none of them engage w/ each other. i ended up leaving bc i felt like i was screaming to a wall. and you know what? i haven’t stopped writing, just posting. bc why bother? so yeah, i AM writing for myself, and also keeping it from myself. idc if that’s petty honestly, like no, it doesn’t make me feel any better if someone out there might end up liking it one day if they’re being completely silent about it. fandoms aren’t supposed to be one-sided. i’m fine w people not reading my stuff cause they don’t like it. you can straight up tell me you hate my ship and i will be like. cool 👍 but when people do read and like your stuff and yet never say anything, that’s something that i don’t like

anyway sorry for rambling, know that you’re much appreciated. i remember you from my doctor who days and i wish i were in your fandoms so i could keep reading your stuff. ❤️

For the longest time I didn’t say anything because I realize that in a lot of cases, I’ve had what you’d call great engagement, and I’ve always been so thankful for the love my stories have received throughout various fandoms. But the decline is STEEP these days, and I have the hindsight of having been writing/sharing fics online for two decades, so I have a lot of 'data' to compare these days’ numbers to.

That’s the thing that has always gotten to me. NUMBERS. Being so, so aware of how many people click on our fics, and how few of them actually engage with a comment. Even at my most “popular”, I didn’t get more than 5% of my readers interacting with me; it felt like a lot because I had a lot of readers, so it meant more comments, but it still was only 5%.

Like you said, it’s this knowing that people are reading, that they are coming back chapter after chapter, yet they don’t bother engaging with us, even when most of us basically BEG in author notes for them to comment and make us feel less like word spewing machines and more like creative members of their online community. What really got to me this last month was updating my fic for The Last of Us, a chapter that got 1,000 hits in two weeks, and I got 10 comments for it. I was just…how the fuck are 1,000 people reading and only 10 of them bothering? Especially since that fic had averaged 3 times that amount of comments for months on previous chapters.

Every time I get disheartened by the increasingly shitty reader engagement, I tell myself that’s it, I’m done writing fics. But then I always go back to it a few days later because I actually LOVE writing fics. Like, fuck yeah, I do write for myself and actually enjoy it for myself (in a love-hate kind of writing relationship obviously 🤣). I do it because I am in love with the characters I’m writing about, and fascinated by their dynamics and relationships, so it’s genuinely a THRILL, and my biggest passion.

But the abysmal engagement these days is just…it makes me feel like shit, there’s no other word for it. Because I spend so much time and energy on those stories (because I want to and I LOVE to write), but as a fic writer, there’s always this part of me that’s excited to be SHARING it with the fandom. Because twenty years of this have gotten me used to at least some decent interaction, and feeling like I'm part of a community. But then the hit count goes up and the comment count stays low or nearly empty, and it’s just gutting. People just consume, consume, consume.

Honestly, GOOD ON YOU for still writing while deciding not to share with your niche fandom at the moment. I’m thinking I might do the same with the rest of my Tess & Ellie AU, because I want to see it through and finish it for ME, but I’m done spoon-feeding an apathetic crowd. I’ll reach out to my most loyal readers and regular commenters when the day comes, and give them a way to read the rest of the story, might even just post the chapters straight on my blog here like I used to do, but not on AO3, not for a goooooood while.

Maybe it is petty, maybe I am just butt hurt. But fuck it, it does hurt my feelings, and I’m the one spending hours of my life writing those things, so I’ll do it my way. And I will continue to call readers out, and ask them to step up. We are human beings, not chatGPT, we just want some appreciation for sharing our art.

[nat-20s]

First flash fic!

@rocketsagan-blog prompted:

"The pets of an experimental scientist, a cat and a dog, manage to get into the lab while their human is away and manage to get into so much equipment that they manage to do some wild science-magic and now talk and understand each other. The story could begin right when they realize what has taken place. Maybe they're casual friends, maybe they hate each other? What could happen!"

~*~

It was that damned dog’s idea in the first place. I had to follow her, obviously, what kind of cat would I be if I just let her run rampant in our human’s lab by herself? Absolutely inexcusable. So, yes, I may have entered the lab while the human was away and, yes, I may have knocked over a flask or two, but I can hardly be to blame here. The mutt needed supervision. I felt it was my duty as the...premier intelligence of the house.

Of course, I could hardly do much to stop her once she started sticking that stupidly long snout in everything. She’s three times my size and, much to my chagrin, does have bigger teeth than me. Let the creature push some buttons. Once I think we’re in real troub-“Hey, do you, like, have to stand up there like you’ve got a stick up your ass or is that just a hobby of yours?”

I’m hardly proud to admit it, but I did, in fact, jump. In no reality should the walking carpet known as the dog have the ability to talk to me, but she came through loud and clear. To borrow one of my human’s particular turns of phrase, “Oh, what the ever-loving fuck?”

It was the dog’s turn to startle, and startle she did. “Since when do you talk?”

“I’ve always talked! It’s you that’s being making those...those abysmal grunts!”

“Excuse me?! Where the hell are you coming from? I know the kind of noises you make at the birds and you don’t exactly sound like sunshine.”

The dog wanted a fight. I suppose to be slightly fair, I also wanted a fight. One scratch against that good for nothing’s muzzle and she wouldn’t be freaking me out with her speech any time soon. “Listen up you mange-ridden flea-bitten half-crazed-”

“Fuck off. We’ve been in the same house for years, there’s no damn way that one of us would have mange OR fleas while the other wouldn’t.”

“I notice you didn’t exactly refute half-crazed.”

“Bite me.”

“I’m strongly considering it.”

Much to my amazement, this made her laugh. Huh. Not the terrible, retching laugh I expected, in all honesty. It wasn’t even mocking. Perhaps she didn’t know how or perhaps she just. Wasn’t mocking.

Well, I can hardly say if this little..development is going to be an improvement to the household situation, but at the very least it’s sure to be interesting.

[barbwillbrb]

A little nervous rant coming under the cut because I got a lot of thoughts. Tw: weight loss, health issues*

*UPDATED TAG FROM “HEALTH” TO “HEALTH ISSUES” BECAUSE NOW MY FYP KEEPS RECOMMENDING ME ED BLOGS DISGUISES AS “FITNESS”

I AM SICK AND SCARED YOU FUCKS.

When you’ve been casting aside the shitty awful way you’ve been feeling because “eh, I’m probably just overly stressed/being a baby” only to find out “hey actually something may be wrong here let’s check you out.”

I finally went to the doctor today to try and figure out why tf I can’t seem to eat anything without immediately getting sick (nausea/stomach pain) afterwards. My appetite has been abysmal for weeks now. I have been so, so tired and weak, and have had to miss out on a lot of cool opportunities/events because I physically don’t have the strength to go. This is not like me. I also know I should have gone sooner, but it’s really easy to just… minimize what you’re dealing with if you have other shit going on. I just kept writing it off to external stressors making me a little burned out but nothing extreme.

At my appointment today I was told I dropped a lot of weight in a few short months and that terrifies me. Hearing the numbers, having it explained by a doctor put it into focus that this is not in my head, but very real and affecting my body.

Here’s hoping in the end I’ve just been too burned out/stressed and that’s all that has me messed up. I’m waiting on some lab results, and at least I have some anti-nausea medication.

also woohoo my period arrived as well so I am extra moody while I sit with this info.

[lovestuckyhatemarvel]

Fair warning: I’m watching this in bits and pieces because TWO HOURS AND TWENTY TWO MINUTES AND 24 SECONDS FOR A SEASON FINALE IS BONKERS STUPID.

Putting a read more because this episode is long and therefore this post is super long.

1.) Yuri just removed something from the helicopter, which is extremely rude and potentially stupid.

2.) I’ve decided I hate Yuri.

3.) the audio balancing of this show is garbage.

4.) Hey, did we need this Joyce and Hopper changing simultaneously scene???? Like at all??? It’s not very good filmmaking and this season finale is OVER TWO HOURS LONG.

5.) Also I know they think it’s funny to have Joyce be in a Hulk Hogan shirt during the scene, but I think it just is off.

6.) This flirting session would be better if this finale WAS NOT OVER TWO HOURS LONG. And the reason it’s happening is because Netflix is avoiding syndication.

7.) Robin knelt to boost Nancy lmao.

8.) I still stand by the ‘Make him pay’ moment mirroring Han and Luke’s interaction. Anyway, I want Steve and Eddie to smooch.

9.) Yeah I’m skipping the intro. Chop chop. We’ve got 2 hours left.

10.) Would have been fun for Kali and her group to show up for the finale.

11.) Mind Fight.

12.) Argyle was cryptic.

13.) Did we actually need a scene of Max, Lucas, and Erica searching for Vecna? We know what they’re doing and what their plan is. We don’t actually need to have our hands held this fucking much. Fourteen year olds don’t either. I promise high schoolers can follow context clues sometimes.

14.) Oh come the fuck on. A guy just HAPPENS to be walking his dog past the abandoned goddamn Creel house so that their location is compromised????????

15.) Oh, Hopper knows El is fighting a monster in Hawkins with Joyce’s kids.

16.) Oh my god, the particles are just in Russia just for this bullshit so they can fight it.

17.) are all surfer boy employees stoners????

18.) Metal concert ahoy. I’m taking a break.

19.) okay session number two. Eddie’s putting sweetheart on. Also I’m realizing that people who have someone bring Sweetheart back from the upside down are wicked overthinking things. He’s playing the upside down version.

20.) Steve crawled. backward as a baby and I can’t focus on that because Im’ realizing the LIGHTING AND THE AUDIO BALANCING ON THIS SHOW ARE GARBAGE.

21.) Steve suffered head trauma as a baby that could have killed him. Isn’t that funny?

22.) I love Nancy and Steve being friends but acting like Nancy and Steve did each other favors at the end of their relationship is stupid.

23.) Ugh, the confession. I DON’T WANT THEM TOGETHER. STEVE DOESN’T WANT THEM TOGETHER. HE SAID HE WASN’T INLOVE WITH HER LAST SEASON UNER TRUTH SERUM. I have a conspiracy theory that the Duffers saw people shipping Steve/Eddie and went, “Fuck, gotta try to force Stancy.” But also I don’t remember nor do I care to check when part 1 and part 2 of this simultaneously short and abysmally long season aired.

24.) why did Erica need to signal the group outside? Was it just to give a rando a chance to spot Erica?

25.) IDK how Hopper, Joyce, and Murray didn’t anticipate that maybe the demogorgon they helped get out might have killed a fuckload of people.

26.) “I was told the Peanut Butter Smuggler was once a great man.” HEY DUFFERS, DID FUCKING NONE OF YOU REALIZE THIS LINE IS GODDAMN STUPID? Like and I know it’s not supposed to be a joke! The framing is serious! The performance is serious! The music is damn near inspirational! IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY. And all this happened because you guys just had to advertise fucking JIF of all goddamn things. JIF Peanut Butter, something I don’t even think would be popular in the 80s in Russia in the fucking first place!!!!!!!!

27.) The very blue lighting of this scene fro Max and Lucas is bad.

28.) Can we talk about the Duffers’ love of having a straight couple promise each other a future Friday date only for the season finale to fuck with it? I Haven’t seen this episode, but I know it happens. That’s two seasons in a goddamn row, you dipshits.

29.) Vecna has been hiding out in the attic all goddamn season long. Why is he suddenly downstairs for the finale? Oh right, it’s to make the plan easier to screw with.

30.) My roommate asked me why I wasn’t watching this on 1.5 speed during my last viewing and I’m wondering the same.

31.) Mike in the sunglasses is being pretty cute.

32.) Of course Mike gets interrupted. Because Duffers haven’t met a cliche they didn’t wanna fuck.

33.) LMAO WHAT? Wait, that lego up the nose story was just to be like ‘YOU USED TO COME TO ME FOR HELP?’ How is Jonathan suddenly so shit at talking to Will???

34.) oh my god stop mentioning the lego up the nose. I cannot stand that this ‘you can come out to me’ speech has legos up the nose.

35.) Time to go into Max’s brain.

36.) Oh now they’re going into the attic.

37.) Of course Max’s plan isn’t working. The Duffers hate it when a plan comes together.

38.) I hate this blue lighting. It’s digital and it sucks.

39.) I still think a much more interesting storyline would be these kids forgiving themselves for human emotions, even ugly ones. Especially because this puritanical ‘thought crimes are real and bad’ schtick is stupid.

40.) lmao what is the point of going back to Will, Mike, and Jonathan just to show them react to what El is saying????

41.) These pizzeria shots could have been cut.

42.) Initiating Phase 3.

43.) Eddie’s fantastic performance.

44.) The song choice is great but I also still fucking hate that Jason got told how to find Erica, Max, and Lucas at all. Like, this is just fucking annoying.

45.) All these images are happening way too rapidly to be anything other than chaotic noise. Like, nothing has room to breathe.

46.) You two idiots, stop screaming about most metal ever. You’re hiding from things that are attracted by sound.

47.) oh no. Everything escaped. Whoever would have guessed that everything escaped in the Russian prison?

48.) Of course the guy died before he could answer who the shadow went into.

49.) Steve’s very good at hopping around shitty CGI vines.

50.) It’s super jarring going from a memory where there’s ALL THE LIGHTING to scenes where it’s all digitally dark and blue BACK TO BRIGHT MEMORIES.

51.) Balloons popping into blood? Someone’s seen IT.

52.) WE DID NOT NEED THIS MUCH BUILD UP TO EL AND MAX GETTING TO THE SAME DREAM. THIS EPISODE IS ALREADY TOO FUCKING LONG. TRIM SHIT. Have it be easier for El to get to Max in her mind BECAUSE THEY’RE ACTUALLY FRIENDS, YOU DUMB PIECES OF SHIT.

53.) I hate Jason Carver so fucking much. Like I hated BIlly and wasn’t sad when he died, but I didn’t actively want him to die, tbh. Just didn’t wanna save him. Jason, I wanna push through a wood chipper.

54.) Hopper is bait.

55.) “This time, it’s gonna be different.” God, I wish, but no, this show is still shit. Actually, wait, no, this show did get somehow SHOCKINGLY worse.

56.) Back to back. Eddie and Dustin. Bros bros bros.

57.) oh suddenly Eddie knows to be quiet.

58.) Vent. All the vents in this show are so huge. And also the bats got smaller because they needed to fit in. The bats from previous scenes didn’t look like they’d fit.

59.) EARTHQUAKE. Because we have time for this shit. JUST GET THIS TRIO TO VECNA. OH MY GOD. Oh wait, Robin’s against a a wall. Steve’s against a wall. RObin’s on the floor and now on a wall. Nothing is going right.

60.) Joyce seems actively stressed out by Hopper heading down a flickering corridor. I’m actively stressed out by how badly paced this all is.

61.) here here doggy doggy doggy. Brennan Lee Mulligan voice: I’m gonna kill that dog.

62.) Blocked one vent. Took the bats exactly 2 seconds to find another vent????? Somewhere?????? Impossible to see in this shitty digital lighting.

63.) Did not know that Eddie starts to climb before he realizes the door is about to burst. Ah, I can see him having a big damn hero realization before he cuts it. RACING AWAY ON A BIKE. Goodbye new lovable character that was doomed by the narrative because Duffers hate new people.

64.) hey why has El not actually gotten to Max yet? It’s been so fucking long.

65.) Vecna is boring.

66.) Oh, Max is pinned to the wall like Vecna was.

67.) God, Jason Carver is so fucking pathetic.

68.) “Normal’s just.a raging psychopath.” No, that’s not true either, Lucas. The duffers just are still really mad no one wanted to date them in high school. And no one wanted to date them in high school because they’re stupid sexist creeps with no real grasp on narrative structure.

69.) “But in the end” - Vecna. Me “IT DOESN’T EVEN MATTER, HUH?” I mean, that’s not the words he said, but he might as well have.

70.) oh hi El, nice of you to finally fucking join.

71.) goddamn it just let El be powerful enough to beat Vecna. Have this goddamn show end in season 4.

72.) more biking. Dustin’s about to fall from a ceiling. Yeah, that was a bone crunch sound effect.

73.) Eddie stopped running and I don’t know why. He could have just kept drawing them away.

74.) Hopper’s running from a demodog.

75.) Erica’s running to the house as Jason Carver tries to kill Lucas. HE HIT LUCAS WITH A GODDAMN VASE.

76.) I think I ship Mike/Will and El/Max/Lucas.

77.) Vecna is so raspy. Drink some tea, bud.

78.) IF YOU TOUCH HER AGAIN, I WILL KILL YOU AGAIN. Okay that loses its bite at the end.

79.) And immediately El is losing. LMAO DID WE NEED TO CUT TO MIKE GOING, ‘SHE’S FIGHTING HIM’??? LIKE YEAH, BITCH, WE KNOW. WE CAN FUCKING SEE IT.

80.) Should have rally given Eddie and Dustin some fire.

81.) why is Vecna so overpowered??? EL HAS KILLED A LOT OF PEOPLE TOO. THIS WHOLE POWER JUSTIFICATION THING IS SO STU PID.

82.) can Max get knocked out inside her own head?????

83.) El got sent into Vecna’s mind and dragged up. I literally hate this scene so much and have no respect for it.

84.) Max is being carried into Vecna’s mind. Glad we’re all here. Also yeah, somehow Max’s mind is knocked out?????????????

85.) It’d be fucking hilarious if ‘Papa is dead’ had stopped Vecna.

86.) And by hilarious, I mean it would make more sense than all this shit. “He is the monster, Henry, not you.” Babe that ship sailed after he murdered a ton of children.

87.) I STILL HAVE AN HOUR LEFT. Vecna is blaming EL for doing this??????????????????????? FUCK HENRY. THAT’S SO GODDAMN STUPID.

88.) there’s literally no reason for Henry to have survived getting struck by lightning a bunch in the upside down.

89.) ‘unspooled by mankind’. Both you and Thanos can take your bullshit and jump off a cliff. Neither of you understand shit about fuck.

90.) LMAO WHAT? HENRY MADE THE MIND FLAYER LOOK LIKE THAT BECAUSE HE’S INTO SPIDERS? GO FUCK Y OURSELVES. GO FUCK YOURSELVES. GO FUCK YOURSELVES.

91.) If Vecna is so powerful, it’s stupid that he would need El’s powers and kill 4 teens to get out.

92.) Montage of everyone getting their shit handed to them over Vecna’s annoying speech.

93.) Jason is fucking strangling Lucas. What the fuck?

94.) how is there still 52 minutes left and why did the vine that wrapped around El’s neck look particularly stupid? God, I’m taking a break.

95.) Okay it went back to showing me the vine going around El’s neck again so I need to note how bad it looks. Again.

96.) “Don’t be afraid.” THAT’S NEVER WORKED.

97.) Why HAND SO BIG? Like HOW DID BEING IN THE UPSIDE DOWN MAKE HIS HAND SO BIG? Oh also his head is smooth like an egg.

98.) I’m fine with being shown the pizza crew pulling El out of the bath. That makes sense to show.

99.) ????? Hey Will??? Since fucking when is Mike the goddamn heart?????

100.) Listen, as sweet as this Mike speech is, I kind of wish El had believed in herself without her boyfriend giving her a pep talk about believing in her.

101.) Lucas starts getting the upper hand in this fucking blue lit room just as El gets free.

102. Goofy fucking limb breaks.

103.) Henry flying back is hilarious.

104.) Joyce using the fucking stun thing was neat.

105.) Seriously, how did the Russians have so many goddamn creatures???????

106.) Things are turning around. Sort of. Thanks for burning the fucking monsters.

107.) why the fuck is there a sword in this Russian prison?????????????????????? LIKE WHERE THE FUCK DID THAT EVEN COME FROM?

108.) Can y’all stop making a meal out of killing Vecna and just fucking do it already?

109.) LMAO (epic synth arrangement of Running Up That Hill) Thanks subtitles for telling me that. For the record, it’s not as good as the original or most covers.

110.) Vecna burning again.

111.) So, Max is awake in Lucas’ arms and the teen trio is attacking Vecna. This should feel epic to watch them fight Vecna while Hopper sword fights a demogorgon but it’s….so boring. So stupid. And honestly super fucking unearned. I’m also, even with breaks, fucking exhausted of this show. Fucking end already.

112.) Hopper and Joyce are hugging as a helicopter arrives from Yuri, who I guess had a change of heart offscreen. The place all the interesting things happen.

113.) Eddie is dying because he was too good for this story. Actually, why the fuck is he dying???? This doesn’t actually make any fucking sense. Like I’m so baffled that I can’t actually be sad. Anyway, I feel less bad for not mentioning basically any of this shit in my fanfic.

114.) The duffers can bring him back. Especially since straight up, his dying makes no goddamn sense. He was injured, yeah. He was having a very bad time. BUT NOTHING HE WENT THROUGH LOOKED FUCKING FATAL BITCH GOT KILLED BY THE PLOT, NOT ANYTHING IN IT.

115.) Lucas tells Erica to get an ambulance.

116.) Hey why the fuck is Max doing so badly???? None of this makes any goddamn sense.

117.) This blue light is impeding my ability to care and that says a lot since I cry over butter commercials.

118.) The clock chiming to let the teens know Max died was interesting at least.

119.) JASON CARVER FULLY GOT CUT IN HALF. WHY DO SO MANY PEOPLE HAVE HIM BE ALIVE????

120.) I am glad Jason Carver got cut in half.

121.) Can we talk about how there’s definitely been 4 gates open at one time before and it didn’t do shit? Why do these 4 suddenly matter?

122.) Damn, everyone’s commutes are gonna suck in the morning. Town got an x through it.

123.) Everyone waiting for El to wait up so she can be like, “Max beefed it because she read the script.”

124.) El touches Max and ??????????? Max reads the script again and okay finally I’m getting emotional and it’s over flashbacks to seasons that sucked less, Yeah, I ship El/Max/Lucas. Fight me.

125.) lmao fucking what? TWO DAYS LATER. God this show is so badly made.

126.) Droves of people leaving Hawkins as a pizza van arrives.

127.) 7.4 earthquake. Hold on, gotta google something. 7.4 is major but not the highest level. I don’t know why I think it’s so fucking funny that it doesn’t beat the highest on record. The highest is 9.5 in 1960 Chile, btw.

128.) ‘A natural disaster of near-unprecedented scale’. It’s literally not in the top 10 of actual history you dumb fucks. ALSO THERE ARE ONLY 22 DEAD. NO OFFENSE BUT THIS IS NOT UNPRECEDENTED. IT’S PRECEDENTED. THERE’S A SCALE. 22 IS SAD, BUT IT’S NOT, PARDON THE PUN, GROUNDBREAKING.

129.) Also the satanic cult shit is still so stupid. Satanic panic was fake. Even Criminal Minds knows that.

130.) WHAT HAVE THEY DONE TO DESERVE SO MUCH SUFFERING? HOLY SHIT, WHAT REPORTER TALKS LIKE THAT?

131.) Reunion.

132.) ???? Why would El need to ask why Lucas is at the hospital?????? She literally knows what happened to Max????? WHO EDITED THIS EPISODE?????

133.) Max is in a hospital bed.

134.) “Her heart stopped for over a minute.” She probably could be fine.

135.) Why is El not admitting she did this?

136.) How is there 20 minutes left???? Why do we need to see Steve, Robin, and Dustin taking donations to the high school???? Do we need to watch them do volunteer work?

137.) Vickie is cute but because they’ve like, not at all interacted, I don’t actually care if her and Robin get together. Also they are kind of two samesies.

138.) Steve is such a proud best friend though.

139.) Dustin talking to Wayne and having to tell that sad old man that Eddie was killed by the Duffers for no good reason.

140.) Duffers, people did love him. This speech is just annoying because it was unnecessary.

141.) Jesus Christ, this episode is STILL GOING?????????????????

142.) The cabin needs more than the cleaning supplies that Nancy has. Also, Steve Harrington’s parents still like, don’t exist, so why doesn’t El just hide out with him?

143.) Hey, Jonathan, don’t be a dick to Steve.

144.) Will really does have spidey senses.

145.) HOOOOOOW ISSSSSS VECNA ALIVEEEEEEEEE?

146.) Black car approaches while El has emotions over a coke bottle that she played games with Max with. Stop using Coca Cola as emotional beats.

147.) Hopper and El reunion. What the fuck is Hopper wearing???????

148.) Matching father daughter hairdos.

149.) Joyce and El are so cute.

150.) Mike and Hopper were kind of cute.

151.) The amount I’ve seen the back of Will’s neck is weird.

152.) Sky darkening. Shit drifting from teh sky. Uh oh. Upside down is here.

153.) We get everyone’s reaction shots to it. THIS EPISODE IS TOO FUCKING LONG.

154.) I’m gonna buy the Duffers an intro to storytelling book or something. This is garbage.

155.) THe ash kills plants, I guess.

156.) If the Duffers have it so that this is actually a big loop and the upside down is actually Hawkins in the future, I’m gonna hunt them for sport.

Do I actually need to spell out I hated this season? It’s bad. The writing is bad, the characterization is weird, the plot is convoluted, the pacing is worse, the lighting is fucking atrocious, the CGI is hideous, and I DO NOT CARE ABOUT VECNA. VECNA IS SO BOOOOOOOOOOORING. Like !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! FUCK OFF WITH THIS EVIL CHILD OBSESSED WITH SPIDERS SHIT. MAYBE THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN INTERESTING TO ME WHEN I WAS 8 BUT THERE’S NOTHING EVIL ABOUT SPIDERS. They’re important part of the ecosystem, but they also are a lesson, if you actually pay attention, IN EVERYTHING HAVING ITS PLACE. HENRY CREEL IS A SHIT EDGELORD WHO DOESN’T UNDERSTAND SPIDERS OR FUCKING ANYTHING ELSE.

That was a goddamn waste of time. Definitely not watching season 5.

[eden-005]

Let me out

               Do things always work out in the end? They don’t, they never do, at least for me. I know how that sounds, it sounds like I’m trying to make a martyr out of myself, “oh no, my life sucks, I’m sad”, but I have proof to back up what I’m saying. I was raped, then I forgot I was, and then I remembered. Great stuff, isn’t it? It is such wonder to have the same image burned again and again into your mind. As everyone has been telling me for the past year “things are gonna get better”, except they didn’t, I still feel as shitty and guilty, dirty and lost, I feel like I’ve lost control over my life, not that I had that much to begin with. It’s been almost a year and a half, when the fuck is it gonna get better? I’m not even asking for good, just for something slightly better, it would be nice not to wake up in the middle of the night because my nightmares about that day getting more and more real. Still, there are times where it does get a teeny tiny bit better, bet it usually doesn’t last more than a couple hours, a day if I’m lucky. But some shit always happens to get me back to square one, always, things always get worse in the end.

               At some point, as any other person would’ve, I got tired of it, I decided to take away my own life. I couldn’t even succeed at that, I failed miserably, but still spent two days at the damn hospital. Statistics say that most of the people that attempt suicide regret almost immediately, I did, do not. The only thing I regret is calling the suicide prevention helpline, if only I hadn’t, I’d be dead by now, I’d be free. They did ask me if I regretted my actions before letting me go, I told the doctors the truth, which is probably what made them want to put me in a psychiatric hospital, it didn’t work out, and it’s better that way, I doubt it could’ve helped me, I’m already a prisoner inside my own mind, I really didn’t, and don’t, need to be one in real life too. Now I’m being forced to live a life that isn’t my own one that I clearly don’t enjoy living in, but hey, at least, once in a blue moon, things get slightly better for a day, and then they get abysmally worse. Today is one of those days, but today’s also worse than usual, because things didn’t get slightly better for a couple of hours, or a full day, they got slightly better for a whole ass week, and as they say, the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

               To be fair, it’s not like taking me back to square one is hard, the tiniest inconvenience is more than enough. A week ago, I got invited to a party, “finally, I get to worry about something my age” I dumbly thought. And worry I did, as normal people do, without overthinking things that much, for fuck’s sake, I even went shopping with my mother, the fact that I was able to survive that is undeniable proof that things were better. Sadly, the party got canceled, no big deal, right? Shit happens, right? That’s the rational reaction, but I’m not rational, I’m an overthinker, so I overthought. Maybe I was invited by mistake, and this was a way to make sure I didn’t go, or perhaps it was just a cruel joke, it could also be that the party was just cancel, but I doubt that, there’s not that many things I’m sure about, but if had to bet on the one thing I know for sure is that I’m a hardly likeable character. I feel like such a fool for believing that I could be social, for believing that, if only for a night, that I could have a normal life for someone my age, for imagining that people are actually able to appreciate my company.

               In the beginning I tried coping, I decided to still go out, for a walk or something, instead I hooked up with a total stranger. I got distracted while it lasted, but immediately after I got dragged back to reality, so I went home, where I spent an hour and a half researching easy, fast and painless ways to die, but I don’t have neither poison nor a gun. Then I started writing this, but I don’t really see the point anymore, who do I think I am? I’m just another sad and frustrated teenager, there’s millions more of those. I don’t like myself, well, which seventeen-year-old does? Sure, I have trauma, but who doesn’t? I don’t see why I would have a right to complain, even if that’s exactly what I’m doing.

               I really don’t see the point in trying anymore, I should have the right to choose when to die, I should be able to stop my own suffering, but no, people think being alive even if you’re in a constant state of suffering is better than being dead, but it’s always happy people that think that. What about hell and heaven? My thoughts on that are simple, they don’t exist, and even if they did, I’m going straight to hell anyway, I’m a bad person and I doubt I’d change if I stayed alive. The worse part of all this is that the only reason people around me don’t want me to die isn’t because life is great and all that shit, but because my dead would make them feel guilty or sad, so they want me to suffer for their own selfish reasons. Granted, I also want to die for selfish reasons, but at least I’m honest about them.

[randomboo256]

Crash Bandicoot: N. Sane Trilogy (2017) Review [Part One]

The past days I've been slowly going through the world of Crash Bandicoot as I reviewed Crash Bandicoot, Crash Bandicoot 2, Crash Bandicoot 3, and Crash Team Racing. All of which was based on their original Playstation releases. I highly recommend reading those reviews first for context. However, only focusing on the Playstation versions of these games isn't really being all that helpful due to a pair of releases that came out comparatively recently. But first, let's take a step back and see how we even got here.

Crash Bandicoot was a game published by Sony Computer Entertainment, and the titular character later became a mascot of sorts for the console it was on: the Playstation. The original Crash games were developed by a studio called Naughty Dog, however they eventually quit making Crash games. Despite that, the series kept going. On all platforms too.. what? Why are Crash Bandicoot games coming out on Nintendo consoles, Xbox consoles, and even PC? What’s happening? Did Sony do this? Well, no. You see, despite Naughty Dog creating the games and the characters and Sony publishing them, Universal Interactive (yes that Universal) owned the series. Ok, so a long time ago Naughty Dog made a weird fighting game called Way of the Warrior for the 3DO. Despite it's obscurity, this game is shockingly important because after finishing it, Naughty Dog displayed it at the Consumer Electronics Show in search of a publisher. After a bidding war, Universal Interactive won the rights to it. Universal liked it so much that they contracted Naughty Dog to make three more games for them. Those three games ended up being, of course, the Crash Bandicoot trilogy. Before that though, Naughty Dog needed to pick a console to develop the next game on. They thought the Playstation looked “sexy” so they started development for that. After a demonstration from Naughty Dog, Sony agreed to publish and partially fund the game. But Naughty Dog made 4 Crash games right? If they already made an extra one, they could just make more, right? Well in theory, but Naughty Dog thought that Universal was too difficult to communicate with. They had a great relationship with Sony Computer Entertainment though. They were so close in fact that only two years after CTR, Sony outright purchased Naughty Dog, firmly establishing their place as part of the Playstation family. 

After Naughty Dog quit, Sony published one more Crash Bandicoot game: Crash Bash. I haven’t really played Crash Bash personally, but from what I’ve heard it’s just a sub-par party game. After that, Universal decided to stop letting Sony publish Crash in favor of publishing the series on all platforms, with the first one being Crash Bandicoot: The Wrath of Cortex. People didn’t like that game, and I didn’t either. I’m not going to talk too much about this game mostly because it's already been mocked to death and also because it’d be kinda redundant. That’s because Wrath of Cortex is literally just a one to one ripoff of Crash Bandicoot 3, even down to the hub world. Except it’s like they saw my review of Crash 3 and said “Hey, what if we took every problem Crash 3 had and made them even worse?”. The platforming is worse because the camera is awful and they messed up the slide somehow. You have to like release the slide button and THEN jump, which is just awkward. Other than that the platforming is playable, but you rarely get to do it. Even more of the game is random bullshit now. Well over half of your playtime will be spent in those vehicle segments. While I didn’t care for the vehicles in Crash 3 because they distracted from the platforming, they were mostly just tolerable filler. In Wrath of Cortex, they all suck soo much ass. They all fucking suck and they're damn near unplayable. I kinda like the ball rolling, but that’s it. They also brought back Crash 2’s awful jetpack. They not only brought back Crash 3’s abysmal underwater stages, but 1. There’s even more of them. and 2. They’re even worse! You get this submarine which is so slow you can’t dodge the obstacles! Anyway, enough ranting. Wrath of Cortex sucks, but that’s no hot take. Everyone knows that, and it’s not just this game. Most Crash games after Naughty Dog left were less than stellar. Even the best one, Twinsanity, was so incredibly rushed that the final result was unpolished and had a lot of cut content. Needless to say, Crash fans weren’t happy, and after a disastrous reboot, they just wanted a simple return to the classics. 

Meanwhile, Universal was eventually merged with Vivendi, who owned a bunch of studios including Blizzard Entertainment. The combined new studio became known as "Vivendi Games". Fast forward to the late 2000s, Activision was foaming at the mouth over the idea of microtransactions and other recurring fees to the gaming consumer, and therefore were dying to get their hands on World of Warcraft, a Blizzard game. Vivendi Games was struggling at that time, so the two companies merged, forming into the public menace we now know as Activision Blizzard. But what about our favorite orange marsupial? Well he had games throughout the 2000s, but after the merger he slowly grew silent. In 2011, Activision Blizzard released a game called Skylanders: Spyro’s Adventure. Poor Spyro, but that’s a story for another day isn’t it? Skylanders was made by Toys for Bob alongside other companies, most notably Vicarious Visions. In 2016, the final Skylanders game was released, and it had the long awaited yet melancholic return of Crash Bandicoot. His portion of the game was developed by Vicarious Visions. Announced alongside his inclusion however was a full from the ground up remake of the entire classic Crash trilogy. Months later we got a trailer and a name: Crash Bandicoot: N. Sane Trilogy.

Most people these days play this games in the N. Sane Trilogy, rather than their original Playstation releases so I feel I have to cover it. I'm not going to go super in depth with each game, because I already have done that with my reviews of the originals. Instead, I'm just going to focus on what makes the N. Sane Trilogy different.

Let’s start with the obvious: the graphics. Obviously they’re higher fidelity and they can certainly look quite nice at times, however they're far from perfect. Firstly, I simply don’t think that this realistic artstyle fits Crash Bandicoot. These characters were designed with a low poly, low resolution PS1 game with a far off camera in mind. Crash has big eyes, big eyebrows, and a big mouth so that he can be expressive in a way that still reads when looking at the game from a crappy CRT television. When you put this character in HD with realistic graphics where you can make out every hair on his little bandicock he just looks awful. He looks far better when he's very stylized, ala Crash 4. Even the rest of the graphics just look wrong to me. Something about how some of these levels look just feels off. It doesn't help that the game is also locked to 30fps on every console. For a modern day release, that's not acceptable. Especially considering that neither N. Sane Trilogy nor Nitro Fueled (which trust me I'll get back to) got PS5/Series X upgrades. Considering that even a modest computer like mine can hit 60fps on the PC port of N. Sane, there's absolutely no reason why next gen consoles couldn't also hit that same benchmark. Overall the N. Sane Trilogy only came out like 6 years ago and it already looks really dated to me. I honestly prefer the more timeless look of the originals. Well graphics aside, let’s go through each game one by one:

[Continued in Part Two]

[kthynes]

husband for hire (2)

18+

previously

There’s some ground rules and a sweet assemblage of affirmations. You’d hate to hear it.

warnings: course language, mentions of arranged marriage. fake husband/wife trope. Mafia!Lloyd x fem!reader (non-descriptive).

word count: ~2.1k

authors note: I’ve been going through a bit of a mental break and decided to write after a long time. It’s not written in my usual flowery flow so hopefully it makes sense and is coherent to some degree.

This has not been beta’d — any mistakes are my own.

Everyone had big little lies. Yours was just that and some. Maybe your dilly dally approach was untelling of time and place. But more so than not, Lloyd was an equal opportunist, playing your game with the same insouciant vigour.

“So what now?” He shifts against the vinyl seating, knees spread far apart, chin tucked in as he gazes through his lashes with a slight grin. It’s trifling how enigmatic his aura was around you. Almost as if to say that he’ll always have an eye on you. But he’s far more observant than that. “Nice baby gun by the way.”

He casually points at your thigh where the outline of your pistol that was strapped under your evening gown.

His face changes, genuine curiosity takes flight. “Do you always carry and conceal… poorly?”

“Only when I have to.” You reach under and yank out the revolver that was snagged in between the garter. Lloyd’s smirk widens as the small, toy weapon lands on the upholstery next to you. “But then again I’m not meant to be in this rodeo.”

“Well in that case I might have to get you something better then.” He hums. “Bigger perhaps?”

A double entendre? Gross.

“How ‘bout we start with a ring first.” You preamble, sniffing at his staunchness. Lloyd’s pinky ring admonished your ring finger in place of a lie. It was the least he could do given the circumstances and no one seemed to have bat an eye. “Something more shiner and made of diamonds, perhaps.”

“That can definitely be arranged.” He laughs, realizing the day has come for him to be somewhat of an honest man. But his signet band was a perfect fit minus the fact that it was a bit lacklustre and worn down.

“Why’d you agree to this?” You flummox while taking an unsteady breath. Everything’s uncomfortable, even his goading glare.

“Because you asked.”

“Just like that?” He simply nods and you let out an aghast little, “Huh?”

“I can see the wheels turning.” He crows. “It’s not that deep, mi luna.” His moon. Opposite of day and befitting to how you unscrew your beautiful face.

“Yeah right.“ You look out the window to be blinded by abysmal darkness. “Also is there a McDonald’s nearby? Because I’m fucking starving.”

Lloyd squints, there's some misjudgment and humour interlaced behind a slight grin.

“There’s a ruddy little diner coming up.” He answers with poise. “Does that work?”

“As long as I’m fed.”

“Hey Sergio, can you make a quick stop at Mama’s.” Lloyd says over the intercom that’s placed by the partition. Wordlessly, the driver reroutes and the ride becomes guided through your silent reverie.

Lloyd’s watchful as you fidget in a swathe of satin and sweat. You’re not used to being someone’s focus, attention, even desire. But he takes it upon himself to be dignified, to show some empathy for someone like you— a conning escapist and his best mistake.

He opens his mouth to say, more so ask something but then the town car comes to a stop.

“We’re here.” You relieve, already one foot out the door. Lloyd’s jaw shifts as you flit over to the abandoned establishment. “You sure this place is open for business?”

“It’s where I do business.” Lloyd patiently explains from a few feet back. He looks to Sergio and nods, their exchange is a little stoic, trained code that you don’t pay much attention to.

“So the food is probably subpar?”

“I wouldn’t say that earshot away.” He stifles a small laugh and guides you in, hand on the square of your back that immediately stiffens to the touch. “Have an open appetite and you might be surprised.” He comments under his breath.

The door chimes ping to a midsummer palladium. There’s mismatching futon and aisles of brown oak booths lined with floral seating. It was giving kitschy Dior.

“Onja.” Lloyd greets a quick working geriatric woman with silvery blonde hair and a moon shaped face. She appears out of nowhere, barely out of breath.

“Lloyd.” She fondly announces, arms wide open, fashioning a freshly stained apron. The exchange is uncalled for. But truly they were right at home and he’s beguiling her like old times.

“Is the kitchen open, ma?”

“For you?” She hums and haws, surprised he has to even ask.

“Not me. But for her.” He cocks his head towards you, slyly holding you to it as the exception.

“Oh!” She first looks at Lloyd a little too cheekily. Like a mother apprehending her son whose aimlessly asking for one too many favors. “Of course. Come! Sit anywhere! I’ll be right there.” Onja proclaims, hop skipping away as you both stand parallel to one another.

“She thinks I’m your bed mate doesn’t she?” You turn to the choosy mobster. His grin grows tenfold.

“Bed mate?” He snorts, inadvertently exuberant. “More like a growing pain in my ass.”

You huff and stumble into a random booth, furthest away from the window and right next to the kitchen. While tucking yourself in, Lloyd scans the area before sliding off his dress coat. Onja brings around a pitcher of water as he’s slowly undressing himself to some duress.

“Water.” She states, wiping her wet hands against the rag.

“Thank you, greatly.” Lloyd lifts his brows, expressing his highest gratitude. Onja shuffles on her feet, smiling briefly before seeding an apologetic grimace.

“So I just checked the kitchen and I have to inform you that we are out of a lot of things—“

“We’ll have whatever’s leftover then.” Lloyd interrupts and then quirks up. “Actually, do you have a pot of your French Onion?”

“Soup?” You croak, making a face.

“Yes!” Onja excitedly answers. “Two soups OK?”

“Just one. I’m good.” He confirms and the kind woman becomes relieved.

“Coming up!” She gusts, scurrying away. You’re soured, disbelieving of his actions.

“Fix your face.” Lloyd commands as he unrolls cutlery for you from across the booth.

“I don’t want soup.” You say in a nasally tone.

“Just try it.” He calmly coaxes you. There’s a quiet stillness, you’re irritated as can be. With quick work, Onja appears again with a small, antique cauldron and some serviettes.

“Here you are.” She places the piping hot bowl in front of you. “Is there anything else I can get you Mr. Hansen?”

Lloyd assured her all was good. For now.

“Have at it.”

“No.” You stubbornly state, arms folded across your chest. He lets out a loud exhale and starts plating your meal for you. The soup is aromatic and cheesy. Fresh and mouth watering. Your stomach growled. He ladles a small portion into a bowl and pushes it forward.

“One bite. Or slurp.” He corrects himself while slipping in a spoon. “You got this.”

“It looks like sewer water.”

“Delicious sewer water.”

“Is this what you get?” You start stirring the soup. Scooping and pouring the liquid into the bowl, distracted by your most intrusive thoughts.

“I don’t eat here.” He jokes, absolutely deadpanned. Meanwhile, Onja quietly settles by and places a small steaming Pinming cup in front of him. He thanks her yet again. “But Sergio seems to love it.”

“It’d make sense if you had a fondness for it.”

“I mean you and I don’t make sense yet here we are.” There’s a swift pause as he looks at you coyly. “Now eat.”

You’re far from humbled but reluctantly so you take your first sip. It’s good. Too good to speak as you shovel more into your mouth. Your hunger becomes insatiable.

“Have it with the challah loaf as well.” Lloyd comments into his mug. You obediently dip the Jewish egg bread into the savoury bath and take another bite. “How’s it?”

“Good.”

“Just that?” He snickers.

“Sooo good.” You exaggerate in between mouthfuls. He’s observing your every move like a silent pariah. And maybe it was time you broke the boughs. “Can we talk? You know, establish some ground rules.” You meander, swallowing down your pride with a tight grimace.

“Go on.” He nods, gesturing a lending hand.

“This isn't real. We’re not a couple. So that means there’ll be no kissing, no touching, no copulating of any sort.” You’re abrupt and he laughs, loud enough to put you in your place.

“Says the girl who was desperate for a fuck.” He respires while peering out the side window that glazes over a dark road strip and the alpines. It’s a lonesome plight where you said a lot of things. Promised nothing.

“That… that was out of character.” Your back straightens, clearing the uprising bile from your throat. Your appetite went away as quickly as it came. To say you were embarrassed was a ruddering understatement.

“You’re telling me?” He scoffs, running a steady hand through his perfectly gelled quiff that is stiff to the touch.

“I think there’s a lot of things we can keep to ourselves.” You insist.

“Of course Mrs. Hansen.” He jokes, the name itself rolls off the tip of his tongue. He likes that there’s a nice ticklish ring to it. “But I hope you know that our people will ultimately want more, expect more of us… from us, really.”

His wild blue eyes dilate, forehead creases patronizingly. You don’t falter.

“So we make an appearance.” Making an appearance was a very loose term. “Fake it till we make it.”

“No. We break rules.” He corrects you.

“I don’t like that.” You huff. He smiles. It’s a good thing he likes you.

“Help me help you.” He proposes and your frown deepens. He cocks his head to the side. “You did ask for my hand in marriage after all.”

“Fuck all I did.” You mutter to yourself while returning to your poor man’s meal.

“Look, I don’t like your old man either. So let me spite him a little.” Lloyd offers, jokingly. His phone rings, that overtures the mood. “Excuse me.”

He slides out of the booth with some unpleasant gruffness. “What is it Cyrus?”

His voice carries down the parlour as you slurp on soup. Nowhere to be. Indigestion on a slow prowl. Something about Lloyd Hansen fiercely kept you on your haunches. His coffered gaze. His strong unclenched jaw. The long legs that pace his stride as he takes to a far corner, earshot away.

“There’s no deal.” He hisses. The conversation comes out choppy that you desperately pick up on. “We need to… Yes I know… She is…. No we’re not… it’s complicated.”

It’s complicated. Those are the final affirming words before your eyes meet and he says a quick ‘I got to go.’

Your soup is cold now. He makes it back to the table, anew again.

“You good?”

“Here’s what I want from you.” He becomes stern, countenance changing in a snap. You match his energy by a hairs breadth. “Are you listening?” He raises his brows. You simply nod.

“I don’t like your tone but I’ll play nice.”

“You can’t be out of my sight.”

“Which means?”

“Which means I’m taking you home.” Your eyes thin out. “To my home.”

“I thought you were a recluse, y’know some kind of unexplored hermit.” You soured with some sass.

“I own ten luxury properties, two suburban complexes and a shantytown.” He emphasizes, irises dimming to a slight torment. “I need you around me, wherever I go.”

“Thanks but no thanks.” You object while kissing your teeth.

“This isn’t me asking.” He fiercely insists in a way that is paralyzing. One wrong move and you’d be bound. So you clear your throat, eyes cast downwards out of contemplation, jaw clenched. A slow steady breath prepares you for a grander comeback.

“How can I trust you?”

“You don’t. Now let’s go. We’ve overextended our stay here.” Lloyd hisses, eyes scouring the premise hastily. Somethings up and mafia men had their tumultuous moods. He perks up, hands readjusting the gun that’s hoisted in the back hem of his trousers. There’s a facetious look on his face, angered by suddenness and your calm presence.

When you walk out before him, he catches up in stride.

“Don’t question the things I do for you.” He mutters close in your ear. The night's dew exasperates the chill in your bones. It’s cold, embittering how you truly felt and every resurgence to be. The town car’s pulled up, running in ignition while Sergio has the back door open. He looks the other way as you turn to Lloyd with a challenge. “I’m not yours.”

“You’ll never be.”

[arguablysomaya]

batfam fanfics that don't have enough fucking attention

alright i'm finally doing it gents listen up

1. Bang, bang by @Ididloveyou_once

Summary: ‘You shot me!’ Jason gasped, stunned, ‘Holy shit, you actually shot me.’

Tim’s eyes widened and he froze. They stared at each other for a second, dumbstruck and then-

‘Don’t tell Bruce.’

Or: The family enjoy a normal movie night. Except Jason has a gunshot wound and Tim’s the only one who knows and oh- that’s because Tim’s the one who shot him and they really, really need to find a way to leave before anyone finds out.

This fic is fucking hilarious and the characterization + banter is on point. i have a bit of a soft spot for schemes <3

2. four brothers, one crush, and absolutely zero braincells to be found by @Ms_Trickster

Summary: Tim: i need to know what’s the best way to a boy’s heart

Damian: Easy. The best way to someone’s heart is through their ribcage. Everyone knows that.

Damian: Come on Timothy, I expected better from you.

Dick: I-

Dick: Try again

Tim is having boy troubles.

Tim goes to his brothers for help.

Tim...did not think that plan of action through.

(In which the batbros give Tim advice on relationships, told entirely through texts.)

Again, fucking hilarious. the chat titles are SUCH a nice touch and it really feels like authentic sibling silliness

3. Night at the (National) Museum by @collectivefandomstuff

Summary: Tim finds himself having, once again, been dragged into the social event of the season. As he slowly dies of boredom and the physical exertion of not rolling his eyes, he bumps into his fellow prisoners brothers and they decide to do something about Bruce’s tendency to trick them into going to these things. More specifically, they decide to cause as much trouble as possible in the hopes that Bruce will just straight up stop inviting them. [cue mission impossible theme]

“We could call in a bomb threat?”

“That’s imaginative.”

“Ok, then we get paintball guns and go to town.”

“Also unhelpful.”

“No, wait! That’s actually a good idea!”

“Really Dick? You don’t think people are going to ask questions if the Waynes start literally hunting socialites for sport?”

I. Love. Schemes. also the writing style is so good omg if i could write like this i'd literally die happy lmao

4. Cingulomania (Sometimes, Dad Needs a Hug) by @charleswaterloo

Summary: ‘Right,’ Tim said, in the voice he used on missions, ‘we’re going to have to call in an expert.’

*

‘Hey guys!’ Dick said, voice slightly crackly over Tim’s phone speakers. ‘What’s up? I’m not supposed to visit until tomorrow - is something wrong?’

-

Something is seriously not right with Bruce. They’re a family of detectives and no one can figure it out. It’s kind of embarrassing.

They’re all starting to get worried.

-

(Sometimes, Bruce needs a hug.)

ok this fic is just really fucking sweet and sometimes a bitch is soft okay?

5. After the Fall of Olympus by @/killthespare

Summary: The League has fallen. The team is dead. All that’s left is for Dick Grayson to pick up the pieces and move forward.

Easier said than done.

this fic is literally a must-read in the dc fandom it's not done yet but holy shit. basically goes through young justice and other arcs if the league had died while dick was robin. perfect if you liked young justice and convoluted plotlines, and this fucking fic kicked my emotional ass SO hard

6. And The World Came Crashing Down by @One_annoying_bird

Summary: When Dick and three of his siblings find themselves within the wreckage of a collapsed building, Dick makes the executive decision for himself to be rescued last.

Even if his injuries really demand for him to be first.

Not that he'll let anyone know that last bit.

Fuck me dude. i'm always a sucker for whump

7. Asimov's Integral by @sElkieNight60

Summary: Tim is an unwanted android, a Robo-Child. After being sent back by his parents, his last and only hope rests in the hands of a man still grieving the loss of his own son.

“I didn’t ask for a replacement,” Bruce barked. “I don’t want a replacement! You can go back and tell the RCO I don’t need a replacement.”

Bruce Wayne didn’t want him. If Bruce Wayne didn’t want him, he’d be sent back and dismantled.

this one hurt me <3 android AU, tw for tim absolutely abysmal mental state and attempted suicide

8. Midnight Book Club by @badwolf36

Summary: “Dick is a lying liar who lies,” Jason declares, drawing his knees up to his chest. His ribs are screaming in that very special way that lets him know at least one or more is bruised (or, more likely, cracked).

“Dick wasn’t the only one who turned you in.” Cass says, now tracing ‘moron’ onto his forehead. “Also, Alfred.”

___________

Cass and Jason discuss books as they wait for Jason to be able to stand up after taking a brutal hit.

this one's a really sweet, quiet piece about jason and cass's relationship (which i absolutely love) and cass's characterization is spot on perfect

9. You fuck with them, you fuck with me by @oclark1226

Summary: When Batman's out of the country for Justice League business, it falls on Dick to find his missing brothers. Once he does, however, he nearly loses control fighting their kidnapper. He has to deal with both the mental and physical consequences of that fight while helping his brothers heal. Includes some soft Bruce tending to both of his eldest boys because they need some hugs and they support him in return.

now this one is simply criminally underrated. hella protective dick, which is my lifeblood, and some of the most well-written hurt/comfort i've read

10. Conflict Resolution by @anicomicqueen

Summary: It started off as a quiet Sunday morning, until Timothy and Damian decided to take their argument outside.

who would i be if i didn't end off with some fluff?? this fic is literally catharsis and i cherish it so much plus its hilarious

[cresvalkyrie]

Hey guys. Been down in the dumps these past few days, so I’m gonna talk about Hauyne, my Interceptor OC, to cheer myself up.

Also totally not because I’ve been seeing people post about their own OCs and me wanting to hop on the bandwagon. Nope.

Some facts about her: - Hauyne is not her actual name. What her real name is, no one knows except the person in question.

- She is originally from the same world as we are, being a player of the fangame itself, who got summoned into Aevium because she had the metaknowledge needed to fulfil the role of the Interceptor. Like, seriously. If someone’s gonna change the fate of the world, they might as well be given knowledge of every possible outcome so they know which is the best option to take. 

- Before coming to Aevium, Hauyne does competitive battling and a shit ton of challenge runs as a hobby. While it does make the transition into actual battling easier, it still took her an embarassingly long amount of time for her to wrap her head around the fact that Pokemon battling is now a tangible, multi-dimensional activity rather than an abstract concept behind a screen.  

- She can understand Pokemon (like N, if you want a reference). Because of this and her general dislike for people, you’re more likely to see her warm up to a Pokemon faster than she does with a person. Most of the rejuv cast are the exception to this rule.

- Unlike her friends who specialise in one or two types (e.g. Venam with Poison and Aelita with Fighting/Flying) or have their team composition revolve around a specific theme (e.g. Erin), Hauyne doesn’t have a preference for any types. Though, she does have a thing for taking in “weak and useless” strays and turning them into juggernauts just to spite their ex-trainers.

- She has a habit of naming her Pokemon after concepts in real-life mythology. The only exception to this is her starter, a female Delphox she named Altissia. 

- As a follow-up to the previous point, her main party consists of Kali the Zeraora (her ace), Altissia the Delphox, Vedrfolnir the Sceptile-Haxorus hybrid, Muninn the shiny Corviknight, Shiva the Alolan Ninetales and Triton the Swampert. She has other Pokemon on rotation in the PC, but these are the ones she used the most. 

- Has an incorrigible sweet tooth and secretly keeps a hidden candy stash on her. Don’t even think about touching it; she will wreak absolute hell upon anyone who dared to steal from her stash. Venam learnt this the hard way. 

- Is quite knowledgeable about medicinal properties of plants. She even makes her own potions, salves and antidotes using ingredients she collected on her travels. 

- Abysmal with musical instruments. No one knows how it happens, but she’ll somehow ruin every instrument that makes its way into her hands. For some reason, she’s alright with handling her own flute (possibly a Celestica Flute, though no one can say for sure) though her skills with it leaves a lot to be desired. 

- On the flip side, she can sing extremely well. Just that her stage fright makes it seem like she couldn’t sing at all. 

- Does she like the sea? No. She loved it. She grew up in a fishing village who... aren’t the greatest fans of her and/or her family, so she often spends her time either in her room or in a nearby hidden cove to avoid the discrimination. The sounds of the waves never fails to calm her down whenever she had a crappy day.  

- It may not look like it because of her demure and complaisant disposition, but she’s a mad genius when it comes to Pokemon battling. A “fucking monster” in battle? Psh, Venam. You’re making the understatement of the year. Have you seen that feral, downright manic smile when she’s about to go for the kill? She fights like a demon straight from the ninth circle of hell, more like. *shudders*

- When she decides that she likes a particular person, she’ll draw a portrait of said person in her sketchbook. The number of drawings she made for a person is directly related to how much she likes them. And she’s a pretty good artist, all things considered... for some reason a lot of it are of a certain white-haired Archetype bearer in various casual poses  

...Well, that’s all I can think of. I’ll add more later.   

[whoacanada]

Zimmerbro AU

Summary: Andrew Phillip Rowe could skate before he could walk, and it wasn’t until he was almost twenty and well on his way to becoming a Las Vegas Ace before he knew why.

a/n: that’s right we’ve got a secret zimmermann brother au based on the fact that Bob was an active pro athlete for almost 15 years before Jack was born and almost definitely had relationships before Alicia. This particular one resulted in a secret love child.

When the call finally went out that year —  a request for players willing to billet the incoming draftees —  Andrew had been the first in line.

His already sparsely decorated guest room had been primed for a new tenant since he’d learned Las Vegas’ abysmal season had earned them the first pick of the 2009 draft. In his mind, Andrew had envisioned a tearful confession. A family reunion nineteen years in the making where he’d finally get a chance to connect with a half-brother he’d grown up learning about through news articles and stats pages.

He wasn’t ready for Jack to pull out of the draft days before the ceremony; wasn’t ready for the claims of an overdose or speculation about suicide attempts. He certainly wasn’t expecting to have to open his home to a young man with limp blonde hair and deep circles under his eyes with the same enthusiasm he’d promised he’d offer to a son of Bob Zimmermann.

Andrew was hoping for a little brother. 

He got Kent Parson instead.

______

“You remind me of my boyfriend.” Kent slurs one night, completely gone on Johnny Walker Blue borrowed from Andrew’s wet bar. “It’s your . . . face.”

“Shouldn’t talk about things like that,” Andrew cautions gently, covering his own surprise. “Never know who might be listening.”

“Who fucking cares? He won’t talk to me,” Kent continues, ignoring him and sniffing like he’s on the verge of sobbing or puking, both options equally unwanted. “They wouldn’t tell me if he was even alive.”

Another unwanted puzzle piece locks into place.

“Jack?” Andrew suggests softly, and Kent begins to cry.

“You won’t tell right?”

Andrew shakes his head no, long enough for Kent’s bleary eyes to focus on the gesture and take it seriously.

Things are different, after that conversation. Not worse, or better, just different.

________

“He’s my brother.”

Andrew admits this one night, for no reason other than that he can.

Kent is across the room, backlit by lights from the Strip, his legs dangling off the arm of his favorite couch as he scrolls through his phone looking for distractions. Parse hasn’t lived with Andrew for almost two seasons, but he still turns up like a bad penny whenever he needs to commiserate with someone who knows his more lascivious secrets. Truthfully, Andrew’s grateful for the company. He’s a pretty genial guy, but he’s always kept his distance, a personality trait he likes to think he shares with an unassuming sibling, but there’s no way to know for sure. The farther Andrew gets from the 2009 Draft, the less faith he has in a reunion that won’t just bring crippling sorrow to everyone involved.

A secret Zimmermann son who actually made it in the NHL. Who has his name on the Stanley Cup, not once, but twice, largely thanks to the spitfire forward lounging in Andrew’s living room.

“Who’s your brother?” Kent asks, not looking up from his phone.

“Jack Zimmermann.”

Kent barks a laugh and rolls his head lazily to smirk at Andrew.

“That’s funny. I guess you kinda have the same chin. Was Marky digging for chirps?”

Andrew has no idea what that means, but he sets down his tablet and says, “No, he’s actually my half-brother. My mom dated Bad Bob in ’84 and got pregnant.”

The lackadaisical smile on Kent’s face falters as his gaze sharpens, like he’s actually looking at Andrew for the first time. Andrew responds by gesturing at himself lamely.

“That’s not funny.”

“No.” Andrew agrees. “It isn’t.”

Kent swings his feet down off the couch and braces himself against the overstuffed leather. He doesn’t look mad, but there’s something too close to disbelief for Andrew to convince himself everything’s okay. It takes a moment, but Kent must find what he’s looking for on Andrew’s face.

“Does Bob know?” Kent asks with that familiar overfamiliarity, as if they both still have some personal relationship with the living legend.

“Yeah. When Mom got pregnant she told him she didn’t want the attention since it was only a fling — ”

“Who the fuck doesn’t lock down Bob Zimmermann?” Kent breathes. “Also, why the fuck did she tell you that?”

“No shit, right? She got him to sign away parental rights, set up a trust, never spoke to him again as far as I know. I didn’t find out until after I signed with the Aces. She didn’t want me to get blindsided if it all came out, but the story never broke.”

“I mean, does Bob know who you are?” Kent questions. “Does Jack?”

Andrew shakes his head no, because he doesn’t think so, and Kent flops back against the cushions, face slack with disbelief; it doesn’t take long for his features to shift to anger.

“You knew this whole time and you didn’t tell me? Even after I told you —“

“Okay, there’s a whole-ass difference between you fucking dudes and and me being ‘Bad Bob’s bastard’,” Andrew bites, curtailing Kent’s imminent hissy fit. Appropriately, Kent closes his mouth, almost pouting.

“Fine. But that’s fucked.” Kent says after a loaded moment of silence. “I’m sorry you’re . . . you.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry you’re you, too.”

“You know Jack’s signing with the Falconers, right?” Kent offers like the worst kind of olive branch, unintentionally telling Andrew exactly what he was up to during that stretch of time between New England games a few months prior. “It’s not public but it’s happening. Ink’s dry.”

“I know. That’s why I told you. It’s gonna be weird,” Andrew swallows, thinking about playing Providence in the coming months.

“Fucking right it’s weird.”

_________

For the most part, the Las Vegas Aces are decent, stand up guys. Even with the accusations of gambling debts and mob connections with the ownership group, Andrew’s never been asked to hit a certain player a little too hard, or to take a dive so the other team gets a shot at a power play. A lot of talk, a lot of conspiracies, ‘Typical Aces hockey’, but there’s no malice. Not really.

Andrew thinks it’s hilarious he plays the game a lot like his estranged father, but he’s not a legend in the making, hell, at this point he’s barely regarded as more than a mid-level, reliable center that can bring home 40 points a season.

Carly whips behind Zimmermann’s back to clip his skate with a stick, dropping a ill advised chirp that sets every player in earshot on edge. Parse is close enough to catch the quiet slur, stiffening like he’s been hit, and Andrew watches Zimmermann recover quickly, steely and resolute. 

Jack has his mother’s eyes — not the warm brown Andrew catches every time he looks in the mirror.

“He’s a fucking goon,” Andrew breathes, gliding up to Jack’s shoulder in lieu of an apology. Zimmermann doesn’t miss a beat, his gaze flicking to Andrew with the quiet rage of ‘who gives a fuck’. Andrew admires his commitment to the game. Coming back after so much, after so long, to willingly subject himself to the same kind of treatment that Andrew knows likely led to his original fall from grace.

“Hey,” Kent ducks his head as he slides up a little while later, mouthguard clenched between his teeth, and asks, “You see his twink?”

At Andrew’s obvious confusion, Kent jerks his head toward the glass behind the Falconers’ bench, to a raucous group of fans all sporting fresh Zimmermann jerseys. Andrew’s gaze drifts along the row of faces, lingering longer on the familiar, handsome couple beside the blonde young man. He may be imagining things — the stadium lights catching a bad angle —  but for the briefest moment, Andrew holds eye contact with his father.

“He’s cute, right?” Kent says bitterly, like he doesn’t have a partner of his own back home.

“Yeah, he is. You gonna do anything about the slurs, Captain?” Andrew counters, earning a stern look from Parson.

“I’ll deal with Carly.”

“Oh, you will? Because I’ve never seen you shut him down before.”

“I’ll handle it.”

Kent’s expression goes stormy, and he gives Andrew a hard shove before skating off to set up for the next shift. To his credit, he does grab Carly by the arm and tell him something that earns a look of displeasure from the larger man, but Andrew knows a verbal warning won’t curtail someone as dead-set in his conservatism as Carly.

The next play, Carly flashes Andrew a toothy smile over the lineman’s shoulder, as if they’re in on the same joke, and his vision goes red.

__________

__________

“Bad Bob’s outside,” Scraps rasps, like whatever brief interaction he’s just had has physically winded him. “He wants to talk to Flip.”

Andrew blinks up from the water bottle in his hands, previously concerned with the pink-stained gauze wrapped around his knuckles. A few of the guys start chirping, but most of them remain silent, still processing the fact that Andrew assaulted one of their own without clear motivation, in defense of an opponent.

“That’s what this was all about? You gunning for a trade?” Sorenson spits from his stall. “Needed to impress Bad Bob by beating the snot out of Carly?”

“Maybe I am,” Andrew sighs, pushing himself to his feet, wincing at the way his jaw aches from the few good hits Carly had managed to squeeze in before he went down. “What the fuck are you gonna do about it.”

_______

Andrew’s grateful he kept his skates on. He needs the boost of confidence that comes with the added height, especially when he finds Bob Zimmermann waiting patiently in the corridor like he’s just another staff member and not the second most recognizable figure in modern hockey.

“Hey kid,” Bob greets, casting an approving, overly-familiar eye over Andrew’s padded bulk and sweat-slick hair. “You can throw a hell of a punch. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy beat the piss out of a teammate before. Off ice, sure, but never during a game.”

His accent is just as thick in private as every interview Andrew’s ever caught live — but his tone is unexpectedly warm, even grateful — when Bob laughs at his own recounting of Andrew’s assault attempt, the sound is light and joyous like nothing in the world comes easier to this titan of a man.

Andrew wonders if Bob can recognize the chin they share beneath a his playoff beard; if there’s any resemblance left in a nose that’s been reset a half-dozen times.

Andrew grew up loved and never wanted for anything. His step-fathers, both of them, had been good men who never left him looking for a father figure. It wasn’t until his twenties that Andrew even realized there was hole where his bio-dad should have been, and not just a regular hole, a yawning sinkhole threatening to devour his entire sense of self, because his biological father turned out to be a man he grew up idolizing as a personal hero.

He’s not mad at his mother, but when Andrew struggles to find his voice — which is bullshit seeing as he’s almost thirty-five and a god-damned professional athlete — he can’t stop himself from feeling like a misplaced child.

“Do you,” Andrew swallows, looking over Bob’s shoulder to see if anyone’s watching them. Finding they’re alone, he rallies quietly, “Do you know who I am?”

Bob’s jovial expression softens into something remorseful, but unfathomably kind. “I do, buddy,” he acknowledges, somehow squeezing three decades of affection into one term of endearment. “I’ve known for some time, now. The whole time, actually.”

That hurts more than expected.

“Does your wife? Does Jack?”

Bob shakes his head, but it isn’t a hard no.

“Alicia knows, and Jack has some idea he’s got a half-brother, but it’s all in the abstract. No specifics. Definitely doesn’t know you play. I wanted to respect your privacy and your mother’s wishes. She let me know she’d told you the truth a few years back and I wanted to give you the space you needed if you decided to reach out. When you didn’t, well, a man makes assumptions.”

Andrew looks down at the concrete beneath his skates and sniffs hard, fighting nasal drip from the smelling salts he’d needed in the third period; or, at least, that’s what he tells himself. “I had a plan, back when — ” he stops himself, looking down at his skates. Bob’s eyebrows lift in curiosity, leaving room for Andrew to gather his thoughts, but he doesn’t take the bait, unable to bring up what could have been just yet. Bob seems to grasp the context after the moment.

“2009,” he acknowledges softly. “Hell of a year.”

“Yeah. It was. Is he okay?”

“What, Jack? He’s leagues ahead of where he was then —”

“No, I mean, tonight. Carly clipped him pretty hard before I got in there.”

“Oh, a little bruised up, but he’ll live. Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Okay.”

Andrew looks down at his bandaged fist and realizes he’s completely forgotten how gnarly his face must look.

“Trainer says I’m alright, but I’m gonna get leveled with a wicked fine, I know it.”

“Was it worth it?” There’s a look of guilty pride on Bob’s face, like the man’s enjoying himself a little too much when he leans in and whispers, “You just did something I’ve wanted to do since Jack was in mites. Fucking lay out one of those fuckers that’s got nothing better to do than bitch because they can’t play,” there’s a moment of hesitation, as if he’s worried about pushing a boundary, before he adds, “How’d it feel to look out for your little brother?”

Pride, it turns out, in contagious, and Andrew feels like he could go back on the ice and do it all over again. “Pretty fucking great,” Andrew can’t help a smile, wincing when the gesture pulls at his split lip.

Bob slaps a hand on Andrew’s shoulder pads, then gets a grip on the back of his head, heedless of his sweaty hair.

“Crisse, you’re a fuckin’ beaut, kid. I’ve wanted to tell you that for years.”

Andrew can’t blame the smelling salts anymore.

__________

Jack clearly doesn’t see his father standing there with red-rimmed eyes, or Andrew in an equally unkempt state, and has no reason to think anything untoward has happened when he offers a handshake and pulls Andrew into a hug, bouncing his free fist off the back of Andrew’s pads. “I owe you a drink,” Jack says decisively when he pulls back, shooting a grin between his father and Andrew. “Can’t believe you did that.”

“More than a drink, I think,” the blonde guy Andrew saw behind the bench pipes up. Jack’s ‘twink’. Boyfriend. Whatever. “Dinner at least.”

“A pie,” Bob suggests tightly, keeping his voice even as he turns to quickly scrub his fist over his eyes. Andrew recognizes the statuesque woman who strides up beside Bob, and one quick look tells him she definitely knows who he is.

“Hello, Andrew,” Alicia greets softly, genuinely. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“You, too.” he says, the tightness in his throat coming out as gruffness rather than emotion. “This is great, but I should go shower and, uh, it was nice meeting you all.”

Bob’s hand whips out and fists the sleeve of Andrew’s sweater, keeping him in place.

“You have plans tonight?”

Andrew debates lying, because he doesn’t know how to move forward from this point, but they’re all looking at him. Waiting. Expectant. There’s too much at stake, and yet somehow — A sharp whistle drags Andrew’s attention back to the locker room. Kent is peeking his head out, and god knows how long he’s been eavesdropping.

“Yo, Zimmermanns. Bittle.”

“Parson.” The blonde says curtly, earning a wry smirk from Kent.

“Flip, we got a presser if you feel like putting a bow on the evening,” Kent’s gaze drifts to Bob’s flushed face, and he adds, “Or, you can shower and slip out the loading bay while I cover for your aggro ass because this is not going to be fun. Your call.”

Andrew looks at the small family surrounding him, his family, and says, “I don’t want to explain.” Kent shrugs and ducks back inside while Bob’s brow furrows in confusion. “I can do dinner, but I don’t want to,” Andrew holds his hands out in front of him, trying to gesture what he means, and Bob snaps his fingers in understanding.

“Ah, ha, I got you, kid.”

“Neat. I’m gonna go shower.”

“We will be here when you’re ready,” Alicia offers. “Take your time.”

“Oh, I will,” Andrew replies before he can stop himself, cringing the second his back is turned because what the fuck could he be any more awkward?

Time will tell.

_____________

.

[zumpietoo]

Friendly Reminder:

She apparently did not spend much on “reading comprehension”, extra amusing, since she, you know, is also a “writer”.....Or I guess (hope???), it’s willful.....cuz surely even SHE isn’t THIS dumb....(and unable to read/grasp 15/16th of what was said)....

Naturally, the GG all follow suit, and show how equally dimitted they are:

Umm....no shortage of your little friends view it that way, too, dude....there’s one whose entire subtitle is about Jizzy “winning”. And another endlessly yapping about winning/fighting the writers....

Oh yeah....Snorty babbled late last season to Jodie Mason/janAss about “going into battle”, so seems like y’all sure do!

Also, yes, stillbitter, it’s all about “high art”.....

Plus, OFC, I’m NOT a Barfie, but, again, they do have a canon ship and Jizzy is never coming back....

Also, don’t watch, don’t bother yourself if it sucks so hard, hmmm???

Both attempts to grasp “moral high ground”? Epic fails!

Oh good lord, Snorty....

A) YOUR writing sucks

B) You’d be fapping yourself raw! I mean, LBR, both #hey#34U, talking endlessly so Jug can “fix” Slizzy and Tabi cucking Jug all would be abysmal writing, but YOU thought it was fucking glorious! And couldn’t stop jacking off for weeks...

C) I thought we were all “just guessing/knew nothing”, anyway???? So how do U know the “writing is terrible.

D) Nobody’s “telling you what to do” (wow, your reading comprehension DOES suck ass, huh?), but also love, again, just how badly you managed to misinterpret EVERYTHING...

Oh stillbitter, obviously----especially since PP and KokeJ have zero chemistry....however, I’m not a Barfie and it’s the last season, so completely irrelevant...

Actually, again, Liar of Slizzy, they kinda did? Plus, again, Barfie are engaged, Jizzy are ded. There WAS a preggers scare and, to quote, Snorty----who knows what happens? Actually, had there not been a comet, there would’ve been an engagement party, so really, those? Not nearly as far off the map as yours...

Also, dude, YOU truly ARE the last one to everrrrr cast shade in this department. When have YOU been correct? Plus, I never called ANY of those....but let’s look at Jabi v. Jizzy, hmmm????

I’ve been ded on like 99.9% of the time. YOU????

Yes, Snorty, I would....”L” meaning #nojizzy4U!!!! Jabi, yessss.....

Ummmm....actually, yeah, you are. And I used to laugh really, really hard at Barfies and still, again (as noted) think they tend to get carried waaayyy away. But, again, they’re a lot closer to calling shit correctly than you are.

Speaking of: there wasn’t actually Jizzy for 4 season, cuz season 4, itself, was about splitting them up and Slizzy cheating.....because SH were done. AND....the precise reason, back in the day, Barfies were delusional is because then SH were (usually, etc) together.....they aren’t and Cole and PP fucking despise each other, that’s the entire point, dumbasses!

But yeah, it’s also the key you can’t admit!

[alecmagnuslwb]

Marriage is a Contract and My Signature is Unreadable

Read on AO3

John’s never seen a bride wear fishnets with their stunning white dress, but Dinah Lance is pulling it off somehow. Admittedly though John hasn’t seen that many brides that weren’t ghosts or the earthly demonic embodiment of some sort of hell beastie so maybe his experience in weddings and bridal wear is a bit skewed.

Of course he’s also a bit skewed because in his eyes no one at this wedding, not even the bride no disrespect to the woman who’s by far one of the few supers he can truly say he likes, is as stunning as his date. Zatanna sits beside him at their table, the reception in full swing now, her legs crossed the deep navy-blue asymmetrical dress she’s wearing showing off a tantalizing bit of her leg. Her tattoo, the twin to his peeks out from the front of the dress right next to the silver lining at the edges where the dress straps around her neck. She’s a fucking vision his Zatanna.

“I can’t believe they finally did it,” Zatanna says gliding her silver French tipped nails with little crescent moons on them along her glass of champagne. “I really thought Lois and Clark would be the only ones to take the plunge.”

Supers aren’t known for tying the knot, their world is so complicated and their relationships so wild they never find the time to actually get around to it. The fact that Dinah and Oliver managed to not only successfully get engaged, but plan a real wedding and have the ceremony without any major incidents happening in the middle is a miracle if John’s ever actually seen one.

“Who do you think’ll be next?” John says surveying the room. Every hero he’s ever met and ever butted heads with is here out of costume and all dressed up to the nines. There’s a congregation of Green Lantern’s by the bar, Superman is on the dance floor poorly attempting to floss as Nightwing laughs his fine ass off at him, the Flash is somehow dancing with his girlfriend and eating every item on the buffet simultaneously.  “Seems like two in a row will make a domino effect, yeah?”

Zatanna hums in thought her piercing blue eyes with the glittery navy blue and silver eyeliner around them shimmering in the light as she tilts her head in thought. She carefully scratches at the space beside the cluster of tiny rhinestones artfully placed around her right eyebrow and settles her eyes to a table across the room with a smile.

“Wally and Linda for sure,” she says tilting her head their direction. John swivels to look at them. Unlike Barry who’s still zooming back and forth from Iris to the buffet, Wally is wholly engrossed in every movement Linda makes as she talks rapidly her hands moving all about as she speaks to Mia Dearden on the other side of the table. That is a man wholly in love, enraptured by the woman he gets to call his own. John understands the sentiment as he looks back to Zatanna her dark blue painted lips still resting in a beautiful smile.

“What if it was us?” John asks leaning in closer to her a wicked smile on his face.

Zatanna snorts, a harsh indelicate thing that on anyone else would be unattractive.

“Aww, love you too, Zee,” John says faux offended falling back against his chair. He knew it was an absurd suggestion the moment he said it.

“I’m sorry, you know I love you,” she says holding up a hand attempting to hide her laughter. “It’s just look at us, we’re coming up on our first and only three-year anniversary. We’re not exactly known for being good at this.”

It’s a valid point. Despite the fact they have technically been together for over a decade they’ve gone through their fair share of ups and downs, break ups and make ups and even a few trips to hell and literal deaths. John has screwed up more times than he can count and even Zatanna has bungled it once or twice. Complicated has at almost all times been their relationship status, but the past three years, ever since John got his head out of his ass and finally decided to sort out this one particular aspect of his life they’ve been good, solid.

“Okay, true, but you’re stuck with me and we can’t act like there aren’t benefits to the whole marriage sham,” he says stretching his arms behind his head.

“It’s extremely comforting you called it a sham,” Zatanna says giving him a fondly exasperated look. “But you know maybe you’re right the tax incentives alone are a real benefit.”

“Now, the tax incentives would be appealing if I had ever in my life filed my taxes,” John says with a laugh.

“You’ve never filed taxes?” Zatanna says with a slightly startled look.

John just shrugs tossing back the remainder of his champagne. “It’s not like I’ve ever had any real upstanding type of job that would require me to fill out a W4 or whatever.”

“It’s a W2,” Zatanna corrects. “And John you live with me, our landlord made me put your name on the lease because he saw you there so much. You could totally get caught.”

“Eh, it’ll be fine,” John says with an unconcerned wave of his hand. “The fact that I’m not technically a citizen of this country is probably a bigger issue than the tax thing anyway.”

“John!” Zatanna exclaims with a laugh.

“What? You can’t have thought I actually went to a baseball park and held my hands up and did the national anthem or whatever,” he says kicking his feet up on the empty chair next to him.

“Clearly you haven’t considering that’s not at all how citizenship works,” Zatanna chuckles. “But hey there’s a potential benefit of marriage for us, citizenship.”

“Ah the romance of marrying not for love, but so the government pricks don’t send your ass packing,” John reaches out a hand tangling his fingers with Zatanna’s on the table his thumb running small circles into her hand.

Zatanna hums. “I guess lack of romance aside it wouldn’t matter since I can always just portal you back into the country on a whim anyways.”

John nods in agreement trying to come up with another benefit they might be able to actually take advantage of. “You couldn’t testify against me in court, that could be incredibly useful down the line.”

Zatanna raises one jeweled eyebrow, “Is there a crime you’ve committed lately you’ve neglected to tell me about?”

John thinks for a moment genuinely scanning his memories in case there is something he forgot to tell her about. “No,” he settles on confidently. He’s pretty sure at least. “I’m just thinking in general considering my track record in the past.”

Zatanna pats the top of his hand with a smile. “As if any prison could hold you long enough for me to even be asked a single question.”

John just laughs again, “Alright so maybe there aren’t that many marital benefits for us to take advantage of then.”

“No parents to satisfy,” Zatanna sighs. “And of course making medical decisions for one another doesn’t really matter when you use magic and superhero doctors that definitely don’t accept any sort of co-pay,” she adds on with a contemplative bite of her lip.

“Half your friends hate me,” John says thoughtfully with a chuckle.

“And half your friends are dead,” Zatanna says ruefully tapping a nail to her chin. “The wedding party would be abysmally uneven.”

“I haven’t bought a new tie in years,” John says tugging at the red thing around his neck. He looks hilariously basic compared to Zatanna’s ensemble essentially wearing what he wears any given day of the week the only difference being Zatanna had forced him into a subtly lace patterned black jacket for a change and repainted his chipped nails for the first time in two weeks. “It’d make the pictures look horribly out of place.”

“Plus let’s be real I’m a show woman, I’d probably hate having to share the spotlight with you for one day,” Zatanna smiles teasingly. John smiles back shifting so that he’s scooting his chair closer to hers. He lifts a hand to her face twisting a long dark hair that’s slipped from her twisty updo held in place by two sharp silver hair pins with crescent moons at the end to match her nails and tucking it back behind her ear.

“So, basically there’s not a benefit in this world or a thing that would change if we got married,” John says letting the silky hair go.

“The only thing I can think of is that I like shiny jewelry and you look hot when you wear silver rings,” Zatanna says reaching back and pulling the two pins from her hair letting it all fall across her shoulders, the one stand out streak of navy blue appearing as it falls.

“And we can buy each other jewelry anytime without a reason,” he says brushing the bit of hair that’s fallen into her eyes away.

Zatanna smiles at him once before standing holding out a hand that he instantly takes. She guides him to the dance floor twining her fingers behind his head slowly.

They sway slowly to some sappy love song John vaguely recognizes their eyes locked on one another.

“You know,” she says after a while her fingers pulling through the hair that’s getting a bit too long at the base of his neck. “Just because I don’t want to get married doesn’t mean I don’t want you for as long as I can have you, right?”

He does know that. It’s inexplicable to him why someone as bright and vibrant and good as her wants him, but she does and he intends to keep it that way till the demons or the cigarettes kill him.

“I know. I’m happy how we are, knowing us, and by us I mean me, marriage would end up mucking everything up anyways,” he says pulling her in closer his hands moving from their grip on her waist to the exposed small of her back. “We can just keep going to everyone else’s weddings and raiding their open bars.”

Zatanna laughs then leans up kissing him once soft and slow not even smudging her lipstick in the slightest. She stays close when she pulls back resting her head on his chest as they continue to sway.

“We really need to get your name off of my lease though, I don’t need the government showing up and trying to audit me,” she says softly. “I’d be a nightmare for Mistress of Magic brand.”

John laughs loud and bright leaning his head down to kiss her once atop the head already planning a minor break in to the landlord’s apartment. It’ll be okay if he gets caught, married or not he knows she won’t testify against him.

[feralreason]

The Dehumanisation of Dave Miller

So, I was RPing as Henry Miller and had an internal dialogue comment of Henry musing about how William Afton was not a person. My RP partner, @plushmenace , had put in the tags of their reply basically asking "what is Henry's definition of a person"?

So! I'm finally here to explain my reasoning behind writing him that way. :') And as a bonus, this’ll also explain why I write Dave with abysmal self esteem and body image too wahoo. :’)))

Talk of abuse and trauma + DSAF spoilers under the cut.

First off, Henry literally says so before the ending fight.

Now, you have been kind of lead to accept and probably think "Well in this series, William Afton *is* a literal Purple Guy so of course he's not a human."

But... Henry isn’t either? For the sake of this essay, I'll refer to the "brightly hued people with black scleras and white glowing irises and pitch black maws" as "Amazing Technicolour Void Produce People™" or ATVPPs.

Henry acts like William is this huge freak while basically being the same as him, just pink instead of purple.

But here's the thing: like with most of what Henry says and does, what if this is on purpose?

First off, William may be self conscious about his appearance:

For starters, William blames the fact that he's an ourple ATVPP for why he was never adopted.

Which is possible for sure. However, from what we see in the series? Nobody seems to really care or mind William's appearance.

Except for Henry (who hates William and is an abusive POS towards him), and depending on player choice, Jack (who is just Henry 2: the Sequel also depending on player choice).

Further backing up that this is a sore spot for him, he gets pretty upset when Jack reminds him of it (despite commenting and joking about it often himself).

Example 1:

Example 2:

Secondly, from how he acts, Henry probably used this as part of his abuse towards William:

I find the first reaction pretty telling tbh. Usually when picking an antagonistic dialogue option, Dave’s response will be anger and telling you to fuck off (closer to the second example). Yet in the first one? He tears up and just meekly points out with a stutter that he’s hurt.

( Also important to note too: from the second conversation, we can see that in this universe, “human” refers to “fully sentient, emotionally and intelligently complex beings with free will” (or however you want to word or spin it). Which would def include ATVPPs. Certainly makes what Henry says above even worse lol.)

Next up, something I’ve referenced before because bo y I think it’s one of the most well written parts of the series tbh -- meeting Davetrap in the third game.

Considering it’s been established that Davetrap is the “feral” half of Dave’s soul; the part that is bitter, angry, and can’t let go of things, I think his dialogue can be very insightful into his character.

Anyway, you can have this exchange:

He is clearly hurt by that term, pleading with Jack not to say it and taking on a cowering stance– turned away with his hands up defensively— and then reinstating that he’s “still a person”.

And guess who else refers to him as a monster?

This lines up with how passive we see him around Henry (the fight at the end of DSAF 3, the flashbacks in DSAF 2), so I think it’s easy to put two and two together and say Henry belittled him for his appearance, and that bringing it up makes him regress to how he was around him.

And again, in DSAF? This is apparently not anything that weird. I could be also be looking too much into it (but hey, death of the author bby), yeah, but the fact that nobody knows that Dave = William Afton kind of means being a purple ATVPP isn’t *that* unique in this world.

One thing I find interesting on that point is this exchange. Dave claims "kids loved drawing him because they were fascinated with him". Jack challenges that...

And then Dave basically shifts the conversation to, "Well they like me because I'm not scary and weird like you lol!" Even though he's joking, he does switch from making it about "what's inside".

I definitely think he may be making light of things to cope considering that he makes this quip in DSAF 2 which is definitely meant to be a joke and... yeeeaaah...

Anyway, some more examples of how Henry talks about William in a dehumanising way:

Furthermore, Henry has every reason to do this. From what we can see in the short story and some of William's dialogue, he seems to often belittle William to create co-dependency.

Ex: "Everyone is trying to hurt you, and you're weak, so you need to stay with me and do what I say so I can 'protect' you."

However, since the dialogue in the Void is him speaking his mind honestly, and combined with the tapes,... I'd argue it's completely possible he really may have literally not seen William as person. My guess is because of William being, you know, a weird form of undead. Maybe he started out demeaning him to easily control William, and began to sincerely believe it over time. Henry could also just suck like that.

And finally, William... kind of admits it himself in the bad ending, just like how Henry does in the good.

As I've pointed out before, he says Jack was the only person– he excludes Henry despite, in this route, still adoring the man.

... At least that's what I think! Wahoo!